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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..ec48eda --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66734 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66734) diff --git a/old/66734-0.txt b/old/66734-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c5a5940..0000000 --- a/old/66734-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,20274 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Collected Works of William Hazlitt, Vol. -10 (of 12), by William Hazlitt - -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: The Collected Works of William Hazlitt, Vol. 10 (of 12) - -Author: William Hazlitt - -Editor: A. R. Waller - Arnold Glover - -Release Date: November 14, 2021 [eBook #66734] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COLLECTED WORKS OF WILLIAM -HAZLITT, VOL. 10 (OF 12) *** - - - - - THE - COLLECTED WORKS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT - IN TWELVE VOLUMES - - - VOLUME TEN - - - - - _All rights reserved_ - -[Illustration: - - _Margaret Hazlitt._ - (_1771–1844_) - - _From an oil painting by John Hazlitt._ -] - - - - - THE COLLECTED WORKS OF - WILLIAM HAZLITT - - - EDITED BY A. R. WALLER - AND ARNOLD GLOVER - - WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY - - W. E. HENLEY - - ❦ - - Contributions to the Edinburgh Review - - ❦ - - - 1904 - LONDON: J. M. DENT & CO. - McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.: NEW YORK - - - - - Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PAGE - CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE EDINBURGH REVIEW 1 - - NOTES 403 - - - - - CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE EDINBURGH REVIEW - - - CONTENTS - - PAGE - Dunlop’s History of Fiction 5 - - Standard Novels and Romances 25 - - Sismondi’s Literature of the South 44 - - Schlegel on the Drama 78 - - Coleridge’s Lay Sermon 120 - - Coleridge’s Literary Life 135 - - Letters of Horace Walpole 159 - - Life of Sir Joshua Reynolds 172 - - The Periodical Press 202 - - Landor’s Imaginary Conversations 231 - - Shelley’s Posthumous Poems 256 - - Lady Morgan’s Life of Salvator 276 - - American Literature—Dr. Channing 310 - - Flaxman’s Letters on Sculpture 330 - - Wilson’s Life and Times of Daniel Defoe 355 - - Mr. Godwin 385 - - Notes 403 - - Hunt’s Story of Rimini 407 - - Coleridge’s Christabel 411 - - - - - CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE EDINBURGH REVIEW - - - DUNLOP’S HISTORY OF FICTION - - VOL. XXIV.] [_November 1814._ - -We are very much of Mr. Dunlop’s opinion,—that ‘life has few things -better, than sitting at the chimney-corner in a winter evening, after a -well-spent day, and reading an interesting romance or novel.’ In fact, -of all the pleasures of the imagination those are by far the most -captivating which are excited by the representation of our -fellow-creatures struggling with great difficulties, and stimulated by -high expectations or formidable alarms. And if the reader or spectator -have no personal interest in the subject, his emotions are but slightly, -if at all, affected by his judgment concerning its authenticity. On the -contrary, the fictions of genius may be rendered far more engaging than -the greater part of real history. - -But the invention of interesting narratives is by no means an easy -exercise; and we apprehend that tales entirely and professedly -fictitious are exclusively the production of a civilized age; and are -never introduced into any nation till long after the genuine exploits of -its own heroes have been sung by its bards (who are the first -historians), for the entertainment and information of ruder times. These -journalists may indeed be expected to exaggerate the truth; and, on very -slender evidence, or merely from the warmth of their imagination, to -represent the powers of the invisible world as interposing their mighty -influence in the shape most agreeable to the prevalent superstitions. -But in relating events which passed within the memory of their hearers, -these exaggerations would generally be kept within such bounds as not to -shock the credulity, and consequently be less gratifying to the national -curiosity, and even to the national vanity of their audience: and hence -sagacious historians are able to extract a probable narrative from the -songs of contemporary bards. - -Long however before the period of sober and scrutinizing history, the -more ancient of these songs would gradually receive additions and -embellishments from the patriotic fancies of the persons who -successively transmitted them to posterity; of the extent of which some -idea may be formed from the amplifications with which the account of any -surprising event is adorned, even during a short time after its first -promulgation, as it passes from house to house, and from village to -village. A bard also of one generation, gathering information from those -of another, and from the traditionary anecdotes of the aged with whom he -conversed, would be apt to compose a narrative in which a greater -latitude would be assumed for adjusting it to his own views or to the -taste of his countrymen, according to the remoteness of the time to -which it referred, and his security from the examination of critical -inquirers. And we may well suppose that his audience would receive -indulgently, or rather would indispensably require a high colouring of -the marvellous in the accounts of their favourite heroes. - -In ruder times, therefore, the fiction would chiefly consist, not so -much in the troublesome task of inventing incidents, as in exaggeration: -And the tendency to exaggerate would act in two ways: it would on the -one hand enlarge the scale and heighten the colours of the natural -objects and real events which were understood to have existed; and on -the other hand it would multiply as well as magnify, and would render -distinctly visible the supernatural interpositions which were suggested -by the popular creed. When Achilles in a pet retired with his myrmidons, -it is probable enough that Diomed was roused to exert himself to the -utmost in the common cause, and performed wonders in the first -engagements after the secession of his great rival. On such an occasion -it would not be unnatural for his brave companions, and still less for -enraptured parasitical bards, to have expressed their admiration by -saying, that they beheld him as if shining with a light from heaven in -the battle; that Minerva was his friend and protector; that under her -guidance he not only slew many of the Trojan chiefs, but completely -routed and made an incredible havock among the throng of the less noble -combatants, who furiously assailed him, led on by the God of war in all -his terrors;—in short, that Diomed was a match for Mars himself. But the -heroes of the Trojan expedition were seen as visions by Homer and his -cotemporaries: And, according to the representation in the fifth book of -the Iliad, Minerva adorns the warrior with a real star-like flame -beaming from the crest of his helmet; she obtains Jupiter’s permission -to assist the Greeks; rouses Diomed’s courage who had been compelled to -retreat; with her own divine hand, she pulls down the charioteer, mounts -into his seat, and drives to where Mars was combating in propriâ -personâ, but who is soon wounded by Diomed in the small guts, νείατον ἐς -κενεῶνα, and sent roaring as loud as nine or ten thousand men to his -father Jupiter on the top of Olympus. Thus the surprising events which -were but moderately hyperbolized at the time, in the relation of the -eyewitnesses, and ascribed to the secret influences of the supernatural -powers, rather than to the agency of their daylight apparitions, are -wonderfully changed in the representation, at no great distance of time. -The real hero slays his tens; the hero of the men-singers and -women-singers slays his thousands and his tens of thousands: The real -hero is large of bone and strong of muscle; the hero of the poet is a -Hercules; and if not a giant, he is much more—like Tom Thumb he is the -conqueror of giants: Those superior Beings, with whom the popular -religion or superstition has peopled heaven and earth and hell, mingle -openly in the fray: they are seen and recognized as distinctly as any -others of the Dramatis Personæ, and act and converse very sensibly, -sometimes very foolishly, not only with each other, but with their -mortal associates. These superior Beings themselves, indeed, frequently -owe their supernatural character, and in some cases, their very -existence, to exaggeration. The heroes in process of time become -demi-gods; and at last are invested with the full honours and emoluments -of Deities acknowledged and established by law; - - ‘Romulus et Liber pater, et cum Castore Pollux; - Post ingentia facta Deorum in templa recepti.’ - -The unknown causes which actuate the material world,—the passions which -agitate the human breast,—and even several of those shadows of entity, -the allegorical characters, have been distinctly personified, and many -of them admitted to seats of greater or less dignity in the sacred -college of Divinities. - -But in general the most enormous exaggeration would disfigure those -events which were the most ancient in the national traditions;—those -events which bordered upon utter darkness and appeared to be coeval with -the birth of Time. In a period of such dim antiquity, it appears that a -certain Crown Prince of Crete, very enterprising and very unprincipled, -rebelled successfully against his father, seemingly still more -unprincipled than his son, and carried every thing before him. This -worthy young gentleman, after being worshipped by the Cretans during his -life, very much, we suppose, as other successful tyrants are worshipped, -had the astonishing good fortune, in the course of a few centuries after -his death, to be acknowledged as the King of Gods and men throughout all -Greece, and afterwards through the whole extent of the Roman empire. The -abortive insurrection of his kinsmen in Thessaly was in due time -represented as the enterprise of stupendous giants, who heaped mountain -upon mountain to attack the Thunderer in his Olympian Palace. And as -nobody could tell any thing about the parents of these great men, it was -concluded, with a degree of probability amounting to what in the -language of philosophers is with much propriety called moral certainty, -that they had risen out of the ground like mushrooms. The events prior -to his establishment on the throne, appear dimly in the back-ground of -the sacred mythology—involved in all the awful obscurity of mysteries, -not to be profaned by the scrutiny of impious mortals. We are told that -there was a war in heaven of the Titans against Saturn the chief of the -Gods, for not having devoured his son Jupiter. For it would appear that -this good king, in whose reign, according to the poets, all the world, -except the royal family, were virtuous and happy, had cajoled his elder -brother Prince Titan out of his inheritance, under the express condition -of destroying, or, according to the more elegant mystical account, of -eating his male children as soon as they were born. The chief of the -gods was at first defeated and imprisoned by the Titans, but was soon -rescued and restored by Jupiter, the hopeful Crown Prince, who -afterwards expelled his father, and reigned in his stead. - -In some such manner real events are represented by the bards of future -generations; with a strange fantastic jumble of hyperbole and allegory, -converted partly or entirely from a figurative to a literal meaning, the -marvels of superstition, childish fancies, and the brilliant conceptions -of poetical genius; while during the whole time there is but little -invention of incident, and far less of any thing like that artificial -fabrication of a continued fiction, which critics like Bossu have -ascribed to Homer so gratuitously, and indeed in such contradiction to -all that is known from experience concerning the progress of the human -mind in any of the arts. - -Fictitious incidents would generally be at first introduced by a much -easier method than invention into the narratives of the bards. The -gentlemen of this ancient, itinerant corporation would naturally, in the -course of their peregrinations, become acquainted with many tales, both -foreign and domestic, not generally known to the rest of their -countrymen; and would be tempted to steal the most striking of the -incidents, whether true or false, and transfer them to the characters in -their own histories. Various instances of such pilfering are every day -detected in the story-tellers of society, as well as in authors both -ancient and modern; and hence it sometimes happens that the same -transaction appears in several different associations. Thus, much use -has been made, in various books, of the transaction so well known to the -readers of plays and romances,—the conspiracy for ruining a lady’s -reputation by carrying her friends to a hiding-place from whence they -could spy the improper behaviour of a person who was dressed so as to -resemble her. This clumsy contrivance seems to have been stolen by -Bandello from Ariosto,—and has been employed both by Shakespeare and -Spenser. And when authors endowed with so fertile inventions condescend -to borrow incidents so ill-contrived, (and indeed they sometimes stoop -to still poorer thefts), we cannot doubt that similar plagiarisms must -have been frequent among the inferior practitioners in the trade of -story-making. - -In fact, the piracy of incidents may be traced from the most remote -antiquity down to modern times, in the histories both of supernatural -agents and of mortal men. There are strong presumptions that the Grecian -archives of Hercules, and of Jupiter himself, have been enlarged by -plunder both from Egypt and Asia. The Jewish visionaries superadded to -the truths of the sacred Scriptures many curious anecdotes relating to -the celestial principalities,—which they learned from the authentic -records of their Chaldean conquerors. The Romances of chivalry have been -enriched by contributions from various quarters; from the songs of the -Scalds, the bards of the Northern tribes that overran so many provinces -of the Roman empire; from the tales of Arabia, Persia, and other eastern -nations; and also from the fables transmitted by the classics of Greece -and Rome. Mr. Dunlop very properly rejects any theory which would -ascribe the beauties of romantic fiction to any one of these sources -exclusively, and we shall quote his general account of the subject, as a -fair specimen of his style and sagacity. - -‘From a view of the character of Arabian and Gothic fiction, it appears -that neither is exclusively entitled to the credit of having given birth -to the wonders of romance. The early framers of the tales of chivalry -may be indebted to the northern bards for those wild and terrible images -congenial to a frozen region, and owe to Arabian invention that -magnificence and splendour, those glowing descriptions and luxuriant -ornaments, suggested by the enchanting scenery of an eastern climate, - - “And wonders wild of Arabesque combine - With Gothic imagery of darker shade.” - -‘It cannot be denied, and indeed has been acknowledged by Mr. Warton, -that the fictions of the Arabians and Scalds are totally different. The -fables and superstitions of the Northern bards are of a darker shade and -more savage complexion than those of the Arabians. There is something in -their fictions that chills the imagination. The formidable objects of -nature with which they were familiarized in their northern solitudes, -their precipices and frozen mountains and gloomy forests, acted on their -fancy, and gave a tincture of horror to their imagery. Spirits who send -storms over the deep, who rejoice in the shriek of the drowning mariner, -or diffuse irresistible pestilence; spells which preserve from poison, -blunt the weapons of an enemy, or call up the dead from their -tombs—these are the ornaments of northern poetry. The Arabian fictions -are of a more splendid nature; they are less terrible indeed, but -possess more variety and magnificence; they lead us through delightful -forests, and raise up palaces glittering with gold and diamonds. - -‘It may also be observed, that, allowing the early Scaldic odes to be -genuine, we find in them no dragons, giants, magic rings, or enchanted -castles. These are only to be met with in the compositions of the bards -who flourished after the native vein of Runic fabling had been enriched -by the tales of the Arabians. But if we look in vain to the early Gothic -poetry for many of those fables which adorn the works of the romancers, -we shall easily find them in the ample field of oriental fiction. Thus -the Asiatic romances and chemical works of the Arabians are full of -enchantments similar to those described in the Spanish, and even in the -French, tales of chivalry. Magical rings were an important part of the -eastern philosophy, and seem to have given rise to those which are of so -much service to the Italian poets. In the Eastern peris, we may trace -the origin of the European fairies in their qualities, and perhaps in -their name. The griffin or hippogriff of the Italian writers, seems to -be the famous Simurgh of the Persians, which makes such a figure in the -epic poems of Sadii and Ferdusii. - -‘A great number of these romantic wonders were collected in the East by -that idle and lying horde of pilgrims and palmers who visited the Holy -Land through curiosity, restlessness, or devotion, and who, returning -from so great a distance, imposed every fiction on a believing audience. -They were subsequently introduced into Europe by the Fablers of France, -who took up arms and followed their barons to the conquest of Jerusalem. -At their return, they imported into Europe the wonders they had heard, -and enriched romance with an infinite variety of Oriental fictions. - - * * * * * - -‘A fourth hypothesis has been suggested, which represents the machinery -and colouring of fiction, the stories of enchanted gardens, monsters, -and winged steeds, which have been introduced into romance, as derived -from the classical and mythological authors; and as being merely the -ancient stories of Greece, grafted on modern manners, and modified by -the customs of the age. The classical authors, it is true, were in the -middle ages scarcely known; but the superstitions they inculcated had -been prevalent for too long a period, and had taken too firm a hold on -the mind, to be easily obliterated. The mythological ideas which still -lingered behind were diffused in a multitude of popular works. In the -travels of Sir John Mandeville, there are many allusions to ancient -fable; and, as Middleton has shown that a great number of the Popish -rites were derived from Pagan ceremonies, it is scarcely to be doubted, -that many classical were converted into romantic fictions. This at least -is certain, that the classical system presents the most numerous and -least exceptionable prototypes of the fables of romance. - -‘In many of the tales of chivalry, there is a knight detained from his -guest, by the enticements of a sorceress; and who is nothing more than -the Calypso or Circe of Homer. The story of Andromeda might give rise to -the fable of damsels being rescued by their favourite knight, when on -the point of being devoured by a sea monster. The heroes of the Iliad -and Æneid were both furnished with enchanted armour; and in the story of -Polyphemus, a giant and his cave are exhibited. Herodotus, in his -history, speaks of a race of Cyclops who inhabited the North, and waged -perpetual war with the tribe of Griffons, which was in possession of -mines of gold. The expedition of Jason in search of the golden fleece; -the apples of the Hesperides, watched by a dragon; the king’s daughter -who is an enchantress, who falls in love with and saves the knight,—are -akin to the marvels of romantic fiction—especially of that sort supposed -to have been introduced by the Arabians. Some of the less familiar -fables of classical mythology, as the image in the Theogony of Hesiod, -of the murky prisons in which the Titans were pent up by Jupiter, under -the custody of strong armed giants, bear a striking resemblance to the -more wild sublimity of the Gothic fictions.’ (Vol. 1. p. 135.) - -Thus Bayes is not the only poet whose invention is indebted to his -memory or common-place book; and the art of fictitious narrative, like -every other art, seems to have arisen gradually from very humble -beginnings; and to have consisted, at first, not in the invention of -incidents, but in the exaggeration, natural even to eyewitnesses, in -relating any interesting or surprising event; and afterwards, in -borrowing incidents, true or false, from every quarter, whenever such a -license had the chance of escaping detection, or of being favourably -received. - -But the licence, whether of exaggerating, of borrowing, or of inventing -incidents, would be more freely assumed by the bard, and more -indulgently admitted by his audience; and indeed the reports of -travellers, who have always enjoyed a peculiar privilege, would provide -the materials of fiction in greater variety, and of a more wonderful -kind, when the scene of the hero’s adventures happened to be in distant -and unknown regions, inhabited by other races of men, enclosed by other -mountains and other seas, subject to the influence of other skies, and -governed by other gods and another order of Nature.—The Odyssey is a -curious example.—If we except the usual interposition of the usual -deities, the history of what passes in Ithaca and Greece seems to -contain little which may not be more easily conceived to have actually -happened, than to have been invented by the poet. But when we accompany -Ulysses to Italy, Sicily and Ogygia, countries so little known in those -early times to the inhabitants of Ionia or Greece, we find ourselves in -another world. We meet with the enchantments of Circe, the mother of a -large family of enchantresses; and the songs of Sirens—whose fascinating -progeny has multiplied still more extensively both in verse and in -prose. We meet with Giants who devoured human flesh, and are manifestly -near of kin to the raw-boned gentlemen against whom not only the -knights-errant of after-times, but also our dearly beloved school-fellow -Jack the Giant-killer exerted his prowess and sagacity—though we have -some pleasure in remarking that the more modern giants are of a finer -breed, and farther removed from the savage state, as they look through -two eyes instead of one, and live in castles instead of caves. What is -more wonderful, we meet with the road to hell; not indeed the broad way -through the wide gate, so well known and so much frequented by men of -all ranks in every age of the world; but the secret path which it -requires mystic rites to open, and by which a hero, a saint, or a poet, -with a proper guide and good interest at court, may not only descend -with all his flesh and blood about him to gratify his curiosity, but -also return safe and sound, to entertain his friends above ground with -the sights he saw below. - -It appears, then, in what manner the bards, prompted by patriotism, and -the desire of exciting the wonder of their auditors, might be enabled, -without any great trouble of invention, to adorn with fiction the songs -which recorded the exploits of their own countrymen; and their freedom -in this respect would be the greater, according to the distance of time -or place. But all restraint would be removed, when the hero of the tale -was a foreigner. The historical truth would in this case be indifferent -to the audience, and the narrative would be more acceptable, according -as it was more extraordinary, affecting, and miraculous. Now it is -obvious, that as the bards were indebted to their powers of amusing -company for their estimation in society, and even for their livelihood, -they would be prompted, by vanity and interest, as well as by their -genius and habits, to provide an ample store and variety of tales; and -not to confine themselves to transactions where they must have been -fettered by the national records or traditions, but to adopt also those -other subjects, where they could employ without control all the -materials which were furnished by their experience, memory or fancy. It -is obvious, too, that recourse to foreign subjects would become the more -frequent, according as the nation advanced in knowledge and refinement, -and ceased to depend on their poets for the preservation of their -history. And when the professions of the poets and historians were -completely separated, the former would be fully and for ever invested -with the privilege of fiction, the _quidlibet audendi potestas_, in all -their narratives, whether of foreign or domestic transactions—subject -only to the remonstrances of the critics, not for telling lies, but for -telling ill-contrived or uninteresting lies. - -We have dwelt the longer on the origin of fictitious narrative, not only -because the subject has been strangely misrepresented by the critics, -but also because it is entirely overlooked in our author’s history. And -this oversight seems to have produced another very material defect, the -limitation of his plan to fictions _in prose_. - -The earliest fictions are obviously entitled to the greatest attention, -on account of the information which may be extracted from them with -regard to the history, manners, and opinions of the nation and age to -which they belong. They are also connected with many of the succeeding -fictions; so that, by a mutual comparison, they are all rendered more -intelligible and agreeable, more valuable both to the antiquary, the -philosopher, and the innocents who read for amusement. But all the early -fictions are composed in verse; and after fiction became less connected -with history, many of the finest specimens of poetry are also the finest -specimens of fictitious narrative. In fact, if we except a very few -Italian tales, and some of the first-rate French and English novels, by -far the best fictitious narratives in existence are poems. And a history -of Mathematics which should exclude Archimedes and Newton, would not be -more extraordinary, than a history of Fiction which excludes Homer, -Hesiod, Virgil, Lucan, Ariosto, Tasso, Chaucer, Spenser, Milton, Scott, -Campbell and Byron. - -The reason alleged for this exclusion appears to us, we will confess, -altogether unsatisfactory. - -‘The history of Fiction,’ says our author in his Introduction, ‘becomes -in a considerable degree interesting to the philosopher, and occupies an -important place in the history of the progress of society. By -contemplating the fables of a people, we have a successive delineation -of their prevalent modes of thinking, a picture of their feelings and -tastes and habits. In this respect prose fiction appears to possess -advantages considerably superior either to history or poetry. In history -there is too little individuality; in poetry too much effort, to permit -the poet and historian to pourtray the manners living as they rise. -History treats of man, as it were, in the mass; and the individuals whom -it paints, are regarded merely or principally in a public light, without -taking into consideration their private feelings, tastes, or habits. -Poetry is in general capable of too little detail, while its paintings -at the same time are usually too much forced and exaggerated. But in -Fiction we can discriminate without impropriety, and enter into detail -without meanness. Hence it has been remarked, that it is chiefly in the -fictions of an age that we can discover the modes of living, dress and -manners of the period.’ - -In the two last sentences it is plain that the author means prose -fictions, and not fictions in general. But we hope he will consider this -matter a little more deliberately. Even though we should grant all that -he has here stated, it would not afford a sufficient reason for -excluding fictitious narratives in verse from the History of Fiction. -But we apprehend that verse is by no means incompatible with accurate -and minute description; for which we may appeal to the finest poems that -have ever yet been published, as well as to the ruder lays of the bards -in the North and West of Europe, which are of such importance both in -the history of Fiction, and in the history of Society. Of the manners -and characters of the Greek in the heroic ages, we find a distinct and -even minute account in the poems of Homer: but it would not be -adviseable to form our ideas of the Greek Shepherds and Shepherdesses in -any age, from a certain prose romance to which our Author has -condescended to afford a conspicuous place in his history—Longus’s -pastoral tale of Daphnis and Chloe. We doubt much if the manners of -chivalry are as correctly represented in the prose of Amadis de Gaul, -and the long train of prose romances to which it gave rise, and which -occupy so great a portion of the present work; as in the Orlando Furioso -and Gerusalemme liberata, under all the fetters of the ottava rima. The -voluminous histories of Astrea and Cleopatra, the accomplished Sir -Philip Sydney’s Arcadia, and various other celebrated romances, which -are admitted into our author’s history on account of their prose, and -which are chiefly deserving of attention, from the difficulty of -discovering how any body could ever have been at the trouble to read -them, describe a state of society which never existed any where but in -the fantastic imaginations of those writers, who may κατ’ ἐξοχήν—be -denominated Prosers. On the other hand, the Lady of the Lake, Gertrude -of Wyoming, the Bride of Abydos and the Corsair, present in the most -harmonious versification and highest colouring of poetry, many details -of national manners which are not surpassed in accuracy by the plain -prose of that most honest of all travellers, Bell of Antermony. We are -far however from wishing to insinuate that any of the prose romances -which we have mentioned should be excluded from the History of Fiction. -On the contrary we are extremely obliged to Mr. Dunlop for his judicious -and elegant accounts of them. But we regret that the mere circumstance -of versification should have excluded so many capital or curious works -which are essentially connected with a philosophical and critical -delineation of the origin and progress of Fiction in general, and -particularly in the West of Europe. - -The present publication, however, although it ought only to be entitled -Sketches of the History of Fiction, is still interesting and amusing, -and in general is respectably executed. But we have only to look at the -first chapter, in order to be sensible of the imperfection of the plan. -This chapter gives a view of the Greek romances in prose, and begins -with a work of Antonius Diogenes in the time of Alexander the Great, -entitled Accounts of the incredible things in Thule, τῶν ὑπὲρ Θουλην -ἀπιστῶν λόγοι. It is now, we believe, extant only in the Epitome of -Photius; and is a farrago of absurd and extravagant stories, which its -author acknowledges to have been collected from former writers. We -mention it only to apprise the reader at how recent a period Mr. -Dunlop’s history begins. At this period, the art of composition, both in -prose and verse, had attained a high degree of excellence; the -departments of history and fiction were completely separated,—though -some irregular practices have existed, down to our own days, of -borrowing the ornaments of the latter department to decorate the former; -fiction had been long cultivated on its own account; the tales which -delighted the Milesians, and which probably borrowed many of their -incidents from the neighbouring and civilised nations of Persia, were -then in circulation; and the intercourse which Alexander’s expedition -had opened with the more easterly nations, must have afforded a copious -supply of materials for the story-tellers of Greece. Thus our author’s -history opens, not in the beginning, but in the midst, of things; an -arrangement which, however commendable in an Epic poem, does not appear -so well adapted to sober history,—not even to a history of Fiction. Nor -does our author, like the Epic poets, fall upon any device for carrying -us back in due time to the commencement of the subject; from which -indeed he is precluded by the artificial limits of his plan. - -Of the Greek Romances in prose, now extant, of any considerable length -(if we except the Cyropœdia, which is a fiction of a very particular -kind, and not intended for popular amusement), the oldest is not earlier -than the end of the fourth century. It is the history of Theagenes and -Chariclea, written by Heliodorus, Bishop of Tricca in Thessaly, but -before his promotion to the episcopal dignity. It is deserving of notice -chiefly on account of the hints which it has furnished to succeeding -writers of eminence, particularly to Tasso and Guarini; but we mention -it here, chiefly for the purpose of recommending to our author a revisal -of the principles of criticism which he has laid down in his remarks on -this Romance. To us it appears that a story may possess novelty, -probability, and variety in its incidents; that the incidents may be -arranged by the narrator, so as to keep us ignorant of the final issue -till the last; that it may possess all the ornaments which our author -has enumerated—a good style, characters well defined and interesting in -themselves, sentiments as sublime as any in Epictetus, and descriptions -as fine as in the Romance of the Forest, or as correct as in Bell’s -Travels; nay, to crown all, we can even conceive that the story shall be -written in prose;—and yet, that with all these merits, which are all -that our author requires, it shall be a string of events so unimportant -or unimpassioned, that a second perusal would be quite insufferable. -Have we not seen Mr. Cumberland’s novels? - -Waiting to be better instructed, we would merely hint at present, that -the proper merit of a Romance consists in Interest and Pathos, including -in Pathos the ludicrous as well as the serious emotions. A romance is -nothing, if it does not preserve alive our anxiety for the fate of the -principal characters, with a constant, though varied, agitation of the -passions. For this purpose, we must be made to conceive the whole action -as passing before us—to hear the conversations of the different -persons—to see their demeanours and looks—to enter into their -thoughts—and to have each of them as distinctly and individually present -to our mind, as the several characters in the Iliad, in Marianne, in Tom -Jones, or in Cecilia. When the characters are striking, either by their -virtues, vices, or follies—and when our imagination is thus occupied by -a succession of scenes in which these qualities are rendered -conspicuous, and in which our sympathies and aversions, our admiration -and laughter, our joy and sorrow, our hopes and fears, are kept in -continual play—we can forgive many improbabilities and even -impossibilities in the story,—as is well known to the readers of Homer, -Ariosto, and Shakespeare: still less are we displeased with borrowed -incidents,—as almost all our dramatic authors can testify. In fact, -there is generally but little merit in the adoption, or even invention -of the simple incident, compared to the genius of the poet, the actor, -or the painter, who bestows upon it life and passion. Chariclea was -appointed by the priest of Apollo to present to Theagenes the lighted -torch for kindling the sacrifice in the temple of Delphi. They first saw -each other upon this occasion, and became mutually and deeply enamoured. -But how feeble is the impression produced by this dry narrative, -compared to what we feel at Raphael’s glowing picture of the scene, or -compared to what we would have felt if Rousseau had described the looks -and thoughts of the enraptured lovers!—When they were flying from Delphi -to Sicily, their ship was captured by the pirate Charinus, whom -Chariclea implored in vain not to separate her from Theagenes. We hear -without emotion the general account of the event; but how affecting is -it to contemplate, in the picture drawn by the same great master, the -attitude and countenance of Chariclea as she is kneeling at the Pirate’s -feet! And how could Otway have wrung the heart by the dramatic -representation of such an interview! - -It is amusing to observe, at the end of this chapter, how the author -endeavours to persuade himself that his history opens with the origin of -fictitious narrative in Greece. After some general remarks on the -romances he had been reviewing, he adds, ‘In short, these _early_ -fictions are such as might have been expected at the _first_ effort’—as -if the romances produced several centuries after the Christian era, or -even in the time of Alexander the Great, were the first attempts at -fiction in the country of Homer and Hesiod. - -In the second chapter, where the author proposes to review the Latin -romances, the principal article is the Ass of Apuleius, which, from its -great popularity, has been called the Golden Ass. It is an improvement -of Lucian’s whimsical tale, entitled Lucius; and relates the adventures -of the author Apuleius during his transformation into an ass. This -misfortune befel him at the house of a female magician in Thessaly with -whom he lodged, and whose maidservant at his request had stolen a box of -ointment from her mistress, by rubbing himself with which Apuleius -expected to be changed into a bird; but as his friend the damsel had by -mistake given him a wrong box, he found himself compelled to bray and -walk on all fours, instead of whistling and flying in the air. He is -informed by her, that the eating of rose leaves is necessary for his -restoration to the human form. One should imagine that roses might be -found as easily in Thessaly as in this country, where an ass of ordinary -observation and address might contrive, without much difficulty, to -regale himself with one, if he liked it as well as a thistle—and much -more, if it were an object of as great importance to him as to Apuleius. -This poor beast, however, went through many adventures, some to be sure -agreeable enough, but in general very unpleasant, before he had it in -his power to taste a rose leaf. At last, having one evening escaped from -his master, he found unexpectedly the termination of his misfortunes. We -shall quote Mr. Dunlop’s account of this happy catastrophe. - -‘He fled unperceived to the fields; and having galloped for three -leagues, he came to a retired place on the shore of the sea. The moon -which was in full splendour, and the awful silence of the night, -inspired him with sentiments of devotion. He purified himself in the -manner prescribed by Pythagoras, and addressed a long prayer to the -great goddess Isis. In the course of the night she appeared to him in a -dream; and after giving a strange account of herself, announced to him -the end of his misfortunes; but demanded in return the consecration of -his whole life to her service. On awakening, he feels himself confirmed -in his resolution of aspiring to a life of virtue. On this change of -disposition and conquest over his passions, the author finely represents -all nature as assuming a new face of cheerfulness and gaiety. “Tanta -hilaritate, praeter peculiarem meam, gestire mihi cuncta videbantur, ut -pecua etiam cujuscemodi, et totas domos, et ipsam diem serena facie -gaudere sentirem.” - -‘While in this frame of mind, Apuleius perceived an innumerable -multitude approaching the shore to celebrate the festival of Isis. Amid -the crowd of priests, he remarked the sovereign pontiff, with a crown of -roses on his head; and approached to pluck them. The pontiff, yielding -to a secret inspiration, held forth the garland. Apuleius resumed his -former figure, and the promise of the Goddess was fulfilled. He was then -initiated into her rites—returned to Rome, and devoted himself to her -service.... He was finally invited to a more mystic and solemn -initiation by the Goddess herself, who rewarded him for his accumulated -piety, by an abundance of temporal blessings.’—VOL. I. p. 114. - -This romance has acquired great celebrity, from having been pressed by -Warburton into the service of Christianity, in his curious argument for -the Divine Legation of Moses—which we trust is defensible upon other -grounds. We cannot go so far as the learned prelate; though we think it -extremely probable that Apuleius had in view the general idea of -representing, on the one hand, by his metamorphosis, the degradation of -human nature in consequence of a voluptuous life; and on the other hand, -the dignity and happiness of virtue, by his restoration and admission to -the mysteries of Isis. The Golden Ass, however, is not calculated to -make converts from pleasure; and is chiefly valuable as a book of -amusement, written very agreeably, but not without affectation, and -containing some beautiful tales and many diverting incidents. - -Of the ancient Latin romances very few are extant; and it is probable -that the production of these luxuries was checked in Italy before the -end of the fourth century, though the Greek writers continued for nine -or ten centuries afterwards to compose tales of various kinds both in -prose and verse. But, while the idle people of Constantinople were -amusing themselves with their novels, the western provinces of the Roman -empire were laid waste by barbarous invaders; and a period of extreme -misery was at length succeeded by a new state of society, a new state of -government, manners and opinions, very different from that which had -been subverted in the west, or from that which subsisted in the refined -and effeminate provinces of the east, but far better adapted to rouse -the ardour of a poetical imagination. Hence arose a new and remarkable -class of fictions,—the fictions of Chivalry, which have so long -delighted Britain and France, and Spain and Italy. They are the subject -of the third and three following chapters of our Author’s history. - -It is in this portion of his work, particularly, that we have to lament -the unhappy limitation of his plan. The prose romances of Chivalry were -produced for the most part by Bayes’s most expeditious recipe for -original composition, namely, by turning verse into prose,—being -extremely diffuse and languid compilations from the early metrical -tales; and they are in general of little value to the antiquary, as -neither their authors nor their dates can be ascertained. Amadis de Gaul -is one of the most celebrated; and yet it remains undetermined whether -the work now extant under that title has not been greatly altered from -the original; nor can any one tell either who composed the original, or -who manufactured the present work, or at what time either the one or the -other was written. The early metrical tales are far more deserving of -attention as connected with real history; and if we consider the -romances of chivalry merely as amusements to the imagination, the -subject appears better adapted for verse than for prose. The stately and -formal manners of those ages soon grow wearisome in ordinary narrative, -and require to be enlivened by the rapidity and brilliancy of poetical -description: And who does not feel that the marvellous exploits and -supernatural events with which they abound, deserve rather to be sung to -the sound of the harp, tabret, cymbal, and all manner of musical -instruments, than to be detailed in the sober language of truth, which -is absurdly affected by the prose romancers, who generally announce -themselves as authentic historians, and rail at the falsehood of their -metrical predecessors? Accordingly it is among the poets that we are to -look for the finest specimens of the fictions which we are now -considering; and while the romances of Ariosto, and Tasso and Scott, are -read again and again by persons of all descriptions, even Mr. Southey’s -translation of the great Amadis de Gaul, though it is ably executed, and -has much improved its original by abridging it, was never popular, and -is now almost forgotten. - -Our author deviates from his plan so far as to give us a slight notice -of a few of the metrical romances which were preserved in the library of -M. de St. Palaye, the learned writer of the Memoirs on Chivalry. But -with this exception, he gratifies his readers with an account of the -prose romances only; of which the most ancient, and perhaps the most -curious, are those which relate to the fabulous history of England. -Amidst the devastation of the Roman empire in the west, this island -suffered far more than its share of the general calamity. The Christian -religion, which had been elsewhere not only spared but embraced by the -conquerors, was exterminated by the idolatrous and unlettered Saxons who -subdued the British province; and if any of the Britons were suffered to -exist within its bounds, they were only poor despised stragglers of the -lower orders; while the remnant of its chiefs, clergy and bards—its -traditions, its records, its literature, its very language—were swept -into the mountains of Wales, or beyond the sea into Britany. In these -circumstances, it is not surprising that the history of England should -be lost in fable, from the time that the Saxons got a footing in it, -about the middle of the fifth century, till the year 600, in which they -began to be converted, and civilized, and instructed in letters, by -Augustine and the other missionaries of Pope Gregory the Great. This -dark period of 150 years, between the entrance of the Saxons under -Hengist, and their conversion to Christianity, was the age of the famous -King Arthur, his friend Merlin the Enchanter, and the Knights of his -illustrious order of the Round Table, who are the great heroes in the -older romances of chivalry. Not that these good people, although they -fought stoutly against the invaders, knew any thing about the etiquette -and parade of chivalry, which was not instituted as an order till long -afterwards: but the romancers of the eleventh and twelfth centuries -chose to dress in the fashion of their own times, the characters whom -they found in the stories of Wales and Britany, or in the chronicle of -Geoffry of Monmouth, who reduced these stories into the form of a -regular authentic history, ascending to Brutus the Trojan, generally -denominated Le Brut by the French, and Brute by the English poets, who -was the great-grandson of Æneas, and the undoubted founder of the -British kingdom;—a fact which is abundantly confirmed, if it needed -confirmation, by the name Britain, quasi Brutain, evidently derived from -Brutus. - -The earliest of the prose romances relating to Arthur, is the history of -Merlin the Enchanter, who was the son of a demon and an innocent young -lady, and favourite minister of Uter Pendragon, the British king. It was -this monarch who instituted at Carduel (Carlisle), the order of the -Round Table; at which were seated 50 or 60 of the first nobles of the -country, with an empty place always left for the Sangreal. The Sangreal, -our readers must know, was the most precious of all the Christian -relics: it was the blood which flowed from our Saviour’s wounds, -preserved in the _hanap_ or cup in which he drank with his apostles the -night when he was betrayed. This relic was first in the possession of -Joseph of Arimathea, by whom it was brought to Britain, and afterwards -fell into the hands of king Pecheur, who, by a beautiful ambiguity of -the French language, might have received this name either from being a -great fisher or a great sinner, or both. His nephew, the redoubted -knight Percival, succeeded to his uncle’s kingdom and to the possession -of the Sangreal; which, at the moment of Percival’s death, was in the -presence of his attendants carried up into heaven, and has never since -been seen or heard of. But to return to the romance of Merlin, which is -a favourable specimen of the class to which it belongs—we shall extract -the following account from our author’s history. - -‘Soon after this institution (of the Round Table), the king invited all -his barons to the celebration of a great festival, which he proposed -holding annually at Carduel. - -‘As the knights had obtained permission from his majesty to bring their -ladies along with them, the beautiful Yguerne accompanied her husband, -the Duke of Tintadiel, to one of these anniversaries. The king became -deeply enamoured of the dutchess, and revealed his passion to Ulsius, -one of his counsellors. Yguerne withstood all the inducements which -Ulsius held forth to prepossess her in favour of his master; and -ultimately disclosed to her husband the attachment and solicitations of -the king. On hearing this, the duke instantly withdrew from court with -Yguerne, and without taking leave of Uter. The king complained of this -want of duty to his council, who decided, that the duke should be -summoned to court, and if refractory, should be treated as a rebel. As -he refused to obey the citation, the king carried war into the estates -of his vassal, and besieged him in the strong castle of Tintadiel, in -which he had shut himself up. Yguerne was confined in a fortress at some -distance, which was still more secure. During the siege, Ulsius informed -his master that he had been accosted by an old man, who promised to -conduct the king to Yguerne, and had offered to meet him for that -purpose on the following morning. Uter proceeded with Ulsius to the -rendezvous. In an old blind man whom they found at the appointed place, -they recognized the enchanter Merlin, who had assumed that appearance. -He bestowed on the king the form of the Duke of Tintadiel, while he -endowed himself and Ulsius with the figures of his grace’s two squires. -Fortified by this triple metamorphosis, they proceeded to the residence -of Yguerne, who, unconscious of the deceit, received the king as her -husband. - -‘The fraud of Merlin was not detected, and the war continued to be -prosecuted by Uter with the utmost vigour. At length the Duke was killed -in battle, and the King, by the advice of Merlin, espoused Yguerne. Soon -after the marriage she gave birth to Arthur, whom she believed to be the -son of her former husband, as Uter had never communicated to her the -story of his assumed appearance. - -‘After the death of Uter, there was an interregnum in England, as it was -not known that Arthur was his son. This Prince, however, was at length -chosen King, in consequence of having unfixed from a miraculous stone, a -sword which two hundred and one of the most valiant barons in the realm -had been singly unable to extract. At the beginning of his reign, Arthur -was engaged in a civil war; as the mode of his election, however -judicious, was disapproved by some of the Barons, and when he had at -length overcome his domestic enemies, he had long wars to sustain -against the Gauls and Saxons. - -‘In all these contests, the art of Merlin was of great service to -Arthur, as he changed himself into a dwarf, a harp player, or a stag, as -the interest of his master required; or at least threw on the bystanders -a spell to fascinate their eyes, and cause them to see the thing that -was not. On one occasion he made an expedition to Rome, entered the -King’s palace in the shape of an enormous stag, and in this character -delivered a formal harangue, to the utter amazement of one called Julius -Cæsar; not the Julius whom the Knight Mars killed in his pavilion, but -him whom Gauvaine slew, because he defied King Arthur. - -‘At length this renowned magician disappeared entirely from England. His -voice alone was heard in a forest, where he was enclosed in a bush of -hawthorn: he had been entrapped in this awkward residence by means of a -charm he had communicated to his mistress Viviane, who not believing in -the spell, had tried it on her lover. The lady was sorry for the -accident; but there was no extracting her admirer from his thorny -coverture. - -‘The earliest edition of this romance was printed at Paris, in three -volumes folio, 1498.... Though seldom to be met with, the Roman de -Merlin is one of the most curious romances of the class to which it -belongs. It comprehends all the events connected with the life of the -enchanter, from his supernatural birth to his magical disappearance, and -embraces a longer period of interesting fabulous history than most of -the works of chivalry.... The language, which is very old French, is -remarkable for its beauty and simplicity. Indeed the work bears -everywhere the marks of very high antiquity—though it is impossible to -fix the date of its composition: It has been attributed to Robert de -Borron, to whom many other works of this nature have been assigned; but -it is not known at what time this author existed; and indeed he is -believed by many, and particularly by Mr. Ritson, to be entirely a -fictitious personage’ (VOL. I. p. 178). - -Our author has given an amusing enough account, not only of the various -prose romances relating to chivalry, but also of those circumstances in -the state of the western nations which gave rise to the singular -institutions and manners of that proud order, and consequently to this -particular species of fiction; and we are moreover instructed in the -origin of the marvels with which these fictions abound. The subject has -been treated so ably, and in such detail, by former writers, that little -new is to be expected; but we have already had occasion to commend our -author’s judgment,—who has not confined himself to any one of the -theories which have been ingeniously and learnedly maintained on the -topic last mentioned, but has shown that they are all founded on truth, -and consistent with each other. - -We shall now refer the reader to the work itself, of which we have -produced abundant specimens. Its multifarious nature is indicated by the -title-page; and it contains much curious information, both with regard -to the particular romances which are reviewed, and also with regard to -the transition of stories from age to age, and from the novelist to the -dramatic poet. But we cannot dismiss the subject, without stating -briefly one or two additional remarks, which we submit to our author’s -consideration in the view of another edition. - -It is a material defect that his Reviews are so general, and so uniform -in their style, that although we are amused with their pleasantry, they -enable us to form but a very imperfect idea of the original -compositions. The abridgments of some of the narratives are extremely -jejune; and although he has inserted in the Appendix to the first volume -some curious passages from the old French romances, and has even been so -obliging as to furnish a specimen of John Bunyan’s style in the -Pilgrim’s Progress, and of Mrs. Radcliffe’s in the Romance of the -Forest, these favoured writers are almost the only ones whom he allows -to address us in their own persons. Now it is obvious, that even the -detail of all the incidents in a romance would be a very insufficient -ground for judging of its merit. If the narrative is not animated, -interesting, and impassioned, it is deficient in the essential -requisites. But it is Mr. Dunlop who tells all the stories; and he tells -them in his own way. He tells them indeed agreeably, and in many cases, -we believe, more agreeably than the authors. This, however, is not -precisely the entertainment to which we understood ourselves to have -been invited. At another time we shall be happy to listen to Mr. -Dunlop’s uninterrupted lecture; but on this occasion we expected that he -was to introduce us to a great company of literati,—that he was to show -them off and draw them out: Yet though they are all eager to talk,—being -indeed all of them professed story-tellers, he talks the whole talk -himself, and allows very few of the poor gentlemen to put in a word. It -is true that he is doing the honours, and consequently we expect that he -should prepare us in every case for what we are to hear; but still he -should have let the good people speak a little for themselves, and then -we might have formed some guess of their mettle. Mr. Ellis has managed -this matter better in his specimens of the early metrical romances. - -We must likewise observe, that our author is not always sufficiently -attentive to make his criticisms intelligible to those who are not -acquainted with the original works. Thus, after giving us an outline of -the Greek story of Clitophon and Leucippe, he remarks (VOL. I. p. 38) -that a number of the incidents are original (how does he know that?) and -well imagined; ‘such as the beautiful incident of the Bee, which has -been adopted by Tasso and D’Urfé:’ of which mysterious bee we do not -hear another syllable either before or afterwards. - -The state of Fiction in modern times is by far the finest and most -interesting part of the whole subject; but our author’s account of it is -extremely imperfect indeed, and seems to have been got up in very great -haste, that the contents of his chapters might have some correspondence -with his title-page. In fact, it is so inferior to what he has shown -himself capable of accomplishing, that it would not be fair to advert to -it more particularly.—There is however one incidental circumstance which -we cannot omit. Miss Burney is mentioned, only to suggest that both the -general incidents and the leading characters in Evelina have been -derived from Mrs. Heywood’s stupid history of Betsy Thoughtless. This is -really too much in the style of the schoolboy critics,—who make a -prodigious noise about originality and invention, without attending to -what constitutes the real value of works addressed to the imagination. -Does it derogate from Shakespeare’s genius, that his fables are not his -own? Or does any person now suppose that Homer invented, or would it -have been much to his credit if he had invented, the story of the Trojan -war, or even the principal events in his immortal poems? We will not -however resume this topic, which we had already occasion to consider; -but only observe, that from whatever quarter the author of Evelina may -have derived the hints of her stories and characters, there are but few -novelists who deserve to be compared to her in the capital merit of a -powerful dramatic effect. - -We shall conclude with merely suggesting that our author’s history would -be greatly improved if he were careful to trace the connexion between -the variations in the popular fictions of the western nations of Europe, -and the variations in the political, moral, religious and literary state -of those nations since the first establishment of the feudal -governments. There are not wanting materials and helps for such an -investigation; and as Mr. Dunlop is a man of erudition and research, we -have no doubt that he would find it an interesting amusement for his -leisure hours. - -Upon the whole, though we wish to see the History of Fiction executed on -a very different plan, and with a greater spirit of philosophical -inquiry and critical acuteness, we recommend the present publication as -an agreeable and curious Miscellany, which discovers uncommon -information and learning. - - - STANDARD NOVELS AND ROMANCES - - VOL. XXIV.] [_February 1815._ - -There is an exclamation in one of Gray’s letters—‘Be mine to read -eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon!’ If we did not utter -a similar aspiration at the conclusion of the Wanderer, it was not -from any want of affection for the class of writing to which it -belongs; for, without going quite so far as the celebrated French -philosopher, who thought that more was to be learnt from good novels -and romances, than from the gravest treatises on history and -morality, we must confess, that there are few works to which we -oftener turn for profit or delight, than to the standard productions -in this species of composition. With the exception of the violently -satirical, and the violently sentimental specimens of the art, we -find there the closest imitation of men and manners; and are -admitted to examine the very web and texture of society, as it -really exists, and as we meet with it when we come into the world. -If the style of poetry has ‘something more divine in it,’ this -savours more of humanity. We are brought acquainted with an infinite -variety of characters—all a little more amusing, and, for the -greater part, more true to general nature than those which we meet -with in actual life—and have our moral impressions far more -frequently called out, and our moral judgments exercised, than in -the busiest career of existence. As a record of past manners and -opinions, too, such writings afford both more minute and more -abundant information than any other. To give one example only:—We -should really be at a loss where to find, in any authentic documents -of the same period, so satisfactory an account of the general state -of society, and of moral, political and religious feeling, in the -reign of George II. as we meet with in the Adventures of Joseph -Andrews and his friend Mr. Abraham Adams. This work, indeed, we take -to be a perfect piece of statistics in its kind; and do not know -from what other quarter we could have acquired the solid information -it contains, even as to this comparatively recent period. What a -thing it would be to have such a work of the age of Pericles or -Alexander! and how much more would it teach us as to the true -character and condition of the people among whom it was produced, -than all the tragedies and histories, and odes and orations, that -have been preserved of their manufacture! In looking into such grave -and ostentatious performances, we see little but the rigid skeleton -of public transactions—exaggerations of party zeal, and vestiges of -literary ambition; and if we wish really to know what was the state -of manners and of morals, and in what way, and into what forms, -principles and institutions were actually moulded in practice, we -cannot do better than refer to the works of those writers, who, -having no other object than to imitate nature, could only hope for -success from the fidelity of their pictures; and were bound (in -their own defence) to reduce the boasts of vague theorists, and the -exaggerations of angry disputants, to the mortifying standard of -reality. - -We will here confess however, that we are a little prejudiced on the -point in question; and that the effect of many fine speculations has -been lost upon us, from an early familiarity with the most striking -passages in the little work to which we have just alluded. Thus, nothing -can be more captivating than the description somewhere given by Mr. -Burke, of the indissoluble connexion between learning and nobility; and -of the respect universally paid by wealth to piety and morals. But the -effect of this splendid representation has always been spoiled to us, by -our recollection of Parson Adams sitting over his cup of ale in Sir -Thomas Booby’s kitchen. Echard ‘On the Contempt of the Clergy,’ in like -manner, is certainly a very good book, and its general doctrine more -just and reasonable; but an unlucky impression of the reality of Parson -Trulliber always checks, in us, the respectful emotions to which it -should give rise: while the lecture which Lady Booby reads to Lawyer -Scout on the expulsion of Joseph and Fanny from the parish, casts an -unhappy shade over the splendid pictures of practical jurisprudence that -are to be found in the works of Blackstone or De Lolme. The most moral -writers, after all, are those who do not pretend to inculcate any moral: -The professed moralist almost unavoidably degenerates into the partisan -of a system; and the philosopher warps the evidence to his own purpose. -But the painter of manners gives the facts of human nature, and leaves -us to draw the inference: If we are not able to do this, or do it ill, -at least it is our own fault. - -The first-rate writers in this class are of course few; but those few we -may reckon, without scruple, among the greatest ornaments and the best -benefactors of our kind. There is a certain set of them, who, as it -were, take their rank by the side of reality, and are appealed to as -evidence on all questions concerning human nature. The principal of -these are Cervantes and Le Sage; and, among ourselves, Fielding, -Richardson, Smollett, and Sterne.[1] As this is a department of -criticism which deserves more attention than we have ever yet bestowed -on it, we shall venture to treat it a little in detail; and endeavour to -contribute something towards settling the standard of excellence, both -as to degree and kind, in these several writers. - -We shall begin with the renowned history of Don Quixote; who always -presents something more stately, more romantic, and at the same time -more real to our imagination, than any other hero upon record. His -lineaments, his accoutrements, his pasteboard visor, are familiar to us, -as the recollections of our early home. The spare and upright figure of -the hero paces distinctly before our eyes; and Mambrino’s helmet still -glitters in the sun! We not only feel the greatest love and veneration -for the knight himself, but a certain respect for all those connected -with him—the Curate, and Master Nicolas the barber—Sancho and Dapple—and -even for Rosinante’s leanness and his errors! Perhaps there is no work -which combines so much originality with such an air of truth. Its -popularity is almost unexampled; and yet its real merits have not been -sufficiently understood. The story is the least part of them; though the -blunders of Sancho, and the unlucky adventures of his master, are what -naturally catch the attention of ordinary readers. The pathos and -dignity of the sentiments are often disguised under the ludicrousness of -the subject; and provoke laughter when they might well draw tears. The -character of Don Quixote itself is one of the most perfect -disinterestedness. He is an enthusiast of the most amiable kind—of a -nature equally open, gentle and generous; a lover of truth and justice, -and one who had brooded over the fine dreams of chivalry and romance, -till the dazzling visions cheated his brain into a belief of their -reality. There cannot, in our opinion, be a greater mistake than to -consider Don Quixote as a merely satirical work, or an attempt to -explode, by coarse raillery, ‘the long forgotten order of chivalry.’ -There could be no need to explode what no longer existed. Besides, -Cervantes himself was a man of the most sanguine and enthusiastic -temperament; and even through the crazed and battered figure of the -knight, the spirit of chivalry shines out with undiminished lustre; and -one might almost imagine that the author had half-designed to revive the -example of past ages, and once more ‘witch the world with noble -horsemanship’; and had veiled the design, in scorn of the degenerate age -to which it was addressed, under this fantastic and imperfect disguise -of romantic and ludicrous exaggeration. However that may be, the spirit -which the book breathes, to those who relish and understand it best, is -unquestionably the spirit of chivalry: nor perhaps is it too much to -say, that, if ever the flame of Spanish liberty is destined to break -forth, wrapping the tyrant and the tyranny in one consuming blaze, it is -owing to Cervantes and his knight of La Mancha, that the spark of -generous sentiment and romantic enterprise from which it must be -kindled, has not been quite extinguished. - -The character of Sancho is not more admirable in the execution, than in -the conception, as a relief to that of the knight. The contrast is as -picturesque and striking as that between the figures of Rosinante and -Dapple. Never was there so complete a _partie quarrée_;—they answer to -one another at all points. Nothing can surpass the truth of physiognomy -in the description of the master and man, both as to body and mind;—the -one lean and tall, the other round and short;—the one heroical and -courteous, the other selfish and servile;—the one full of high-flown -fancies, the other a bag of proverbs;—the one always starting some -romantic scheme, the other always keeping to the safe side of tradition -and custom. The gradual ascendancy, too, obtained by Don Quixote over -Sancho, is as finely managed as it is characteristic. Credulity, and a -love of the marvellous, are as natural to ignorance as selfishness and -cunning. Sancho by degrees becomes a kind of lay-brother of the order; -acquires a taste for adventures in his own way, and is made all but an -entire convert, by the discovery of the hundred crowns in one of his -most comfortless journeys. Towards the end, his regret at being forced -to give up the pursuit of knight-errantry, almost equals his master’s; -and he seizes the proposal of Don Quixote to turn shepherds, with the -greatest avidity,—still applying it, however, in his own fashion; for -while the Don is ingeniously torturing the names of his humble -acquaintance into classical terminations, and contriving scenes of -gallantry and song, Sancho exclaims, ‘Oh, what delicate wooden spoons -shall I carve! what crumbs and cream shall I devour!’—forgetting, in his -milk and fruits, the pullets and geese at Camacho’s wedding. - -This intuitive perception of the hidden analogies of things, or, as it -may be called, this _instinct of imagination_, is what stamps the -character of genius on the productions of art, more than any other -circumstance: for it works unconsciously, like nature, and receives its -impressions from a kind of inspiration. There is more of this -unconscious power in Cervantes, than in any other author, except -Shakespeare. Something of the same kind extends itself to all the -subordinate parts and characters of the work. Thus we find the curate -confidentially informing Don Quixote, that if he could get the ear of -the government, he has something of considerable importance to propose -for the good of the state; and the knight afterwards meets with a young -gentleman, who is a candidate for poetical honours, with a mad lover, a -forsaken damsel, &c.—all delineated with the same inimitable force, -freedom, and fancy. The whole work breathes that air of romance,—that -aspiration after imaginary good,—that longing after something more than -we possess, that in all places, and in all conditions of life, - - ——‘still prompts the eternal sigh, - For which we wish to live, or dare to die!’ - -The characters in Don Quixote are strictly individuals; that is, they do -not belong to, but form a class of themselves. In other words, the -actions and manners of the chief _dramatis personæ_ do not arise out of -the actions and manners of those around them, or the condition of life -in which they are placed, but out of the peculiar dispositions of the -persons themselves, operated upon by certain impulses of imagination and -accident: Yet these impulses are so true to nature, and their operation -so truly described, that we not only recognize the fidelity of the -representation, but recognize it with all the advantages of novelty -superadded. They are unlike any thing we have actually seen—may be said -to be purely ideal—and yet familiarize themselves more readily with our -imagination, and are retained more strongly in memory, than perhaps any -others:—they are never lost in the crowd. One test of the truth of this -ideal painting, is the number of allusions which Don Quixote has -furnished to the whole of civilized Europe—that is to say of appropriate -cases, and striking illustrations of the universal principles of our -nature. The common incidents and descriptions of human life are, -however, quite familiar and natural; and we have nearly the same insight -given us here, into the characters of inn-keepers, bar-maids, ostlers, -and puppet-show men, as in Fielding himself. There is a much greater -mixture, however, of sentiment with _naïveté_, of the pathetic with the -quaint and humorous, than there ever is in Fielding. We might instance -the story of the country man, whom Don Quixote and Sancho met in their -search after Dulcinea, driving his mules to plough at break of day, and -‘singing the ancient ballad of Roncesvalles!’ The episodes which are -introduced, are excellent; but have, upon the whole, been overrated. -Compared with the serious tales in Boccacio, they are trifling. That of -Marcella, the fair shepherdess, is the best. We will only add, that Don -Quixote is an entirely original work in its kind, and that the author -has the highest honour which can belong to one, that of being the -founder of a new style of writing. - -There is another Spanish novel, Gusman d’Alfarache, nearly of the same -age as Don Quixote, and of great genius, though it can hardly be ranked -as a novel, or a work of imagination. It is a series of strange -adventures, rather drily told, but accompanied by the most severe and -sarcastic commentary. The satire, the wit, the eloquence, and reasoning, -are of the most powerful kind; but they are didactic, rather than -dramatic. They would suit a sermon or a pasquinade better than a -romance. Still there are in this extraordinary book, occasional sketches -of character, and humorous descriptions, to which it would be difficult -to produce any thing superior. This work, which is hardly known in this -country except by name, has the credit, without any reason, of being the -original of Gil Blas. There is only one incident the same, that of the -supper at the inn. In all other respects, these two works are the very -reverse of each other, both in their excellencies and defects. - -Gil Blas is, next to Don Quixote, more generally read and admired than -any other novel—and, in one sense, deservedly so: for it is at the head -of its class, though that class is very different from, and inferior to -the other. There is very little individual character in Gil Blas. The -author is a describer of manners, and not of character. He does not take -the elements of human nature, and work them up into new combinations, -(which is the excellence of Don Quixote); nor trace the peculiar and -striking combinations of folly and knavery as they are to be found in -real life, (like Fielding); but he takes off, as it were, the general, -habitual impression, which circumstances make on certain conditions of -life, and moulds all his characters accordingly. All the persons whom he -introduces, carry about with them the badge of their profession; and you -see little more of them than their costume. He describes men as -belonging to certain classes in society—the highest, generally, and the -lowest, and such as are found in great cities—not as they are in -themselves, or with the individual differences which are always to be -found in nature. His hero, in particular, has no character but that of -the accidental circumstances in which he is placed. His priests are only -described as priests: his valets, his players, his women, his courtiers -and his sharpers, are all the same. Nothing can well exceed the monotony -of the work in this respect;—at the same time that nothing can exceed -the truth and precision with which the general manners of these -different characters are preserved, nor the felicity of the particular -traits by which their leading foibles are brought out to notice. Thus, -the Archbishop of Grenada will remain an everlasting memento of the -weakness of human vanity; and the account of Gil Blas’s legacy, of the -uncertainty of human expectations. This novel is as deficient in the -fable as in the characters. It is not a regularly constructed story; but -a series of adventures told with equal gaiety and good sense, and in the -most graceful style possible. - -It has been usual to class our great novelists as imitators of one or -other of these two writers. Fielding, no doubt, is more like Don Quixote -than Gil Blas; Smollett is more like Gil Blas than Don Quixote: but -there is not much resemblance in either case. Sterne’s Tristram Shandy -is a more direct instance of imitation. Richardson can scarcely be -called an imitator of any one; or, if he is, it is of the sentimental -refinement of Marivaux, or the verbose gallantry of the writers of the -seventeenth century. - -There is very little to warrant the common idea, that Fielding was an -imitator of Cervantes,—except his own declaration of such an intention, -in the title-page of Joseph Andrews,—the romantic turn of the character -of Parson Adams (the only romantic character in his works),—and the -proverbial humour of Partridge, which is kept up only for a few pages. -Fielding’s novels are, in general, thoroughly his own; and they are -thoroughly English. What they are most remarkable for, is neither -sentiment, nor imagination, nor wit, nor humour, though there is a great -deal of this last quality; but profound knowledge of human nature—at -least of English nature—and masterly pictures of the characters of men -as he saw them existing. This quality distinguishes all his works, and -is shown almost equally in all of them. As a painter of real life, he -was equal to Hogarth: As a mere observer of human nature, he was little -inferior to Shakespeare, though without any of the genius and poetical -qualities of his mind.—His humour is less rich and laughable than -Smollett’s; his wit as often misses as hits;—he has none of the fine -pathos of Richardson or Sterne:—But he has brought together a greater -variety of characters in common life,—marked with more distinct -peculiarities, and without an atom of caricature, than any other novel -writer whatever. The extreme subtility of observation on the springs of -human conduct in ordinary characters, is only equalled by the ingenuity -of contrivance in bringing those springs into play in such a manner as -to lay open their smallest irregularity. The detection is always -complete—and made with the certainty and skill of a philosophical -experiment, and the ease and simplicity of a casual observation. The -truth of the imitation is indeed so great, that it has been argued that -Fielding must have had his materials ready-made to his hands, and was -merely a transcriber of local manners and individual habits. For this -conjecture, however, there seems to be no foundation. His -representations, it is true, are local and individual; but they are not -the less profound and natural. The feeling of the general principles of -human nature operating in particular circumstances, is always intense, -and uppermost in his mind: and he makes use of incident and situation, -only to bring out character. - -It is perhaps scarcely necessary to give any illustration of these -remarks. Tom Jones is full of them. The moral of this book has been -objected to, and not altogether without reason—but a more serious -objection has been made to the want of refinement and elegance in the -two principal characters. We never feel this objection, indeed, while we -are reading the book: but at other times, we have something like a -lurking suspicion that Jones was but an awkward fellow, and Sophia a -pretty simpleton. We do not know how to account for this effect, unless -it is that Fielding’s constantly assuring us of the beauty of his hero, -and the good sense of his heroine, at last produces a distrust of both. -The story of Tom Jones is allowed to be unrivalled: and it is this -circumstance, together with the vast variety of characters, that has -given the history of a Foundling so decided a preference over Fielding’s -other novels. The characters themselves, both in Amelia and Joseph -Andrews, are quite equal to any of those in Tom Jones. The account of -Miss Mathews and Ensign Hibbert—the way in which that lady reconciles -herself to the death of her father—the inflexible Colonel Bath, the -insipid Mrs. James, the complaisant Colonel Trent—the demure, sly, -intriguing, equivocal Mrs. Bennet—the lord who is her seducer, and who -attempts afterwards to seduce Amelia by the same mechanical process of a -concert-ticket, a book, and the disguise of a great-coat—his little fat -short-nosed, red-faced, good-humoured accomplice the keeper of the -lodging-house, who having no pretensions to gallantry herself, has a -disinterested delight in forwarding the intrigues and pleasures of -others, (to say nothing of honest Atkinson, the story of the -miniature-picture of Amelia, and the hashed mutton, which are in a -different style), are masterpieces of description. The whole scene at -the lodging-house, the masquerade, &c. in Amelia, is equal in interest -to the parallel scenes in Tom Jones, and even more refined in the -knowledge of character. For instance, Mrs. Bennet is superior to Mrs. -Fitzpatrick in her own way. The uncertainty in which the event of her -interview with her former seducer is left, is admirable. Fielding was a -master of what may be called the _double entendre_ of character, and -surprises you no less by what he leaves in the dark, (hardly known to -the persons themselves), than by the unexpected discoveries he makes of -the real traits and circumstances in a character with which, till then, -you find you were unacquainted. There is nothing at all heroic, however, -in the style of any of his delineations. He never draws lofty characters -or strong passions;—all his persons are of the ordinary stature as to -intellect; and none of them trespass on the angelic nature, by elevation -of fancy, or energy of purpose. Perhaps, after all, Parson Adams is his -finest character. It is equally true to nature, and more ideal than any -of the others. Its unsuspecting simplicity makes it not only more -amiable, but doubly amusing, by gratifying the sense of superior -sagacity in the reader. Our laughing at him does not once lessen our -respect for him. His declaring that he would willingly walk ten miles to -fetch his sermon on vanity, merely to convince Wilson of his thorough -contempt of this vice, and his consoling himself for the loss of his -Æschylus, by suddenly recollecting that he could not read it if he had -it, because it is dark, are among the finest touches of _naïveté_. The -night-adventures at Lady Booby’s with Beau Didapper, and the amiable -Slipslop, are the most ludicrous; and that with the huntsman, who draws -off the hounds from the poor Parson, because they would be spoiled by -following _vermin_, the most profound. Fielding did not often repeat -himself: but Dr. Harrison, in Amelia, may be considered as a variation -of the character of Adams: so also is Goldsmith’s Vicar of Wakefield; -and the latter part of that work, which sets out so delightfully, an -almost entire plagiarism from Wilson’s account of himself, and Adams’s -domestic history. - -Smollett’s first novel, Roderick Random, which is also his best, -appeared about the same time as Fielding’s Tom Jones; and yet it has a -much more modern air with it: But this may be accounted for, from the -circumstance that Smollett was quite a young man at the time, whereas -Fielding’s manner must have been formed long before. The style of -Roderick Random, though more scholastic and elaborate, is stronger and -more pointed than that of Tom Jones; the incidents follow one another -more rapidly, (though it must be confessed they never come in such a -throng, or are brought out with the same dramatic facility); the humour -is broader, and as effectual; and there is very nearly, if not quite, an -equal interest excited by the story. What then is it that gives the -superiority to Fielding? It is the superior insight into the springs of -human character, and the constant development of that character through -every change of circumstance. Smollett’s humour often arises from the -situation of the persons, or the peculiarity of their external -appearance, as, from Roderick Random’s carrotty locks, which hung down -over his shoulders like a pound of candles, or Strap’s ignorance of -London, and the blunders that follow from it. There is a tone of -vulgarity about all his productions. The incidents frequently resemble -detached anecdotes taken from a newspaper or magazine; and, like those -in Gil Blas, might happen to a hundred other characters. He exhibits -only the external accidents and reverses to which human life is -liable—not ‘the stuff’ of which it is composed. He seldom probes to the -quick, or penetrates beyond the surface of his characters: and therefore -he leaves no stings in the minds of his readers, and in this respect is -far less interesting than Fielding. His novels always enliven, and never -tire us: we take them up with pleasure, and lay them down without any -strong feeling of regret. We look on and laugh, as spectators of an -amusing though inelegant scene, without closing in with the combatants, -or being made parties in the event. We read Roderick Random as an -entertaining story; for the particular accidents and modes of life which -it describes, have ceased to exist: but we regard Tom Jones as a real -history; because the author never stops short of those essential -principles which lie at the bottom of all our actions, and in which we -feel an immediate interest;—_intus et in cute_.—Smollett excels most as -the lively caricaturist: Fielding as the exact painter and profound -metaphysician. We are far from maintaining, that this account applies -uniformly to the productions of these two writers; but we think that, as -far as they essentially differ, what we have stated is the general -distinction between them. Roderick Random is the purest of Smollett’s -novels; we mean in point of style and description. Most of the incidents -and characters are supposed to have been taken from the events of his -own life; and are therefore truer to nature. There is a rude conception -of generosity in some of his characters, of which Fielding seems to have -been incapable; his amiable persons being merely good-natured. It is -owing to this, we think, that Strap is superior to Partridge; and there -is a heartiness and warmth of feeling in some of the scenes between -Lieutenant Bowling and his nephew, which is beyond Fielding’s power of -impassioned writing. The whole of the scene on ship-board is a most -admirable and striking picture, and, we imagine, very little, if at all -exaggerated, though the interest it excites is of a very unpleasant -kind. The picture of the little profligate French friar, who was -Roderick’s travelling companion, and of whom he always kept to the -windward, is one of Smollett’s most masterly sketches. Peregrine Pickle -is no great favourite of ours, and Launcelot Greaves was not worthy of -the genius of the author. - -Humphry Clinker and Count Fathom are both equally admirable in their -way. Perhaps the former is the most pleasant gossipping novel that ever -was written—that which gives the most pleasure with the least effort to -the reader. It is quite as amusing as going the journey could have been, -and we have just as good an idea of what happened on the road, as if we -had been of the party. Humphry Clinker himself is exquisite; and his -sweetheart, Winifred Jenkins, nearly as good. Matthew Bramble, though -not altogether original, is excellently supported, and seems to have -been the prototype of Sir Anthony Absolute in the Rivals. But Lismahago -is the flower of the flock. His tenaciousness in argument is not so -delightful as the relaxation of his logical severity, when he finds his -fortune mellowing with the wintry smiles of Mrs. Tabitha Bramble. This -is the best preserved, and most original of all Smollett’s characters. -The resemblance of Don Quixote is only just enough to make it -interesting to the critical reader, without giving offence to any body -else. The indecency and filth in this novel, are what must be allowed to -all Smollett’s writings. The subject and characters in Count Fathom are, -in general, exceedingly disgusting: the story is also spun out to a -degree of tediousness in the serious and sentimental parts; but there is -more power of writing occasionally shown in it than in any of his works. -We need only refer to the fine and bitter irony of the Count’s address -to the country of his ancestors on landing in England; to the -robber-scene in the forest, which has never been surpassed; to the -Parisian swindler, who personates a raw English country squire, (Western -is tame in the comparison); and to the story of the seduction in the -west of England. We should have some difficulty to point out, in any -author, passages written with more force and nature than these. - -It is not, in our opinion, a very difficult attempt to class Fielding or -Smollett;—the one as an observer of the characters of human life, the -other as a describer of its various eccentricities: But it is by no -means so easy to dispose of Richardson, who was neither an observer of -the one, nor a describer of the other; but who seemed to spin his -materials entirely out of his own brain, as if there had been nothing -existing in the world beyond the little shop in which he sat writing. -There is an artificial reality about his works, which is nowhere to be -met with. They have the romantic air of a pure fiction, with the literal -minuteness of a common diary. The author had the strangest -matter-of-fact imagination that ever existed, and wrote the oddest -mixture of poetry and prose. He does not appear to have taken advantage -of any thing in actual nature, from one end of his works to the other: -and yet, throughout all his works (voluminous as they are—and this, to -be sure, is one reason why they are so), he sets about describing every -object and transaction, as if the whole had been given in on evidence by -an eyewitness. This kind of high finishing from imagination is an -anomaly in the history of human genius; and certainly nothing so fine -was ever produced by the same accumulation of minute parts. There is not -the least distraction, the least forgetfulness of the end: every -circumstance is made to tell. We cannot agree that this exactness of -detail produces heaviness; on the contrary, it gives an appearance of -truth, and a positive interest to the story; and we listen with the same -attention as we should to the particulars of a confidential -communication. We at one time used to think some parts of Sir Charles -Grandison rather trifling and tedious, especially the long description -of Miss Harriet Byron’s wedding clothes, till we met with two young -ladies who had severally copied out the whole of that very description -for their own private gratification. After this, we could not blame the -author. - -The effect of reading this work, is like an increase of kindred: you -find yourself all of a sudden introduced into the midst of a large -family, with aunts and cousins to the third and fourth generation, and -grandmothers both by the father’s and mother’s side,—and a very odd set -of people too, but people whose real existence and personal identity you -can no more dispute than your own senses,—for you see and hear all that -they do or say. What is still more extraordinary, all this extreme -elaborateness in working out the story, seems to have cost the author -nothing: for it is said, that the published works are mere abridgments. -We have heard (though this, we suppose, must be a pleasant -exaggeration), that Sir Charles Grandison was originally written in -eight and twenty volumes. - -Pamela is the first of his productions, and the very child of his brain. -Taking the general idea of the character of a modest and beautiful -country girl, and of the situation in which she is placed, he makes out -all the rest, even to the smallest circumstance, by the mere force of a -reasoning imagination. It would seem as if a step lost would be as fatal -here as in a mathematical demonstration. The development of the -character is the most simple, and comes the nearest to nature that it -can do, without being the same thing. The interest of the story -increases with the dawn of understanding and reflection in the heroine. -Her sentiments gradually expand themselves, like opening flowers. She -writes better every time, and acquires a confidence in herself, just as -a girl would do, writing such letters in such circumstances; and yet it -is certain _that no girl would write such letters in such -circumstances_. What we mean is this. Richardson’s nature is always the -nature of sentiment and reflection, not of impulse or situation. He -furnishes his characters, on every occasion, with the presence of mind -of the author. He makes them act, not as they would from the impulse of -the moment, but as they might upon reflection, and upon a careful review -of every motive and circumstance in their situation. They regularly sit -down to write letters: and if the business of life consisted in -letter-writing, and was carried on by the post (like a Spanish game at -chess), human nature would be what Richardson represents it. All actual -objects and feelings are blunted and deadened by being presented through -a medium which may be true to reason, but is false in nature. He -confounds his own point of view with that of the immediate actors in the -scene; and hence presents you with a conventional and factitious nature, -instead of that which is real. Dr. Johnson seems to have preferred this -truth of reflection to the truth of nature, when he said that there was -more knowledge of the human heart in a page of Richardson than in all -Fielding. Fielding, however, saw more of the practical results, and -understood the principles as well; but he had not the same power of -speculating upon their possible results, and combining them in certain -ideal forms of passion and imagination, which was Richardson’s real -excellence. - -It must be observed, however, that it is this mutual good understanding, -and comparing of notes between the author and the persons he describes; -his infinite circumspection, his exact process of ratiocination and -calculation, which gives such an appearance of coldness and formality to -most of his characters,—which makes prudes of his women, and coxcombs of -his men. Every thing is too conscious in his works. Every thing is -distinctly brought home to the mind of the actors in the scene, which is -a fault undoubtedly: but then, it must be confessed, every thing is -brought home in its full force to the mind of the reader also; and we -feel the same interest in the story as if it were our own. Can any thing -be more beautiful or affecting than Pamela’s reproaches to her ‘lumpish -heart’ when she is sent away from her master’s at her own request—its -lightness, when she is sent for back—the joy which the conviction of the -sincerity of his love diffuses in her heart, like the coming-on of -spring—the artifice of the stuff gown—the meeting with lady Davers after -her marriage—and the trial scene with her husband? Who ever remained -insensible to the passion of Lady Clementina, except Sir Charles -Grandison himself, who was the object of it? Clarissa is, however, his -masterpiece, if we except Lovelace. If she is fine in herself, she is -still finer in his account of her. With that foil, her purity is -dazzling indeed: and she who could triumph by her virtue, and the force -of her love, over the regality of Lovelace’s mind, his wit, his person, -his accomplishments and his spirit, conquers all hearts. We should -suppose that never sympathy more deep or sincere was excited than by the -heroine of Richardson’s romance, except by the calamities of real life. -The links in this wonderful chain of interest are not more finely -wrought, than their whole weight is overwhelming and irresistible. Who -can forget the exquisite gradations of her long dying scene, or the -closing of the coffin-lid, when Miss Howe comes to take her last leave -of her friend; or the heart-breaking reflection that Clarissa makes on -what was to have been her wedding-day? Well does a modern writer -exclaim— - - ‘Books are a real world, both pure and good, - Round which, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, - Our pastime and our happiness may grow!’ - -Richardson’s wit was unlike that of any other writer;—his humour was so -too. Both were the effect of intense activity of mind;—laboured, and yet -completely effectual. We might refer to Lovelace’s reception and -description of Hickman, when he calls out Death in his ear, as the name -of the person with whom Clarissa had fallen in love; and to the scene at -the glove shop. What can be more magnificent than his enumeration of his -companions—‘Belton so pert and so pimply—Tourville so fair and so -foppish,’ etc.? In casuistry, he is quite at home; and, with a boldness -greater even than his puritanical severity, has exhausted every topic on -virtue and vice. There is another peculiarity in Richardson, not perhaps -so uncommon, which is, his systematically preferring his most insipid -characters to his finest, though both were equally his own invention, -and he must be supposed to have understood something of their qualities. -Thus he preferred the little, selfish, affected, insignificant Miss -Byron, to the divine Clementina; and again, Sir Charles Grandison, to -the nobler Lovelace. We have nothing to say in favour of Lovelace’s -morality; but Sir Charles is the prince of coxcombs,—whose eye was never -once taken from his own person, and his own virtues; and there is -nothing which excites so little sympathy as his excessive egotism. - -It remains to speak of Sterne;—and we shall do it in few words. There is -more of _mannerism_ and affectation in him, and a more immediate -reference to preceding authors;—but his excellencies, where he is -excellent, are of the first order. His characters are intellectual and -inventive, like Richardson’s—but totally opposite in the execution. The -one are made out by continuity, and patient repetition of touches; the -others, by rapid and masterly strokes, and graceful apposition. His -style is equally different from Richardson’s:—it is at times the most -rapid,—the most happy,—the most idiomatic of any of our novel writers. -It is the pure essence of English conversational style. His works -consist only of _morceaux_,—of brilliant passages. His wit is poignant, -though artificial;—and his characters (though the groundwork has been -laid before), have yet invaluable original differences;—and the spirit -of the execution, the master-strokes constantly thrown into them, are -not to be surpassed. It is sufficient to name them—Yorick, Dr. Slop, Mr. -Shandy, my Uncle Toby, Trim, Susanna, and the Widow Wadman: and in these -he has contrived to oppose, with equal felicity and originality, two -characters,—one of pure intellect, and the other of pure good nature, in -my Father and my Uncle Toby. There appears to have been in Sterne a vein -of dry, sarcastic humour, and of extreme tenderness of feeling;—the -latter sometimes carried to affectation, as in the tale of Maria, and -the apostrophe to the recording angel;—but at other times pure, and -without blemish. The story of Le Febre is perhaps the finest in the -English language. My Father’s restlessness, both of body and mind, is -inimitable. It is the model from which all those despicable performances -against modern philosophy ought to have been copied, if their authors -had known any thing of the subject they were writing about. My Uncle -Toby is one of the finest compliments ever paid to human nature. He is -the most unoffending of God’s creatures; or, as the French express -it—_un tel petit bon homme!_ Of his bowling-green,—his sieges,—and his -amours, who would say or think any thing amiss? - -It is remarkable that our four best novel writers belong nearly to the -same age. We also owe to the same period, (the reign of George II.), the -inimitable Hogarth, and some of our best writers of the middle style of -comedy. If we were called upon to account for this coincidence, we -should wave the consideration of more general causes, (as, that -imagination naturally descends with the progress of civilization), and -ascribe it at once to the establishment of the Protestant ascendancy, -and the succession of the House of Hanover. These great events appear to -have given a more popular turn to our literature and genius, as well as -to our Government. It was found high time that the people should be -represented in books as well as in parliament. They wished to see some -account of themselves in what they read, and not to be confined always -to the vices, the miseries and frivolities of the great. Our domestic -tragedy, and our earliest periodical works, appeared a little before the -same period. In despotic countries, human nature is not of sufficient -importance to be studied or described. The _canaille_ are objects rather -of disgust than curiosity; and there are no middle classes. The works of -Racine and Moliere are little else than imitations of the verbiage of -the court, before which they were represented; or fanciful caricatures -of the manners of the lowest of the people. But in the period of our -history in question, a security of person and property, and a freedom of -opinion had been established, which made every man feel of some -consequence to himself, and appear an object of some curiosity to his -neighbours; our manners became more domesticated; there was a general -spirit of sturdiness and independence, which made the English character -more truly English than perhaps at any other period—that is, more -tenacious of its own opinions and purposes. The whole surface of society -appeared cut out into square enclosures and sharp angles, which extended -to the dresses of the time, their gravel walks, and clipped hedges. Each -individual had a certain ground-plot of his own to cultivate his -particular humours in, and let them shoot out at pleasure; and a most -plentiful crop they have produced accordingly. - -The reign of George II. was, in a word, in an eminent degree, _the age -of hobby-horses_. But since that period, things have taken a different -turn. His present Majesty, during almost the whole of his reign, has -been constantly mounted on a great War-horse; and has fairly driven all -competitors out of the field. Instead of minding our own affairs, or -laughing at each other, the eyes of all his faithful subjects have been -fixed on the career of the Sovereign, and all hearts anxious for the -safety of his person and government. Our pens and our swords have been -drawn alike in their defence; and the returns of killed and wounded, the -manufacture of newspapers and parliamentary speeches, have exceeded all -former example. If we have had little of the blessings of peace, we have -had enough of the glories and calamities of war. His Majesty has indeed -contrived to keep alive the greatest public interest ever known, by his -determined manner of riding his hobby for half a century together, with -the aristocracy—the democracy—the clergy—the landed and monied -interest—and the rabble, in full cry after him! and at the end of his -career, most happily and unexpectedly succeeded—amidst empires lost and -won—kingdoms overturned and created—and the destruction of an incredible -number of lives—in restoring _the divine right of Kings_,—and thus -preventing any further abuse of the example which seated his family on -the throne! - -It is not to be wondered, if, amidst the tumult of events crowded into -this period, our literature has partaken of the disorder of the time; if -our prose has run mad, and our poetry grown childish. Among those few -persons who ‘have kept the even tenor of their way,’ the author of -Evelina, Cecilia, and Camilla, holds a distinguished place. Mrs. -Radcliffe’s ‘enchantments drear’ and mouldering castles, derived a part -of their interest, we suppose, from the supposed tottering state of all -old structures at the time; and Mrs. Inchbald’s ‘Nature and Art’ would -not have had the same popularity, but that it fell in (in its two main -characters) with the prevailing prejudice of the moment, that judges and -bishops were not pure abstractions of justice and piety. Miss -Edgeworth’s tales, again, are a kind of essence of common sense, which -seemed to be called for by the prevailing epidemics of audacious paradox -and insane philosophy. The author of the present novel is, however, -quite of the old school, a mere common observer of manners,—and also a -very woman. It is this last circumstance which forms the peculiarity of -her writings, and distinguishes them from those masterpieces which we -have before mentioned. She is unquestionably a quick, lively, and -accurate observer of persons and things; but she always looks at them -with a consciousness of her sex, and in that point of view in which it -is the particular business and interest of women to observe them. We -thus get a kind of supplement and gloss to our original text, which we -could not otherwise have obtained. There is little in her works of -passion or character, or even manners, in the most extended sense of the -word, as implying the sum-total of our habits and pursuits; her _forte_ -is in describing the absurdities and affectations of external behaviour, -or _the manners of people in company_. Her characters, which are all -caricatures, are no doubt distinctly marked, and perfectly kept up; but -they are somewhat superficial, and exceedingly uniform. Her heroes and -heroines, almost all of them, depend on the stock of a single phrase or -sentiment; or at least have certain mottoes or devices by which they may -always be known. They are such characters as people might be supposed to -assume for a night at a masquerade. She presents not the whole length -figure, nor even the face, but some prominent feature. In the present -novel, for example, a lady appears regularly every ten pages, to get a -lesson in music for nothing. She never appears for any other purpose; -this is all you know of her; and in this the whole wit and humour of the -character consists. Meadows is the same, who has always the same cue of -being tired, without any other idea, etc. It has been said of -Shakespeare, that you may always assign his speeches to the proper -characters:—and you may infallibly do the same thing with Madame -D’Arblay’s; for they always say the same thing. The Branghtons are the -best. Mr. Smith is an exquisite city portrait.—Evelina is also her best -novel, because it is shortest; that is, it has all the liveliness in the -sketches of character, and exquisiteness of comic dialogue and repartee, -without the tediousness of the story, and endless affectation of the -sentiments. - -Women, in general, have a quicker perception of any oddity or -singularity of character than men, and are more alive to every absurdity -which arises from a violation of the rules of society, or a deviation -from established custom. This partly arises from the restraints on their -own behaviour, which turn their attention constantly on the subject, and -partly from other causes. The surface of their minds, like that of their -bodies, seems of a finer texture than ours; more soft, and susceptible -of immediate impression. They have less muscular power,—less power of -continued voluntary attention,—of reason—passion and imagination: But -they are more easily impressed with whatever appeals to their senses or -habitual prejudices. The intuitive perception of their minds is less -disturbed by any general reasonings on causes or consequences. They -learn the idiom of character and manner, as they acquire that of -language, by rote merely, without troubling themselves about the -principles. Their observation is not the less accurate on that account, -as far as it goes; for it has been well said, that ‘there is nothing so -true as habit.’ - -There is little other power in Miss Burney’s novels, than that of -immediate observation: her characters, whether of refinement or -vulgarity, are equally superficial and confined. The whole is a question -of form, whether that form is adhered to, or violated. It is this -circumstance which takes away dignity and interest from her story and -sentiments, and makes the one so teazing and tedious, and the other so -insipid. The difficulties in which she involves her heroines are indeed -‘Female Difficulties;’—they are difficulties created out of nothing. The -author appears to have no other idea of refinement than that it is the -reverse of vulgarity; but the reverse of vulgarity is fastidiousness and -affectation. There is a true, and a false delicacy. Because a vulgar -country Miss would answer ‘yes’ to a proposal of marriage in the first -page, Mad. d’Arblay makes it a proof of an excess of refinement, and an -indispensable point of etiquette in her young ladies, to postpone the -answer to the end of five volumes, without the smallest reason for their -doing so, and with every reason to the contrary. The reader is led every -moment to expect a denouement, and is as constantly disappointed on some -trifling pretext. The whole artifice of her fable consists in coming to -no conclusion. Her ladies stand so upon the order of their going, that -they do not go at all. They will not abate an ace of their punctilio in -any circumstances, or on any emergency. They would consider it as quite -indecorous to run down stairs though the house were in flames, or to -move off the pavement though a scaffolding was falling. She has formed -to herself an abstract idea of perfection in common behaviour, which is -quite as romantic and impracticable as any other idea of the sort: and -the consequence has naturally been, that she makes her heroines commit -the greatest improprieties and absurdities in order to avoid the -smallest. In contradiction to a maxim in philosophy, they constantly act -from the weakest motive, or rather from pure affectation. - -Thus L. S.—otherwise _Ellis_, in the present novel, actually gives -herself up to the power of a man who has just offered violence to her -person, rather than return to the asylum of a farm-house, at which she -has left some friends, because, as she is turning her steps that way, -‘she hears the sounds of rustic festivity and vulgar merriment proceed -from it.’ That is, in order that her exquisite sensibility may not be -shocked by the behaviour of a number of honest country-people making -merry at a dance, this model of female delicacy exposes herself to every -species of insult and outrage from a man whom she hates. In like manner, -she runs from her honourable lover into the power of a ruffian and an -assassin, who claims a right over her person by a forced marriage. The -whole tissue of the fable is, in short, more wild and chimerical than -any thing in Don Quixote, without having any thing of poetical truth or -elevation. Madame D’Arblay has woven a web of difficulties for her -heroine, something like the green silken threads in which the -shepherdess entangled the steed of Cervantes’s hero, who swore, in his -fine enthusiastic way, that he would sooner cut his passage to another -world than disturb the least of those beautiful meshes. The Wanderer -raises obstacles, lighter than ‘the gossamer that idles in the wanton -summer air,’ into insurmountable barriers; and trifles with those that -arise out of common sense, reason, and necessity. Her conduct never -arises directly out of the circumstances in which she is placed, but out -of some factitious and misplaced refinement on them. It is a perpetual -game at cross-purposes. There being a plain and strong motive why she -should pursue any course of action, is a sufficient reason for her to -avoid it; and the perversity of her conduct is in proportion to its -levity—as the lightness of the feather baffles the force of the impulse -that is given to it, and the slightest breath of air turns it back on -the hand from which it is launched. We can hardly consider this as an -accurate description of the perfection of the female character! - -We are sorry to be compelled to speak so disadvantageously of the work -of an excellent and favourite writer; and the more so, as we perceive no -decay of talent, but a perversion of it. There is the same admirable -spirit in the dialogues, and particularly in the characters of Mrs. -Ireton, Sir Jasper Herrington, and Mr. Giles Arbe, as in her former -novels. But these do not fill a hundred pages of the work; and there is -nothing else good in it. In the story, which here occupies the attention -of the reader almost exclusively, Madame D’Arblay never excelled. - - - SISMONDI’S LITERATURE OF THE SOUTH - - VOL. XXV.] [_June 1815._ - -This is another great work from the pen of the celebrated historian of -the Italian Republics: though we think it written, on the whole, with -less force and spirit than that admirable history. The excellent author -has visibly less enthusiasm as a critic than as a politician; and -therefore he interests us less in that character, and at the same time -inspires us rather with less than greater confidence in the accuracy of -his opinions; for there can be no real love of liberty, or admiration of -genius, where there is no enthusiasm—and no one who does not love them, -will ever submit to the labour of a full and fair investigation of their -history and concerns. A cold, calculating indifference in matters of -taste, is generally the effect of want of feeling; as affected -moderation in politics is (nine times out of ten) a cloak for want of -principle. Notwithstanding the very great pleasure we have received from -the work before us, we should have been still more gratified, therefore, -if the author had himself appeared more delighted with his task, and -consequently imparted to it a more decided and original character. In -his Republics, he describes events and characters in the history of -modern Italy with the genuine feelings of an enlightened reasoner, -indignant at the wrongs, the vices, and the degradation of the country -of his ancestors: In judging of its literature, he too often borrows -French rules and German systems of criticism. His practical taste and -speculative principles do not, therefore, always coincide; and, -regarding this work on Literature as an appendage to his History, it is -impossible not to observe, that he is glad, upon all occasions, to slide -into his old and favourite subject; to pass from the professor’s chair -into the rostrum; and to connect, in glowing terms, the rise or fall of -letters with the political independence or debasement of the states in -which they flourished or decayed. - -If we were to hazard any other preliminary remark of a general -character, it should be, that the author appears to have a more intimate -acquaintance with, and a great predilection for, the more modern and -immediately popular writers of Italy, than for those who appear to us -objects of greater curiosity and admiration. Thus, he dismisses Dante, -Petrarca and Boccacio, in fewer pages than he devotes to Metastasio -alone—an author whose chief merit he himself defines to be, the happy -adaptation of his pieces to the musical recitative of the opera, and -which, therefore, in a literary point of view, must be comparatively -uninteresting. Again, Ariosto makes, in his hands, a very slender -appearance by the side of Tasso—an appearance by no means proportioned -to the size of the men, or to the interest which is felt in them, or to -the scope for criticism in their different works. The account of the two -modern Italian dramatists, Alfieri and Goldoni, though given much at -length, is not certainly liable to the same kind of objection, as the -information with respect to them is valuable from its novelty. - -The present volumes contain a general view of the literature of the -South of Modern Europe,—of Italy, Spain, Portugal, and the Provençal. -The author proposes, in another work, to examine that of the North, -particularly of England and Germany. The publication now before us was -(we are informed in the preface) originally composed to be delivered to -a class of young persons at Geneva: and this circumstance, while it has -added to its value and comprehensiveness as a book of reference, has -made it less entertaining to the general reader. A body of criticism, -like a body of divinity, must contain a great deal of matter less -pleasant than profitable in the perusal. In our account of it, we shall -direct the reader’s attention to what most forcibly arrested our -own—premising merely, that among the writers to whom M. Sismondi is -forward to acknowledge his obligations, are, Professor Boutterwek on -modern literature in general, Millot’s history of the Troubadours, -Tiraboschi and M. Guiguené on the Italian literature, Velasquez on the -Spanish and Portuguese, and William Schlegel for the dramatic literature -of all these nations. It is to this last author that he seems to be -indebted for a great part of his theoretical reasoning and conjectural -criticism on the general principles of taste and the progress of human -genius. - -The first volume commences with an account of the Provençal poetry, -which is by no means the least interesting or curious part of this -extensive and elaborate work. We shall endeavour to give some general -idea of it to our readers. The language which prevailed in all the South -of Europe, after the destruction of the Roman empire, was a barbarous -mixture of Latin with the different languages of the Northern invaders. -It was in the south of France that this language first took a consistent -form, and became the vehicle of a gay and original poetry. The causes -which contributed to invest it with this distinction, were, according to -M. Sismondi, 1. The comparative exemption of the Francs from perpetual -successive inroads of barbarous conquerors; and, 2. The collateral -influence of the Moorish or Arabian literature, through the connection -between the kingdoms of Spain and Provence. The description given by the -author of the Arabian literature, which ‘rose like an exhalation,’ and -disappeared almost as soon, is splendid in the extreme. In a hundred and -fifty years, human genius is said to have produced more prodigies in -that prolific region, than it has done in the history of ages in all the -world besides. Arts and sciences had their birth, maturity and -perfection;—almost all the great modern discoveries (as they have been -considered) were anticipated, and again forgotten,—paper, printing, the -mariner’s compass, glass, gunpowder, &c. In the exercise of fancy and -invention, they infinitely surpassed all former or succeeding ages. As -an instance of the prodigious scale on which these matters were -conducted in the East, and of the colossal size to which their -literature had swelled in all its branches, it is stated that the -Thousand and One Stories forming the Arabian Nights’ Entertainment, -constitute only a six-and-thirtieth part of the original collection. We -suspect that there is some exaggeration in all this; though the -brilliant theories of our author have, no doubt, very considerable -foundation in fact. We hope there is none for the eloquent, but -melancholy, reflections he makes on the sudden disappearance of so much -intellectual magnificence from the face of the earth. - -‘Such,’ he says, ‘was the lustre with which literature and sciences -shone forth from the ninth to the fourteenth century of our era, in the -vast regions which were subjected to Mahometism. The most melancholy -reflections are attached to the long enumeration of names unknown to us, -and which were nevertheless illustrious,—of works buried in manuscript -in some dusty repositories—which yet for a time had a powerful influence -on the culture of the human mind. What remains then of so much glory? -Five or six persons only can visit the treasures of Arabian manuscripts -shut up in the library of the Escurial; and some few hundreds besides, -scattered over all Europe, have qualified themselves, by obstinate -labour, to dig in the mines of the East—but these persons can only -obtain, with the utmost difficulty, some rare and obscure manuscripts, -and cannot raise themselves high enough to form a judgment on the whole -of a literature of which they never attain but a part. Meantime, the -extended regions where Mahometism reigned, and still reigns, are dead to -all the sciences. Those rich plains of Fez and Morocco, illumined five -centuries ago by so many academies, so many universities, and so many -libraries, are now nothing but deserts of burning sand, for which -tyrants dispute with tigers. All the gay and fertile shore of -Mauritania, where commerce, the arts, and agriculture had been raised to -the highest prosperity, are now the nests of pirates, who spread terror -on the seas, and who relax from their labour in shameful debaucheries, -till the plague, which returns yearly, comes to mark out its victims, -and to avenge offended humanity. Egypt is nearly swallowed in the sands, -which it once fertilized—Syria and Palestine are desolated by wandering -Bedouins, less formidable, however, than the Pasha who oppresses them. -Bagdad, formerly the abode of luxury, of power, and of knowledge, is -ruined; the once celebrated universities of Cufa and Bassora are -shut,—those of Samarcande and of Balch are also destroyed. In this -immense extent of country, twice or three times as large as our -Europe—nothing is found but ignorance, slavery, terror and death. Few of -the inhabitants can read any of the writings of their illustrious -forefathers;—few could comprehend them—none could procure them. The -immense literary riches of the Arabs, of which we have given some -glimpses, exist no more in any of the countries which the Arabs and -Mussulmen rule.—It is not there that we must now seek either the renown -of their great men or their writings. What has been saved of them, is -entirely in the hands of their enemies—in the convents of the monks, or -in the libraries of the Kings of Europe. And yet these countries have -not been conquered. It is not the foreigner who has despoiled them of -their wealth, wasted their population, destroyed their laws, their -morals, and their national spirit. The poison was within them—it -developed itself, and has annihilated all things. - -‘Who knows if, some centuries hence, this same Europe, where the reign -of literature and sciences is now transported—which shines with such -lustre—which judges so well of times past—which compares so well the -successive influence of antient literature and morals, may not be -deserted, and wild as the hills of Mauritania, the sands of Egypt, and -the vallies of Anatolia? Who knows whether, in a country entirely new, -perhaps in the high lands where the Oronoko and the Amazon collect their -streams, perhaps in the now impenetrable enclosure of the mountains of -New Holland, there may not be formed nations with other morals, other -languages, other thoughts, other religions,—nations who shall again -renew the human kind, who shall study like ourselves the times past, and -who, seeing with surprise that we have been, and have known what they -shall know—that we have believed like them in durability and glory, -shall pity our impotent efforts, and shall recal the names of Newton, of -Racine, of Tasso, as examples of the vain struggles of man to attain an -immortality of renown which fate denies him?’ - -The more immediate causes which gave birth to the poetry of the -Provençals, and by consequence to all our modern literature, are -afterwards detailed in the following passage, which is interesting both -in point of fact, and as matter of speculation. - -‘In Italy, at the time of the renovation of its language, each province, -each small district, had a particular dialect. This great number of -different _patois_, was owing to two causes; the great number of -barbarous tribes with whom the Romans had successively been confounded -by the frequent invasions of their country, and the great number of -independent sovereignties which had been kept up there. Neither of those -causes operated on the Gauls in the formation of the Romanesque. Three -hordes established themselves there nearly at the same time,—the -Visigoths, the Burgundians, and the Franks; and after the conquest of -these last, no northern barbarians could again form a fixed -establishment there, except the Normans, in a single province; no -mixture of Germans, much less of the Sclavonians and Scythians, came -again to produce a change in language and morals. The Gauls had then -been employed in consolidating themselves into one nation, with one -language, for four ages: during which Italy had been successively the -prey of the Lombards, the Francs, the Hungarians, the Saracens, and the -Germans. The birth of the Romanesque in Gaul, came thus to precede that -of the Italian language. It was divided into two principal dialects:—the -Provençal Romanesque, spoken in all the provinces to the south of the -Loire, which had been originally conquered by the Visigoths and the -Burgundians; and the Walloon Romanesque, in the provinces to the north -of the Loire, where the Franks had the ascendant. The political -divisions remained conformable to this first division of nations and -languages. In spite of the independence of the great feudatories, -northern France always formed one political body; the inhabitants of the -different provinces met in the same national assemblies, and in the same -armies. Southern France, on its side, after having been the inheritance -of some of the successors of Charlemagne, had been raised, in 879, to -the rank of an independent kingdom, by Bozon, who was crowned at Nantes, -under the title of King of Arles or of Provence; and who subjected to -his domination Provence, Dauphiny, Savoy, the Lyonese, and some counties -of Burgundy. The title of kingdom gave place, in 943, to that of -earldom, under Bozon II., without the dismemberment of Provence, or its -separation from the House of Burgundy, of which Bozon I. had been the -founder. This house was extinguished in 1092, in the person of -Gillibert, who left two daughters only, between whom he divided his -states. One, Faydide, married Alphonso, Count of Toulouse; and the -other, Douce, married Raymond Berenger, Count of Barcelona. The union of -Provence during two hundred and thirty years, under a line of princes -who played no very brilliant part beyond their own territory, and who -are almost forgotten by history, but who suffered no invasion; who, by a -paternal administration, augmented the riches, and extended the -population of the state, and favoured commerce, to which their maritime -situation invited them, sufficed to consolidate the laws, the manners, -and the language of the Provençals. It was at this epoch, but in a deep -obscurity, that in the kingdom of Arles, the Provençal Romanesque took -completely the place of the Latin. The latter was still made use of in -the public acts; but the former, which was spoken universally, began -also to be made use of in literature. - -‘The succession of the Count of Barcelona, Raymond Berenger, to the -sovereignty of Provence, gave a new turn to the national spirit, by the -mixture of the Catalonians with the Provençals. Of the three Romanesque -languages, which the Christian inhabitants of Spain then spoke, the -Catalonian, the Castillian, and the Gallician, or Portuguese, the first -was almost absolutely like the Provençal; and though it has since been -much removed from it, especially in the kingdom of Valencia, it has -always been called after the name of a French province. The people of -the country call it _Llemosin_ or Limousin. The Catalans, therefore, -could make themselves well understood by the Provençals; and their -intercourse at the same court served to polish the one language by means -of the other. The first of these nations had already been much advanced, -either by their wars and their intercourse with the Moors of Spain, or -by the great activity of the commerce of Barcelona. This city enjoyed -the most ample privileges: the citizens felt their freedom, and made -their princes respect it,—at the same time that the wealth which they -had acquired rendered the taxes more productive, and permitted the court -of the Counts to display a magnificence unknown to other sovereigns. -Raymond Berenger, and his successor, brought into Provence at once the -spirit of liberty and chivalry, the taste of elegance and the arts, and -the sciences of the Arabs. From this union of noble sentiments, arose -the poetry which shone at the same time in Provence, and all the south -of Europe, as if an electric spark had, in the midst of the thickest -darkness, kindled at once in all quarters its brilliant radiance. - -‘Chivalry arose with the Provençal poetry; it was in some sort the soul -of every modern literature: and this character, so different from all -that antiquity had known,—that invention, so rich in poetical effects, -is the first subject for observation, which modern literary history -presents us. We must not, however, confound _feudalism_ with _chivalry_. -Feudalism is the real world at this epoch—with its advantages and -disadvantages, its virtues and its vices; chivalry is this world -idealized, such as it has existed only in the invention of the -romancers: its essential character is a devotion to woman, and an -inviolable regard to honour; but the ideas which the poets manifested -then, as to what constituted the perfection of a knight or a lady, were -not entirely of their invention. They existed in the people, without -perhaps being followed by them; and when they had acquired more -consistence in their heroic songs, they reacted in their turn upon the -people, among whom they originated, and thus approximated the real -feudal system to the ideal notions of chivalry. - -‘Without doubt, there can be few finer things than the bold and active -kind of life which characterized the feudal times; than the independent -existence of each nobleman in his castle; than the persuasion which he -felt, that God alone was his judge and master; than that confidence in -his own power which made him brave all opposition, and offer an -inviolable asylum to the weak and unfortunate,—which made him share with -his friends the only possessions which they valued, arms and horses,—and -rely on himself alone for his liberty, his honour, and his life. But, at -the same time, the vices of the human character had acquired a -development proportioned to the vigour of men’s minds. Among the -nobility, whom alone the laws seemed to protect, absolute power had -produced its habitual effect,—an intoxication approaching to madness, -and a ferocity of which later times afford no example. The tyranny of a -baron, it is true, extended only a few leagues round his chateau, or the -town which belonged to him: If any one could pass this boundary, he was -safe; but, within these limits, in which he kept his vassals like herds -of deer in a park, he gave himself up, in the plenitude of his power, to -the wildest caprices; and subjected those who displeased him to the most -frightful punishments. His vassals, who trembled before him, were -degraded below the human species; and, in the whole of this class, there -is hardly an instance of any individual displaying, in the course of -ages, a single trait of greatness or virtue. Frankness and good faith, -which are essentially the virtues of chivalry, are indeed, in general, -the consequence of strength and courage; but, in order to render an -adherence to them general, it is indispensable that punishment or shame -should be attached to their violation. But the seignoral lords were -placed in their chateaus above all fear; and opinion had no force in -restraining men who did not feel the relations of social life. -Accordingly, the history of the middle ages furnishes a greater number -of scandalous perfidies than any other period. Lastly, the passion of -love had, it is true, taken a new character, which was much the same in -reality and in the poetry of the time. It was not more passionate or -more tender than among the Greeks and Romans, but it was more -respectful; something mysterious was joined to the sentiment. Some -traces of that religious respect were preserved towards women, which the -Germans felt towards their prophetesses. They were considered as a sort -of angelic beings, rather than as dependants, submitted to the will of -their masters: It was a point of honour to serve and to defend them, as -if they were the organs of the divinity on earth; and at the same time -there was joined to this deference, a warmth of sentiment, a turbulence -of passions and desires, which the Germans had known little of, but -which is characteristic of the people of the South, and of which they -borrowed the expression from the Arabians. In our ideas of chivalry, -love always retains this religious purity of character; but in the -actual feudal system, the disorder was extreme; and the corruption of -manners has left behind it traces more scandalous than in any other -period of society. Neither the _sirventes_ nor the _canzos_ of the -troubadours, nor the fables of the trouveres, nor the romances of -chivalry, can be read without blushing: the gross licentiousness of the -language is equalled only by the profound corruption of the characters, -and the profligacy of the moral. In the South of France, in particular, -peace, riches, and the example of courts, had introduced among the -nobility an extreme dissipation: they might be said to live only for -gallantry. The ladies, who did not appear in the world till after they -were married, prided themselves in the homage which their lovers paid to -their charms: they delighted in being celebrated by their _troubadour_: -they answered in their turn, and expressed their sentiments in the most -tender and passionate verses. They even instituted Courts of Love, where -questions of gallantry were gravely debated, and decided by their -suffrages. In short, they had given to the whole of the South of France -the movement of a carnival, which contrasts singularly with the ideas of -restraint, of virtue, and of modesty, which we connect with the good old -times. The more we study history, the more we shall be convinced that -chivalry is an almost purely poetical invention. We never can arrive by -any authentic documents at the scene where it flourished: it is always -represented at a distance, both in time and place. And while -contemporary historians give us a distinct, detailed, complete idea of -the vices of courts and of the great, of the ferocity or licentiousness -of the nobles, and the degradation of the people; one is astonished to -see, after a lapse of time, the same ages animated by the poets with -fictitious and splendid accounts of virtue, beauty, and loyalty. The -romancers of the twelfth century placed the age of chivalry in the reign -of Charlemagne; Francis I. placed it in their time: We at present -believe we see it flourishing in the persons of Du Guesclin and of -Bayard, at the courts of Charles V. and Francis the I. But when we come -to examine any of these periods, though we find some heroic characters -in all of them, we are soon forced to confess that it is necessary to -remove the age of chivalry three or four centuries before any kind of -reality.’ p. 91. - -This, we cannot help thinking, is a little hard on the _good old times_: -though the specimens of their poetry, which are subjoined, go far to -justify this severity. They certainly indicate neither refinement of -sentiment, nor elevation of fancy. They are merely war or love-songs, -relating to the personal feelings or situation of the individual who -composed them. The Provençal poetry, indeed, is in a great measure -lyrical; at least it is certain, that it is neither epic nor dramatic. -The _tensons_ were, indeed, a sort of eclogues, or disputes in verse, in -which two or three persons maintained their favourite opinions on any -given subject; and they appear to have been for the most part -extemporaneous effusions. The following example will give some idea of -the state of manners and literature at this period. - -‘Several ladies who assisted at the Courts of Love, as they were called, -used to reply themselves to the verses which their beauty inspired. -There is left but a small portion of their compositions, but they have -almost always the advantage over the troubadours. Poetry did not then -aspire either to creative power, or to sublimity of thought, or to -variety of imagery. Those powerful efforts of genius, which have given -birth at a later period to dramatic and epic poetry, were then unknown; -and in the simple expression of feeling, an inspiration, more tender and -more delicate, would give to the poetry of women a more natural -expression. One of the most pleasing of these compositions is by Clara -d’Anduse: it is left unfinished: but, as far as a prose translation can -convey the impression, which depends so much on the harmony of the -metre, it is as follows. - -‘“In what cruel trouble, in what profound sadness, jealous calumniators -have plunged my heart! With what malice these perfidious destroyers of -all pleasure have persecuted me! They have forced you to banish yourself -from me, you whom I love more than life! They have robbed me of the -happiness of seeing you, and of seeing you without ceasing! Ah, I shall -die of grief and rage! - -‘“But let calumny arm itself against me: the love with which you inspire -me braves all its shafts: they will never be able to reach my heart: -nothing can increase its tenderness, or give new force to the desires -with which it is inflamed. There is no one, though it were my enemy, who -would not become dear to me, by speaking well of you: but my best friend -would cease to be so, from the moment he dared to reproach you. - -‘“No, my sweet friend, no: do not believe that I have a heart -treacherous to you: do not fear that I should ever abandon you for -another, though I should be solicited by all the ladies of the land. -Love, who holds me in his chains, has said, that my heart should be -devoted to you alone; and I swear that it shall always be so. Ah, if I -was as much mistress of my hand, he who now possesses, should never have -obtained it. - -‘“Beloved! such is the grief which I feel at being separated from you, -such my despair, that when I wish to sing, I only sigh and weep. I -cannot finish this couplet. Alas! my songs cannot obtain for my heart -what it desires.”’ - -The poets of this period were almost all of them chevaliers; and it is -in their war-songs, that, according to M. Sismondi, we find most of the -enthusiasm of poetry. Guillaume de St. Gregory, thus chants his love for -war, and seems to be inspired by the very sight of the field of battle. - -‘How I love the gay season of the approach of spring, which covers our -fields with leaves and flowers! How I love the sweet warbling of the -birds, which make the woods resound with their songs! But how much more -delightful still it is to see the tents and pavillions pitched in the -meadows! How I feel my courage swell, when I see the armed chevaliers on -their horses, marching in long array! - -‘I love to see the cavaliers put to flight,—the common people, who -strive to carry away their most precious effects: I love to see the -thick battalions of soldiers, who advance in pursuit of the fugitives; -and my joy redoubles when I observe the siege laid to the strongest -castles, and hear their battered walls fall with a dreadful crash!’... -‘Yes, I repeat it again, the pleasures of the table, or of love, are not -to be compared, in my mind, with those of the furious fight ... when I -hear the horses neighing on the green meadows, and the cry repeated on -all sides, “To arms, to arms!” when the great and the vulgar load the -earth with their bodies, or roll, dying, into the ditches; and when -large wounds from the blows of the lance mark the victims of honour.’ - -This poetic rhapsody of the eleventh or twelfth century is not -altogether unworthy of the spirit of the nineteenth; so we shall not -stop to moralize upon it. One of the most heroic and magnanimous -personages of the same period was Bertrand de Born, Vicompte Hautefort. -He was a great maker of war and verses. ‘The most violent,’ says M. -Sismondi, ‘the most impetuous of the French chevaliers, breathing -nothing but war; exciting, inflaming the passions of his neighbours and -his superiors, in order to engage them in hostilities, he troubled the -provinces of Guienne by his arms and his intrigues, during all the -second half of the twelfth century; and the reigns of the Kings of -England, Henry II. and Richard Cœur de Lion. He first stripped his -brother Constantine of his personal inheritance, and made war upon -Richard who protected him. He then attached himself to Henry, the -brother of Richard Cœur de Lion, and afterwards made war upon him, after -having engaged him in a conspiracy against his father. For this last -offence he is put by Dante into his hell. In all his enterprizes, he -encouraged himself by composing _sirventes_, that is, songs in which he -sounded the war-whoop, in the manner of some writers nearer our own -times. Let the reader judge for himself. - -‘“What signify to me happy or miserable days? What are weeks or years to -me? At all times my only wish is, to destroy whoever dares to offend me! -Let others, if they please, embellish their houses; let them idly -procure the conveniences of life: but, for myself, to collect lances, -helmets, swords and implements of destruction, shall be the only object -of my life! I am fatigued with advice, and swear never to attend to -it!”’ - -The historical notice of Richard Cœur de Lion gives a striking and more -favourable picture of the manners of the time. Every one is acquainted -with the story of his deliverance from prison by the fidelity of his -servant Blondel, and of his rescue from the Saracens by the gallant -device of Guillaume de Preaux, who attracted the fury of the assailants -to his own person, by crying out, ‘Spare me; for I am the King of -England!’ M. Sismondi gives the following as the words of the celebrated -song (a little modernized) composed by Richard during the captivity to -which he was treacherously subjected by Leopold of Austria, after his -return from the Holy Land. - - Si prisonnier ne dit point sa raison - Sans un grand trouble, et douloureux soupçon, - Pour son consort qu’il fasse une chanson - J’ai prou d’amis, mais bien pauvre est leur don; - Honte ils auront, si faute de rançon, - Je suis deux hivers pris. - - Qu’ils sachent bien, mes hommes, mes barons, - Anglais, Normands, Poitevins et Gascons, - Que je n’ai point si pauvres compagnons - Que pour argent n’ouvrisse leurs prisons. - Point ne les veux taxer de trahison, - Mais suis deux hivers pris. - - Pour un captif plus d’ami, de parent! - Plus que ses jours ils epargnent l’argent; - Las! que je sens me douloir ce tourment! - Et si je meurs dans mon confinement, - Qui sauvera le renom de ma gent, - Car suis deux hivers pris? - - Point au chagrin ne vaudrais succomber! - Le roi françois peut mes terres brûler, - Fausser la paix qu’il jura de garder; - Pourtant mon cœur je sens se rassurer, - Si je l’en crois, mes fers vont se briser, - Mais suis deux hivers pris. - - Fiers ennemis, dont le cœur est si vain, - Pour guerrayer, attendez donc la fin - De mes ennemis; me trouverez enfin, - Dites-le leur, Chail et Pensavin, - Chers troubadours, qui me plaignez en vain - Car suis deux hivers pris. - -Among the most distinguished troubadours, we find the names of Arnaud de -Marveil, and of Arnaud Daniel, celebrated by Petrarch and Dante, Rambaud -de Vaqueiras, and Pierre Vidal, both warriors and poets, and Pierre -Cardinal, the satirist of Provence. The Provençal literature does not -however appear to have produced any one great genius or lasting work. -Their poetry, indeed, did not aim at immortality; but appears to have -been considered chiefly as an ornamental appendage of courts, as the -indolent amusement of great lords and ladies. It consists, therefore, -entirely of occasional and fugitive pieces. The ambition of the poet -seems never to have reached higher than to express certain habitual -sentiments, or record passing events in agreeable verse, so as to -gratify himself or his immediate employers; and his genius never appears -to have received that high and powerful impulse, which makes the -unrestrained development of its own powers its ruling passion, and which -looks to future ages for its reward. - -The Provençal poetry belongs, in its essence as well as form, to the -same class as the Eastern or Asiatic; that is, it has the same -constitutional warmth and natural gaiety, but without the same degree of -magnificence and force. During its most flourishing period, it made no -perceptible progress; and it has left few traces of its influence -behind. The civil wars of the Albigeois, the crusades which made the -Italian known to all the rest of Europe, and the establishment of the -court of Charles of Anjou, the new sovereign of Provence, at Naples, -were fatal to the cultivation of a literature which owed its -encouragement to political and local circumstances, and to the favour of -the great. M. Sismondi compares the effects of the Provençal poetry to -the northern lights, which illumine the darkness of the sky, and spread -their colours almost from pole to pole; but suddenly vanish, and leave -neither light nor heat behind them. After the literature of the -troubadours had disappeared from the country which gave it birth, it -lingered for a while in the kingdoms of Arragon and Catalonia, where it -was cultivated with success by Don Henri of Arragon, Marquis of Villera; -by Ausias, who has been called the Petrarch; and by Jean Martorell, the -Boccacio of the Provençal tongue, and the well-known author of the -history of Tirante the White, which is preserved by Cervantes with such -marks of respect, when Don Quixote’s library is condemned to the flames. - -Our author next enters at great length, and with much acuteness, into -the literature of the North of France, or the _Roman Wallon_, which -succeeded the Provençal. The great glory of the writers of this -language, was the invention of the romances of chivalry. M. Sismondi -divides these romances into three classes or periods, and supposes them -all to be of Norman origin, in contradiction to the very general theory -which traces them to the Arabs or Moors. The first class relates to the -exploits of King Arthur, the son of Pendragon, and the last British king -who defended England against the Anglo-Saxons. It is at the court of -this king, and of his wife Geneura, that we meet with the enchanter -Merlin, and the institution of the Round Table, and all the Preux -chevaliers, Tristram de Leonois, Launcelot of the Lake, and many others. -The romance of Launcelot of the Lake was begun by Chretien de Troyes, -and continued, after his death, by Godfrey de Ligny: that of Tristram, -the son of King Meliadus of Leonois, the first that was written in -prose, and which is the most frequently cited by the old authors, was -composed in 1190 by one of the _trouveres_ or Northern troubadours, -whose name is unknown. The second class of chivalrous romances, is that -which commences with Amadis of Gaul, the hero of lovers, of which the -events are more fabulous, and the origin more uncertain. There are -numerous imitations of this work, Amadis of Greece, Florismarte of -Hircania, Galaor, Florestan, Esplandian, which are considered as of -Spanish origin, and which were in their greatest vogue at the time of -the appearance of Don Quixote. The third class considered by our author, -as undoubtedly of French origin, relates to the court of Charlemagne and -his peers. The most antient monument of the marvellous history of -Charlemagne, is the chronicle of Turpin, or Tilpin, Archbishop of -Rheims. Both the name of the author and the date are, however, doubtful. -It relates to the last expedition of Charlemagne into Spain, to which he -had been miraculously invited by St. Jacques of Galicia, and to the wars -of the Christians against the Moors. M. Sismondi is inclined to refer -this composition to the period when Alphonso VI. king of Castile and -Leon, achieved, in the year 1085, the conquest of New Castile and -Toledo. - -‘He was followed,’ it is said, ‘in this triumphant expedition, by a -great number of French chevaliers, who passed the Pyrenees to combat the -infidels by the side of a great king, and to see the Cid, the hero of -his age. The war against the Moors in Spain was then undertaken from a -spirit of religious zeal, very different from that which, twelve years -later, kindled the first crusade. Its object professedly was, to carry -succour to neighbours, to brothers who adored the same God, and who -revenged common injuries, of which the romancer seemed to wish to recal -the remembrance: whereas the end of the first crusade was to deliver the -Holy Sepulchre, to recover the inheritance of our Lord, and to bring -assistance to God rather than man, as one of the troubadours expressed -it. This zeal for the Holy Sepulchre, this devotion pointing towards the -East, appears nowhere in the Chronicle of Archbishop Turpin; which, -nevertheless, is animated by a burning fanaticism, and full of all sorts -of miracles. This chronicle, however fabulous, cannot itself be -considered as a romance. It consists alternately of incredible feats of -arms, and of miracles, of monkish superstition and monkish credulity. We -find there several instances of enchantment: the formidable sword of -Roland, Durandal, with every stroke opens a wound: Ferragus is all over -enchanted and invulnerable: the dreadful horn of Roland, which he sounds -at Roncesvalles to call for succour, is heard as far as St. Jean Pied de -Port, where Charlemagne was with his army; but the traitor Ganeton -prevents the monarch from giving assistance to his nephew. Roland, -losing all hope, is himself desirous to break his sword, that it may not -fall into the hands of the infidels, and thus hereafter bathe itself in -the blood of Christians: he strikes it against tall trees, against -rocks—but nothing can resist the enchanted blade, guided by an arm so -powerful; the oaks are overturned, the rocks are shattered in pieces, -and Durandal remains entire. Roland at last thrusts it up to the hilt in -a hard rock, and twisting it with violence, breaks it between his hands. -Then he again sounds his horn, not to demand succour from the -Christians, but to announce to them his last hour; and he blows it with -such violence, that his veins burst, and he dies covered with his own -blood. All this is sufficiently poetical, and indicates a brilliant -imagination; but in order to its being a romance of chivalry, it was -necessary that love and women should be introduced—and there is no -allusion made to one or the other.’ p. 289. - -This, we think, is rather an arbitrary decision of our author, and -certainly does not prove that the work is not a romance of any kind. He -concludes this chapter in the following manner. - -‘But all these extraordinary facts, which in the Chronicle of Turpin -passed for history, were consigned soon after to the regions of romance, -when the crusades were finished, and had made us acquainted with the -East, at the end of the thirteenth century, and during the reign of -Philip the Hardy. The king at arms of this monarch, Adenez, wrote in -verse the romance of _Berthe-au-grandpied_; the mother of Charlemagne, -that of Ogier the Dane, and Cleomadis. Huon de Villeneuve wrote the -history of Renaud de Montauban. The four sons of Aymon, Huon de -Bourdeaux, Doolin de Mayence, Morgante the giant, Maugis the christian -magician, and several other heroes of this illustrious court, were -celebrated then or afterwards by romancers, who have placed in broad day -all the characters, and all the events of this period of glory, of which -the divine poem of Ariosto has consecrated the mythology.—The creation -of this brilliant romantic chivalry, was completed at the end of the -thirteenth century; all that essentially characterizes it, is to be -found in the romances of Adenez. His chevaliers no longer wandered, like -those of the Round Table, through gloomy forests in a country half -civilized, and which seemed always covered with storms and snow: the -entire universe was expanded before their eyes, The Holy Land was the -grand object of their pilgrimage: but by it they entered into -communication with the fine and rich countries of the East. Their -geography was as confused as all their other knowledge. Their voyages -from Spain to Cathay, from Denmark to Tunis, were made, it is true, with -a facility, a rapidity more astonishing than the enchantments of Maugis -or Morgana: but these fanciful voyages afforded the romance writers the -means of embellishing their recitals with the most brilliant colours. -All the softness and the perfumes of the countries, the most favoured by -nature, were at their disposal: All the pomp and magnificence of -Damascus, of Bagdad, and Constantinople, might be made use of to adorn -the triumph of their heroes; and an acquisition more precious still, was -the imagination itself of the people of the East and South; that -imagination, so brilliant, so various, which was employed to give life -to the sombre mythology of the North. The fairies were no longer hideous -sorceresses, the objects of the fear and hatred of the people, but the -rivals or the friends of those enchanters, who disposed in the east of -Solomon’s ring, and of the genii who were attached to it. To the art of -prolonging life, they had joined that of augmenting its enjoyments: they -were in some sort the priestesses of nature and of its pleasures. At -their voice, magnificent palaces arose in the deserts; enchanted -gardens, groves, perfumed with orange-trees and myrtles, appeared in the -midst of burning sands, or on barren rocks in the middle of the sea. -Gold, diamonds, pearls, covered their garments, or the inside of their -palaces: and their love, far from being reputed sacrilegious, was often -the sweetest recompense of the toils of the warrior. It was thus that -Ogier the Dane, the valiant paladin of Charlemagne, was received by the -fairy Morgana in her castle of Avalon. She placed on his head the fatal -crown of gold, covered with precious stones, and leaves of laurel, -myrtle, and roses, to which was attached the gift of immortal youth, -and, at the same time, the oblivion of every other sentiment than the -love of Morgana. From this moment the hero no longer remembered the -court of Charlemagne; nor the glory which he had acquired in France; nor -the crowns of Denmark, of England, Acre, Babylon, and Jerusalem, which -he had worn in succession; nor all the battles he had fought, nor the -number of giants he had vanquished. He passed two hundred years with -Morgana in the intoxication of love, without being sensible of the -flight of time; and when, by chance, his crown fell off into a fountain, -and his memory was restored, he thought Charlemagne still living, and -demanded with impatience, tidings of the brave paladins, his companions -in arms. In reading this elegant fiction, we easily discover, that it -was written after the Crusades had opened a communication between the -people of the East and those of the West, and had enriched the French -with all the treasures of the Arabian imagination!’ - -M. Sismondi also justly ascribes the invention of the Mysteries, the -first modern efforts of the dramatic art, to the French; but the -inference which he draws from it, that this was owing to the great -dramatic genius of that people, must excite a smile in many of his -readers. For, certainly, if there ever was a nation utterly and -universally incapable of forming a conception of any other manners or -characters than those which exist among themselves, it is the French. -The learned author is right, however, in saying that the Mystery of the -Passions, and the moralities performed by the French company of players, -laid the foundation of the drama in various parts of Europe, and also -suggested the first probable hint of the plan of the _Divine Comedy_ of -Dante; but it is not right to say that the merit of this last work -consists at all in the design. The design is clumsy, mechanical, and -monotonous; the invention is in the style. - -We have hitherto followed M. Sismondi in his account of the progress of -modern literature, before the Italian language had been made the vehicle -of poetical composition, and before the revival of letters. The details -which he gives on the last subject, and the extraordinary picture he -presents of the pains and labour undergone by the scholars of that day -in recovering antient manuscripts, and the remains of antient art, are -highly interesting. It is from this important event, and also from the -work of Dante, the first lasting monument of modern genius, that we -should strictly date the origin of modern literature; and, indeed, it -would not be difficult to show, that it is still the emulation of the -antients, working, indeed, on very different materials, from different -principles, and with very different results, that has been the great -moving spring of the grandest efforts of human genius in our own times. -Our author next follows the progress of the Italian language, -particularly at the court of the Sicilian Monarchs, to the period of -which we are speaking. He thus introduces his account of the first great -name in modern literature. - -‘Nevertheless, no poet had as yet powerfully affected the mind, no -philosopher had penetrated the depths of thought and sentiment, when the -greatest of the Italians, the father of their poetry, Dante, appeared, -and showed to the world how a powerful genius is able to arrange the -gross materials prepared for him, in such a manner as to rear from them -an edifice, magnificent as the universe, of which it was the image. -Instead of love songs, addressed to an imaginary mistress,—instead of -madrigals, full of cold conceits,—of sonnets painfully harmonious,—or -allegories false and forced, the only models which Dante had before his -eyes in any modern tongue, he conceived in his mind an image of the -whole invisible world, and unveiled it to the eyes of his astonished -readers. In the country, indeed, of Dante, that is, at Florence, on the -1st of May, 1304,’ (our author says), ‘all the sufferings of hell were -placed before the eyes of the people, at a horrible representation -appointed for a festival day; the first idea of which was no doubt taken -from the Inferno. The bed of the river Arno was to represent the gulf of -hell; and all the variety of torments which the imagination of monks or -of the poet had invented, streams of boiling pitch, flames, ice, -serpents, were inflicted on real persons, whose cries and groans -rendered the illusion complete to the spectators. - -‘The subject, then, which Dante chose for his immortal poem, when he -undertook to celebrate the invisible world, and the three kingdoms of -the dead, hell, purgatory, and paradise, was in that age the most -popular of all; at once the most profoundly religious, and the most -closely allied to the love of country, of glory, and of party-feelings, -inasmuch as all the illustrious dead were to appear on this -extraordinary theatre; and in short, by its immensity, the most loftily -sublime of any which the mind of man has ever conceived. The -commentaries on Dante, left us by Boccace and others, furnish a new -proof of the superiority of this great man. We are there astonished to -find his professed admirers unable to appreciate his real grandeur. -Dante himself, as well as his commentators, attaches his excellence to -purity and correctness: yet he is neither pure nor correct; but he is _a -creator_. His characters walk and breathe; his pictures are nature -itself; his language always speaks to the imagination, as well as to the -understanding; and there is scarcely a stanza in his poem, which might -not be represented with the pencil.’ - -M. Sismondi seems to have understood the great poet of Italy little -better than his other commentators; and indeed the _Divine Comedy_ must -completely baffle the common rules of French criticism, which always -seeks for excellence in the external image, and never in the internal -power and feeling. But Dante is nothing but power, passion, self-will. -In all that relates to the imitative part of poetry, he bears no -comparison with many other poets; but there is a gloomy abstraction in -his conceptions, which lies like a dead-weight upon the mind; a -benumbing stupor from the intensity of the impression; a terrible -obscurity like that which oppresses us in dreams; an identity of -interest which moulds every object to its own purposes, and clothes all -things with the passions and imaginations of the human soul, that make -amends for all other deficiencies. Dante is a striking instance of the -essential excellences and defects of modern genius. The immediate -objects he presents to the mind, are not much in themselves;—they -generally want grandeur, beauty, and order; but they become every thing -by the force of the character which he impresses on them. His mind lends -its own power to the objects which it contemplates, instead of borrowing -it from them. He takes advantage even of the nakedness and dreary -vacuity of his subject. His imagination peoples the shades of death, and -broods over the barren vastnesses of illimitable space. In point of -diction and style, he is the severest of all writers, the most opposite -to the flowery and glittering—who relies most on his own power, and the -sense of power in the reader—who leaves most to the imagination.[2] - -Dante’s only object is to interest; and he interests only by exciting -our sympathy with the emotion by which he is himself possessed. He does -not place before us the objects by which that emotion has been excited; -but he seizes on the attention, by showing us the effect they produce on -his feelings; and his poetry accordingly frequently gives us the -thrilling and overwhelming sensation which is caught by gazing on the -face of a person who has seen some object of horror. The improbability -of the events, the abruptness and monotony in the Inferno, are -excessive; but the interest never flags, from the intense earnestness of -the author’s mind. Dante, as well as Milton, appears to have been -indebted to the writers of the old Testament for the gloomy tone of his -mind, for the prophetic fury which exalts and kindles his poetry. But -there is more deep-working passion in Dante, and more imagination in -Milton. Milton, more perhaps than any other poet, elevated his subject, -by combining image with image in lofty gradation. Dante’s great power is -in combining internal feelings with familiar objects. Thus the gate of -Hell, on which that withering inscription is written, seems to be -endowed with speech and consciousness, and to utter its dread warning, -not without a sense of mortal woes. The beauty to be found in Dante is -of the same severe character, or mixed with deep sentiment. The story of -Geneura, to which we have just alluded, is of this class. So is the -affecting apostrophe, addressed to Dante by one of his countrymen, whom -he meets in the other world. - - ‘Sweet is the dialect of Arno’s vale! - Though half consumed, I gladly turn to hear.’ - -And another example, even still finer, if any thing could be finer, is -his description of the poets and great men of antiquity, whom he -represents ‘serene and smiling,’ though in the shades of death, - - ——‘because on earth their names - In fame’s eternal records shine for aye.’ - -This is the finest idea ever given of the love of fame. - -Dante habitually unites the absolutely local and individual with the -greatest wildness and mysticism. In the midst of the obscure and shadowy -regions of the lower world, a tomb suddenly rises up, with this -inscription, ‘I am the tomb of Pope Anastasius the Sixth’:—and half the -personages whom he has crowded into the Inferno are his own -acquaintance. All this tends to heighten the effect by the bold -intermixture of realities, and the appeal, as it were, to the individual -knowledge and experience of the reader. There are occasional striking -images in Dante—but these are exceptions; and besides, they are striking -only from the weight of consequences attached to them. The imagination -of the poet retains and associates the objects of nature, not according -to their external forms, but their inward qualities or powers; as when -Satan is compared to a cormorant. It is not true, then, that Dante’s -excellence consists in natural description or dramatic invention. His -characters are indeed ‘instinct with life’ and sentiment; but it is with -the life and sentiment of the poet. In themselves they have little or no -dramatic variety, except what arises immediately from the historical -facts mentioned; and they afford, in our opinion, very few subjects for -picture. There is indeed one gigantic one, that of Count Ugolino, of -which Michael Angelo made a bas-relief, and which Sir Joshua Reynolds -ought not to have painted. Michael Angelo was naturally an admirer of -Dante, and has left a sonnet to his memory. - -The Purgatory and Paradise are justly characterised by our author as ‘a -falling off’ from the Inferno. He however points out a number of -beautiful passages in both these divisions of the poem. That in which -the poet describes his ascent into heaven, completely marks the -character of his mind. He employs no machinery, or supernatural agency, -for this purpose; but mounts aloft ‘by the sole strength of his -desires—fixing an intense regard on the orbit of the sun’! This great -poet was born at Florence in 1265, of the noble family of the -Alighieri—and died at Ravenna, September 14th, 1321. Like Milton, he was -unfortunate in his political connexions, and, what is worse, in those of -his private life. He had a few imitators after his death, but none of -any eminence. - -M. Sismondi professes to have a prejudice against Petrarch. In this he -is not, as he supposes, singular; but we suspect that he is wrong. He -seems to have reasoned on a very common, but very false hypothesis, that -because there is a great deal of false wit and affectation in Petrarch’s -style, he is therefore without sentiment. The sentiment certainly does -not consist in the conceits;—but is it not there in spite of them? The -fanciful allusions, and the quaintnesses of style lie on the surface; -and it is sometimes found convenient to make these an excuse for not -seeking after that which lies deeper and is of more value.[3] It has -been well observed, by a contemporary critic, that notwithstanding the -adventitious ornaments with which their style is encumbered, there is -more truth and feeling in Cowley and Sir Philip Sidney, than in a host -of insipid and merely natural writers. It is not improbable, that if -Shakespeare had written nothing but his sonnets and smaller poems, he -would, for the same reason, have been assigned to the class of cold, -artificial writers, who had no genuine sense of nature or passion. Yet, -taking his plays for a guide to our decision, it requires no very great -sagacity or boldness to discover that his other poems contain a rich -vein of thought and sentiment. We apprehend it is the same with -Petrarch. The sentiments themselves are often of the most pure and -natural kind, even where the expression is the most laboured and -far-fetched. Nor does it follow, that this artificial and scholastic -style was the result of affectation in the author. All pedantry is not -affectation. Inveterate habit is not affectation. The technical jargon -of professional men is not affectation in them: for it is the language -with which their ideas have the strongest associations. Milton’s -Classical Pedantry was perfectly involuntary: it was the style in which -he was accustomed to think and feel; and it would have required an -effort to have expressed himself otherwise. The scholastic style is not -indeed the natural style of the passion or sentiment of love; but it is -quite false to argue, that an author did not feel this passion because -he expressed himself in the usual language in which this and all other -passions were expressed, in the particular age and country in which he -lived. On the contrary, the more true and profound the feeling itself -was, the more it might be supposed to be identified with his other -habits and pursuits—to tinge all his thoughts, and to put in requisition -every faculty of his soul—to give additional perversity to his wit, -subtlety to his understanding, and extravagance to his expressions. Like -all other strong passions, it seeks to express itself in exaggerations, -and its characteristic is less to be simple than emphatic. The language -of love was never more finely expressed than in the play of Romeo and -Juliet; and yet assuredly the force or beauty of that language does not -arise from its simplicity. It is the fine rapturous enthusiasm of -youthful sensibility, which tries all ways to express its emotions, and -finds none of them half tender or extravagant enough. The sonnet of -Petrarch lamenting the death of Laura,[4] which is quoted by M. -Sismondi, and of which he complains as having ‘too much wit,’ would be a -justification of these remarks; not to mention numberless others. - -M. Sismondi wishes that the connexion between Petrarch and Laura had -been more intimate, and his passion accompanied with more interesting -circumstances. The whole is in better keeping as it is. The love of a -man like Petrarch would have been less in character, if it had been less -ideal. For the purposes of inspiration, a single interview was quite -sufficient. The smile which sank into his heart the first time he ever -beheld her, played round her lips ever after: the look with which her -eyes first met his, never passed away. The image of his mistress still -haunted his mind, and was recalled by every object in nature. Even death -could not dissolve the fine illusion: for that which exists in the -imagination is alone imperishable. As our feelings become more ideal, -the impression of the moment indeed becomes less violent; but the effect -is more general and permanent. The blow is felt only by reflection; it -is the rebound that is fatal. We are not here standing up for this kind -of Platonic attachment; but only endeavouring to explain the way in -which the passions very commonly operate in minds accustomed to draw -their strongest interests from constant contemplation. - -Petrarch is at present chiefly remembered for his sonnets, and the -passion which they celebrate: he was equally distinguished in his -lifetime by his Latin poems, and as one of the great restorers of -learning. The following account of him is in many respects interesting. - -‘Petrarch, the son of a Florentine who had been exiled as well as Dante, -was born at Arezzo, in the night of the 19th of July 1304, and died at -Arqua, near Padua, the 18th July 1374. He had been, during the century -of which his life occupied three-fourths, the centre of all the Italian -literature. Passionately fond of letters, history, and poetry, and an -enthusiastic admirer of antiquity, he communicated by his discourse, his -writings, and his example, to all his contemporaries, that impulse -towards research and the study of the Latin manuscripts, which so -particularly distinguished the fourteenth century; which preserved the -_chef-d’œuvres_ of the classic writers, at the moment when, perhaps, -they were about to be lost for ever; and which changed, by means of -these admirable models, the whole march of the human mind. Petrarch, -tormented by the passion which has contributed so much to his celebrity, -wishing to fly from himself, or to vary his thoughts by the distraction -of different objects, travelled during almost the whole course of his -life. He explored France, Germany, all the states of Italy: he visited -Spain: and, in a continual activity directed to the discovery of the -monuments of antiquity, he associated himself with all the learned, and -with all the poets and philosophers of his time. From one end of Europe -to the other, he made them concur in this great object; he directed -their pursuits; and his correspondence became the magic chain which for -the first time united the whole literary republic of Europe. The age in -which he lived was that of small states. No sovereign had as yet -established any of those colossal empires, the authority of which makes -itself dreaded by nations of different languages. On the contrary, each -country was divided into a great number of sovereignties; and the -monarch of a small city was without power at a distance of thirty -leagues, and unknown at the distance of a hundred. But the more -political power was circumscribed, the more the glory of letters was -extended: and Petrarch, the friend of Azzo of Correggio, prince of -Parma, of Luchin and of Galeazzi Visconti, princes of Milan, and of -Francis of Carrara, prince of Padua, was better known and more respected -by Europe at large than all these sovereigns. The universal glory which -his great knowledge had procured him, and which he directed to the -service of letters, also frequently called him into the political -career. No man of learning, or poet, has ever been charged with so great -a number of embassies to so many great potentates,—the emperor, the -Pope, the king of France, the senate of Venice, and all the princes of -Italy: and, what is remarkable, is, that Petrarch did not fulfil those -missions as belonging to the state with whose interests he was charged, -but as belonging to all Europe. He received his title from his glory; -and when he treated between different powers, it was almost as an -arbiter whose suffrage each was desirous to secure with posterity. In -fine, he gave to his age that enthusiasm for the beauties of antiquity, -that veneration for learning, which renovated its character, and -determined that of all succeeding times. It was in some sort in the name -of grateful Europe, that Petrarch was crowned in the Capitol by the -senator of Rome, the 8th of April 1341; and this triumph, the most -glorious which has ever been decreed to any one, was not disproportioned -to the influence which this great man has exerted over the ages which -succeeded him.’ - -Boccacio was also one of the most indefatigable and successful of the -restorers of ancient learning; and is classed by M. Sismondi as one of -the three inventors of modern letters,—having done for Italian prose -what Dante and Petrarch had done for Italian poetry. He was born at -Paris in 1313, the son of a Florentine merchant; and died at Certaldo, -in Tuscany, in the house of his forefathers, 21st December 1375, at the -age of sixty-two years. He wrote epic poems and theology: But his Tales -are his great work. - -‘The Decameron,’ says our author, ‘the work to which, in the present -day, Boccacio owes his high celebrity, is a collection of a hundred -novels, which he has arranged in an ingenious manner, by supposing, that -in the dreadful plague in 1348, a society of men and women, who had -retired into the country to avoid the contagion, had imposed on -themselves an obligation, for ten days together, to recite each a novel -a day. The company consisted of ten persons; and the number of novels -is, of course, a hundred. The description of the delicious country round -Florence, where these joyous hermits took up their abode,—that of their -walks—their festivals—their repasts, has given Boccacio an opportunity -to display all the riches of a style the most flexible and graceful. The -novels themselves, which are varied with infinite art, both as to the -subject and manner, from the most touching and tender to the most -playful, and unfortunately also to the most licentious, demonstrate his -talent for recounting in every style and tone. His description of the -plague of Florence, which serves as the introduction, ranks as one of -the finest historical portraits which any age has left us. Finally, that -which constitutes the glory of Boccacio, is the perfect purity of the -language, the elegance, the grace, and above all, the _naïveté_ of the -style, which is the highest merit of this class of writing, and the -peculiar charm of the Italian language.’ - -All this is true; though it might be said of many other authors: But -what ought to have been said of him is, that there is in Boccacio’s -serious pieces a truth, a pathos, and an exquisite refinement of -sentiment, which is not to be met with in any other prose writer -whatever. We think M. Sismondi has missed a fine opportunity of doing -the author of the Decameron that justice which has not been done him by -the world. He has in general passed for a mere narrator of lascivious -tales or idle jests. This character probably originated in the early -popularity of his attacks on the monks, and has been kept up by the -grossness of mankind, who revenged their own want of refinement on -Boccacio, and only saw in his writings what suited the coarseness of -their own tastes. But the truth is, that he has carried sentiment of -every kind to its very highest purity and perfection. By sentiment we -would here understand the habitual workings of some one powerful -feeling, where the heart reposes almost entirely upon itself, without -the violent excitement of opposing duties or untoward circumstances. In -this way, nothing ever came up to the story of Frederigo Alberigi and -his falcon. The perseverance in attachment, the spirit of gallantry and -generosity displayed in it, has no parallel in the history of heroical -sacrifices. The feeling is so unconscious too, and involuntary, is -brought out in such small, unlooked-for, and unostentatious -circumstances, as to show it to have been woven into the very nature and -soul of the author. The story of Isabella is scarcely less fine, and is -more affecting in the circumstances and the catastrophe. Dryden has done -justice to the impassioned eloquence of the Tancred and Sigismunda; but -has not given an adequate idea of the wild preternatural interest of the -story of Honoria. Cimon and Iphigene is by no means one of the best, -notwithstanding the popularity of the subject. The proof of unalterable -affection given in the story of Jeronymo, and the simple touches of -nature and picturesque beauty in the story of the two holiday lovers, -who were poisoned by tasting of a leaf in the garden at Florence, are -perfect masterpieces. The epithet of Divine was well bestowed on this -great painter of the human heart. The invention implied in his different -tales is immense: but we are not to infer that it is all his own. He -probably availed himself of all the common traditions which were -floating in his time, and which he was the first to appropriate. Homer -appears the most original of all authors—probably for no other reason -than that we can trace the plagiarism no farther. Several of -Shakespeare’s plots are taken from Boccacio; and indeed he has furnished -subjects to numberless writers since his time, both dramatic and -narrative. The story of Griselda is borrowed from the Decameron by -Chaucer; as is the knight’s Tale (Palamon and Arcite) from his poem of -the Theseid. - -M. Sismondi follows the progress of Italian literature with great -accuracy and judgment, from this period to that of their epic and -romantic writers. Pulci and Boyardo preceded Ariosto and Tasso. It has -been observed that there is a great resemblance between the style of -Pulci’s Morganti Maggiore and that of Voltaire. Thus, one of the -personages in his poem being questioned as to the articles of his faith, -says, that ‘he believes in a fat capon and a bottle of wine.’ His hero -Rolando arriving at the gate of a monastery, on which some giants -showered down fragments of rocks from the neighbouring mountain every -night and morning, is advised by the Abbot to make haste in, ‘for that -the manna is going to fall!’ This kind of levity of allusion, was -characteristic of the literature of the age. One of these giants, to -wit, Morganti, is converted by Orlando; but makes a very indifferent -Christian after all. This writer has a certain familiar sarcastic gaiety -in common with Ariosto, but none of his enthusiasm or elevation. The -Orlando Amoroso of Boyardo, who was governor of Reggio, and one of the -courtiers of Duke Hercules of Ferrara, was the foundation of Ariosto’s -poem. - -‘This poem,’ says our author, ‘which is at present known only from the -more modern edition of Berni, who revised it sixty years after, is -superior to that of Pulci, in the variety and novelty of the adventures, -the richness of the colouring, and in the interest it excites. The women -here appear, what they ought to be in a romance, the soul of the work; -Angelica here shows herself in all her charms, and with all her power -over the bravest knights. All those warriors, whether Moors or -Christians, whose names have become almost historical, received from -Boyardo their existence, and the characters which they have preserved -ever since. We are told that he took the names of several, as Gradasso, -Sacripant, Agramant, Mandiscardo, from those of his vassals at his -estate of Scandiano, where these families still remain: but it seems he -wished for a still more sounding name for the most redoubtable of his -Moorish chiefs. While on a hunting party, that of Rodomont came into his -mind. On the instant he returned full gallop to his chateau, and had the -bells rung and the cannon fired in sign of a fete, to the great -astonishment of the peasants, to whom this new saint was quite unknown. -The style of Boyardo did not correspond with the vivacity of his -imagination: It is little laboured; the verse is harsh and tedious; and -it was not without reason that in the following age it was judged proper -to give a new form to his work.’ - -The account given of Ariosto and Tasso is in general correct as to the -classification of their different styles, and the enumeration of their -particular excellences or defects; but we should be inclined to give the -preference in the contrary way. Ariosto’s excellence is (what it is here -described) infinite grace and gaiety. He has fine animal spirits, an -heroic disposition, sensibility mixed with vivacity, an eye for nature, -great rapidity of narration and facility of style, and, above all, a -genius buoyant, and with wings like the Griffin-horse of Rogero, which -he turns and winds at pleasure. He never labours under his subject; -never pauses; but is always setting out on fresh exploits. Indeed, his -excessive desire not to overdo any thing, has led him to resort to the -unnecessary expedient of constantly breaking off in the middle of his -story, and going on to something else. His work is in this respect worse -than Tristram Shandy; for there the progress of the narrative is -interrupted by some incident, in a dramatic or humorous shape; but here -the whole fault lies with the author. The Orlando Furioso is a tissue of -these separate stories, crossing and jostling one another; and is -therefore very inferior, in the general construction of the plot, to the -Jerusalem Delivered. But the incidents in Ariosto are more lively, the -characters more real, the language purer, the colouring more natural: -even the sentiments show at least as much feeling, with less appearance -of affectation. There is less effort, less display, a less imposing use -made of the common ornaments of style and artifices of composition. -Tasso was the more accomplished writer, Ariosto the greater genius. -There is nothing in Tasso which is not to be found, in the same or a -higher degree, in others: Ariosto’s merits were his own. The perusal of -the one leaves a peculiar and very high relish behind it; there is a -vapidness in the other, which palls at the time, and goes off sooner -afterwards. Tasso indeed sets before us a dessert of melons, mingled -with roses:—but it is not the first time of its being served up:—the -flowers are rather faded, and the fruit has lost its freshness. Ariosto -writes on as it happens, from the interest of his subject, or the -impulse of his own mind. He is intent only on the adventure he has in -hand,—the circumstances which might be supposed to attend it, the -feelings which would naturally arise out of it. He attaches himself to -his characters for their own sakes; and relates their achievements for -the mere pleasure he has in telling them. This method is certainly -liable to great disadvantages; but we on the whole prefer it to the -obtrusive artifices of style shown in the Jerusalem,—where the author -seems never to introduce any character but as a foil to some -other,—makes one situation a contrast to the preceding, and his whole -poem a continued antithesis in style, action, sentiment, and imagery. A -fierce is opposed to a tender, a blasphemous to a pious character. A -lover kills his mistress in disguise, and a husband and wife are -represented defending their lives, by a pretty ambiguity of situation -and sentiment, warding off the blows which are aimed, not at their own -breasts, but at each other’s. The same love of violent effect sometimes -produces grossness of character, as in Armida, who is tricked out with -all the ostentatious trappings of a prostitute. Tasso has more of what -is usually called poetry than Ariosto—that is, more tropes and -ornaments, and a more splendid and elaborate diction. The latter is -deficient in all these:—the figures and comparisons he introduces do not -elevate or adorn that which they are brought to illustrate: they are, -for the most part, mere parallel cases; and his direct description, -simple and striking as it uniformly is, seems to us of a far higher -order of merit than the ingenious allusions of his rival. We cannot, -however, agree with M. Sismondi, that there is a want of sentiment in -Ariosto, or that he excels only as a painter of objects, or a narrator -of events. The instance which he gives from the story of Isabella, is an -exception to his general power. The episodes of Herminia, and of Tancred -and Clorinda, in Tasso, are exquisitely beautiful; but they do not come -up, in romantic interest or real passion, to the loves of Angelica and -Medoro. We might instance, to the same purpose, the character of -Bradamante;—the spirited apostrophe to knighthood, ‘Oh ancient knights -of true and noble heart;’—that to Orlando, Sacripant, and the other -lovers of Angelica—or the triumph of Medoro—the whole progress of -Orlando’s passion, and the still more impressive description of his -sudden recovery from his fatal infatuation, after the restoration of his -senses. Perhaps the finest thing in Tasso is the famous description of -Carthage, as the warriors pass by it in the enchanted bark. ‘Giace -l’alta Cartago,’ &c. This passage, however, belongs properly to the -class of lofty philosophical eloquence; it owes its impressiveness to -the grandeur of the general ideas, and not to the force of individual -feeling, or immediate passion. The speech of Satan to his companions is -said to have suggested the tone of Milton’s character of the Devil. But -we see nothing in common in the fiend of the two poets. Tasso describes -his as a mere deformed monster. Milton was the first poet who had the -magnanimity to paint the devil without horns and a tail; to give him -personal beauty and intellectual grandeur, with only moral deformity. - -The life of Tasso is one of the most interesting in the world. Its last -unfortunate events are related thus by our author.— - -‘Tasso, admitted into the society of the great, thought himself -sufficiently their equal, to fall in love with women of rank; and found -himself sufficiently their inferior, to suffer from the consequences of -his passion. His writings inform us, that he was attached to a lady of -the name of Leonora: but it would seem that he was alternately in love -with Leonora of Este, sister to the Duke Alphonso; with Leonora of San -Vitale, wife of Julius of Tiena; and with Lucretia Bendidio, one of the -maids of honour to the princess.... It is said, that one day being at -court with the Duke and the Princess Leonora, he was so struck with the -beauty of the lady, that, in a transport of love, he approached her -suddenly, and embraced her in the eyes of the whole assembly. The Duke, -turning coldly to his courtiers, said to them—“What a pity that so great -a man should have gone mad!” and on this pretence, had him confined in -the hospital of St. Anne, a receptacle for lunatics at Ferrara. His -confinement disordered his imagination. His body was enfeebled by the -agitation of his mind; he believed himself by turns poisoned, or -tormented by witchcraft; he fancied that he saw dreadful apparitions, -and passed whole nights in painful watchfulness. He addressed letters of -complaint to all his friends, to all the princes of Italy, to the city -of Bergamo his native place, to the emperor, to the holy office at Rome, -imploring their pity and his liberty. To add to his misfortunes, his -poem was published without his permission, from an imperfect copy. He -remained confined in the hospital seven years; during which, the -numerous writings that proceeded from his pen, could not convince -Alphonso II. that he was in his senses. The princes of Italy in vain -interposed for his release, which the Duke refused to grant, chiefly to -mortify his rivals, the Medici. At length, he was released from his -captivity at the instance of Vincent de Gonzago, Prince of Mantua, on -the occasion of the marriage of the sister of this nobleman with the -unrelenting Alphonso.’ - -It was during this melancholy interval, that he was seen by Montaigne in -his confinement, who, after some striking reflections on the -vicissitudes of genius, says,—‘I rather envied than pitied him, when I -saw him at Ferrara in so piteous a plight, that he survived himself; -misacknowledging both himself and his labours, which, unwitting to him, -and even to his face, have been published both uncorrected and -maimed!’—Tasso died at Rome in 1599, when he was fifty-one years old. -After the Jerusalem, the most celebrated of his works, is his pastoral -poem of Aminta, on which the Pastor Fido of Guarini is considered by M. -Sismondi as an improvement. He published both comedies and tragedies. He -composed a tragedy, called _Il Torrismondo_, while in prison, and -dedicated it to his liberator, the Prince of Mantua. The concluding -chorus of this tragedy possesses the most profound pathos; and the poet, -in writing it, had evidently an eye to his own misfortunes and his -glory, which he saw, or thought he saw, vanishing from him—‘Like the -swift Alpine torrent, like the sudden lightning in the calm night, like -the passing wind, the melting vapour, or the winged arrow, so vanishes -our fame; and all our glory is but a fading flower. What then can we -hope, or what expect more? After triumphs and palms, all that remains -for the soul, is strife and lamentation, and regret; neither love nor -friendship can avail us aught, but only tears and grief!’ - -We have thus gone through M. Sismondi’s account of the great Italian -poets; and should now proceed to the consideration of their more modern -brethren of the drama, and of the Spanish and Portuguese writers in -general: But we cannot go on with this splendid catalogue of foreigners, -without feeling ourselves drawn to the native glories of two of our own -writers, who were certainly indebted in a great degree to the early -poets of Italy, and must be considered as belonging to the same -school.—We mean Chaucer and Spenser—who are now, we are afraid, as -little known to the ordinary run of English readers as their tuneful -contemporaries in the South. To those among our own countrymen who agree -with M. Sismondi in considering the reign of Queen Anne as the golden -period of English poetry, it may afford some amusement at least to -accompany us for a little in these antiquarian researches. - -Though Spenser was much later than Chaucer, his obligations to preceding -poets were less. He has in some measure borrowed the plan of his poem -from Ariosto; but he has engrafted upon it an exuberance of fancy, and -an endless voluptuousness of sentiment, which are not to be found in the -Italian writer.—Farther, Spenser is even more of an inventor in the -subject-matter. There is a richness and variety in his allegorical -personages and fictions, which almost vies with the splendour of the -ancient mythology. If Ariosto transports us into the regions of romance, -Spenser’s poetry is all fairy-land. In Ariosto, we walk upon the ground, -in a company, gay, fantastic, and adventurous enough; in Spenser, we -wander in another world among ideal beings. The poet takes and lays us -in the lap of a lovelier nature, by the sound of softer streams, among -greener hills, and fairer valleys. He paints nature, not as we find it, -but as we expected to find it; and fulfils the deluding promise of our -youth. He waves his wand of enchantment,—and at once embodies airy -beings, and throws a delicious veil over all actual objects. The two -worlds of reality and of fiction, seem poised on the wings of his -imagination. His ideas indeed seem always more distinct than his -perceptions. He is the painter of abstractions, and describes them with -dazzling minuteness. In the Mask of Cupid, the god of love ‘claps on -high his coloured winges _twain_;’ and it is said of Gluttony in the -procession of the Passions,— - - ‘In green vine-leaves he was right fitly clad.’ - -At times he becomes picturesque from his intense love of beauty; as, -where he compares Prince Arthur’s crest to the appearance of the -almond-tree. The love of beauty, however, and not of truth, is the -moving principle of his mind; and his delineations are guided by no -principle but the impulse of an inexhaustible imagination. He luxuriates -equally in scenes of Eastern magnificence, or the still solitude of a -hermit’s cell—in the extremes of sensuality or refinement. With all -this, he neither makes us laugh nor weep. The only jest in his poem is -an allegory. But he has been falsely charged with a want of passion and -of strength. He has both in an immense degree. He has not indeed the -pathos of immediate action or suffering, which is the dramatic; but he -has all the pathos of sentiment and romance,—all that belongs to distant -objects of terror, and uncertain, imaginary distress. His strength, in -like manner, is not coarse and palpable,—but it assumes the character of -vastness and sublimity, seen through the same visionary medium, and -blended with all the appalling associations of preternatural agency. We -will only refer to the Cave of Mammon, and to the description of Celleno -in the Cave of Despair. The three first books of the Faery Queen are -very superior to the others. It is not fair to compare Spenser with -Shakespeare, in point of interest. A fairer comparison would be with -Comus. There is only one book of this allegorical kind which has more -interest than Spenser (with scarcely less imagination); and that is the -Pilgrim’s Progress. - -It is not possible for any two writers to be more opposite than Spenser -and Chaucer. Spenser delighted in luxurious enjoyment;—Chaucer in severe -activity of mind. Spenser was, perhaps, the most visionary of all the -poets;—Chaucer the most a man of observation and of the world. He -appealed directly to the bosoms and business of men. He dealt only in -realities; and, relying throughout on facts or common tradition, could -always produce his vouchers in nature. His sentiment is not the -voluntary indulgence of the poet’s fancy, but is founded on the habitual -prejudices and passions of the very characters he introduces. His -poetry, therefore, is essentially picturesque and dramatic: In this he -chiefly differs from Boccacio, whose power was that of sentiment. The -picturesque and the dramatic in Chaucer, are in a great measure the same -thing; for he only describes external objects as connected with -character,—as the symbols of internal passion. The costume and dress of -the Canterbury pilgrims,—of the knight,—the ‘squire,—the gap-toothed -wife of Bath, speak for themselves. Again, the description of the -equipage and accoutrements of the two Kings of Thrace and Inde, in the -Knight’s Tale, are as striking and grand, as the others are lively and -natural. His descriptions of natural scenery are in the same style of -excellence;—their beauty consists in their truth and characteristic -propriety. They have a local freshness about them, which renders them -almost tangible; which gives the very feeling of the air, the coldness -or moisture of the ground. In other words, he describes inanimate -objects from the effect which they have on the mind of the spectator, -and as they have a reference to the interest of the story. One of the -finest parts of Chaucer is of this mixed kind. It is in the beginning of -the Flower and the Leaf, where he describes the delight of that young -beauty, shrouded in her bower, and listening in the morning of the year -to the singing of the nightingale, while her joy rises with the rising -song, and gushes out afresh at every pause, and is borne along with the -full tide of pleasure, and still increases, and repeats, and prolongs -itself, and knows no ebb. The coolness of the arbour,—its -retirement,—the early time of the day,—the sudden starting up of the -birds in the neighbouring bushes—the eager delight with which they -devour and rend the opening buds and flowers, are expressed with a truth -and feeling, which make the whole seem like the recollection of an -actual scene. Whoever compares this beautiful and simple passage with -Rousseau’s description of the Elisée in the New Eloise, will be able to -see the difference between good writing and fine writing, or between the -actual appearances of nature, and the progress of the feelings they -excite in us, and a parcel of words, images and sentiments thrown -together without meaning or coherence. We do not say this from any -feeling of disrespect to Rousseau, for whom we have a great affection; -but his imagination was not that of the poet or the painter. Severity -and boldness are the characteristics of the natural style: the -artificial is equally servile and ostentatious. Nature, after all, is -the soul of art:—and there is a strength in the imagination which -reposes immediately on nature, which nothing else can supply. It was -this trust in nature, and reliance on his subject, which enabled Chaucer -to describe the grief and patience of Griselda,—the faith of -Constance,—and the heroic perseverance of the little child, who, going -to school through the streets of Jewry, - - ‘Oh, _Alma redemptoris mater_, loudly sung,’ - -and who, after his death, still triumphed in his song. Chaucer has more -of this deep, internal, sustained sentiment than any other writer, -except Boccacio, to whom Chaucer owed much, though he did not owe all to -him: for he writes just as well where he did not borrow from that -quarter, as where he did; as in the characters of the Pilgrims,—the Wife -of Bath’s Prologue,—the ‘Squire’s Tale, and in innumerable others. The -poetry of Chaucer has a religious sanctity about it, connected with the -manners of the age. It has all the spirit of martyrdom! - -In looking back to the _chef-d’œuvres_ of former times, we are sometimes -disposed to wonder at the little progress which has been made since in -poetry, and the arts of imitation in general. But this, perhaps, is a -foolish wonder. Nothing is more contrary to fact, than the supposition, -that in what we understand by the fine arts, as painting and poetry, -relative perfection is the result of repeated success; and that, what -has been once well done, constantly leads to something better. What is -mechanical, reducible to rule, or capable of demonstration, is indeed -progressive, and admits of gradual improvement: but that which is not -mechanical or definite, but depends on taste, genius, and feeling, very -soon becomes stationary or retrograde, after a certain period, and loses -more than it gains by transfusion. The contrary opinion is indeed a -common error, which has grown up, like many others, from transferring an -analogy of one kind to something quite different, without thinking of -the difference in the nature of the things, or attending to the -difference of the results. For most persons, finding what wonderful -advances have been made in biblical criticism, in chemistry, in -mechanics, in geometry, astronomy, &c., _i.e._ in things depending on -inquiry and experiment, or on absolute demonstration, have been led -hastily to conclude, that there was a general tendency in the efforts of -the human intellect to improve by repetition, and, in all arts and -institutions, to grow perfect and mature by time. We look back upon the -theological creed of our ancestors, and their discoveries in natural -philosophy, with a smile of pity: Science, and the arts connected with -it, have all had their infancy, their youth and manhood, and seem to -have in them no principle of limitation or decay; and, inquiring no -farther, we infer, in the intoxication of our pride, and the height of -our self-congratulation, that the same progress has been made, and will -continue to be made, in all other things which are the work of man. The -fact, however, stares us so plainly in the face, that one would think -the smallest reflection must suggest the truth, and overturn our -sanguine theories. The greatest poets, the ablest orators, the best -painters, and the finest sculptors that the world ever saw, appeared -soon after the first birth of these arts, and lived in a state of -society which was in other respects rude and barbarous. Those arts which -depend on individual genius and incommunicable power, have almost always -leaped at once from infancy to manhood—from the first rude dawn of -invention to their meridian height and dazzling lustre, and have, in -general, declined ever after. This is the peculiar distinction and -privilege of science and of art;—of the one, never to arrive at the -summit of perfection at all; and of the other, to arrive at it almost at -once. Homer, Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Dante and Ariosto, (Milton -alone was of a later period, and not the worse for it),—Raphael, Titian, -Michael Angelo, Correggio, Cervantes and Boccacio—all lived near the -beginning of their arts—perfected, and all but created them. These giant -sons of genius stand indeed upon the earth; but they tower above their -fellows; and the long line of their successors does not interpose any -object to obstruct their view, or lessen their brightness. In strength -and stature, they are unrivalled; in grace and beauty, they have never -been surpassed. In after ages and more refined periods (as they are -called), great men have arisen one by one, as it were by throes and at -intervals; though, in general, the best of these cultivated and -artificial minds were of an inferior order; as Tasso and Pope among -poets, Guido and Poussin among painters. But in the earlier stages of -the arts, when the first mechanical difficulties had been got over, and -the language acquired, they rose by clusters and in constellations—never -so to rise again. - -The arts of poetry and painting are conversant with the world of thought -within us, and of the world of sense without us—with what we know and -see and feel intimately. They flow from the living shrine of our own -breasts, and are kindled at the living lamp of Nature: But the pulse of -the passions assuredly beat as high—the depths and soundings of the -human heart were as well understood, three thousand or three hundred -years ago, as they are at present. The face of nature, and ‘the human -face divine,’ shone as bright then, as they have ever done since. But it -is their light, reflected by true genius on art, which marks out the -path before it, and sheds a glory round the Muses’ feet, like that which - - ——‘circled Una’s angel face, - And made a sunshine in the shady place.’ - - - SCHLEGEL ON THE DRAMA - - VOL. XXVI.] [_February 1816._ - -The work is German; and is to be received with the allowances which that -school of literature generally requires. With these, however, it will be -found a good work: and as we should be sorry to begin our account of it -with an unmeaning sneer, we will explain at once what appears to us to -be the weak side of German literature. In all that they do, it is -evident that they are much more influenced by a desire of distinction -than by any impulse of the imagination, or the consciousness of -extraordinary qualifications. They write, not because they are full of a -subject, but because they think it is a subject upon which, with due -pains and labour, something striking may be written. So they read and -meditate,—and having, at length, devised some strange and paradoxical -view of the matter, they set about establishing it with all their might -and main. The consequence is, that they have no shades of opinion, but -are always straining at a grand systematic conclusion. They have done a -great deal, no doubt, and in various departments; but their pretensions -have always much exceeded their performance. They are universal -undertakers, and complete encyclopedists, in all moral and critical -science. No question can come before them but they have a large -apparatus of logical and metaphysical principles ready to play off upon -it; and the less they know of the subject, the more formidable is the -use they make of their apparatus. In poetry, they have at one time gone -to the utmost lengths of violent effect,—and then turned round, with -equal extravagance, to the laborious production of no effect at all. The -truth is, that they are naturally a slow, heavy people; and can only be -put in motion by some violent and often repeated impulse, under the -operation of which they lose all control over themselves—and nothing can -stop them short of the last absurdity. Truth, in their view of it, is -never what is, but what, according to their system, _ought to be_. -Though they have dug deeply in the mine of knowledge, they have too -often confounded the dross and the ore, and counted their gains rather -by their weight than their quality. They are a little apt, we suspect, -literally to take the will for the deed,—and are not always capable of -distinguishing between effort and success. They are most at home, -accordingly, in matters of fact, and learned inquiries. In art they are -hard, forced, and mechanical; and, generally, they may be said to have -all that depends on strength of understanding and persevering -exertion,—but to want ease, quickness and flexibility. We should not -have made these remarks, if the work before us had formed an absolute -exception to them. - -William Schlegel has long been celebrated on the Continent as a -philosophical critic, and as the admirable translator of Shakespear and -Calderon into his native tongue. Madame de Staël acknowledges her -obligations to him, for the insight which he had given her into the -discriminating features of German genius. And M. Sismondi, in his work -on Southern literature, bears the most honourable testimony to his -talents and learning. The present work contains a critical and -historical account of the ancient and modern drama,—the Greek, the -Latin, the Italian, the French, the English, the Spanish, and the -German. The view which the author has taken of the standard productions, -whether tragic or comic, in these different languages, is in general -ingenious and just; and his speculative reasonings on the principles of -taste, are often as satisfactory as they are profound. But he sometimes -carries the love of theory, and the spirit of partisanship, farther than -is at all allowable. His account of Shakespear is admirably -characteristic, and must be highly gratifying to the English reader. It -is indeed by far the best account which has been given of the plays of -that great genius by any writer, either among ourselves, or abroad. It -is only liable to one exception—he will allow Shakespear to have had no -faults. Now, we think he had a great many, and that he could afford to -have had as many more. It shows a distrust of his genius, to be -tenacious of his defects. - -Our author thus explains the object of his work— - -‘Before I proceed farther, I wish to say a few words respecting the -spirit of my criticism—a study to which I have devoted a great part of -my life. We see numbers of men, and even whole nations, so much fettered -by the habits of their education and modes of living, that nothing -appears natural, proper, or beautiful, which is foreign to their -language, their manners, and their social relations. In this exclusive -mode of seeing and feeling, it is no doubt possible, by means of -cultivation, to attain a great nicety of discrimination in the narrow -circle within which they are circumscribed. But no man can be a true -critic or connoisseur, who does not possess a universality of mind,—who -does not possess that flexibility which, throwing aside all personal -predilections and blind habits, enables him to transport himself into -the peculiarities of other ages and nations,—to feel them as it were -from their proper and central point,—and to recognize and respect -whatever is beautiful and grand under those external circumstances which -are necessary to their existence, and which sometimes even seem to -disguise them. There is no monopoly of poetry for certain ages and -nations; and consequently, that despotism in taste, by which it is -attempted to make those rules universal, which were at first perhaps -arbitrarily established, is a pretension which ought never to be -allowed. Poetry, taken in its widest acceptation, as the power of -creating what is beautiful, and representing it to the eye or ear, is a -universal gift of Heaven; which is even shared to a certain extent by -those whom we call barbarians and savages. Internal excellence is alone -decisive; and where this exists, we must not allow ourselves to be -repelled by external circumstances. - -‘It is well known, that, three centuries and a half ago, the study of -ancient literature, by the diffusion of the Greek language (for the -Latin was never extinct) received a new life: The classical authors were -sought after with avidity, and made accessible by means of the press; -and the monuments of ancient art were carefully dug up, and preserved. -All this excited the human mind in a powerful manner, and formed a -decided epoch in the history of our cultivation: the fruits have -extended to our times, and will extend to a period beyond the power of -our calculation. But the study of the ancients was immediately carried -to a most pernicious excess. The learned, who were chiefly in possession -of this knowledge, and who were incapable of distinguishing themselves -by their own productions, yielded an unlimited deference to the -ancients,—and with great appearance of reason, as they are models in -their kind. They maintained, that nothing could be hoped for the human -mind, but in the imitation of the ancients; and they only esteemed, in -the works of the moderns, whatever resembled, or seemed to bear a -resemblance, to those of antiquity. Every thing else was rejected by -them as barbarous and unnatural. It was quite otherwise with the great -poets and artists. However strong their enthusiasm for the ancients, and -however determined their purpose of entering into competition with them, -they were compelled by the characteristic peculiarity of their minds to -proceed in a track of their own,—and to impress upon their productions -the stamp of their own genius. Such was the case with Dante among the -Italians, the father of modern poetry: he acknowledged Virgil for his -instructor; but produced a work, which of all others differs the most -from the Æneid, and _far excels it, in our opinion, in strength, truth, -depth, and comprehension_. It was the same afterwards with Ariosto, who -has been most unaccountably compared to Homer; for nothing can be more -unlike. It was the same in the fine arts with Michael Angelo and -Raphael, who were without doubt well acquainted with the antique. When -we ground our judgment of modern painters merely on their resemblance to -the ancients, we must necessarily be unjust towards them. As the poets -for the most part acquiesced in the doctrines of the learned, we may -observe a curious struggle in them between their natural inclination and -their imagined duty. When they sacrificed to the latter, they were -praised by the learned; but, by yielding to their own inclinations, they -became the favourites of the people. What preserves the heroic poems of -a Tasso or a Camoens to this day alive, in the hearts and on the lips of -their countrymen, is by no means their imperfect resemblance to Virgil -or even to Homer,—but, in Tasso, the tender feeling of chivalrous love -and honour, and in Camoens the glowing inspiration of patriotic -heroism.’ - -The author next proceeds to unfold that which is the _nucleus_ of the -prevailing system of German criticism, and the foundation of his whole -work, namely, the essential distinction between the peculiar spirit of -the modern or _romantic_ style of art, and the antique or _classical_. -There is in this part of the work a singular mixture of learning, -acuteness and mysticism. We have certain profound suggestions and -distant openings to the light; but, every now and then, we are suddenly -left in the dark, and obliged to grope our way by ourselves. We cannot -promise to find a clue out of the labyrinth; but we will at least -attempt it. The most obvious distinction between the two styles, the -classical and the romantic, is, that the one is conversant with objects -that are grand or beautiful in themselves, or in consequence of obvious -and universal associations; the other, with those that are interesting -only by the force of circumstances and imagination. A Grecian temple, -for instance, is a classical object: it is beautiful in itself, and -excites immediate admiration. But the ruins of a Gothic castle have no -beauty or symmetry to attract the eye; and yet they excite a more -powerful and romantic interest from the ideas with which they are -habitually associated. If, in addition to this, we are told that this is -Macbeth’s castle, the scene of the murder of Duncan, the interest will -be instantly heightened to a sort of pleasing horror. The classical idea -or form of any thing, it may also be observed, remains always the same, -and suggests nearly the same impressions; but the associations of ideas -belonging to the romantic character, may vary infinitely, and take in -the whole range of nature and accident. Antigone, in Sophocles, waiting -near the grove of the Furies—Electra, in Æschylus, offering sacrifice at -the tomb of Agamemnon—are classical subjects, because the circumstances -and the characters have a correspondent dignity, and an immediate -interest, from their mere designation. Florimel, in Spenser, where she -is described sitting on the ground in the Witch’s hut, is not classical, -though in the highest degree poetical and romantic: for the incidents -and situation are in themselves mean and disagreeable, till they are -redeemed by the genius of the poet, and converted, by the very contrast, -into a source of the utmost pathos and elevation of sentiment. Othello’s -handkerchief is not classical, though ‘there was magic in the web;’—it -is only a powerful instrument of passion and imagination. Even Lear is -not classical; for he is a poor crazy old man, who has nothing sublime -about him but his afflictions, and who dies of a broken heart. - -Schlegel somewhere compares the Furies of Æschylus to the Witches of -Shakespear—we think without much reason. Perhaps Shakespear has -surrounded the Weird Sisters with associations as terrible, and even -more mysterious, strange, and fantastic than the Furies of Æschylus; but -the traditionary beings themselves are not so petrific. These are of -marble,—their look alone must blast the beholder;—those are of air, -bubbles; and though ‘so withered and so wild in their attire,’ it is -their spells alone which are fatal. They owe their power to -‘metaphysical aid’: but the others contain all that is dreadful in their -corporal figures. In this we see the distinct spirit of the classical -and the romantic mythology. The serpents that twine round the head of -the Furies are not to be trifled with, though they implied no -preternatural power: The bearded Witches in Macbeth are in themselves -grotesque and ludicrous, except as this strange deviation from nature -staggers our imagination, and leads us to expect and to believe in all -incredible things. They appal the faculties by what they say or do;—the -others are intolerable, even to sight. - -Our author is right in affirming, that the true way to understand the -plays of Sophocles and Æschylus, is to study them before the groupes of -the Niobe or the Laocoon. If we can succeed in explaining this analogy, -we shall have solved nearly the whole difficulty. For it is certain, -that there are exactly the same powers of mind displayed in the poetry -of the Greeks as in their statues. Their poetry is exactly what their -sculptors might have written. Both are exquisite imitations of nature; -the one in marble, the other in words. It is evident, that the Greek -poets had the same perfect idea of the subjects they described, as the -Greek sculptors had of the objects they represented; and they give as -much of this absolute truth of imitation, as can be given by words. But, -in this direct and simple imitation of nature, as in describing the form -of a beautiful woman, the poet is greatly inferior to the sculptor; It -is in the power of illustration, in comparing it to other things, and -suggesting other ideas of beauty or love, that he has an entirely new -source of imagination opened to him; and of this power, the moderns have -made at least a bolder and more frequent use than the ancients. The -description of Helen in Homer, is a description of what might have -happened and been seen, as ‘that she moved with grace, and that the old -men rose up with reverence as she passed;’ the description of Belphœbe -in Spenser, is a description of what was only visible to the eye of the -poet. - - ‘Upon her eyelids many graces sat, - Under the shadow of her even brows.’ - -The description of the soldiers going to battle in Shakespear, ‘all -plumed like estriches, like eagles newly bathed, wanton as goats, wild -as young bulls,’ is too bold, figurative, and profuse of dazzling -images, for the mild, equable tone of classical poetry, which never -loses sight of the object in the illustration. The ideas of the ancients -were too exact and definite, too much attached to the material form or -vehicle in which they were conveyed, to admit of those rapid -combinations, those unrestrained flights of fancy, which, glancing from -heaven to earth, unite the most opposite extremes, and draw the happiest -illustrations from things the most remote. The two principles of -imitation and imagination indeed, are not only distinct, but almost -opposite. For the imagination is that power which represents objects, -not as they are, but as they are moulded according to our fancies and -feelings. Let an object be presented to the senses in a state of -agitation and fear—and the imagination will magnify the object, and -convert it into whatever is most proper to encourage the fear. It is the -same in all other cases in which poetry speaks the language of the -imagination. This language is not the less true to nature because it is -false in point of fact; but so much the more true and natural, if it -conveys the impression which the object under the influence of passion -makes on the mind. We compare a man of gigantic stature to a tower; not -that he is any thing like so large, but because the excess of his size, -beyond what we are accustomed to expect, produces a greater feeling of -magnitude and ponderous strength than an object of ten times the same -dimensions. Things, in short, are equal in the imagination, which have -the power of affecting the mind with an equal degree of terror, -admiration, delight or love. When Lear calls upon the Heavens to avenge -his cause, ‘for they are old like him,’ there is nothing extravagant or -impious in this sublime identification of his age with theirs; for there -is no other image which could do justice to the agonising sense of his -wrongs and his despair! - -The great difference, then, which we find between the classical and the -romantic style, between ancient and modern poetry, is, that the one more -frequently describes things as they are interesting in themselves,—the -other for the sake of the associations of ideas connected with them; -that the one dwells more on the immediate impressions of objects on the -senses—the other on the ideas which they suggest to the imagination. The -one is the poetry of form, the other of effect. The one gives only what -is necessarily implied in the subject; the other all that can possibly -arise out of it. The one seeks to identify the imitation with an -external object,—clings to it,—is inseparable from it,—is either that or -nothing; the other seeks to identify the original impression with -whatever else, within the range of thought or feeling, can strengthen, -relieve, adorn or elevate it. Hence the severity and simplicity of the -Greek tragedy, which excluded everything foreign or unnecessary to the -subject. Hence the unities: for, in order to identify the imitation as -much as possible with the reality, and leave nothing to mere -imagination, it was necessary to give the same coherence and consistency -to the different parts of a story, as to the different limbs of a -statue. Hence the beauty and grandeur of their materials; for, deriving -their power over the mind from the truth of the imitation, it was -necessary that the subject which they made choice of, and from which -they could not depart, should be in itself grand and beautiful. Hence -the perfection of their execution; which consisted in giving the utmost -harmony, delicacy, and refinement to the details of a given subject. -Now, the characteristic excellence of the moderns is the reverse of all -this. As, according to our author, the poetry of the Greeks is the same -as their sculpture; so, he says, our own more nearly resembles -painting,—where the artist can relieve and throw back his figures at -pleasure,—use a greater variety of contrasts,—and where light and shade, -like the colours of fancy, are reflected on the different objects. The -Muse of classical poetry should be represented as a beautiful naked -figure: the Muse of modern poetry should be represented clothed, and -with wings. The first has the advantage in point of form; the last in -colour and motion. - -Perhaps we may trace this difference to something analogous in physical -organization, situation, religion and manners. First, the natural -organization of the Greeks seems to have been more perfect, more -susceptible of external impressions, and more in harmony with external -nature than ours, who have not the same advantages of climate and -constitution. Born of a beautiful and vigorous race, with quick senses -and a clear understanding, and placed under a mild heaven, they gave the -fullest development to their external faculties: and where all is -perceived easily, every thing is perceived in harmony and proportion. It -is the stern genius of the North which drives men back upon their own -resources, which makes them slow to perceive, and averse to feel, and -which, by rendering them insensible to the single, successive -impressions of things, requires their collective and combined force to -rouse the imagination violently and unequally. It should be remarked, -however, that the early poetry of some of the Eastern nations has even -more of that irregularity, wild enthusiasm, and disproportioned -grandeur, which has been considered as the distinguishing character of -the Northern nations. - -Again, a good deal may be attributed to the state of manners and -political institutions. The ancient Greeks were warlike tribes encamped -in cities. They had no other country than that which was enclosed within -the walls of the town in which they lived. Each individual belonged, in -the first instance, to the State; and his relations to it were so close, -as to take away, in a great measure, all personal independence and -free-will. Every one was mortised to his place in society, and had his -station assigned him as part of the political machine, which could only -subsist by strict subordination and regularity. Every man was as it were -perpetually on duty, and his faculties kept constant watch and ward. -Energy of purpose, and intensity of observation, became the necessary -characteristics of such a state of society; and the general principle -communicated itself from this ruling concern for the public, to morals, -to art, to language, to every thing.—The tragic poets of Greece were -among her best soldiers; and it is no wonder that they were as severe in -their poetry as in their discipline. Their swords and their styles -carved out their way with equal sharpness. This state of things was -afterwards continued under the Roman empire. In the ages of chivalry and -romance, which, after a considerable interval, succeeded its -dissolution, and which have stamped their character on modern genius and -literature, all was reversed. Society was again resolved into its -component parts; and the world was, in a manner, to begin anew. The ties -which bound the citizen and the soldier to the State being loosened, -each person was thrown back, as it were, into the circle of the domestic -affections, or left to pursue his doubtful way to fame and fortune -alone. This interval of time might be accordingly supposed to give birth -to all that was constant in attachment, adventurous in action, strange, -wild and extravagant in invention. Human life took the shape of a busy, -voluptuous dream, where the imagination was now lost amidst ‘antres vast -and deserts idle;’ or, suddenly transported to stately palaces, echoing -with dance and song. In this uncertainty of events, this fluctuation of -hopes and fears, all objects became dim, confused and vague. Magicians, -dwarfs, giants, followed in the train of romance; and Orlando’s -enchanted sword, the horn which he carried with him, and which he blew -thrice at Roncesvalles, and Rogero’s winged horse, were not sufficient -to protect them in their unheard-of encounters, or deliver them from -their inextricable difficulties. It was a return to the period of the -early heroic ages; but tempered by the difference of domestic manners, -and the spirit of religion. The marked difference in the relation of the -sexes, arose from the freedom of choice in women, which, from being the -slaves of the will and passions of men, converted them into the arbiters -of their fate, which introduced the modern system of gallantry, and -first made love a feeling of the heart, founded on mutual affection and -esteem. The leading virtues of the Christian religion, self-denial and -generosity, assisted in producing the same effect.—Hence the spirit of -chivalry, of romantic love, and honour! - -The mythology of the romantic poetry differed from the received -religion: both differed essentially from the classical. The religion, or -mythology of the Greeks, was nearly allied to their poetry: it was -material and definite. The Pagan system reduced the Gods to the human -form, and elevated the powers of inanimate nature to the same standard. -Statues carved out of the finest marble, represented the objects of -their religious worship in airy porticos, in solemn temples and -consecrated groves. Mercury was seen ‘new-lighted on some heaven-kissing -hill;’ and the Naiad or Dryad came gracefully forth as the personified -genius of the stream or wood. All was subjected to the senses. The -Christian religion, on the contrary, is essentially spiritual and -abstract; it is ‘the evidence of things unseen.’ In the Heathen -mythology, form is everywhere predominant; in the Christian, we find -only unlimited, undefined power. The imagination alone ‘broods over the -immense abyss, and makes it pregnant.’ There is, in the habitual belief -of an universal, invisible Principle of all things, a vastness and -obscurity which confounds our perceptions, while it exalts our piety. A -mysterious awe surrounds the doctrines of the Christian faith: the -Infinite is everywhere before us, whether we turn to reflect on what is -revealed to us of the Divine nature or our own. - -History, as well as religion, has contributed to enlarge the bounds of -imagination; and both together, by showing past and future objects at an -interminable distance, have accustomed the mind to contemplate and take -an interest in the obscure and shadowy. The ancients were more -circumscribed within ‘the ignorant present time,’—spoke only their own -language,—were conversant only with their own customs,—were acquainted -only with the events of their own history. The mere lapse of time then, -aided by the art of printing, has served to accumulate for us an endless -mass of mixed and contradictory materials; and, by extending our -knowledge to a greater number of things, has made our particular ideas -less perfect and distinct. The constant reference to a former state of -manners and literature, is a marked feature in modern poetry. We are -always talking of the Greeks and Romans;—_they_ never said any thing of -us. This circumstance has tended to give a certain abstract elevation, -and etherial refinement to the mind, without strengthening it. We are -lost in wonder at what has been done, and dare not think of emulating -it. The earliest modern poets, accordingly, may be conceived to hail the -glories of the antique world, dawning through the dark abyss of time; -while revelation, on the other hand, opened its path to the skies: As -Dante represents himself as conducted by Virgil to the shades below; -while Beatrice welcomes him to the abodes of the blest. - -We must now return, however, to our author, whose sketch of the rise and -progress of the Drama, will be interesting to our readers. - -‘The invention of the dramatic art, and of a theatre, seem to lie very -near one another. Man has a great disposition to mimicry. When he enters -vividly into the situation, sentiments and passions of others, he even -involuntarily puts on a resemblance to them in his gestures. Children -are perpetually going out of themselves: it is one of their chief -amusements to represent those grown people whom they have had an -opportunity of observing, or whatever comes in their way: And with the -happy flexibility of their imagination, they can exhibit all the -characteristics of assumed dignity in a father, a schoolmaster, or a -king. The sole step which is requisite for the invention of a drama, -namely, the separating and extracting the mimetic elements and fragments -from social life, and representing them collected together into one -mass, has not, however, been taken in many nations. In the very minute -description of ancient Egypt in Herodotus and other writers, I do not -recollect observing the smallest trace of it. The Etrurians, again, who -in many respects resembled the Egyptians, had their theatrical -representations; and, what is singular enough, the Etruscan name for an -actor, _histrio_, is preserved in living languages down to the present -day. The Arabians and Persians, though possessed of a rich poetical -literature, are unacquainted with any sort of drama. It was the same -with Europe in the middle ages. On the introduction of Christianity, the -plays handed down among the Greeks and Romans were abolished, partly -from their reference to Heathen ideas, and partly because they had -degenerated into the most impudent and indecent immorality; and they -were not again revived till after the lapse of nearly a thousand years. -Even in the fourteenth century, we do not find in Boccacio, who, -however, gives us a most accurate picture of the whole constitution of -social life, the smallest trace of plays. In place of them, they had -then only story-tellers, minstrels, and jugglers. On the other hand, we -are by no means entitled to assume, that the invention of the drama has -only once taken place in the world, or that it has always been borrowed -by one people from another. The English navigators mention, that among -the islanders of the South Seas, who, in every mental acquirement, are -in such a low scale of civilization, they yet observed a rude drama, in -which a common event in life was imitated for the sake of diversion. And -to go to the other extreme:—Among the Indians, the people from whom, -perhaps, all the cultivation of the human race has been derived, plays -were known long before they could have experienced any foreign -influence. It has lately been made known to Europe, that they have a -rich dramatic literature, which ascends back for more than two thousand -years. The only specimen of their plays (_nataks_) hitherto known to us, -is the delightful sakontala, which, notwithstanding the colouring of a -foreign climate, bears, in its general structure, such a striking -resemblance to our romantic drama, that we might be inclined to suspect -we owe this resemblance to the predilection for Shakespear entertained -by Jones the English translator, if his fidelity were not confirmed by -other learned Orientalists. In the golden times of India, the -representation of this _natak_ served to delight the splendid imperial -court of Delhi; but it would appear that, from the misery of numberless -oppressions, the dramatic art in that country is now entirely at an end. -The Chinese, again, have their standing national theatre, stationary -perhaps in every sense of the word; and I do not doubt that, in the -establishment of arbitrary rules, and the delicate observance of -insignificant points of decorum, they leave the most correct Europeans -very far behind them. When the new European stage, in the fifteenth -century, had its origin in the allegorical and spiritual pieces called -Moralities and Mysteries, this origin was not owing to the influence of -the ancient dramatists, who did not come into circulation till some time -afterwards. In those rude beginnings lay the germ of the romantic drama -as a peculiar invention.’ p. 28. - -The fault of this book is to have too much of every thing, but -especially of Greece; and we cannot help feeling, that the bold and -independent judgment which the author has applied to all other nations, -is somewhat suborned or overawed by his excessive veneration for those -ancient classics. There is a glow and a force, however, in all that he -says upon the subject, that almost persuades us that he is in the -right,—and that there was something incomparably more lofty in the -conceptions of those early times, than the present undignified and -degenerate age can imagine. This imposing and enthusiastic tone -discloses itself in his introductory remarks on the Grecian theatre. - -‘When we hear the word theatre,’ he says, ‘we naturally think of what -with us bears the same name; and yet nothing can be more different from -our theatre than the Grecian, in every part of its construction. If, in -reading the Greek pieces, we associate our own stage with them, the -light in which we shall view them must be false in every respect.—The -theatres of the Greeks were quite open above, and their dramas were -always acted in open day, and beneath the canopy of heaven. The Romans, -at an after period, endeavoured by a covering to shelter the audience -from the rays of the sun; but this degree of luxury was hardly ever -enjoyed by the Greeks. Such a state of things appears very inconvenient -to us: But the Greeks had nothing of effeminacy about them; and we must -not forget, too, the beauty of their climate. When they were overtaken -by a storm or a shower, the play was of course interrupted; and they -would much rather expose themselves to an accidental inconvenience, -than, by shutting themselves up in a close and crowded house, entirely -destroy the serenity of a religious solemnity, which their plays -certainly were. To have covered in the scene itself, and imprisoned gods -and heroes in dark and gloomy apartments, imperfectly lighted up, would -have appeared still more ridiculous to them. An action which so nobly -served to establish the belief of the relation with heaven, could only -be exhibited under an unobstructed sky, and under the very eyes of the -gods, as it were, for whom, according to Seneca, the sight of a brave -man struggling with adversity is an attractive spectacle. The theatres -of the ancients were, in comparison with the small scale of ours, of a -colossal magnitude, partly for the sake of containing the whole of the -people, with the concourse of strangers who flocked to the festivals, -and partly to correspond with the majesty of the dramas represented in -them, which required to be seen at a respectful distance.’ - -One of the most elaborate and interesting parts of this work, is the -account of the Greek tragedians, which is given in the fourth Lecture. -Our extracts from it will be copious, both on account of the importance -of the subject, and the ability with which it is treated. - -‘Of the inexhaustible stores possessed by the Greeks in the department -of tragedy, which the public competition at the Athenian festivals -called into being, as the rival poets always contended for a prize, very -little indeed has come down to us. We only possess works of three of -their numerous tragedians, Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides; and these -in no proportion to the number of their compositions. The three authors -in question were selected by the Alexandrian critics as the foundation -for the study of ancient Greek literature, not because they alone were -deserving of estimation, but because they afforded the best illustration -of the various styles of tragedy. Of each of the two oldest poets, we -have seven remaining pieces; in these, however, we have, according to -the testimony of the ancients, several of their most distinguished -productions. Of Euripides, we have a much greater number, and we might -well exchange many of them for other works which are now lost; for -example, the Satirical Dramas of Actæus, Æschylus and Sophocles; several -pieces of Phrynichus, for the sake of comparison with Æschylus; or of -Agathon, whom Plato describes as effeminate, but sweet and affecting, -and who was a contemporary of Euripides, though somewhat younger. - -‘The tragic style of Æschylus is grand, severe, and not unfrequently -hard. In the style of Sophocles, we observe the most complete proportion -and harmonious sweetness. The style of Euripides is soft and luxuriant: -Extravagant in his easy fulness, he sacrifices the general effect to -brilliant passages. - -‘Æschylus is to be considered as the creator of Tragedy, which sprung -from him completely armed, like Pallas from the head of Jupiter. He -clothed it in a state of suitable dignity, and gave it an appropriate -place of exhibition. He was the inventor of scenic pomp; and not only -instructed the chorus in singing and dancing, but appeared himself in -the character of a player. He was the first who gave development to the -dialogue, and limits to the lyrical part of the tragedy, which still -however occupies too much space in his pieces. He draws his characters -with a few bold and strongly marked features. The plans are simple in -the extreme. He did not understand the art of enriching and varying an -action, and dividing its development and catastrophe into parts, bearing -a due proportion to each other. Hence his action often stands still; and -this circumstance becomes still more apparent, from the undue extension -of his choral songs. But all his poetry betrays a sublime and serious -mind. Terror is his element, and not the softer affections: he holds up -the head of Medusa to his astonished spectators. His manner of treating -Fate is austere in the extreme; he suspends it over the heads of mortals -in all its gloomy majesty. The Cothurnus of Æschylus has, as it were, an -iron weight; gigantic figures alone stalk before our eyes. It seems as -if it required an effort in him to condescend to paint mere men to us: -he abounds most in the representation of gods, and seems to dwell with -particular delight in exhibiting the Titans, those ancient gods who -typify the dark powers of primitive nature, and who had long been driven -into Tartarus, beneath a better regulated world. He endeavours to swell -out his language to a gigantic sublimity, corresponding with the -standard of his characters. Hence he abounds in harsh combinations and -overstrained epithets; and the lyrical parts of his pieces are often -obscure in the extreme, from the involved nature of the construction. He -resembles Dante and Shakespeare in the very singular cast of his images -and expressions. These images are nowise deficient in the terrible -graces, which almost all the writers of antiquity celebrate in Æschylus. -He flourished in the very first vigour of the Grecian freedom; was an -eyewitness of the overthrow and annihilation of the Persian hosts under -Darius and Xerxes; and, in one of his pieces—the Persians—describes in -the most vivid and glowing colours the battle of Salamis.’ p. 94. - -Such is the general account of Æschylus given by our author. He then -proceeds to give a distinct sketch of each of his tragedies. This, we -will acknowledge, appears to us considerably too rapturous and too -long;—but we must give our readers a specimen of what is perhaps the -most elaborate, if not the most impressive part of the whole -publication. We shall select his account of the Eumenides or Furies, the -most terrible of all this poet’s compositions. - -‘The fable of the Eumenides is the justification and absolution of -Orestes from his bloody crime, the murder of Clytemnestra his mother. It -is a trial, but a trial where the gods are accusers and defenders and -judges; and the manner in which the subject is treated, corresponds with -its majesty and importance. The scene itself brought before the eyes of -the Greeks the highest objects of veneration which were known to them. -It opens before the celebrated temple at Delphi, which occupies the -back-ground. The aged Pythia enters in sacerdotal pomp, addresses her -prayers to the gods who preside over the oracle, harangues the assembled -people, and goes into the temple to seat herself on the tripod. She -returns full of consternation, and describes what she has seen in the -temple; a man stained with blood, supplicating protection, surrounded by -sleeping women with serpent hair. She then makes her exit by the same -entrance. Apollo now appears with Orestes in his traveller’s garb, and a -sword and olive branch in his hands. He promises him his farther -protection, commands him to fly to Athens, and recommends him to the -care of the present but invisible Mercury, to whom travellers, and -especially those who were under the necessity of concealing their -journey, were usually consigned. Orestes goes off at the side allotted -to strangers; Apollo re-enters the temple, which remains open, and the -Furies are seen in the interior sleeping on their seats. Clytemnestra -now ascends through the orchestra, and appears on the stage. We are not -to suppose her a haggard skeleton, but a figure with the appearance of -life, though paler, still bearing her wounds in her breast, and shrouded -in ethereal-coloured vestments. She calls repeatedly to the Furies in -the language of vehement reproach; and then disappears. The Furies -awake; and when they no longer find Orestes, they dance in wild -commotion round the stage during the choral song. Apollo returns from -the temple, and expels them from his sanctuary as profanatory beings. -_We may here suppose him appearing with the sublime displeasure of the -Apollo of the Vatican, with bow and quiver, or clothed in his sacred -tunic and chlamys._ The scene now changes; but the back-ground probably -remained unchanged, and had now to represent the temple of Minerva on -the hill of Mars; and the lateral decorations would be converted into -Athens and the surrounding landscape. Orestes comes as from another -land, and embraces as a suppliant the statue of Pallas placed before the -temple. The chorus (who were clothed in black, with purple girdles, and -serpents in their hair), follow him on foot to this place, but remain -throughout the rest of the piece beneath in the orchestra. The Furies -had at first exhibited the rage of beasts of prey at the escape of their -victim; but they now sing with tranquil dignity their high and terrible -office among mortals, claim the head of Orestes as forfeited to them, -and consecrate it with mysterious charms of endless pain. Pallas, the -warlike virgin, appears in a chariot and four at the intercession of the -suppliant. She listens with calm dignity to the mutual complaints of -Orestes and his adversaries, and finally undertakes the office of umpire -at the solicitation of the two parties. The assembled judges take their -seats on the steps of the temple; the herald commands silence among the -people by sound of trumpet, as at an actual tribunal. Apollo advances to -advocate the cause of the youth; the Furies in vain oppose his -interference; and the arguments for and against the deed are gone -through in short speeches. The judges throw their calculi into the urn; -Pallas throws in a white one; all are wrought up to the highest pitch of -expectation; Orestes calls out, full of anguish, to his protector: “_O -Phœbus Apollo, how is the cause decided?_”—The Furies on the other hand, -exclaim—“_O Black Night, mother of all things, dost thou behold this?_” -In the enumeration of the black and white pebbles, they are found equal -in number, and the accused is therefore declared by Pallas acquitted of -the charge. He breaks out into joyful expressions of thanks, while the -Furies declaim against the arrogance of the younger gods, who take such -liberties with the race of Titan. Pallas bears their rage with -equanimity; addresses them in the language of kindness, and even of -veneration; and these beings, so untractable in their general -disposition, are unable to withstand the power of her mild and -convincing eloquence. They promise to bless the land over which she has -dominion; while Pallas assigns them a sanctuary in the Attic territory, -where they are to be called the Eumenides, that is, the Benevolent. The -whole ends with a solemn procession round the theatre, with songs of -invocation; while bands of children, women, and old men, in purple robes -and with torches in their hands, accompany the Furies in their exit.’ p. -104. - -The situation of Orestes at the opening of this tragedy, with the Furies -lying asleep on the floor, like aged women, with serpent hair, is -perhaps the most terrible that can be conceived. But yet, in this -situation, dreadful as it is—the sense of power; the representation of -preternatural forms; the sacredness of the place; the momentary suspense -of the action; the death like stillness; the expectation of what is to -come, subdue the spirit to a tone of awful tranquillity, and, from the -depth of despair, produce a lofty grandeur and collectedness of mind. - -If this extraordinary play be the most terrible of Æschylus’s works, the -Chained Prometheus is the grandest. It is less a tragedy than an ode. It -does not describe a series of actions, but a succession of visions. -Prometheus, chained to a rock on the verge of the world, holds parley -with the original powers and oldest forms of Nature, with Strength and -Violence, and Oceanus and the race of the Titans. Compared with the -personages introduced in this poem, Jupiter and Mercury, and the rest of -that class, appear mere modern deities; we are thrown back into the -first rude chaos of Nature, where the universe itself seems to rock like -the sea, and the empire of heaven was not yet fixed. - -‘Prometheus,’ says our author, ‘is an image of human nature itself; -endowed with a miserable foresight, and bound down to a narrow -existence, without an ally, and with nothing to oppose to the combined -and inexorable powers of Nature, but an unshaken will, and the -consciousness of elevated claims. The other poems of the Greek -tragedians are single tragedies; but this may be called tragedy itself; -its purest spirit is revealed with all the overpowering influence of its -first unmitigated austerity.’ - -We agree with M. Schlegel, when he says, that ‘there is little external -action in this piece: Prometheus merely suffers and resolves from the -beginning to the end.’ But we cannot assent to his assertion, that ‘the -poet has contrived, in a masterly manner, to introduce variety into that -which was in itself determinate.’ All that is fine in it, is the -abstract conception of the characters: The story is as uninteresting, as -it is inartificial and improbable. - -The Seven before Thebes has also a very imperfect dramatic form. It is -for the most part only a narrative or descriptive dialogue passing -between two persons, the King and the Messenger. ‘The description of the -attack with which the city is threatened,’ says our critic, ‘and of the -seven leaders who have sworn its destruction, and who display their -arrogance in the symbols borne on their shields, is an epic subject, -clothed in the pomp of tragedy.’ The Agamemnon and Electra are the two -tragedies of Æschylus, which approach the nearest to the perfection of -the dramatic form, and which will bear an immediate comparison with -those of Sophocles on the same subjects. M. Schlegel has drawn a -detailed and very admirable parallel between the two poets. Sophocles, -he observes, is the more elegant painter of outward forms and manners; -but Æschylus catches most of the enthusiasm of the passion he describes, -and communicates to the reader the lofty impulses of his own mind. In -giving a poetical colouring to objects from the suggestions of his own -genius—in describing not so much things themselves, as the impression -which they make on the imagination in a state of strong excitement, he -more nearly resembles some of the modern poets, than any of his -countrymen. The magnificent opening of the Agamemnon, in which the -watchman describes the appearance of the fires for which he had watched -ten long years, as the signal of the destruction of Troy, might be cited -as an instance of that rich and varied style, which gives something over -the bare description of the subject, and luxuriates in the display of -its own powers. The Ajax of Sophocles comes the nearest to the general -style of Æschylus, both in the nakedness of the subject, and the -poetical interest given to the character. - -The account of Sophocles, which is next in order, is one of the most -finished and interesting parts of this work: though it is disfigured by -one extraordinary piece of rhodomontade, too characteristic to be -omitted. After observing that Sophocles lived to be upwards of ninety -years of age, our philosophical German breaks out into the following -mystic strain. - -‘It would seem as if the Gods, in return for his dedicating himself at -an early age to Bacchus as the giver of all joy, and the author of the -cultivation of the human race, by the representation of tragical dramas -for his festivals, had wished to confer immortality on him, so long did -they delay the hour of his death; but, as this was impossible, they -extinguished his life at least as gently as possible, that he might -imperceptibly change one immortality for another—the long duration of -his earthly existence for an imperishable name.’ p. 117. - -We cannot afford to enter into the detailed critique which M. Schlegel -has here offered upon the several plays of this celebrated author. The -following passage exhibits a more summary view of them. After mentioning -the native sweetness for which he was so celebrated among his -contemporaries, he observes— - -‘Whoever is thoroughly imbued with the feeling of this property, may -flatter himself that a sense for ancient art has arisen within him: for -the lovers of the affected sentimentality of the present day would, both -in the representation of bodily sufferings, and in the language and -economy of the tragedies of Sophocles, find much of an insupportable -austerity. When we consider the great fertility of Sophocles, for, -according to some, he wrote a hundred and thirty pieces, and eighty -according to the most moderate account, we cannot help wondering that -seven only should have come down to us. Chance, however, has so far -favoured us, that, in these seven pieces, we find several which were -held by the ancients as his greatest works, Antigone, for example, -Electra, and the two Œdipuses; and these have also come down to us -tolerably free from mutilation and corruption in the text. The first -Œdipus and Philoctetes have been generally, without any good reason, -preferred to all the others by the modern critics: the first, on account -of the artifice of the plot, in which the dreadful catastrophe, -powerfully calculated to excite our curiosity (a rare case in the Greek -tragedies), is brought about inevitably, by a succession of causes, all -dependent on one another: the latter, on account of the masterly display -of character, the beautiful contrast observable in the three leading -individuals, and the simple structure of the piece, in which, with so -few persons, every thing proceeds from the truest motives. But the whole -of the tragedies of Sophocles are conspicuous for their separate -excellences. In Antigone we have the purest display of female heroism; -in Ajax the manly feeling of honour in its whole force; in the -Trachiniæ, the female levity of Dejanira is beautifully atoned for by -her death; and the sufferings of Hercules are pourtrayed with suitable -dignity. Electra is distinguished for energy and pathos; in Œdipus -Coloneus there prevails the mildest emotion, and over the whole piece -there is diffused the utmost sweetness. I will not undertake to weigh -the respective merits of these pieces against each other; but I am free -to confess that I entertain a singular predilection for the last of -them, as it appears to me the most expressive of the personal feelings -of the poet himself. As this piece was written for the very purpose of -throwing a lustre upon Athens, and the spot of his birth more -particularly, he appears to have laboured it with a remarkable degree of -fondness.’ p. 123. - -In describing the Œdipus Coloneus, M. Schlegel has strikingly, and, we -think, beautifully, exemplified the distinct genius of Sophocles and -Æschylus, in the use these two poets make of the Furies. - -‘In Æschylus,’ he says, ‘before the victim of persecution can be saved, -the hellish horror of the Furies must congeal the blood of the -spectator, and make his hair stand on end; and the whole rancour of -these goddesses of rage must be exhausted. The transition to their -peaceful retreat is therefore the more astonishing: It seems as if the -whole human race were redeemed from their power. In Sophocles, however, -they do not even once make their appearance, but are altogether kept in -the back-ground; and they are not called by their proper name, but made -known to us by descriptions, in which they are a good deal spared. But -even this obscurity and distance, so suitable to these daughters of -Night, is calculated to excite in us a still dread, in which the bodily -senses have no part. The clothing the grove of the Furies with all the -charms of a southern spring, completes the sweetness of the poem: and -were I to select an emblem of the poetry of Sophocles from his -tragedies, I should describe it as a sacred grove of the dark goddesses -of Fate, in which the laurel, the olive, and the vine, display their -luxuriant vegetation, and the song of the nightingale is for ever -heard.’ p. 128. - -After all, however, the tragedies of Sophocles, which are the perfection -of the classical style, are hardly tragedies in our sense of the word. -They do not exhibit the extremity of human passion and suffering. The -object of modern tragedy is to represent the soul utterly subdued as it -were, or at least convulsed and overthrown by passion or misfortune. -That of the ancients was to show how the greatest crimes could be -perpetrated with the least remorse, and the greatest calamities borne -with the least emotion. Firmness of purpose, and calmness of sentiment, -are their leading characteristics. Their heroes and heroines act and -suffer as if they were always in the presence of a higher power, or as -if human life itself were a religious ceremony, performed in honour of -the Gods and of the State. The mind is not shaken to its centre; the -whole being is not crushed or broken down. Contradictory motives are not -accumulated; the utmost force of imagination and passion is not -exhausted to overcome the repugnance of the will to crime; the contrast -and combination of outward accidents are not called in to overwhelm the -mind with the whole weight of unexpected calamity. The dire conflict of -the feelings, the desperate struggle with fortune, are seldom there. All -is conducted with a fatal composure. All is prepared and submitted to -with inflexible constancy, as if Nature were only an instrument in the -hands of Fate. - -It is for deviating from this ideal standard, and for a nearer -approximation to the frailty of human passion, that our author falls -foul of Euripides without mercy. There is a great deal of affectation -and mysticism in what he says on this subject. Allowing that the -excellences of Euripides are not the same as those of Æschylus and -Sophocles, or even that they are excellences of an inferior order, yet -it does not follow that they are defects. The luxuriance and effeminacy -with which he reproaches the style of Euripides might have been defects -in those writers; but they are essential parts of his system. In fact, -as Æschylus differs from Sophocles in giving greater scope to the -impulses of the imagination, so Euripides differs from him in giving -greater indulgence to the feelings of the heart. The heart is the seat -of pure affection,—of involuntary emotion,—of feelings brooding over and -nourished by themselves. In the dramas of Sophocles, there is no want of -these feelings; but they are suppressed or suspended by the constant -operation of the senses and the will. Beneath the rigid muscles by which -the heart is there braced, there is no room left for those bursts of -uncontrollable feeling, which dissolve it in tenderness, or plunge it -into the deepest woe. In the heroic tragedy, no one dies of a broken -heart,—scarcely a sigh is heaved, or a tear shed. Euripides has relaxed -considerably from this extreme self-possession; and it is on that -account that our critic cannot forgive him. The death of Alcestis alone -might have disarmed his severity. - -This play, which is the most beautiful of them all,—the Iphigenia, which -is the next to it,—the Phædra and Medea, which are more objectionable, -both from the nature of the subject, and the inferiority of the -execution, are instances of the occasional use which Euripides made of -the conflict of different passions. Though Antigone, in Sophocles, is in -love with Hæmon, and though there was here an evident opportunity, and -almost a necessity, for introducing a struggle between this passion, -which was an additional motive to attach her to life, and her affection -to the memory of her brother, which led her to sacrifice it, the poet -has carefully avoided taking any advantage of the circumstance. Such is -the spirit of the heroic tragedy, which suffers no other motives to -interfere with the calm determination of the will, and which admits of -nothing complicated in the development, either of the passions or the -story! M. Schlegel decidedly prefers the Hippolytus of Euripides to the -Phædra of Racine. His reasons he gives in another work, which we have -not seen; but we are not at a loss to guess at them. His taste for -poetry is just the reverse of the popular: He has a horror of whatever -obtrudes itself violently on the notice, or tells at first sight; and is -only disposed to admire those retired and recondite beauties which hide -themselves from all but the eye of deep discernment. He relishes most -those qualities in an author which require the greatest sagacity in the -critic to find them out,—as none but connoisseurs are fond of the taste -of olives. We shall say nothing here of the choice of the subject; but -such as it is, Racine has met it more fully and directly: Euripides -exhibits it, for the most part, in the back-ground. The Hippolytus is a -dramatic fragment in which the principal events are given in a narrative -form. The additions which Racine has chiefly borrowed from Seneca to -fill up the outline, are, we think, unquestionable improvements. The -declaration of love, to which our author particularly objects, is, -however, much more gross and unqualified in Racine than in Seneca. The -modern additions to the Iphigenia in Aulis, by Racine, as the love -between Achilles and Iphigenia, and the jealousy of Eriphile, certainly -destroy the propriety of costume, as M. Schlegel has observed, without -heightening the tragic interest. In other respects, the French play is -little more than an elegant, flowing, and somewhat diffuse paraphrase of -the Greek. The most striking example of pathos in it is the ‘_Tu y -seras, ma fille_,’ addressed by Agamemnon to his daughter, in answer to -her wish to be present at the sacrifice, of which she is herself the -destined victim. - -Euripides was the model of Racine among the French, as he was of Seneca -among the Romans. The remarks which Schlegel makes on this -last-mentioned author are exceedingly harsh, dogmatical, and intolerant. -They are as bad, and worse, than the sentence pronounced by Cowley on - - ——‘The dry chips of short-lung’d Seneca.’ - -Hear what he says of him. - -‘But whatever period may have given birth to the tragedies of Seneca, -they are beyond description bombastical and frigid, unnatural in -character and action—revolting, from their violation of every -propriety—and so destitute of every thing like theatrical effect—that I -am inclined to believe they were never destined to leave the rhetorical -schools for the stage. Every tragical common-place is spun out to the -very last; all is phrase; and even the most common remark is delivered -in stilted language. The most complete poverty of sentiment is dressed -out with wit and acuteness. There is even a display of fancy in them, -_or at least a phantom of it_; for they contain an example of the -misapplication of every mental faculty. The author or authors have found -out the secret of being diffuse, even to wearisomeness; and at the same -time so epigrammatically laconic, as to be often obscure and -unintelligible. Their characters are neither ideal nor actual beings, -but gigantic puppets, who are at one time put in motion by the string of -an unnatural heroism, and, at another, by that of passions equally -unnatural, which no guilt nor enormity can appal.’—‘Yet not merely -learned men, without a feeling for art, have judged favourably of them, -nay preferred them to the Greek tragedies, but even poets have accounted -them deserving of their study and imitation. The influence of Seneca on -Corneille’s idea of tragedy cannot be mistaken: Racine, too, in his -Phædra, has condescended to borrow a good deal from him; and, among -other things, nearly the whole of the declaration of love, of all which -we have an enumeration in Brumoy.’ - -The distaste of our learned critic to Euripides is sanctioned, no doubt, -by the ridicule of Aristophanes, from whom he gives a whole scene, in -which a buffoon comes to the tragic poet, to beg his rags, his -alms-basket, and his water-pitcher, in allusion to the homeliness of -costume, and the outward signs of distress which are sometimes exhibited -in his tragedies. Aristophanes, of course, is an immense favourite with -Schlegel—though it requires all his ingenuity to gloss over and -allegorize his extravagance and indecency. - -‘The plays of Peace, the Acharnæ and Lysistrata, will be found to -recommend peace. In the Clouds, he laughs at the metaphysics of the -sophists; in the Wasps, at the rage of the Athenians for hearing and -determining lawsuits. The subject of the Frogs is the decline of the -tragic art; and Plutus is an allegory on the unjust distribution of -wealth. The Birds are, of all his pieces, the one _of which the aim is -the least apparent; and it is on that very account one of the most -diverting_.’ p. 213. - -The comedies of Aristophanes, we confess, put the archaism of our taste, -and the soundness of our classic faith to a most severe test. The great -difficulty is not so much to understand their meaning, as to comprehend -their species—to know to what possible class to assign them—of what -nondescript productions of nature or art they are to be considered as -anomalies. According to Schlegel, who might be styled the Œdipus of -criticism, they are the perfection of _the old comedy_. There is much -virtue, we are aware, in that appellation: But to us, we confess, they -appear to be neither comedies, nor farces, nor satires—but monstrous -allegorical pantomimes—enormous practical jokes—far-fetched puns, -represented by ponderous machinery, which staggers the imagination at -its first appearance, and breaks down before it has answered its -purpose. They show, in a more striking point of view than any thing -else, the extreme subtlety of understanding of the ancients, and their -appetite for the gross, the material, and the sensible. Compared with -Aristophanes, Rabelais himself is plain and literal. For example— - -‘Peace begins in the most spirited and lively manner. The -tranquilly-disposed Trygæus rides on a dunghill beetle to heaven, in the -manner of Bellerophon: War, a desolating giant, with Tumult his -companion, in place of all the other gods, inhabits Olympus, and pounds -the cities in a great mortar, making use of the celebrated generals as -pestles; Peace lies bound in a deep well, and is dragged up by a rope, -through the united efforts of all the Greek states,’ &c. - -Again— - -‘It is said of a man addicted to unintelligible reveries, that he is up -in the clouds:—accordingly Socrates, in the play of the _Clouds_, is -actually let down in a basket at his first appearance.’ - -The comic machinery in Aristophanes, is, for the most part, a parody on -the Greek mythology, and his wit a travestie on Euripides. Whatever we -may think of his talent in this way, the art itself of making sense into -nonsense, and of letting down the sublime into the ludicrous, in general -is rather a cheap one, and implies much more a want of feeling than an -excess of wit. - -The account which is given of the _old_, the _middle_, and the _new -comedy_, is very learned and dogmatical. The different styles and -authors rise in value with the critic, in proportion as he knows nothing -of them. He likes that, which some old commentator has praised, better -than what he has read himself; and that still better, which neither he -himself, nor any one else, has read. Diphilus, Philemon, Apollodorus, -Menander, Sophron, and the Sicilian Epicharmus, whose works are lost, -are prodigiously great men; and the author, ‘tries conclusions infinite’ -respecting their different possible merits. On the contrary, Terence is -only half a Menander, and Plautus a coarse buffoon. In spite, however, -of this fastidiousness, he cannot deny the elegant humanity of the one, -nor the strong native humour of the other. The style of these writers, -particularly that of Terence, is admirable for a certain conversational -ease, and correct simplicity, exactly in the mid-way between -carelessness and affectation. But M. Schlegel has a mode of doing away -this merit, by observing, that - -‘Plautus and Terence were among the most ancient Roman writers, and -belonged to a time when the language of books was hardly yet in -existence, and when every thing was drawn fresh from life. This _naïve_ -simplicity had its charms in the eyes of those Romans, who belonged to -the period of learned cultivation; but it was much more a natural gift, -than the fruit of poetical art.’ - -We shall conclude this part of the subject, with his observations on the -nature and range of the characters introduced into the ancient Comedy. - -‘Athens, where the fictitious, as well as the actual scenes, were -generally placed, was the centre of a small territory; and in nowise to -be compared with our great cities, either in extent or population. The -republican equality admitted no marked distinction of ranks: There were -no proper nobility; all were alike citizens, richer or poorer; and, for -the most part, had no other occupation, than that of managing their -properties. Hence the Attic comedy could not well admit of the contrasts -arising from diversity of tone and conversation; it generally continues -in a sort of middle state, and has something citizen-like; nay, if I may -so say, something of the manners of a small town about it, which we do -not see in those comedies, in which the manners of a court, and the -refinement or corruption of monarchial capitals, are pourtrayed. - -‘From what has been premised, we may at once see nearly the whole circle -of characters; nay, those which perpetually occur, are so few, that they -may almost all of them be here enumerated. The austere and frugal, or -the mild and yielding father, the latter not unfrequently under the -dominion of his wife, and making common cause with his son; the -housewife, either loving and sensible, or obstinate and domineering, and -proud of the accession brought by her to the family-property; the giddy -and extravagant, but open and amiable, young man, who, even in a -passion, sensual at its very commencement, is capable of true -attachment; the vivacious girl, who is either thoroughly depraved, vain, -cunning and selfish—or well-disposed, and susceptible of higher -emotions; the simple and boorish, or the cunning slave, who assists his -young master to deceive his old father, and obtain money for the -gratification of his passions by all manner of tricks; the flatterer, or -accommodating parasite, who, for the sake of a good meal, is ready to -say or do any thing that may be required of him; the sycophant, a man -whose business it was to set quietly-disposed people by the ears, and -stir up lawsuits, for which he offered his services; the braggart -soldier, who returns from foreign service, generally cowardly and -simple, but who assumes airs from the fame of the deeds performed by him -abroad; and, lastly, a servant, or pretended mother, who preaches up a -bad system of morals to the young girl entrusted to her guidance; and -the slave-dealer, who speculates on the extravagant passions of young -people, and knows no other object than the furtherance of his own -selfish views. The two last characters are to our feelings a blemish in -the new Grecian comedy; but it was impossible, from the manner in which -it was constituted, to dispense with them.’ p. 263. - -We must now pass on to modern literature.—Of the Italian drama, which is -the least prolific part of their literature, we shall shortly have to -speak with reference to another work; and shall at present proceed to -our author’s account of the French Theatre, which forms a class by -itself, and which is here most ably analyzed. - -‘With respect to the earlier tragical attempts of the French in the last -half of the sixteenth, and the first part of the seventeenth century, we -refer to Fontenelle, La Harpe, the _Melanges Litteraires_ of Suard and -Andre. Our chief object is an examination of the system of tragic art, -practically followed by their later poets; and by them partly, but by -the French critics universally, considered as alone entitled to any -authority, and every deviation from it viewed as a sin against good -taste. If the system is in itself the best, we shall be compelled to -allow that its execution is masterly, perhaps not to be surpassed. But -the great question here is, how far the French tragedy is, in spirit and -inward essence, related to the Greek, and whether it deserves to be -considered as an improvement upon it. - -‘Of their first attempts, it is only necessary to observe, that the -endeavour to imitate the ancients displayed itself at a very early -period in France; and that they conceived that the surest method of -succeeding in this endeavour, was to observe the strictest outward -regularity of form, of which they derived their ideas more from -Aristotle, and especially from Seneca, than from an intimate -acquaintance with the Greek models themselves. In the first tragedies -which were represented, the Cleopatra and Dido of Jodelle, a prologue -and chorus were introduced; Jean de la Peruse translated the Medea of -Seneca; Garnier’s pieces are all taken from the Greek tragedies, or from -Seneca; but, in the execution, they bear a much closer examination to -the latter. The writers of that day employed themselves also diligently -on the Sophonisba of Trissino, from a regard for its classic appearance. -Whoever is acquainted with the mode of proceeding of real genius, which -is impelled by the almost unconscious and immediate contemplation of -great and important truths, will be extremely suspicious of all activity -in art, which originates in an abstract theory. But Corneille did not, -like an antiquary, execute his dramas as so many learned school -exercises, on the model of the ancients. Seneca, it is true, led him -astray; but he knew and loved the Spanish theatre; and it had a great -influence on his mind. The first of his pieces with which it is -generally allowed that the classical epoch of French tragedy begins, and -which is certainly one of his best, the _Cid_, is well known to have -been borrowed from the Spanish. It violates, considerably, the unity of -place, if not also that of time, and it is animated throughout by the -spirit of chivalrous love and honour. But the opinion of his -contemporaries, that a tragedy must be framed accurately according to -the rules of Aristotle, was so universally prevalent, that it bore down -all opposition. Corneille, almost at the close of his dramatic career, -began to entertain scruples of conscience; and endeavoured, in a -separate treatise, to prove, that his pieces, in the composition of -which he had never even thought of Aristotle, were, however, all -accurately written according to his rules. - -‘It is quite otherwise with Racine: of all the French poets he was, -without doubt, the best acquainted with the ancients, and he did not -merely study them as a scholar; he felt them as a poet. He found, -however, the practice of the theatre already firmly established, and he -did not undertake to deviate from it for the sake of approaching these -models. He only therefore appropriated the separate beauties of the -Greek poets; but, whether from respect for the taste of his age, or from -inclination, he remained faithful to the prevailing gallantry, so -foreign to the Greek tragedy, and for the most part made it the -foundation of the intrigues of his pieces. - -‘Such was nearly the state of the French theatre till Voltaire made his -appearance. He possessed but a moderate knowledge of the Greeks, of -whom, however, he now and then spoke with enthusiasm, that on other -occasions he might rank them below the more modern masters of his own -nation, including himself; but yet he always considered himself bound to -preach up the grand severity and simplicity of the Greeks as essential -to tragedy. He censured the deviations of his predecessors as errors, -and insisted on purifying and at the same time enlarging the stage, as, -in his opinion, from the constraint of court manners, it had been almost -straitened to the dimensions of an antichamber. He at first spoke of the -bursts of genius in Shakespear, and borrowed many things from this poet, -at that time altogether unknown to his countrymen; he insisted too on -greater depth in the delineation of passion, on a more powerful -theatrical effect; he demanded a scene ornamented in a more majestic -manner; and lastly, he not unfrequently endeavoured to give to his -pieces a political or philosophical interest altogether foreign to -poetry. His labours have unquestionably been of utility to the French -stage, although it is now the fashion to attack this idol of the last -age, on every point, with the most unrelenting hostility’ p. 323. - -M. Schlegel very ably exposes the incongruities which have arisen from -engrafting modern style and sentiments on mythological and classical -subjects in the French writers. - -‘In Phædra,’ he says, ‘this princess is to be declared regent for her -son till he comes of age, after the supposed death of Theseus. How could -this be compatible with the relations of the Grecian women of that -day?—It brings us down to the times of a Cleopatra.—When the way of -thinking of two nations is so totally opposite, why will they torment -themselves with attempts to fashion a subject, formed on the manners of -the one to suit the manners of the other?—How unlike the Achilles in -Racine’s Iphigenia to the Achilles of Homer! The gallantry ascribed to -him is not merely a sin against Homer, but it renders the whole story -improbable. Are human sacrifices conceivable among a people, whose -chiefs and heroes are so susceptible of the most tender feelings?’ - -‘Corneille was in the best way in the world when he brought his Cid on -the stage; a story of the middle ages, which belonged to a kindred -people; a story characterized by chivalrous love and honour, and in -which the principal characters are not even of princely rank. Had this -example been followed, a number of prejudices respecting tragical -ceremony would of themselves have disappeared; tragedy, from its greater -truth, from deriving its motives from a way of thinking still current -and intelligible, would have been less foreign to the heart; the quality -of the objects would of themselves have turned them from the stiff -observation of the rules of the ancients, which they did not understand; -in one word, the French tragedy would have become national and truly -romantic. But I know not what unfortunate star had the ascendant. -Notwithstanding the extraordinary success of his Cid, Corneille did not -go one step farther; and the attempt which he made had no imitators. In -the time of Louis XIV. it was considered as beyond dispute, that the -French, and in general the modern European history was not adapted for -tragedy. They had recourse therefore to the ancient universal history. -Besides the Greeks and Romans, they frequently hunted about among the -Assyrians, Babylonians, Persians, and Egyptians, for events, which, -however obscure they might often be, they could dress out for the tragic -stage. Racine made, according to his own confession, a hazardous attempt -with the Turks: It was successful; and since that time, the necessary -tragical dignity has been allowed to this barbarous people. But it was -merely the modern, and more particularly the French names, which could -not be tolerated as untragical and unpoetical; for the heroes of -antiquity are, with them, Frenchmen in every thing but the name; and -antiquity was merely used as a thin veil under which the modern French -character could be distinctly recognized. Racine’s Alexander is -certainly not the Alexander of history: but if, under this name, we -imagine to ourselves the great Condé, the whole will appear tolerably -natural.—And who does not suppose Louis XIV. and the Dutchess de la -Valiere represented under Titus and Berenice? Voltaire expresses himself -somewhat strongly, when he says, that, in the tragedies which succeeded -those of Racine, we imagine we are reading the romances of Mademoiselle -Scuderi, which paint citizens of Paris under the names of heroes of -antiquity. He alluded here more particularly to Crebillon. However much -Corneille and Racine were tainted with the way of thinking of their own -nation, they were still at times penetrated with the spirit of true -_objective_ exhibition. Corneille gives us a masterly picture of the -Spaniards in the Cid; and this is conceivable—for he drew his materials -from them. With the exception of the original sin of gallantry, he -succeeded also pretty well with the Romans: Of one part of their -character at least, he had a tolerable conception, their predominating -patriotism, and unyielding pride of liberty, and the magnanimity of -their political sentiments. All this, it is true, is nearly the same as -we find it in Lucan, varnished over with a certain inflation and -self-conscious pomp. The simple republican austerity, the humility of -religion, he could not attain. Racine (in Britannicus) has admirably -painted the corrupt manners of the Romans under the Emperors, and the -timid and dastardly manner in which the tyranny of Nero first began to -display itself. He had Tacitus indeed for a model, as he himself -gratefully acknowledges; but still it is a great merit to translate -history in such an able manner into poetry. He has also shown a just -conception of the general spirit of Hebrew history. He was less -successful with the Turks: Bajazet makes love wholly in the European -manner: The blood-thirsty policy of Eastern despotism is very well -pourtrayed in the Vizier; but the whole resembles Turkey turned upside -down, where the women, instead of being slaves, have contrived to get -possession of the government; and the result is so very revolting, that -we might be inclined to infer, from it, the Turks are really not so much -to blame in keeping their women under lock and key. Neither has -Voltaire, in my opinion, succeeded much better in his Mahomet and Zaire: -the glowing colours of an Oriental fancy are no where to be found. -Voltaire has, however, this great merit, that he insisted on treating -subjects with more historical truth; and further, that he again elevated -to the dignity of the tragical stage the chivalrous and Christian -characters of modern Europe, which, since the time of the Cid, had been -altogether excluded from it. His Lusignan and Nerestan are among his -most true, affecting, and noble creations; his Tancred, although the -invention as a whole is defective in strength, will always gain upon -every heart, like his namesake in Tasso.’ p. 369. - -Our author prefers Racine to Corneille, and even seems to think Voltaire -more natural: but he has exhausted all that can be said of French -tragedy in his account of Corneille; and all that he adds upon Racine -and Voltaire, is only a modification of the same general principles. He -has been able to give no general character of either, as distinct from -the original founder of the French dramatic school; Corneille had more -pomp, Racine more tenderness; Voltaire aimed at a stronger effect: But -the essential qualities are the same in all of them; the style is always -French, as much as the language in which they write. - -‘It has been often remarked, that, in French tragedy, the poet is always -too easily seen through the discourses of the different personages; that -he communicates to them his own presence of mind; his cool reflection on -their situation; and his desire to shine upon all occasions. When we -accurately examine the most of their tragical speeches, we shall find -that they are seldom such as would be delivered by persons, speaking or -acting by themselves without any restraint; we shall generally discover -in them something which betrays a reference, more or less perceptible, -to the spectator. Rhetoric, and rhetoric in a court dress, prevails but -too much in many French tragedies, especially in those of Corneille, -instead of the suggestions of a noble, but simple and artless nature: -Racine and Voltaire have approximated much nearer to the true conception -of a mind carried away by its sufferings. Whenever the tragic hero is -able to express his pain in antitheses and ingenious allusions, we may -safely dispense with our pity. This sort of conventional dignity is, as -it were, a coat of mail, to prevent the blow from reaching the inward -parts. On account of their retaining this festal pomp, in situations -where the most complete self-forgetfulness would be natural, Schiller -has wittily enough compared the heroes in French tragedy to the kings in -old copperplates, who are seen lying in bed with their mantle, crown, -and sceptre.’ p. 373, &c. - -Racine is deservedly the favourite of the French nation; for, besides -the perfection of his style, and a complete mastery over his art, -according to the rules prescribed by the national taste, there is a -certain tenderness of sentiment, a movement of the heart, under all the -artificial pomp by which it is disguised, which cannot fail to interest -the reader. His _Athalie_ is perhaps the most perfect of all his pieces. -Some of the lyrical descriptions are equally delightful, from the beauty -of the rhythm and the imagery. We might mention the chorus in which the -infant Joaz is compared to a young lily on the side of a stream. Poetry -is the union of imagery with sentiment; and yet nothing can be more rare -than this union in French tragedy. Another passage in Racine, which -might be quoted as an exception to their general style, is the speech of -Phædra describing her descent into the other world, which is, however, a -good deal made up from Seneca; and indeed it is the fault of this -author, that he leans too constantly for support on others, and is -rather the accomplished imitator than the original inventor. There is -but one thing wanting to his plays—that they should have been his own. -He can no more be considered as the author of the Iphigenia, for -instance, than La Fontaine can be considered as the inventor of Æsop’s -fables. Voltaire is more original in the choice of his subjects. But the -means by which he seeks to give an interest to them, are of the most -harsh and violent kind; and, even in the variety of his materials, he -shows the monotony of his invention. Four of his principal tragedies -turn entirely on the question of religious apostasy, or on the conflict -between the attachment of supposed orphans to their newly discovered -parents, and their obligations to their old benefactors. As a relief, -however, the scene of these four tragedies is laid in the four opposite -quarters of the globe. - -M. Schlegel speaks highly of Racine’s comedy, ‘_Les Plaideurs_‘; and -thinks that if he had cultivated his talents for comedy, he would have -proved a formidable rival of Moliere. He might very probably have -succeeded in imitating the long speeches which Moliere too often -imitated from Racine; but nothing can (we think) be more unlike, than -the real genius of the two writers. In fact, Moliere is almost as much -an English as a French author,—quite a _barbare_, in all in which he -particularly excels. He was unquestionably one of the greatest comic -geniuses that ever lived; a man of infinite wit, gaiety, and -invention,—full of life, laughter, and observation. But it cannot be -denied that his plays are in general mere farces, without nature, -refinement of character, or common probability. Several of them could -not be carried on for a moment without a perfect collusion between the -parties to wink at impossibilities, and act in defiance of all common -sense. For instance, take the _Medecin malgre lui_, in which a common -wood-cutter takes upon himself, and is made to support, through a whole -play, the character of a learned physician, without exciting the least -suspicion; and yet, notwithstanding the absurdity of the plot, it is one -of the most laughable, and truly comic productions, that can well be -imagined. The rest of his lighter pieces, the _Bourgeois Gentilhomme_, -_Monsieur Pourceaugnac_, &c. are of the same description,—gratuitous -fictions, and fanciful caricatures of nature. He indulges in the utmost -license of burlesque exaggeration; and gives a loose to the intoxication -of his animal spirits. With respect to his two most laboured comedies, -the Tartuffe and Misanthrope, we confess that we find them rather hard -to get through. They have the improbability and extravagance of the -rest, united with the endless common-place prosing of French -declamation. What can exceed the absurdity of the Misanthrope, who -leaves his mistress, after every proof of her attachment and constancy, -for no other reason than that she will not submit to the _technical -formality_ of going to live with him in a desert? The characters which -Celimene gives of her friends, near the opening of the play, are -admirable satires, (as good as Pope’s characters of women), but not -comedy. The same remarks apply in a greater degree to the Tartuffe. The -long speeches and reasonings in this play may be very good logic, or -rhetoric, or philosophy, or any thing but comedy. If each of the parties -had retained a special pleader to speak his sentiments, they could not -have appeared more tiresome or intricate. The improbability of the -character of Orgon is wonderful. The _Ecole des Femmes_, from which -Wycherley has borrowed the Country Wife, with the true spirit of -original genius, is, in our judgment, the masterpiece of Moliere. The -set speeches in the original play would not be borne on the English -stage, nor indeed on the French, but that they are carried off by the -verse. The _Critique de L’Ecole des Femmes_, the dialogue of which is -prose, is written in a very different style. - -Our author attributes the ambitious loquacity of the French drama to -their characteristic vanity, and the general desire of this nation to -shine on all occasions. But this principle seems itself to require a -prior cause, namely, a facility of shining on all occasions, and a -disposition to admire every thing. It has been remarked, as a general -rule, that the theatrical amusements of a people, which are intended as -a relaxation from their ordinary pursuits and habits, are by no means a -test of the national character; and it is a confirmation of this -opinion, that the French, who are naturally a lively and impatient -people, should be able to sit and hear with such delight their own -dramatic pieces, which abound, for the most part, in sententious maxims -and solemn declamation, and would appear quite insupportable to an -English audience, though the latter are considered as a dull, phlegmatic -people, much more likely to be tolerant of formal descriptions and grave -reflections. - -_Extremes meet._ This is the only way of accounting for that enigma, the -French character. It has often been remarked, indeed, that this -ingenious nation exhibits more striking contradictions in its general -deportment than any other that ever existed. They are the gayest of the -gay, and the gravest of the grave. Their very faces pass at once from an -expression of the most lively animation, when they are in conversation -or action, to a melancholy blank. They are one moment the slaves of the -most contemptible prejudices, and the next launch out into all the -extravagance of the most dangerous speculations. In matters of taste -they are as inexorable as they are lax in questions of morality: they -judge of the one by rules, of the other by their inclinations. It seems -at times as if nothing could shock them, and yet they are offended at -the merest trifles. The smallest things make the greatest impression on -them. From the facility with which they can accommodate themselves to -circumstances, they have no fixed principles or real character. They are -always that which gives them least pain, or costs them least trouble. -They can easily disentangle their thoughts from whatever gives them the -slightest uneasiness, and direct their sensibility to flow in any -channels they think proper. Their whole existence is more theatrical -than real—their sentiments put on or off like the dress of an actor. -Words are with them equivalent to things. They say what is agreeable, -and believe what they say. Virtue and vice, good and evil, liberty or -slavery, are matters almost of indifference. They are the only people -who were ever vain of being cuckolded, or being conquered. Their natural -self-complacency stands them instead of all other advantages! - -The same almost inexplicable contradictions appear in their writings as -in their characters. They excel in all that depends on lightness and -grace of style, on familiar gaiety, on delicate irony, on quickness of -observation, on nicety of tact—in all those things which are done best -with the least effort. Their sallies, their points, their traits, turns -of expression, their tales, their letters, are unrivalled. Witness the -writings of Voltaire, Fontaine, Le Sage. Whence then the long speeches, -the pompous verbosity, the systematic arrangement of their dramatic -productions? It would seem as if they took refuge in this excessive -formality, as a defence against their natural lightness and frivolity: -and that they admitted of no mixed style in poetry, because the least -interruption of their assumed gravity would destroy the whole effect. -The impression has no natural hold of their minds. It is only by -repeated efforts that they work themselves up to the tragic tone, and -their feelings let go their hold with the first opportunity. They -conform, in the most rigid manner, to established rules, because they -have no steadiness to go alone, nor confidence to trust to the strength -of their immediate impulses. The French have no style of their own in -serious art, because they have no real force of character. Their -tragedies are imitations of the Greek dramas, and their historical -pictures a still more servile and misapplied imitation of the Greek -statues. For the same reason, the expression which their artists give to -their faces is affected and mechanical; and the description which their -poets give of the passions, the most laboured, overt and explicit -possible. Nothing is left to be _understood_. Nothing obscure, distant, -imperfect—nothing that is not distinctly made out—nothing that does not -stand, as it were, in the foreground, is admitted in their works of art. - -The dark and doubtful views of things, the irregular flights of fancy, -the silent workings of the heart—all these require some effort to enter -into them: They are therefore excluded from French poetry, the language -of which must, above all things, be clear and defined, and not only -intelligible, but intelligible by its previous application. It is -therefore essentially conventional and common-place. It rejects every -thing that is not cast in a given mould—that is not stamped by -custom—that is not sanctioned by authority;—every thing that is not -French. The French, indeed, can conceive of nothing that is not French. -There is something that prevents them from entering into any views which -do not perfectly fall in with their habitual prejudices. In a word, they -are not a people of imagination. They receive their impressions without -trouble or effort, and retain no more of them than they can help. They -are the creatures either of sensation or abstraction. The images of -things, when the objects are no longer present, throw off all their -complexity and distinctions, and are lost in the general class, or name; -so that the words _charming_, _delicious_, _superb_, &c. convey just the -same meaning, and excite just the same emotion in the mind of a -Frenchman, as the most vivid description of real objects and feelings -could do. Hence their poetry is the poetry of abstraction. Yet poetry is -properly the embodying general ideas in individual forms and -circumstances. But the French style excludes all individuality. The true -poet identifies the reader with the characters he represents; the French -poet only identifies him with himself. There is scarcely a single page -of their tragedy which fairly throws nature open to you. It is tragedy -in masquerade. We never get beyond conjecture and reasoning—beyond the -general impression of the situation of the persons—beyond general -reflections on their passions—beyond general descriptions of objects. We -never get at that something more, which is what we are in search of, -namely, what we ourselves should feel in the same situations. The true -poet transports you to the scene—you see and hear what is passing—you -catch, from the lips of the persons concerned, what lies nearest to -their hearts;—the French poet takes you into his closet, and reads you a -lecture upon it. The _chef-d’œuvres_ of their stage, then, are, after -all, only ingenious paraphrases of nature. The dialogue is a tissue of -common-places, of laboured declamations on human life, of learned -casuistry on the passions, on virtue and vice, which any one else might -make just as well as the person speaking; and yet, what the persons -themselves would say, is all we want to know, and all for which the poet -puts them into those situations. It is what constitutes the difference -between the dramatic and the didactic. - -All this is differently managed in Shakespear: And accordingly, the -French translations of that author uniformly leave out all the poetry, -or what we consider as such. They generalize the passion, the character, -the thoughts, the images, every thing;—they reduce it to a common topic. -It is then perfect—for it is French. It would be in vain to look, in -these unmeaning paraphrases, where all is made unobjectionable, and -smooth as the palm of one’s hand, for the ‘Not a jot, not a jot,’ in -Othello,—for the ‘Light thickens,’ of Macbeth,—or the picture which the -exclamation of the witches gives us of him, ‘Why stands Macbeth thus -amazedly?’ When Othello kills himself, after that noble characteristic -speech at the end, in which he makes us feel all that passes in his -soul, and runs over the objects and events of his whole life, the blow -strikes not only at him but at us: When Orosman in Zaire, after a speech -which Voltaire has copied from the English poet, does the same thing, he -falls—like a common-place personified. We do not here insist on the -preference to be given to one or other of these two styles; we only say -they are quite different. The French critics contend, we think without -reason, that their own is exclusively good, and all others barbarous. - -Not so our author. If Shakespear never found a thorough partisan before, -he has found one now. We have not room for half of his praise. He -defends him at all points. His puns, his conceits, his anachronisms, his -broad allusions, all go, not indeed for nothing, but for so many -beauties. They are not something to be excused by the age, or atoned for -by other qualities; but they are worthy of all acceptation in -themselves. This we do not think it necessary to say. It is no part of -our poetical creed, that genius can do no wrong. As the French show -their allegiance to their kings by crying _Quand meme!_—so we think to -show our respect for Shakespear by loving him in spite of his faults. -Take the whole of these faults, throw them into one scale, heap them up -double, and then double that, and we will throw into the opposite scale -single excellences, single characters, or even single passages, that -shall outweigh them all! All his faults have not prevented him from -showing as much knowledge of human nature, in all possible shapes, as is -to be found in all other poets put together; and that, we conceive, is -quite enough for one writer. Compared with this magical power, his -faults are of just as much consequence as his bad spelling, and to be -accounted for in the same way. In speaking of Shakespear, we do not mean -to make any general comparison between the French and English stage. -There is no other acknowledged English school of tragedy,—or it is -merely a bad imitation of the French. We give them up Addison; but we -must keep Shakespear to ourselves. He had even the advantage of the -Greek tragedians in this respect, that, with all their genius, they seem -to have described only Greek manners and sentiments: whereas he -describes all the people that ever lived. That which distinguishes his -dramatic productions from all others, is this wonderful variety and -perfect individuality. Each of his characters is as much itself, and as -absolutely independent of the rest, as if they were living persons, not -fictions of the mind. The poet appears, for the time, to identify -himself with the character he wishes to represent, and to pass from one -to the other, like the same soul successively animating different -bodies. By an art like that of the ventriloquist, he throws his -imagination out of himself, and makes every word appear to proceed from -the mouth of the person in whose name it is spoken. His plays alone are -expressions of the passions, not descriptions of them. His characters -are real beings of flesh and blood: they speak like men, not like -authors. One might suppose that he had stood by at the time, and -overheard all that passed. As, in our dreams, we hold conversations with -ourselves, make remarks or communicate intelligence, and have no idea of -the answer which we shall receive, and which we ourselves are to make, -till we hear it; so, the dialogues in Shakespear are carried on without -any consciousness of what is to follow, without any appearance of -preparation or premeditation. The gusts of passion come and go like -sounds of music borne on the wind. Nothing is made out by inference and -analogy, by climax and antithesis; all comes immediately from nature. -Each object and circumstance seems to exist in his mind, as it existed -in nature; each several train of thought and feeling goes on of itself -without confusion or effort: In the world of his imagination, every -thing has a life, a place, and being of its own![5] - -‘The distinguishing property,’ says our author, ‘of the dramatic poet, -is the capability of transporting himself so completely into every -situation, even the most unusual, that he is enabled, as plenipotentiary -of the whole human race, without particular instructions for each -separate case, to act and speak in the name of every individual. It is -the power of endowing the creatures of his imagination with such -self-existent energy, that they afterwards act in each conjuncture -according to general laws of nature: the poet institutes, as it were, -experiments, which are received with as much authority as if they had -been made on real objects. Never, perhaps, was there so comprehensive a -talent for the delineation of character as Shakespear’s. It not only -grasps the diversities of rank, sex, and age, down to the dawnings of -infancy; not only do the king and the beggar, the hero and the -pickpocket, the sage and the idiot, speak and act with equal truth; not -only does he transport himself to distant ages and foreign nations, and -portray in the most accurate manner, with only a few apparent violations -of costume, the spirit of the ancient Romans, of the French in their -wars with the English, of the English themselves during a great part of -their history, of the Southern Europeans (in the serious part of many -comedies), the cultivated society of that time, and the former rude and -barbarous state of the North; his human characters have not only such -depth and precision that they cannot be arranged under classes, and are -inexhaustible, even in conception:—no—This Prometheus not merely forms -men, he opens the gates of the magical world of spirits; calls up the -midnight ghost; exhibits before us his witches amidst their unhallowed -mysteries; peoples the air with sportive fairies and sylphs:—and, these -beings existing only in imagination, possess such truth and consistency, -that, even when deformed monsters like Caliban, he extorts the -conviction, that if there should be such beings, they would so conduct -themselves. In a word, as he carries with him the most fruitful and -daring fancy into the kingdom of nature,—on the other hand, he carries -nature into the regions of fancy, lying beyond the confines of reality. -We are lost in astonishment at seeing the extraordinary, the wonderful, -and the unheard of, in such intimate nearness. - -‘If Shakespear deserves our admiration for his characters, he is equally -deserving it for his exhibition of passion, taking this word in its -widest signification, as including every mental condition, every tone -from indifference or familiar mirth to the wildest rage and despair. He -gives us the history of minds; he lays open to us, in a single word, a -whole series of preceding conditions. His passions do not at first stand -displayed to us in all their height, as is the case with so many tragic -poets, who, in the language of Lessing, are thorough masters of the -legal style of love. He paints in a most inimitable manner, the gradual -progress from the first origin. “He gives,” as Lessing says, “a living -picture of all the most minute and secret artifices by which a feeling -steals into our souls; of all the imperceptible advantages which it -there gains; of all the stratagems by which every other passion is made -subservient to it, till it becomes the sole tyrant of our desires and -our aversions.” Of all poets, perhaps, he alone has portrayed the mental -diseases, melancholy, delirium, lunacy, with such inexpressible, and, in -every respect, definite truth, that the physician may enrich his -observations from them in the same manner as from real cases. - -‘And yet Johnson has objected to Shakespear, that his pathos is not -always natural and free from affectation. There are, it is true, -passages, though, comparatively speaking, very few, where his poetry -exceeds the bounds of true dialogue, where a too soaring imagination, a -too luxuriant wit, rendered the complete dramatic forgetfulness of -himself impossible. With this exception, the censure originates only in -a fanciless way of thinking, to which every thing appears unnatural that -does not suit its own tame insipidity. Hence, an idea has been formed of -simple and natural pathos, which consists in exclamations destitute of -imagery, and nowise elevated above every-day life. But energetical -passions electrify the whole of the mental powers, and will, -consequently, in highly favoured natures, express themselves in an -ingenious and figurative manner. It has been often remarked, that -indignation gives wit; and, as despair occasionally breaks out into -laughter, it may sometimes also give vent to itself in antithetical -comparisons. - -‘Besides, the rights of the poetical form have not been duly weighed. -Shakespear, who was always sure of his object, to move in a sufficiently -powerful manner when he wished to do so, has occasionally, by indulging -in a freer play, purposely moderated the impressions when too painful, -and immediately introduced a musical alleviation of our sympathy. He had -not those rude ideas of his art which many moderns seem to have, as if -the poet, like the clown in the proverb, must strike twice on the same -place. An ancient rhetorician delivered a caution against dwelling too -long on the excitation of pity; for nothing, he said, dries so soon as -tears; and Shakespear acted conformably to this ingenious maxim, without -knowing it. - -‘The objection, that Shakespear wounds our feelings by the open display -of the most disgusting moral odiousness, harrows up the mind -unmercifully, and tortures even our minds by the exhibition of the most -insupportable and hateful spectacles, is one of much greater importance. -He has never, in fact, varnished over wild and blood-thirsty passions -with a pleasing exterior,—never clothed crime and want of principle with -a false show of greatness of soul; and in that respect he is every way -deserving of praise. Twice he has portrayed downright villains; and the -masterly way in which he has contrived to elude impressions of too -painful a nature, may be seen in Iago and Richard the Third. The -constant reference to a petty and puny race must cripple the boldness of -the poet. Fortunately for his art, Shakespear lived in an age extremely -susceptible of noble and tender impressions, but which had still enough -of the firmness inherited from a vigorous olden time, not to shrink back -with dismay from every strong and violent picture. We have lived to see -tragedies of which the catastrophe consists in the swoon of an enamoured -princess. If Shakespear falls occasionally into the opposite extreme, it -is a noble error, originating in the fulness of a gigantic strength: And -yet this tragical Titan, who storms the heavens, and threatens to tear -the world from off its hinges; who, more fruitful than Æschylus, makes -our hair stand on end, and congeals our blood with horror, possessed, at -the same time, the insinuating loveliness of the sweetest poetry. He -plays with love like a child; and his songs are breathed out like -melting sighs. He unites in his genius the utmost elevation and the -utmost depth; and the most foreign, and even apparently irreconcileable -properties, subsist in him peaceably together. The world of spirits and -nature have laid all their treasures at his feet. In strength a -demi-god, in profundity of view a prophet, in all-seeing wisdom a -protecting spirit of a higher order, he lowers himself to mortals, as if -unconscious of his superiority; and is as open and unassuming as a -child. - -‘Shakespear’s comic talent is equally wonderful with that which he has -shown in the pathetic and tragic: it stands on an equal elevation, and -possesses equal extent and profundity. All that I before wished was, not -to admit that the former preponderated. He is highly inventive in comic -situations and motives. It will be hardly possible to show whence he has -taken any of them; whereas in the serious part of his drama, he has -generally laid hold of something already known. His comic characters are -equally true, various and profound, with his serious. So little is he -disposed to caricature, that we may rather say many of his traits are -almost too nice and delicate for the stage, that they can only be -properly seized by a great actor, and fully understood by a very acute -audience. Not only has he delineated many kinds of folly; he has also -contrived to exhibit mere stupidity in a most diverting and entertaining -manner.’ II. 145. - -The observations on Shakespear’s language and versification which -follow, are excellent. We cannot, however, agree with the author in -thinking his rhyme superior to Spenser’s: His excellence is confined to -his blank verse; and in that he is unrivalled by any dramatic writer. -Milton’s alone is equally fine in its way. The objection to Shakespear’s -mixed metaphors is not here fairly got over. They give us no pain from -long custom. They have, in fact, become idioms in the language. We take -the meaning and effect of a well known passage entire, and no more stop -to scan and spell out the particular words and phrases than the -syllables of which they are composed. If our critic’s general -observations on Shakespear are excellent, he has shown still greater -acuteness and knowledge of his author in those which he makes on the -particular plays. They ought, in future, to be annexed to every edition -of Shakespear, to correct the errors of preceding critics. In his -analysis of the historical plays,—of those founded on the Roman -history,—of the romantic comedies, and the fanciful productions of -Shakespear, such as, the Midsummer Night’s Dream, the Tempest, &c., he -has shown the most thorough insight into the spirit of the poet. His -contrast between Ariel and Caliban; the one made up of all that is gross -and earthly, the other of all that is airy and refined, ‘ethereal mould, -sky-tinctured,’—is equally happy and profound. He does not, however, -confound Caliban with the coarseness of common low life. He says of him -with perfect truth—‘Caliban is malicious, cowardly, false and base in -his inclinations; and yet he is essentially different from the vulgar -knaves of a civilized world, as they are occasionally portrayed by -Shakespear. He is rude, but not vulgar. He never falls into the -prosaical and low familiarity of his drunken associates, for he is a -poetical being in his way; he always, too, speaks in verse. But he has -picked up every thing dissonant and thorny in language, of which he has -composed his vocabulary.’ - -In his account of Cymbeline and other plays, he has done justice to the -sweetness of Shakespear’s female characters, and refuted the idle -assertion made by a critic, who was also a poet and a man of genius, -that - - —‘stronger Shakespear felt for man alone.’ - -Who, indeed, in recalling the names of Imogen, of Miranda, of Juliet, of -Desdemona, of Ophelia and Perdita, does not feel that Shakespear has -expressed the very perfection of the feminine character, existing only -for others, and leaning for support on the strength of its affections? -The only objection to his female characters is, that he has not made -them masculine. They are indeed the very reverse of ordinary -tragedy-queens. In speaking of Romeo and Juliet, he says, ‘It was -reserved for Shakespear to unite purity of heart, and the glow of -imagination, sweetness and dignity of manners, and passionate violence, -in one ideal picture.’ The character of Juliet was not to be mistaken by -our author. It is one of perfect unconsciousness. It has nothing -forward, nothing coy, nothing affected, nothing coquettish about it:—It -is a pure effusion of nature. - -‘Whatever,’ says our critic, ‘is most intoxicating in the odour of a -southern spring, languishing in the song of the nightingale, or -voluptuous on the first opening of the rose, is breathed in this poem. -But, even more rapidly than the earliest blossoms of youth and beauty -decay, it hurries on from the first timid declaration of love and modest -return, to the most unlimited passion—to an irrevocable union; then, -amidst alternating storms of rapture and despair, to the death of the -two lovers, who still appear enviable as their love survives them, and -as, by their death, they have obtained a triumph over every separating -power. The sweetest and the bitterest; love and hatred; festivity and -dark forebodings; tender embraces and sepulchres; the fulness of life -and self-annihilation—are all here brought close to each other: And all -these contrasts are so blended in the harmonious and wonderful work into -a unity of impression, that the echo which the whole leaves behind in -the mind resembles a single but endless sigh.’ - -In treating of the four principal tragedies, Othello, Macbeth, Hamlet -and Lear, he goes deeper into the poetry and philosophy of those plays -than any of the commentators. But we dare not now encroach on the -patience of our readers with any farther citations. - -The remarks on the doubtful pieces of Shakespear are most liable to -objection. We cannot agree, for instance, that Titus Andronicus is in -the spirit of Lear, because in his dotage he mistakes a fly which he has -killed for his black enemy the Moor. Thomas Lord Cromwell, and Sir John -Oldcastle, which he praises highly, are very indifferent. Pericles, -prince of Tyre, is not much to our taste. There is one fine scene in it, -where Marina rouses the prince from his lethargy, by the proofs of her -being his daughter. Yet this is not like Shakespear. The Yorkshire -Tragedy is very good; but decidedly in the manner of Heywood. The -account given by Schlegel, of the contemporaries and immediate -successors of Shakespear is good, though it might have been better. That -of Ben Jonson is particularly happy. He says, that he described not -characters, but ‘humours,’ that is, particular modes of expression, -dress and behaviour in fashion at the time, which have since become -obsolete, and the imitation of them dry and unintelligible. The finest -thing in Ben Jonson (not that it is by any means the only one), is the -scene between Surly and Sir Epicure Mammon, where the latter proves his -possession of the philosopher’s stone, by a pompous display of the -riches, luxuries and pleasures he is to derive from it; and, by a happy -perversion of logic, satisfies himself, though not his hearer, of the -existence of the cause, by a strong imagination of the effects which are -to follow from it. He is also very successful in his character of the -plays of Beaumont and Fletcher. They describe the passions at their -height, not in their progress—the extremes, not the gradations of -feeling. Their plays, however, have great power and great beauty. The -Faithful Shepherdess is the origin of Milton’s Comus. ‘Rule a Wife and -Have a Wife’ is one of the very best comedies that ever was written; and -holds, to this day, undisputed possession of the stage. Yet, as our -critic observes, there is in the general tone of their writings a -certain crudeness and precocity, a heat, a violence of fermentation, a -disposition to carry every thing to excess, which is not pleasant. Their -plays are very much what young noblemen of genius might be supposed to -write in the heyday of youthful blood, the sunshine of fortune, and all -the petulance of self-opinion. They have completely anticipated the -German paradoxes. Schlegel has no mercy on the writers of the age of -Charles II. He compares Dryden himself to ‘a man walking upon stilts in -a morass.’ He justly prefers Otway to Rowe; but we think he is wrong in -supposing, that if Otway had lived longer he would have done better. His -plays are only the ebullitions of a fine, enthusiastic, sanguine -temperament: and his genius would no more have improved with age, than -the beauty of his person. Of our comic writers, Congreve, Wycherley, -Vanburgh, &c., M. Schlegel speaks very contemptuously and superficially. -It is plain that he knows nothing about them, or he would not prefer -Farquhar to all the rest. If, after our earlier dramatists, we have any -class of writers who are excellent, it is our comic writers. - -We cannot go into our author’s account of the Spanish drama. The -principal names in it are Cervantes, Calderon, and Lope de Vega. Neither -can we agree in the praises which he lavishes on the dramatic -productions of these authors. They are too flowery, lyrical, and -descriptive. They are pastorals, not tragedies. They have warmth; but -they want vigour. - -Our author may be supposed to be at home in German literature; but his -doctrines appear to us to be more questionable there, than upon any -other subject. What the German dramatists really excel in, is the -production of effect: but this is the very thing which their fastidious -countryman most despises and abhors. They really excel all others in -mere effect; and there is no nation that can excel all others in more -than one thing. Werter is, in our opinion, the best of all Goethe’s -works; but because it is the most popular, our author takes an -opportunity to express his contempt for it. Count Egmont, which is here -spoken highly of, seems to us a most insipid and preposterous -composition. The effect of the pathos which is said to lie concealed in -it, is utterly lost upon us. Nathan the Wise, by Lessing, is also a -great favourite of Schlegel; because it is unintelligible except to the -wise. As the French plays are composed of a tissue of common-placs, the -German plays of this stamp are a tissue of paradoxes, which have no -foundation in nature or common opinion,—the pure offspring of the -author’s fantastic brain. For the same reason, Schiller’s Wallenstein is -here preferred to his Robbers. But we cannot so readily give up our old -attachment to the Robbers. The first reading of that play is an event in -every one’s life, which is not to be forgotten. - -Madame de Staël has very happily ridiculed this pedantic’s taste in -criticism. - -‘By a singular vicissitude in taste, it has happened, that the Germans -at first attacked our dramatic writers, as converting all their heroes -into Frenchmen. They have, with reason, insisted on historic truth as -necessary to contrast the colours, and give life to the poetry. But -then, all at once, they have been weary of their own success in this -way, and have produced abstract representations, in which the relations -of mankind were expressed in a general manner, and in which time, place -and circumstance, passed for nothing. In a drama of this kind by Goethe, -the author calls the different characters the Duke, the King, the -Father, the Daughter, &c., without any other designation. - -‘Such a tragedy is only calculated to be acted in the palace of Odin, -where the dead still continue their different occupations on earth; -where the hunter, himself a shade, eagerly pursues the shade of a stag; -and fantastic warriors combat together in the clouds. It should appear, -that Goethe at one period conceived an absolute disgust to all interest -in dramatic compositions. It was sometimes to be met with in bad works; -and he concluded, that it ought to be banished from good ones. -Nevertheless, a man of superior mind ought not to disdain what gives -universal pleasure; he cannot relinquish his resemblance with his kind, -if he wishes to make others feel his own value. Granting that the -tyranny of custom often introduces an artificial air into the best -French tragedies, it cannot be denied that there is the same want of -natural expression in the systematic and theoretical productions of the -German muse. If exaggerated declamation is affected, there is a certain -kind of intellectual calm which is not less so. It is a kind of -arrogated superiority over the affections of the soul, which may accord -very well with philosophy, but is totally out of character in the -dramatic art. Goethe’s works are composed according to different -principles and systems. In the Tasso and Iphigenia, he conceives of -tragedy as a lofty relic of the monuments of antiquity. These works have -all the beauty of form, the splendour and glossy smoothness of -marble;—but they are as cold and as motionless.’ - -We have, we trust, said enough of this work, to recommend it to the -reader: We ought to add, that the translation appears to be very -respectable. - - - COLERIDGE’S LAY SERMON - - VOL. XXVII.] [_December 1816._ - -‘The privilege’ (says a certain author) ‘of talking, and even publishing -nonsense, is necessary in a free state; but the more sparingly we make -use of it, the better.’ Mr. Coleridge has here availed himself of this -privilege,—but not sparingly. On the contrary, he has given full scope -to his genius, and laid himself out in absurdity. In this his first Lay -Sermon (for two others are to follow at graceful distances), we meet -with an abundance of ‘fancies and good-nights,’ odd ends of verse, and -sayings of philosophers; with the ricketty contents of his common-place -book, piled up and balancing one another in helpless confusion; but with -not one word to the purpose, or on the subject. An attentive perusal of -this Discourse is like watching the sails of a windmill: his thoughts -and theories rise and disappear in the same manner. Clouds do not shift -their places more rapidly, dreams do not drive one another out more -unaccountably, than Mr. Coleridge’s reasonings try in vain to ‘chase his -fancy’s rolling speed.’ His intended conclusions have always the start -of his premises,—and they keep it: while he himself plods anxiously -between the two, something like a man travelling a long, tiresome road, -between two stage coaches, the one of which is gone out of sight before, -and the other never comes up with him; for Mr. Coleridge himself takes -care of this; and if he finds himself in danger of being overtaken, and -carried to his journey’s end in a common vehicle, he immediately steps -aside into some friendly covert, with the Metaphysical Muse, to prevent -so unwelcome a catastrophe. In his weary quest of truth, he reminds us -of the mendicant pilgrims that travellers meet in the Desert, with their -faces always turned towards Mecca, but who contrive never to reach the -shrine of the Prophet: and he treats his opinions, and his reasons for -them, as lawyers do their clients, and will never suffer them to come -together lest they should join issue, and so put an end to his business. -It is impossible, in short, we find, to describe this strange rhapsody, -without falling a little into the style of it;—and, to do it complete -justice, we must use its very words. ‘_Implicité_, it is without the -COPULA—it wants the possibility—of every position, to which there exists -any correspondence in reality.’ - -Our Lay-preacher, in order to qualify himself for the office of a guide -to the blind, has not, of course, once thought of looking about for -matters of fact, but very wisely draws a metaphysical bandage over his -eyes, sits quietly down where he was, takes his nap, and talks in his -sleep—but we really cannot say very wisely. He winks and mutters all -unintelligible, and all impertinent things. Instead of inquiring into -the distresses of the manufacturing or agricultural districts, he -ascends to the orbits of the fixed stars, or else enters into the -statistics of the garden plot under his window, and, like Falstaff, -‘babbles of green fields:’ instead of the balance of the three estates, -King, Lords, and Commons, he gives us a theory of the balance of the -powers of the human mind, the Will, the Reason, and—the Understanding: -instead of referring to the tythes or taxes, he quotes the Talmud; and -illustrates the whole question of peace and war, by observing, that ‘the -ideal republic of Plato was, if he judges rightly, to “the history of -the town of Man-Soul” what Plato was to John Bunyan:’—a most safe and -politic conclusion! - -Mr. Coleridge is not one of those whom he calls ‘alarmists by trade,’ -but rather, we imagine, what Spenser calls ‘a gentle Husher, Vanity by -name.’ If he does not excite apprehension, by pointing out danger and -difficulties where they do not exist, neither does he inspire -confidence, by pointing out the means to prevent them where they do. We -never indeed saw a work that could do less good or less harm; for it -relates to no one object, that any one person can have in view. It tends -to produce a complete _interregnum_ of all opinions; an _abeyance_ of -the understanding; a suspension both of theory and practice; and is -indeed a collection of doubts and moot-points—all hindrances and no -helps. An uncharitable critic might insinuate, that there was more -quackery than folly in all this;—and it is certain, that our learned -author talks as magnificently of his _nostrums_, as any advertising -impostor of them all—and professes to be in possession of all sorts of -morals, religions, and political panaceas, which he keeps to himself, -and expects you to pay for the secret. He is always promising great -things, in short, and performs nothing. The vagaries, whimsies, and -pregnant throes of Joanna Southcote, were sober and rational, compared -with Mr. Coleridge’s qualms and crude conceptions, and promised -deliverance in this Lay Sermon. The true secret of all this, we suspect, -is, that our author has not made up his own mind on any of the subjects -of which he professes to treat, and on which he warns his readers -against coming to any conclusion, without his especial assistance; by -means of which, they may at last attain to ‘that imperative and oracular -form of the understanding,’ of which he speaks as ‘the form of reason -itself in all things purely rational and moral.’ In this state of -voluntary self-delusion, into which he has thrown himself, he mistakes -hallucinations for truths, though he still has his misgivings, and dares -not communicate them to others, except in distant hints, lest the spell -should be broken, and the vision disappear. Plain sense and plain -speaking would put an end to those ‘thick-coming fancies,’ that lull him -to repose. It is in this sort of waking dream, this giddy maze of -opinions, started, and left, and resumed—this momentary pursuit of -truths, as if they were butterflies—that Mr. Coleridge’s pleasure, and, -we believe, his chief faculty, lies. He has a thousand shadowy thoughts -that rise before him, and hold each a glass, in which they point to -others yet more dim and distant. He has a thousand self-created fancies -that glitter and burst like bubbles. In the world of shadows, in the -succession of bubbles, there is no preference but of the most shadowy, -no attachment but to the shortest-lived. Mr. Coleridge accordingly has -no principle but that of being governed entirely by his own caprice, -indolence, or vanity; no opinion that any body else holds, or even he -himself, for two moments together. His fancy is stronger than his -reason; his apprehension greater than his comprehension. He perceives -every thing, but the relations of things to one another. His ideas are -as finely shaded as the rainbow of the moon upon the clouds, as -evanescent, and as soon dissolved. The subtlety of his tact, the -quickness and airiness of his invention, make him perceive every -possible shade and view of a subject in its turn; but this readiness of -lending his imagination to every thing, prevents him from weighing the -force of any one, or retaining the most important in mind. It destroys -the balance and _momentum_ of his feelings; makes him unable to follow -up a principle into its consequences, or maintain a truth in spite of -opposition: it takes away all _will_ to adhere to what is right, and -reject what is wrong; and, with the will, the power to do it, at the -expense of any thing difficult in thought, or irksome in feeling. The -consequence is, that the general character of Mr. Coleridge’s intellect, -is a restless and yet listless dissipation, that yields to every -impulse, and is stopped by every obstacle; an indifference to the -greatest trifles, or the most important truths: or rather, a preference -of the vapid to the solid, of the possible to the actual, of the -impossible to both; of theory to practice, of contradiction to reason, -and of absurdity to common sense. Perhaps it is well that he is so -impracticable as he is; for whenever, by any accident, he comes to -practice, he is dangerous in the extreme. Though his opinions are -neutralized in the extreme levity of his understanding, we are sometimes -tempted to suspect that they may be subjected to a more ignoble bias; -for though he does not ply his oars very strenuously in following the -tide of corruption, or set up his sails to catch the tainted breeze of -popularity, he suffers his boat to drift along with the stream. We do -not pretend to understand the philosophical principles of that anomalous -production, ‘the Friend;’ but we remember that the practical measures -which he there attempted to defend, were the expedition to Copenhagen, -the expedition to Walcheren, and the assassination of Buonaparte, which, -at the time Mr. Coleridge was getting that work into circulation, was a -common topic of conversation, and a sort of _forlorn hope_ in certain -circles. A man who exercises an unlimited philosophical scepticism on -questions of abstract right or wrong, may be of service to the progress -of truth; but a writer who exercises this privilege, with a regular -leaning to the side of power, is a very questionable sort of person. -There is not much of this kind in the present Essay. It has no leaning -any way. All the sentiments advanced in it are ‘like the swan’s down -feather— - - ‘That stands upon the swell at full of tide, - And neither way inclines.’ - -We have here given a pretty strong opinion on the merits of this -performance: and we proceed to make it good by extracts from the work -itself; and it is just as well to begin with the beginning. - -‘If our whole knowledge and information concerning the Bible had been -confined to the one fact, of its immediate derivation from God, we -should still presume that it contained rules and assistances for all -conditions of men, under all circumstances; and therefore for -communities no less than for individuals. The contents of every work -must correspond to the character and designs of the workmaster; and the -inference in the present case is too obvious to be overlooked, too plain -to be resisted. It requires, indeed, all the might of superstition, to -conceal from a man of common understanding, the further truth, that the -interment of such a treasure, in a dead language, must needs be contrary -to the intentions of the gracious Donor. Apostasy itself dared not -question the _premise_: and, that the practical _consequence_ did not -follow, is conceivable only under a complete _system_ of delusion, -which, from the cradle to the death-bed, ceases not to overawe the will -by obscure fears, while it preoccupies the senses by vivid imagery and -ritual pantomime. But to such a scheme, all forms of sophistry are -native. The very excellence of the Giver has been made a reason for -withholding the gift; nay, the transcendent value of the gift itself -assigned as the motive of its detention. We may be shocked at the -presumption, but need not be surprised at the fact, that a jealous -priesthood should have ventured to represent the applicability of the -Bible to all the wants and occasions of men, as a wax-like pliability to -all their fancies and prepossessions. Faithful guardians of Holy Writ!’ -&c. - -And after a great deal to the same effect, he proceeds— - -‘The humblest and least educated of our countrymen must have wilfully -neglected the inestimable privileges secured to all alike, if he has not -himself found, if he has not from his own personal experience -discovered, the sufficiency of the Scriptures in all knowledge requisite -for a right performance of his duty as a man and a Christian. Of the -labouring classes, who in all countries form the great majority of the -inhabitants, more than this is not demanded, more than this is not -perhaps generally desirable.’—‘They are not sought for in public -counsel, nor need they be found where politic sentences are spoken. It -is enough if every one is wise in the working of his own craft: so best -will they maintain the state of the world.’ p. 7. - -Now, if this is all that is necessary or desirable for the people to -know, we can see little difference between the doctrine of the Lay -Sermon, and ‘that complete system of papal imposture, which inters the -Scriptures in a dead language, and commands its vassals to take for -granted what it forbids them to ascertain.’ If a candidate is to start -for infallibility, we, for our parts, shall give our casting vote for -the successor of St. Peter, rather than for Mr. Coleridge. The Bible, we -believe, when rightly understood, contains no set of rules for making -the labouring classes mere ‘workers in brass or in stone,’—‘hewers of -wood or drawers of water,’ each wise in his own craft. Yet it is by -confining their inquiries and their knowledge to such vocations, and -excluding them from any share in politics, philosophy, and theology, -‘that the state of the world is best upheld.’ Such is the exposition of -our Lay-Divine. Such is his application of it. Why then does he blame -the Catholics for acting on this principle—for deducing the _practical -consequence_ from the acknowledged _premise_? Great as is our contempt -for the delusions of the Romish Church, it would have been still -greater, if they had opened the sacred volume to the poor and -illiterate; had told them that it contained the most useful knowledge -for all conditions and for all circumstances of life, public and -private; and had then instantly shut the book in their faces, saying, it -was enough for them to be wise in their own calling and to leave the -study and interpretation of the Scriptures to their betters—to Mr. -Coleridge and his imaginary audience. The Catholic Church might have an -excuse for what it did in the supposed difficulty of understanding the -Scriptures, their doubts and ambiguities, and ‘wax-like pliability to -all occasions and humours.’ But Mr. Coleridge has no excuse; for he -says, they are plain to all capacities, high and low together. ‘The road -of salvation,’ he says, ‘is for us a high road, and the way-farer, -though simple, need not err therein.’ And he accordingly proceeds to -draw up a provisional bill of indictment, and to utter his doubtful -denunciations against us as a nation, for the supposed neglect of the -inestimable privileges, _secured alike to all_, and for the lights held -out to all for ‘maintaining the state’ of their country in the precepts -and examples of Holy Writ; when, all of a sudden, his eye encountering -that brilliant auditory which his pen had conjured up, the Preacher -finds out, that the only use of the study of the Scriptures for the rest -of the people, is to learn that they have no occasion to study them at -all—‘so best shall they maintain the state of the world.’ If Mr. -Coleridge has no meaning in what he writes, he had better not write at -all: if he has any meaning, he contradicts himself. The truth is, -however, as it appears to us, that the whole of this Sermon is written -to sanction the principle of Catholic dictation, and to reprobate that -diffusion of free inquiry—that difference of private, and ascendancy of -public opinion, which has been the necessary consequence, and the great -benefit of the Reformation. That Mr. Coleridge himself is as squeamish -in guarding _his_ Statesman’s Manual from profanation as any Popish -priest can be in keeping the Scriptures from the knowledge of the Laity, -will be seen from the following delicate _morceau_, which occurs, p. 44. - -‘When I named this Essay a Sermon, I sought to prepare the inquirers -after it _for the absence of all the usual softenings suggested by -worldly prudence, of all compromise between truth and courtesy_. But not -even as a Sermon would I have addressed the present Discourse _to a -promiscuous audience_; and for this reason I likewise announced it in -the title-page, as exclusively _ad clerum, i.e._ (in the old and wide -sense of the word) to men of _clerkly_ acquirements, of whatever -profession. I would that the greater part of our publications could be -thus _directed_, each to its appropriate class of readers.[6] But this -cannot be! For among other odd burrs and kecksies, the misgrowth of our -luxuriant activity, we have now a READING PUBLIC—as strange a phrase, -methinks, as ever forced a splenetic smile on the staid countenance of -Meditation; and yet no fiction! For our readers have, in good truth, -multiplied exceedingly, and have waxed proud. It would require the -intrepid accuracy of a Colquhoun to venture at the precise number of -that vast company only, whose heads and hearts are dieted at the two -public _ordinaries_ of Literature, the circulating libraries and the -periodical press. But what is the result? Does the inward man thrive on -this regimen? Alas! if the average health of the consumers may be judged -of by the articles of largest consumption; if the secretions may be -conjectured from the ingredients of the dishes that are found best -suited to their palates; from all that I have seen, either of the -banquet or the guests, I shall utter my _Profaccia_ with a desponding -sigh. From a popular philosophy and a philosophic populace, good sense -deliver us!’ - -If it were possible to be serious after a passage like this, we might -ask, what is to hinder a convert of ‘the church of superstition’ from -exclaiming in like manner, ‘From a popular theology, and a theological -populace, Good Lord deliver us! ‘Mr. Coleridge does not say—will he -say—that as many sects and differences of opinion in religion have not -risen up, in consequence of the Reformation, as in philosophy or -politics, from ‘the misgrowth of our luxuriant activity?’ Can any one -express a greater disgust, (approaching to _nausea_), at every sect and -separation from the Church of England, which he sometimes, by an -hyperbole of affectation, affects to call the Catholic Church? There is -something, then, worse than ‘luxuriant activity,’—the palsy of death; -something worse than occasional error,—systematic imposture; something -worse than the collision of differing opinions,—the suppression of all -freedom of thought and independent love of truth, under the torpid sway -of an insolent and selfish domination, which makes use of truth and -falsehood equally as tools of its own aggrandisement and the debasement -of its vassals, and always must do so, without the exercise of public -opinion, and freedom of conscience, as its control and counter-check. -For what have we been labouring for the last three hundred years? Would -Mr. Coleridge, with impious hand, turn the world ‘twice ten degrees -askance,’ and carry us back to the dark ages? Would he punish the -_reading public_ for their bad taste in reading periodical publications -which he does not like, by suppressing the freedom of the press -altogether, or destroying the art of printing? He does not know what he -means himself. Perhaps we can tell him. He, or at least those whom he -writes to please, and who look ‘with jealous leer malign’ at modern -advantages and modern pretensions, would give us back all the abuses of -former times, without any of their advantages; and impose upon us, by -force or fraud, a complete system of superstition without faith, of -despotism without loyalty, of error without enthusiasm, and all the -evils, without any of the blessings, of ignorance. The senseless jargon -which Mr. Coleridge has let fall on this subject, is the more -extraordinary, inasmuch as he declares, in an early part of his Sermon, -that ‘Religion and Reason are their own evidence;’—a position which -appears to us ‘fraught with _potential infidelity_’ quite as much as -Unitarianism, or the detestable plan for teaching reading and writing, -and a knowledge of the Scriptures, without the creed or the catechism of -the Church of England. The passage in which this sweeping clause is -introduced _en passant_, is worth quoting, both as it is very -nonsensical in itself, and as it is one of the least nonsensical in the -present pamphlet. - -‘In the infancy of the world, signs and wonders were requisite, in order -to startle and break down that superstition, idolatrous in itself, and -the source of all other idolatry, which tempts the natural man to seek -the true cause and origin of public calamities in outward circumstances, -persons and incidents: in agents, therefore, that were themselves but -surges of the same tide, passive conductors of the one invisible -influence, under which the total host of billows, in the whole line of -successive impulse, swell and roll shoreward; there finally, each in its -turn, to strike, roar, and be dissipated. - -‘But with each miracle worked there was a truth revealed, which -thenceforward was to act as its substitute: And if we think the Bible -less applicable to us on account of the miracles, we degrade ourselves -into mere slaves of sense and fancy; which are, indeed, the appointed -medium between earth and heaven, but for that very cause stand in a -desirable relation to spiritual truth then only, when, as a mere and -passive medium, they yield a free passage to its light. It was only to -overthrow the usurpation exercised in and through the senses, that the -senses were miraculously appealed to. Reason and Religion are their own -evidence. The natural sun is, in this respect, a symbol of the -spiritual. Ere he is fully arisen, and while his glories are still under -veil, he calls up the breeze to chase away the usurping vapours of the -night-season, and thus converts the air itself into the minister of its -own purification: not surely in proof or elucidation of the light from -heaven, but to prevent its interception.’ p. 12. - -Here is a very pretty Della Cruscan image: and we really think it a -pity, that Mr. Coleridge ever quitted that school of poetry to grapple -with the simplicity of nature, or to lose himself in the depths of -philosophy. His illustration is pretty, but false. He treats the -miracles recorded in the Scriptures, with more than heretical boldness, -as mere appeals to ‘sense and fancy,’ or to ‘the natural man,’ to -counteract the impressions of sense and fancy. But, for the light of -Heaven to have been like the light of day in this respect, the Sun ought -to have called up other vapours opposite, as mirrors or pageants to -reflect its light, dimmed by the intermediate vapours, instead of -chasing the last away. We criticize the simile, because we are sure -higher authority will object to the doctrine. We might challenge Mr. -Coleridge to point out a single writer, Catholic, Protestant or -Sectarian, whose principles are not regarded as _potential infidelity_ -by the rest, that does not consider the miraculous attestation of -certain revealed doctrines as proofs of their truth, independently of -their internal evidence. They are a distinct and additional authority. -Reason and Religion are no more the same in this respect, than ocular -demonstration and oral testimony are the same. Neither are they opposed -to one another, any more. We believe in credible witnesses. We believe -in the word of God, when we have reason to suppose, that we hear his -voice in the thunder of his power: but we cannot, consistently with the -principles of reason or of sound faith, suppose him to utter what is -contrary to reason, though it may be different from it. Revelation -utters a voice in the silence of reason, but does not contradict it: it -throws a light on objects too distant for the unassisted eye to behold. -But it does not pervert our natural organs of vision, with respect to -objects within their reach. Reason and religion are therefore -consistent, but not the same, nor equally self-evident. All this, we -think, is clear and plain. But Mr. Coleridge likes to darken and perplex -every question of which he treats. So, in the passage above quoted, he -affirms that Religion is its own evidence, to confound one class of -readers; and he afterwards asserts that Reason is founded on faith, to -astonish another. He proceeds indeed by the _differential method_ in all -questions; and his chief care, in which he is tolerably successful, is -not to agree with any set of men or opinions. We pass over his Jeremiad -on the French Revolution,—his discovery that the state of public opinion -has a considerable influence on the state of public affairs, -particularly in turbulent times,—his apology for imitating St. Paul by -quoting Shakespear, and many others: for if we were to collect all the -riches of absurdity in this Discourse, we should never have done. But -there is one passage, upon which he has plainly taken so much pains, -that we _must_ give it. - -‘A calm and detailed examination of the facts, justifies me to my own -mind, in hazarding the bold assertion, that the fearful blunders of the -late dread Revolution, and all the calamitous mistakes of its opponents, -from its commencement even to the era of loftier principles and wiser -measures (an era, that began with, and ought to be named from, the war -of the Spanish and Portuguese insurgents), every failure, with all its -gloomy results, may be unanswerably deduced, from the neglect of some -maxim or other that had been established by clear reasoning and plain -facts, in the writings of Thucydides, Tacitus, Machiavel, Bacon, or -Harrington. These are red-letter names, even in the almanacks of worldly -wisdom: and yet I dare challenge all the critical benches of infidelity, -to point out any one important truth, any one efficient practical -direction or warning, which did not preexist, and for the most part in a -sounder, more intelligible, and more comprehensive form IN THE BIBLE.’ - -‘In addition to this, the Hebrew legislator, and the other inspired -poets, prophets, historians and moralists, of the Jewish church, have -two immense advantages in their favour. First, their particular rules -and prescripts flow directly and visibly from universal principles, as -from a fountain: they flow from principles and ideas that are not so -properly said to be confirmed by reason, as to be reason itself! -Principles, in act and procession, disjoined from which, and from the -emotions that inevitably accompany the actual intuition of their truth, -the widest maxims of prudence are like arms without hearts, muscles -without nerves. Secondly, from the very nature of these principles, as -taught in the Bible, they are understood, in exact proportion as they -are believed and felt. The regulator is never separated from the main -spring. For the words of the Apostle are literally and philosophically -true: _We_ (that is the human race) _live by faith_. Whatever we do or -know, that in kind is different from the brute creation, has its origin -in a determination of the reason to have faith and trust in itself. -This, its first act of faith, is scarcely less than identical with its -own being. _Implicité_, it is the copula—it contains the -_possibility_—of every position, to which there exists any -correspondence in reality. It is itself, therefore, the realizing -principle, the spiritual substratum of the whole complex body of truths. -This primal act of faith is enunciated in the word, God: a faith not -derived from experience, but its ground and source; and without which, -the fleeting _chaos of facts_ would no more form experience, than the -dust of the grave can of itself make a living man. The imperative and -oracular form of the inspired Scripture, is _the form of reason itself_, -in all things purely rational and moral. - -‘If it be the word of Divine Wisdom, we might anticipate, that it would -in all things be distinguished from other books, as the Supreme Reason, -whose knowledge is creative, and antecedent to the things known, is -distinguished from the understanding, or creaturely mind of the -individual, the acts of which are posterior to the things it records and -arranges. Man alone was created in the image of God: a position -groundless and inexplicable, if _the reason_ in man do not differ from -_the understanding_. For this the inferior animals (many at least) -possess _in degree_: and assuredly the divine image or idea is not a -thing of degrees,’ &c. &c. &c. - -There is one short passage, just afterwards, in which the author makes -an easy transition from cant to calumny: and, with equal credit and -safety to himself, insults and traduces the dead. ‘One confirmation of -the latter assertion you may find in the history of our country, written -by the same Scotch Philosopher, who devoted his life to the undermining -of the Christian Religion; and _expended his last breath in a -blasphemous regret, that he had not survived it_!’ This last assertion -is a gratuitous poetical fabrication, as mean as it is malignant. With -respect to Mr. Hume’s History, here spoken of with ignorant petulance, -it is beyond dispute the most judicious, profound, and acute of all -historical compositions, though the friends of liberty may admit, with -the advocate of servility, that it has its defects;—and the scepticism -into which its ingenious and most amiable author was betrayed in matters -of religion, must always be lamented by the lovers of genius and virtue. -The venom of the sting meant to be inflicted on the memory of ‘the -Scotch Philosopher,’ seems to have returned to the writer’s own bosom, -and to have exhausted itself in the following bloated passage. - -‘At the annunciation of PRINCIPLES, of IDEAS, the soul of man awakes, -and starts up, as an exile in a far distant land at the unexpected -sounds of his native language, when, after long years of absence, and -almost of oblivion, he is suddenly addressed in his own mother tongue. -He weeps for joy, and embraces the speaker as his brother. _How else can -we explain the fact so honourable to Great Britain,[7] that the poorest -amongst us will contend with as much enthusiasm as the richest for the -rights of property?_ These rights are the spheres and necessary -conditions of free agency. But free agency contains the idea of the free -will; and in this he intuitively knows the sublimity, and the infinite -hopes, fears, and capabilities of his own (English) nature. On what -other ground but the _cognateness of ideas_ and principles to man as -man, does the nameless soldier rush to the combat in defence of the -liberties or _the honour_ of his country? Even men, wofully neglectful -of the principles of religion, will shed their blood for its truth.’ p. -30. - -How does this passage agree with Mr. C.’s general contempt of mankind, -and that especial aversion to ‘Mob-Sycophancy’ which has marked him from -the cradle, and which formerly led him to give up the periodical paper -of the Watchman, and to break off in the middle of his ‘_Conciones ad -Populum_?’ A few plain instincts, and a little common sense, are all -that the most popular of our popular writers attribute to the people, or -rely on for their success in addressing them. But Mr. Coleridge, the -mob-hating Mr. Coleridge, here supposes them intuitively to perceive the -cabalistical visions of German metaphysics; and compliments the poorest -peasant, and the nameless soldier, not only on the cognateness of their -ideas and principles to man as man, but on their immediate and joyous -excitation at the mere annunciation of such delightful things as -‘_Principles_ and _Ideas_.’ Our mystic, in a Note, finds a confirmation -of this cognateness of the most important truths to the vulgarest of the -people, in ‘an anecdote told with much humour in one of Goldsmith’s -Essays.’ Poor Goldy! How he would have stared at this transcendental -inference from his humorous anecdote! He would have felt as awkwardly as -Gulliver did, when the monkey at the palace of Brobdignag took him an -airing on the tiles, and almost broke his neck by the honour. Mr. -Coleridge’s patronage is of the same unwieldy kind.—The Preacher next -gives his authorities for reading the Scriptures. They are—Heraclitus -and Horace.—In earnest? In good sooth, and in sad and sober earnest. - -‘Or would you wish for authorities?—for great examples?—You may find -them in the writings of Thuanus, of Lord Clarendon, of Sir Thomas More, -of Raleigh; and in the life and letters of the heroic Gustavus Adolphus. -But these, though eminent statesmen, were Christians, and might lie -under the thraldom of habit and prejudice. I will refer you then to -authorities of two great men, both Pagans; but removed from each other -by many centuries, and not more distant in their ages than in their -characters and situations. The first shall be that of Heraclitus, the -sad and recluse philosopher. Πολυμαθιη νοον οὐ διδασκει· Σιβυλλα δε -μαινομενᾳ στόματι αγελαστα και ακαλλωπιστα και αμυριστα φθεγγομενη, -χιλιων ετων εξικνεται τῃ φωνῃ δια τον θεον.[8] Shall we hesitate to -apply to the prophets of God, what could be affirmed of the Sibylls by a -philosopher whom Socrates, the prince of philosophers, venerated for the -profundity of his wisdom? - -‘For the other, I will refer you to the darling of the polished court of -Augustus, to the man whose works have been in all ages deemed the models -of good sense, and are still the pocket-companions of those who pride -themselves on uniting the scholar with the gentleman. This accomplished -man of the world has given an account of the subjects of conversation -between the illustrious statesmen who governed, and the brightest -luminaries who then adorned, the empire of the civilized world— - - ‘Sermo oritur non de villis domibusve alienis - Nec, male, nec ne lepus saltet. Sed quod magis ad nos - Pertinet, et nescire malum est, agitamus: utrumne - Divitiis homines, an sint virtute beati? - Et qua sit natura boni? summumque quid eius?’ - -It is not easy to conceive any thing better than this;—only the next -passage beats it hollow, and is itself surpassed by the one after it, -‘as Alps o’er Alps arise.’ - -So far Mr. Coleridge has indulged himself in ‘a preparatory heat,’ and -said nothing about the Bible. But now he girds himself up for his main -purpose, places himself at the helm, and undertakes to conduct the -statesman to his desired haven in Scripture prophecy and history. ‘But -do you require some one or more particular passage from the Bible, that -may at once illustrate and exemplify its applicability to the changes -and fortunes of empires? Of the numerous chapters that relate to the -Jewish tribes, their enemies and allies, before and after their division -into two kingdoms, it would be more difficult to state a single one, -from which some guiding light might _not_ be struck.’ Does Mr. Coleridge -then condescend to oblige us with any one? Nothing can be farther from -his thoughts. He is here off again at a tangent, and does not return to -the subject for the next seven pages. When he does—it is in the -following explicit manner.—‘But I refer to the demand. _Were it my -object to touch on the present state of public affairs in this kingdom, -or on the prospective measures in agitation respecting our sister -island, I would direct your most serious meditations to the latter -period of the reign of Solomon, and to the revolutions in the reign of -Rehoboam, his successor. But I should tread on glowing embers: I will -turn to the causes of the revolution, and fearful chastisement of -France._’ Let the reader turn to the first book of Kings, in which the -parallel passage to our own history at the present crisis stands, -according to our author, so alarmingly conspicuous; and he will not be -surprised that Mr. Coleridge found himself ‘treading on glowing embers.’ -The insidious loyalty or covert Jacobinism of this same parallel, which -he declines drawing on account of its extreme applicability, is indeed -beyond our comprehension, and not a less ‘curious specimen of -psychology,’ than the one immediately preceding it, in which he proves -the doctrine of _divine right_ to be revealed in an especial manner in -the Hebrew Scriptures. - -We should proceed to notice that part of the Sermon, where the orator -rails at the public praises of Dr. Bell, and abuses Joseph Lancaster, -_con amore_. Nothing more flat and vapid, in wit or argument, was ever -put before the public, which he treats with such contempt. Of the wit, -take the following choice sample. - -‘But the phrase of the READING PUBLIC, which occasioned this note, -brings to my mind the mistake of a lethargic Dutch traveller, who -returning highly gratified from a showman’s caravan, which he had been -tempted to enter by the words, THE LEARNED PIG, gilt on the pannels, met -another caravan of a similar shape, with THE READING FLY on it, in -letters of the same size and splendour. “Why, dis is voonders above -voonders!” exclaims the Dutchman; takes his seat as first comer; and, -soon fatigued by waiting, and by the very hush and intensity of his -expectation, gives way to his constitutional somnolence, from which he -is roused by the supposed showman at Hounslow, with a—“_In what name, -Sir! was your place taken? Are you booked all the way for Reading?_”—Now -a Reading Public is (to my mind) more marvellous still, and in the third -tier of “voonders above voonders!”’ - -Mr. Coleridge’s wit and sentimentality do not seem to have settled -accounts together; for in the very next page after this ‘third tier of -wonders,’ he says— - -‘And here my apprehensions point to two opposite errors. The first -consists in a disposition to think, that as the peace of nations has -been disturbed by the diffusion of a false light, it may be -re-established by excluding the people from all knowledge and all -prospect of amelioration. O! never, never! Reflection and stirrings of -mind, with all their restlessness, and all the errors that result from -their imperfection, from the _Too much_, because _Too little_, are come -into the world. The powers that awaken and foster the spirit of -curiosity, are to be found in every village: Books are in every hovel: -The infant’s cries are hushed with _picture_-books: and the Cottager’s -child sheds its first bitter tears over pages, which render it -impossible for the man to be treated or governed as a child. Here, as in -so many other cases, the inconveniences that have arisen from a thing’s -having become too general, are best removed by making it universal.’ p. -49. - -And yet, with Mr. Coleridge, a reading public is ‘voonders above -voonders’—a strange phrase, and yet no fiction! The public is become a -reading public, down to the cottager’s child; and he thanks God for -it—for that great moral steam-engine, Dr. Bell’s original and -unsophisticated plan, which he considers as an especial gift of -Providence to the human race—thus about to be converted into one great -reading public; and yet he utters his _Profaccia_ upon it with a -desponding sigh; and proposes, as a remedy, to put this spirit which has -gone forth, under the tutelage of churchwardens, to cant against -‘liberal ideas,’ and ‘the jargon of this enlightened age;’—in other -words, to turn this vast machine against itself, and make it a go-cart -of corruption, servility, superstition and tyranny. Mr. Coleridge’s -first horror is, that there should be a reading public: his next hope is -to prevent them from reaping an atom of benefit from ‘reflection and -stirrings of mind, with all their restlessness.’ - -The conclusion of this discourse is even more rhapsodical than the -former part of it; and we give the pulpit or rostrum from which Mr. -Coleridge is supposed to deliver it, ‘high enthroned above all height,’ -the decided preference over that throne of dulness and of nonsense which -Pope did erst erect for the doubtful merits of Colley and Sir Richard. - -The notes are better, and but a little better than the text. We might -select, as specimens of laborious foolery, the passage in which the -writer defends _second sight_, to prove that he has unjustly been -accused of visionary paradox, or hints that a disbelief in ghosts and -witches is no great sign of the wisdom of the age, or that in which he -gives us to understand that Sir Isaac Newton was a great astrologer, or -Mr. Locke no conjurer. But we prefer (for our limits are straitened) the -author’s description of a green field, which he prefaces by observing, -that ‘the book of Nature has been the music of gentle and pious minds in -all ages; and that it is the poetry of all human nature to read it -likewise in a figurative sense, and to find therein correspondences and -symbols of a spiritual nature.’ - - -MR. COLERIDGE’S DESCRIPTION OF A GREEN FIELD. - -‘I have at this moment before me, in the flowery meadow on which my eye -is now reposing, one of Nature’s most soothing chapters, in which there -is no lamenting word, no one character of guilt or anguish. For never -can I look and meditate on the vegetable creation, without a feeling -similar to that with which we gaze at a beautiful infant that has fed -itself asleep at its mother’s bosom, and smiles in its strange dream of -obscure yet happy sensations. The same tender and genial pleasure takes -possession of me, and this pleasure is checked and drawn inward by the -like aching melancholy, by the same whispered remonstrance, and made -restless by a similar impulse of aspiration. It seems as if the soul -said to herself—“From this state” (from that of a flowery meadow) “hast -_thou_ fallen! Such shouldst thou still become, thyself all permeable to -a holier power! Thyself at once hidden and glorified by its own -transparency, as the accidental and dividuous in this quiet and -harmonious object is subjected to the life and light of nature which -shines in it, even as the transmitted power, love and wisdom, of God -over all fills, and shines through, Nature! But what the plant _is_, by -an act not its own, and unconsciously—_that_ must thou _make_ thyself to -_become_! must by prayer, and by a watchful and unresisting spirit, -_join_ at least with the preventive and assisting grace to _make_ -thyself, in that light of conscience which inflameth not, and with that -knowledge which puffeth not up.”’ - -This will do. It is well observed by Hobbes, that ‘it is by means of -words only that a man becometh excellently wise or excellently foolish.’ - - - COLERIDGE’S LITERARY LIFE - - VOL. XXVIII.] [_August 1817._ - -There are some things readable in these volumes; and if the learned -author could only have been persuaded to make them a little more -conformable to their title, we have no doubt that they would have been -the most popular of all his productions. Unfortunately, however, this -work is not so properly an account of his Life and Opinions, as an -Apology for them. ‘It will be found,’ says our Auto-Biographer, ‘that -the least of what I have written concerns myself personally.’ What then, -it may be asked, is the work taken up with? With the announcement of an -explanation of the author’s Political and Philosophical creed, to be -contained in another work—with a prefatory introduction of 200 pages to -an Essay on the difference between Fancy and Imagination, which was -intended to form part of this, but has been suppressed, at the request -of a judicious friend, as unintelligible—with a catalogue of Mr. -Southey’s domestic virtues, and author-like qualifications—a candid -defence of the Lyrical Ballads—a critique on Mr. Wordsworth’s -poetry—quotations from the Friend—and attacks on the Edinburgh Review. -There are, in fact, only two or three passages in the work which relate -to the details of the author’s life,—such as the account of his -school-education, and of his setting up the Watchman newspaper. We shall -make sure of the first of these curious documents, before we completely -lose ourselves in the multiplicity of his speculative opinions. - -‘At school, I enjoyed the inestimable advantage of a very sensible, -though at the same time, a very severe master, the Rev. James Bowyer, -many years Head Master of the Grammar-School, Christ’s Hospital. He -early moulded my taste to the preference of Demosthenes to Cicero, of -Homer and Theocritus to Virgil, and again, of Virgil to Ovid. He -habituated me to compare Lucretius (in such extracts as I then read), -Terence, and, above all, the chaster poems of Catullus, not only with -the Roman poets of the so called silver and brazen ages, but with even -those of the Augustan era; and, on grounds of plain sense, and universal -logic, to see and assert the superiority of the former, in the truth and -nativeness both of their thoughts and diction. At the same time that we -were studying the Greek tragic poets, he made us read Shakespeare and -Milton as lessons: and they were the lessons, too, which required most -time and trouble to _bring up_, so as to escape his censure. I learnt -from him, that Poetry, even that of the loftiest, and, seemingly, that -of the wildest odes, had a logic of its own, as severe as that of -science; and more difficult, because more subtle, more complex, and -dependent on more, and more fugitive causes. In the truly great poets, -he would say, there is a reason assignable, not only for every word, but -for the position of every word; and I well remember, that, availing -himself of the synonimes to the Homer of Didymus, he made us attempt to -show, with regard to each, _why_ it would not have answered the same -purpose; and _wherein_ consisted the peculiar fitness of the word in the -original text. - -‘I had just entered on my seventeenth year, when the Sonnets of Mr. -Bowles, twenty in number, and just then published in a quarto pamphlet, -were first made known and presented to me, by a school-fellow who had -quitted us for the University, and who, during the whole time that he -was in our first form (or, in our school language, a GRECIAN), had been -my patron and protector. I refer to Dr. Middleton, the truly learned, -and every way excellent Bishop of Calcutta— - - ‘Qui laudibus amplis - Ingenium celebrare meum, calamumque solebat, - Calcar agens animo validum. Non omnia terræ - Obruta! Vivit amor, vivit dolor! Ora negatur - Dulcia conspicere; at flere et meminisse relictum est.’ - _Petr. Ep. Lib. 7. Ep. 1._ - -‘It was a double pleasure to me, and still remains a tender -recollection, that I should have received from a friend so revered, the -first knowledge of a poet, by whose works, year after year, I was so -enthusiastically delighted and inspired. My earliest acquaintances will -not have forgotten the undisciplined eagerness and impetuous zeal, with -which I laboured to make proselytes, not only of my companions, but of -all with whom I conversed, of whatever rank, and in whatever place. As -my school finances did not permit me to purchase copies, I made, within -less than a year and an half, more than forty transcriptions, as the -best presents I could offer to those who had in any way won my regard. -And, with almost equal delight, did I receive the three or four -following publications of the same author. - -‘Though I have seen and known enough of mankind to be well aware that I -shall perhaps stand alone in my creed, and that it will be well, if I -subject myself to no worse charge than that of singularity; I am not -therefore deterred from avowing, that I regard, and ever have regarded -the obligations of intellect among the most sacred of the claims of -gratitude. A valuable thought, or a particular train of thoughts, gives -me additional pleasure, when I can safely refer and attribute it to the -conversation or correspondence of another. My obligations to Mr. Bowles -were indeed important, and for radical good. _At a very premature age, -even before my fifteenth year, I had bewildered myself in metaphysicks, -and in theological controversy. Nothing else pleased me. History, and -particular facts, lost all interest in my mind._ Poetry (though for a -schoolboy of that age, I was above par in English versification, and had -already produced two or three compositions which, I may venture to say, -without reference to my age, were somewhat above mediocrity, and which -had gained me more credit, than the sound, good sense of my old master -was at all pleased with)—_poetry itself, yea novels and romances, became -insipid to me_. In my friendless wanderings on our _leave-days_, (for I -was an orphan, and had scarcely any connexions in London), highly was I -delighted, if any passenger, especially if he were drest in black, would -enter into conversation with me. For I soon found the means of directing -it to my favourite subjects - - Of providence, fore-knowledge, will, and fate, - Fix’d fate, free-will, fore-knowledge absolute, - And found no end in wandering mazes lost. - -‘This preposterous pursuit was, beyond doubt, injurious, both to my -natural powers, and to the progress of my education. It would perhaps -have been destructive, had it been continued; but from this I was -auspiciously withdrawn, partly indeed by an accidental introduction to -an amiable family, chiefly however by the genial influence of a style of -poetry, so tender, and yet so manly, so natural and real, and yet so -dignified and harmonious, as the sonnets, &c. of Mr. Bowles! Well were -it for me, perhaps, had I never relapsed into the same mental disease; -if I had continued to pluck the flower, and reap the harvest from the -cultivated surface, instead of delving in the unwholesome quicksilver -mines of metaphysic depths. But if in after-time I have sought a refuge -from bodily pain and mismanaged sensibility, in abstruse researches, -which exercised the strength and subtlety of the understanding, without -awakening the feelings of the heart; still there was a long and blessed -interval, during which my natural faculties were allowed to expand, and -my original tendencies to develop themselves—my fancy, and the love of -nature, and the sense of beauty in forms and sounds.’ p. 17. - -Mr. Coleridge seems to us, from this early association, to overrate the -merits of Bowles’s Sonnets, which he prefers to Warton’s, which last we, -in our turn, prefer to Wordsworth’s, and indeed to any Sonnets in the -language. He cannot, however, be said to overrate the extent of the -intellectual obligations which he thinks he owes to his favourite -writer. If the study of Mr. Bowles’s poems could have effected a -permanent cure of that ‘preposterous’ state of mind which he has above -described, his gratitude, we admit, should be boundless: But the -disease, we fear, was in the mind itself; and the study of poetry, -instead of counteracting, only gave force to the original propensity; -and Mr. Coleridge has ever since, from the combined forces of poetic -levity and metaphysic bathos, been trying to fly, not in the air, but -under ground—playing at hawk and buzzard between sense and -nonsense,—floating or sinking in fine Kantean categories, in a state of -suspended animation ’twixt dreaming and awake,—quitting the plain ground -of ‘history and particular facts’ for the first butterfly theory, -fancy-bred from the maggots of his brain,—going up in an air-balloon -filled with fetid gas from the writings of Jacob Behmen and the mystics, -and coming down in a parachute made of the soiled and fashionable leaves -of the Morning Post,—promising us an account of the Intellectual System -of the Universe, and putting us off with a reference to a promised -dissertation on the Logos, introductory to an intended commentary on the -entire Gospel of St. John. In the above extract, he tells us, with a -degree of _naïveté_ not usual with him, that, ‘even before his fifteenth -year, history and particular facts had lost all interest in his mind.’ -Yet, so little is he himself aware of the influence which this feeling -still continues to exert over his mind, and of the way in which it has -mixed itself up in his philosophical faith, that he afterwards makes it -the test and definition of a sound understanding and true genius, that -‘the mind is affected by thoughts, rather than by things; and only then -feels the _requisite_ interest even for the most important events and -accidents, when by means of meditation they have passed into -_thoughts_.’ p. 30. We do not see, after this, what right Mr. C. has to -complain of those who say that he is neither the most literal nor -logical of mortals; and the worst that has ever been said of him is, -that he is the least so. If it is the proper business of the philosopher -to dream over theories, and to neglect or gloss over facts, to fit them -to his theories or his conscience; we confess we know of few writers, -ancient or modern, who have come nearer to the perfection of this -character than the author before us. - -After a desultory and unsatisfactory attempt (Chap. II.) to account for -and disprove the common notion of the irritability of authors, Mr. -Coleridge proceeds (by what connexion we know not) to a full, true and -particular account of the personal, domestic, and literary habits of his -friend Mr. Southey,—to all which we have but one objection, namely, that -it seems quite unnecessary, as we never heard them impugned,—except -indeed by the Antijacobin writers, here quoted by Mr. Coleridge, who is -no less impartial as a friend, than candid as an enemy. The passage -altogether is not a little remarkable. - -‘It is not, however,’ says our author, ‘from grateful recollections -only, that I have been impelled thus to leave these my deliberate -sentiments on record; but in some sense as a debt of justice to the man, -whose name has been so often connected with mine, for evil to which he -is a stranger. As a specimen, I subjoin part of a note from the -‘Beauties of the Anti-Jacobin,’ in which, having previously informed the -Public that I had been dishonoured at Cambridge for preaching Deism, at -a time when, for my youthful ardour in defence of Christianity, I was -decried as a bigot by the proselytes of French philosophy, the writer -concludes with these words—‘_Since this time he has left his native -country, commenced citizen of the world, left his poor children -fatherless, and his wife destitute. Ex his disce his friends, Lamb and -Southey._’ ‘With severest truth,’ continues Mr. Coleridge, ‘it may be -asserted, that it would not be easy to select two men more exemplary in -their domestic affections, than those whose names were thus printed at -full length, as in the same rank of morals with a denounced infidel and -fugitive, who had left his children fatherless, and his wife destitute! -_Is it surprising that many good men remained longer than perhaps they -otherwise would have done, adverse to a party which encouraged and -openly rewarded the authors of such atrocious calumnies?_’ p. 71. - -With us, we confess the wonder does not lie there:—all that surprises us -is, that the objects of these atrocious calumnies were _ever_ reconciled -to the authors of them;—for the calumniators were the party itself. The -Cannings, the Giffords, and the Freres, have never made any apology for -the abuse which they then heaped upon every nominal friend of freedom; -and yet Mr. Coleridge thinks it necessary to apologize in the name of -all good men, for having remained so long adverse to a party which -recruited upon such a bounty; and seems not obscurely to intimate that -they had such effectual means of propagating their slanders against -those good men who differed with them, that most of the latter found -there was no other way of keeping their good name but by giving up their -principles, and joining in the same venal cry against all those who did -not become apostates or converts, ministerial Editors, and -‘laurel-honouring Laureates’ like themselves!—What! at the very moment -when this writer is complaining of a foul and systematic conspiracy -against the characters of himself, and his most intimate friends, he -suddenly stops short in his half-finished burst of involuntary -indignation, and ends with a lamentable affectation of surprise at the -otherwise unaccountable slowness of good men in yielding implicit -confidence to a party, who had such powerful arts of conversion in their -hands,—who could with impunity, and triumphantly, take away by atrocious -calumnies the characters of all who disdained to be their tools, and -rewarded with honours, places, and pensions all those who were. This is -pitiful enough, we confess; but it is too painful to be dwelt on. - -Passing from the Laureate’s old Antijacobin, to his present -Antiministerial persecutors—‘_Publicly_,’ exclaims Mr. Coleridge, ‘has -Mr. Southey been reviled by men, who (I would fain hope, for the honour -of human nature) hurled fire-brands against a figure of their own -imagination,—_publicly_ have his talents been depreciated, his -principles denounced.’ This is very fine and lofty, no doubt; but we -wish Mr. C. would speak a little plainer. Mr. Southey has come -voluntarily before the public; and all the world has a right to speak of -his publications. It is those only that have been either depreciated or -denounced. We are not aware, at least, of any attacks that have been -made, publicly or privately, on his private life or morality. The charge -is, that he wrote democratical nonsense in his youth; and that he has -not only taken to write against democracy in his maturer age, but has -abused and reviled those who adhere to his former opinions; and accepted -of emoluments from the party which formerly calumniated him, for those -good services. Now, what has Mr. Coleridge to oppose to this? Mr. -Southey’s private character! He evades the only charge brought against -him, by repelling one not brought against him, except by his Antijacobin -patrons—and answers for his friend, as if he was playing at -cross-purposes. Some people say, that Mr. Southey has deserted the cause -of liberty: Mr. Coleridge tells us, that he has not separated from his -wife. They say, that he has changed his opinions: Mr. Coleridge says, -that he keeps his appointments; and has even invented a new word, -_reliability_, to express his exemplariness in this particular. It is -also objected, that the worthy Laureate was as extravagant in his early -writings, as he is virulent in his present ones: Mr. Coleridge answers, -that he is an early riser, and not a late sitter up. It is further -alleged, that he is arrogant and shallow in political discussion, and -clamours for vengeance in a cowardly and intemperate tone: Mr. Coleridge -assures us, that he eats, drinks, and sleeps moderately. It is said that -he must either have been very hasty in taking up his first opinions, or -very unjustifiable in abandoning them for their contraries; and Mr. -Coleridge observes, that Mr. Southey exhibits, in his own person and -family, all the regularity and praiseworthy punctuality of an eight-day -clock. With all this we have nothing to do. Not only have we said -nothing against this gentleman’s private virtues, but we have regularly -borne testimony to his talents and attainments as an author, while we -have been compelled to take notice of his defects. Till this panegyric -of Mr. Coleridge, indeed, we do not know where there was so much praise -of him to be found as in our pages. Does Mr. Coleridge wish to get a -monopoly for criticising the works of his friends? If we had a -particular grudge against any of them, we might perhaps apply to him for -his assistance. - -Of Mr. Southey’s prose writings we have had little opportunity to speak; -but we should speak moderately. He has a clear and easy style, and -brings a large share of information to most subjects he handles. But, on -practical and political matters, we cannot think him a writer of any -weight. He has too little sympathy with the common pursuits, the -follies, the vices, and even the virtues of the rest of mankind, to have -any tact or depth of insight into the actual characters or manners of -men. He is in this respect a mere bookworm, shut up in his study, and -too attentive to his literary duty to mind what is passing about him. He -has no humour. His wit is at once scholastic and vulgar. As to general -principles of any sort, we see no traces of any thing like them in any -of his writings. He shows the same contempt for abstract reasoning that -Mr. Coleridge has for ‘history and particular facts.’ Even his intimacy -with the metaphysical author of the ‘Friend,’ with whom he has chimed -in, both in poetry and politics, in verse and prose, in Jacobinism and -Antijacobinism, any time these twenty years, has never inoculated him -with the most distant admiration of Hartley, or Berkeley, or Jacob -Behmen, or Spinosa, or Kant, or Fichte, or Schelling. His essays are in -fact the contents of his common-place-book, strung together with little -thought or judgment, and rendered marketable by their petulant -adaptation to party-purposes—‘full of wise saws and modern -instances’—with assertions for proofs—conclusions that savour more of a -hasty temper than patient thinking—supported by learned authorities that -oppress the slenderness of his materials, and quarrel with one another. -But our business is not with him; and we leave him to his studies. - -With chap. IV. begins the formidable ascent of that mountainous and -barren ridge of clouds piled on precipices and precipices on clouds, -from the top of which the author deludes us with a view of the Promised -Land that divides the regions of Fancy from those of the Imagination, -and extends through 200 pages with various inequalities and declensions -to the end of the volume. The object of this long-winding metaphysical -march, which resembles a patriarchal journey, is to point out and settle -the true grounds of Mr. Wordsworth’s claim to originality as a poet; -which, if we rightly understand the deduction, turns out to be, that -there is nothing peculiar about him; and that his poetry, in so far as -it is good for anything at all, is just like any other good poetry. The -learned author, indeed, judiciously observes, that Mr. Wordsworth would -never have been ‘idly and absurdly’ considered as ‘the founder of a -school in poetry,’ if he had not, by some strange mistake, announced the -fact himself in his preface to the Lyrical Ballads. This, it must be -owned, looks as if Mr. Wordsworth thought more of his _peculiar_ -pretensions than Mr. Coleridge appears to do, and really furnishes some -excuse for those who took the poet at his word; for which idle and hasty -conclusion, moreover, his friend acknowledges that _there was_ some -little foundation in diverse silly and puerile passages of that -collection, equally unworthy of the poet’s great genius and classical -taste. - -We shall leave it to Mr. Wordsworth, however, to settle the relative -worthlessness of these poems with his critical patron, and also to -ascertain whether his commentator has discovered, either his _real_ or -his _probable_ meaning in writing that Preface,—and should now proceed -with Mr. Coleridge up those intricate and inaccessible steeps to which -he invites our steps. ‘It has been hinted,’ says he, with characteristic -simplicity, ‘that metaphysics and psychology have long been my -hobby-horse. But to have a hobby-horse, and to be vain of it, are so -commonly found together, that they pass almost for the same.’ _We own -the soft impeachment_, as Mrs. Malaprop says, and can with difficulty -resist the temptation of accepting this invitation—especially as it is -accompanied with a sort of challenge. ‘Those at least,’ he adds, ‘who -have taken so much pains to render me ridiculous for a perversion of -taste, and have supported the charge by attributing strange notions to -me, on no other authority than their own conjectures, owe it to -themselves as well as to me, not to refuse their attention to my own -statement of the theory which I _do_ acknowledge, or shrink from the -trouble of examining the grounds on which I rest it, or the arguments -which I offer in its justification.’ But, in spite of all this, we must -not give way to temptation—and cannot help feeling, that the whole of -this discussion is so utterly unreadable in Mr. Coleridge, that it would -be most presumptuous to hope that it would become otherwise in our -hands. We shall dismiss the whole of this metaphysical investigation, -therefore, into the law of association and the nature of fancy, by -shortly observing, that we can by no means agree with Mr. C. in refusing -to Hobbes the merit of originality in promulgating that law, with its -consequences—that we agree with him, generally, in his refutation of -Hartley—and that we totally dissent from his encomium on Kant and his -followers. - -With regard to the claims of the philosopher of Malmesbury as the first -discoverer of the principle of association, as it is now understood -among metaphysicians, Mr. C. thinks fit to deny it _in toto_, because -Descartes’s work, ‘De Methodo,’ in which there is an intimation of the -same doctrine, preceded Hobbes’s ‘De Natura Humana’ _by a whole -year_.—What an interval to invent and mature a whole system in!—But we -conceive that Hobbes has a strict claim to the merit of originality in -this respect, because he is the first writer who laid down this -principle as _the sole and universal law_ of connexion among our -ideas:—which principle Hartley afterwards illustrated and applied to an -infinite number of particular cases, but did not assert the general -theorem itself more broadly or explicitly. We deny that the statement of -this principle, as _the_ connecting band of our ideas, is to be found in -any of those writers before Hobbes, whom Mr. Coleridge enumerates; -Descartes or Melancthon, or those more ‘illustrious obscure,’ Ammerbach, -or Ludovicus Vives, or even Aristotle. It is not the having remarked, -that association was one source of connexion among certain ideas, that -would anticipate this discovery or the theory of Hartley; but the -asserting, that this principle was alone sufficient to account for every -operation of the human mind, and that there was no other source of -connexion among our ideas,—a proposition which Hobbes was undoubtedly -the first to assert, and by the assertion of which he did certainly -anticipate the system of Hartley; for all that the latter could do, or -has attempted to do, after this, was to prove the proposition in detail, -or to reduce all the phenomena to this one general law. That Hobbes was -in fact the original inventor of the doctrine of Association, and of the -modern system of philosophy in general, is matter of fact and history; -as to which, we are surprised that Mr. C. should profess any doubt, and -which we had gratified ourselves by illustrating by a series of -citations from his greater works,—which nothing but a sense of the -prevailing indifference to such discussions prevents us from laying -before our readers. - -As for the great German oracle Kant, we must take the liberty to say, -that his system appears to us the most wilful and monstrous absurdity -that ever was invented. If the French theories of the mind were too -chemical, this is too mechanical:—if the one referred every thing to -nervous sensibility, the other refers every thing to the test of -muscular resistance, and voluntary prowess. It is an enormous heap of -dogmatical and hardened assertions, advanced in contradiction to all -former systems, and all unsystematical opinions and impressions. He has -but one method of getting over difficulties:—when he is at a loss to -account for any thing, and cannot give a reason for it, he turns short -round upon the inquirer, and says that it is self-evident. If he cannot -make good an inference upon acknowledged premises, or known methods of -reasoning, he coolly refers the whole to a new class of ideas, and the -operation of some unknown faculty, which he has invented for the -purpose, and which he assures you _must_ exist,—because there is no -other proof of it. His whole theory is machinery and scaffolding—an -elaborate account of what he has undertaken to do, because no one else -has been able to do it—and an _assumption_ that he has done it, because -he has undertaken it. If the will were to go for the deed, and to be -confident were to be wise, he would indeed be the prince of -philosophers. For example, he sets out with urging the indispensable -necessity of answering Hume’s argument on the origin of our idea of -cause and effect; and because he can find no answer to this argument, in -the experimental philosophy, he affirms, that this idea _must be_ ‘a -self-evident truth, contained in the first forms or categories of the -understanding;’ that is, the thing must be as he would have it, whether -it is so or not. Again, he argues that external objects exist because -they seem to exist; and yet he denies that we know any thing at all -about the matter, further than their appearances. He defines beauty to -be perfection, and virtue to consist in a conformity to our duty; with -other such deliberate truisms; and then represents necessity as -inconsistent with morality, and insists on the existence and certainty -of the free-will as a faculty necessary to explain the _moral sense_, -which could not exist without it. This transcendental philosopher is -also pleased to affirm, in so many words, that we have neither any -possible idea, nor any possible proof of the existence of the Soul, God, -or Immortality, by means of the ordinary faculties of sense, -understanding, or reason; and he therefore (like a man who had been -employed to construct a machine for some particular purpose), invents a -new faculty, for the admission and demonstration of these important -truths, _namely, the practical reason_; in other words, the will or -determination that these things should be infinitely true because they -are infinitely desirable to the human mind,—though he says it is -impossible for the human mind to have any idea whatever of these -objects, either as true or desirable. But we turn gladly from -absurdities that have not even the merit of being amusing; and leave Mr. -Coleridge to the undisturbed adoration of an idol who will have few -other worshippers in this country. His own speculations are, beyond all -comparison, more engaging. - -In chap. IX. Mr. Coleridge, taking leave of that ‘sound -book-learnedness’ which he had opposed, in the Lay Sermon, to the -upstart pretensions of modern literature, praises the inspired -ignorance, upward flights, and inward yearnings of Jacob Behmen, George -Fox and De Thoyras, and proceeds to defend himself against the charge of -plagiarism, of which he suspects that he may be suspected by the readers -of Schlegel and Schelling, when he comes to unfold, in fulness of time, -the mysterious laws of the drama and the human mind. And thereafter, the -‘extravagant and erring’ author takes leave of the Pantheism of Spinoza, -of Proclus, and Gemistius Pletho, of the philosopher of Nola, ‘whom the -idolaters of Rome, the predecessors of that good old man, the present -Pope, burnt as an atheist in the year 1660;’ of the _Noumenon_, or Thing -in itself; of Fichte’s ORDO ORDINANS, or exoteric God; of Simon Grynæus, -Barclay’s Argenis, and Hooker’s Ecclesiastical Polity, from whom the -author ‘cites a cluster of citations, to amuse the reader, as with a -voluntary before a sermon’—to plunge into Chap. X., entitled ‘A Chapter -of Digressions and Anecdotes, as an interlude preceding that on the -Nature and Genesis of the Imagination or Plastic Power!’ - -As this latter chapter, by the advice of a correspondent, has been -omitted, we must make the most of what is left, and ‘wander down into a -lower world obscure and wild,’ to give the reader an account of Mr. -Coleridge’s setting up the Watchman, which is one of the first things to -which he _digresses_, in the tenth chapter of his Literary Biography. -Out of regard to Mr. C. as well as to our readers, we give our longest -extract from this narrative part of the work—which is more likely to be -popular than any other part—and is, upon the whole, more pleasingly -written. We cannot say much, indeed, either for the wit or the soundness -of judgment it displays. But it is an easy, gossipping, garrulous -account of youthful adventures—by a man sufficiently fond of talking of -himself, and sufficiently disposed to magnify small matters into ideal -importance. - -‘Toward the close of the first year from the time that, in an -inauspicious hour, I left the friendly cloysters, and the happy grove of -quiet, ever-honoured, Jesus College, Cambridge, I was persuaded, by -sundry Philanthropists and Antipolemists, to set on foot a periodical -work, entitled THE WATCHMAN, that (according to the general motto of the -work) _all might know the truth, and that the truth might make us free_! -In order to exempt it from the stamp-tax, and likewise to contribute as -little as possible to the supposed guilt of a war against freedom, it -was to be published on every eighth day, thirty-two pages, large octavo, -closely printed, and price only Fourpence. Accordingly, with a flaming -prospectus, _“Knowledge is power,” &c. to try the state of the political -atmosphere_, and so forth, I set off on a tour to the North, from -Bristol to Sheffield, for the purpose of procuring customers; preaching -by the way in most of the great towns, as a hireless volunteer, in a -blue coat and white waistcoat, that not a rag of the woman of Babylon -might be seen on me. For I was at that time, and long after, though a -Trinitarian (_i.e. ad normam Platonis_) in philosophy, yet a zealous -Unitarian in religion; more accurately, I was a _psilanthropist_, one of -those who believe our Lord to have been the real son of Joseph, and who -lay the main stress on the resurrection, rather than on the crucifixion. -O! never can I remember those days with either shame or regret. For I -was most sincere, most disinterested! My opinions were indeed in many -and most important points erroneous; but my heart was single. Wealth, -rank, life itself then seemed cheap to me, compared with the interests -of (what I believed to be) the truth, and the will of my Maker. I cannot -even accuse myself of having been actuated by vanity; for in the -expansion of my enthusiasm, I did not think of _myself_ at all. - -‘My campaign commenced at Birmingham; and my first attack was on a rigid -Calvinist, a tallow-chandler by trade. He was a tall dingy man, in whom -length was so predominant over breadth, that he might almost have been -borrowed for a foundery poker. O that face! a face κατέμφασιν! I have it -before me at this moment. The lank, black, twine-like hair, -_pingui-nitescent_, cut in a straight line along the black stubble of -his thin gunpowder-eyebrows, that looked like a scorched _after-math_ -from a last week’s shaving. His coat-collar behind in perfect unison, -both of colour and lustre, with the coarse, yet glib cordage, that I -suppose he called his hair, and which, with a _bend_ inward at the nape -of the neck, (the only approach to flexure in his whole figure), slunk -in behind his waistcoat; while the countenance, lank, dark, very _hard_, -and with strong perpendicular furrows, gave me a dim notion of some one -looking at me through a _used_ gridiron, all soot, grease, and iron! But -he was one of the _thoroughbred_, a true lover of liberty; and (I was -informed) had proved to the satisfaction of many, that Mr. Pitt was one -of the horns of the second beast in the Revelation, _that spoke like a -dragon_. A person, to whom one of my letters of recommendation had been -addressed, was my introducer. It was a new event in my life, my first -_stroke_ in the new business I had undertaken, of an author; yea, and of -an author trading on his own account. My companion, after some imperfect -sentences, and a multitude of _hums_ and _haas_, abandoned the cause to -his client; and I commenced an harangue of half an hour to -Phileleutheros the tallow-chandler, varying my notes through the whole -gamut of eloquence, from the ratiocinative to the declamatory, and in -the latter, from the pathetic to the indignant. I argued, I described, I -promised, I prophesied; and, beginning with the captivity of nations, I -ended with the near approach of the millennium; finishing the whole with -some of my own verses, describing that glorious state, out of the -_Religious Musings_. - - —‘“Such delights, - As float to earth, permitted visitants! - When in some hour of solemn jubilee - The massive gates of Paradise are thrown - Wide open: and forth come in fragments wild - Sweet echoes of unearthly melodies, - And odours snatched from beds of amaranth, - And they that from the chrystal river of life - Spring up on freshen’d wings, ambrosial gales!” - -‘My taper man of lights listened with perseverant and praiseworthy -patience, though (as I was afterwards told on complaining of certain -gales that were not altogether ambrosial) it was a _melting_ day with -him. And what, Sir! (he said, after a short pause) might the cost be? -_Only_ four-pence, (O! how I felt the anti-climax, the abysmal bathos of -that _four-pence_!) _only four-pence, Sir, each Number, to be published -on every eighth day_. That comes to a deal of money at the end of a -year. And how much did you say there was to be for the money? -_Thirty-two pages, Sir! large octavo, closely printed._ Thirty and two -pages? Bless me; why, except what I does in a family way on the Sabbath, -that’s more than I ever reads, Sir! all the year round. I am as great a -one as any man in Brummagem, Sir! for liberty, and truth, and all them -sort of things; but as to this, (no offence, I hope, Sir!) I must beg to -be excused. - -‘So ended my first canvass: from causes that I shall presently mention, -I made but one other application in person. This took place at -Manchester, to a stately and opulent wholesale dealer in cottons. He -took my letter of introduction, and having perused it, measured me from -head to foot, and again from foot to head, and then asked if I had any -bill or invoice of the thing. I presented my prospectus to him; he -rapidly skimmed and hummed over the first side, and still more rapidly -the second and concluding page; crushed it within his fingers and the -palm of his hand; then most deliberately and _significantly_ rubbed and -smoothed one part against the other; and lastly, putting it into his -pocket, turned his back on me with an “_overrun_ with these articles!” -and so without another syllable retired into his counting-house—and, I -can truly say, to my unspeakable amusement. - -‘This, I have said, was my second and last attempt. On returning baffled -from the first, in which I had vainly essayed to repeat the miracle of -Orpheus with the Brummagem patriot, I dined with the tradesman who had -introduced me to him. After dinner, he importuned me to smoke a pipe -with him, and two or three other illuminati of the same rank. I -objected, both because I was engaged to spend the evening with a -minister and his friends, and because I had never smoked except once or -twice in my lifetime; and then it was herb tobacco, mixed with Oronooko. -On the assurance, however, that the tobacco was equally mild, and seeing -too that it was of a yellow colour, (not forgetting the lamentable -difficulty I have always experienced in saying, No! and in abstaining -from what the people about me were doing), I took half a pipe, filling -the lower half of the bole with salt. I was soon, however, compelled to -resign it, in consequence of a giddiness and distressful feeling in my -eyes, which, as I had drank but a single glass of ale, must, I knew, -have been the effect of the tobacco. Soon after, deeming myself -recovered, I sallied forth to my engagement; but the walk and the fresh -air brought on all the symptoms again; and I had scarcely entered the -minister’s drawing-room, and opened a small packet of letters which he -had received from Bristol for me, ere I sunk back on the sofa, in a sort -of swoon rather than sleep. Fortunately I had found just time enough to -inform him of the confused state of my feelings, and of the occasion. -For here and thus I lay, my face like a wall that is white-washing, -_deathly_ pale, and with the cold drops of perspiration running down it -from my forehead, while, one after another, there dropt in the different -gentlemen, who had been invited to meet and spend the evening with me, -to the number of from fifteen to twenty. As the poison of tobacco acts -but for a short time, I at length awoke from insensibility, and looked -around on the party; my eyes dazzled by the candles which had been -lighted in the interim. By way of relieving my embarrassment, one of the -gentlemen began the conversation with “_Have you seen a paper to-day, -Mr. Coleridge?_”—“Sir! (I replied, rubbing my eyes), I am far from -convinced, that a Christian is permitted[9] to read either newspapers or -any other works of merely political and temporary interest.” This -remark, so ludicrously inapposite to, or rather incongruous with, the -purpose for which I was known to have visited Birmingham, and to assist -me in which they were all then met, produced an involuntary and general -burst of laughter; and seldom, indeed, have I passed so many delightful -hours as I enjoyed in that room, from the moment of that laugh to an -early hour the next morning. Never, perhaps, in so mixed and numerous a -party, have I since heard conversation sustained with such animation, -enriched with such variety of information, and enlivened with such a -flow of anecdote. Both then and afterwards, they all joined in -dissuading me from proceeding with my scheme; assured me, with the most -friendly, and yet most flattering expressions, that the employment was -neither fit for me, nor I fit for the employment. Yet if I had -determined on persevering in it, they promised to exert themselves to -the utmost to procure subscribers, and insisted that I should make no -more applications in person, but carry on the canvass by proxy. The same -hospitable reception, the same dissuasion, and (that failing) the same -kind exertions in my behalf, I met with at Manchester, Derby, -Nottingham, Sheffield, indeed at every place in which I took up my -sojourn. I often recall, with affectionate pleasure, the many -respectable men who interested themselves for me, a perfect stranger to -them, not a few of whom I can still name among my friends. They will -bear witness for me, how opposite, even then, my principles were to -those of Jacobinism, or even of Democracy, and can attest the strict -accuracy of the statement which I have left on record in the 10th and -11th Numbers of _The Friend_.’ p. 174. - -We shall not stop at present to dispute with Mr. Coleridge, how far the -principles of the Watchman, and the _Conciones ad Populum_ were or were -not akin to those of the Jacobins. His style, in general, admits of a -convenient latitude of interpretation. But we think we are quite safe in -asserting, that they were still more opposite to those of the -Anti-Jacobins, and the party to which he admits he has gone over. - -Our author next gives a somewhat extraordinary account of his having -been set upon with his friend Wordsworth, by a Government spy, in his -retreat at Nether-Stowey—the most lively thing in which is, that the -said spy, who, it seems had a great red nose, and had overheard the -friends discoursing about _Spinosa_, reported to his employers, that he -could make out very little of what they said,—only he was sure they were -aware of his vicinity, as he heard them very often talking of -_Spy-nosy_! If this is not the very highest vein of wit in the world, it -must be admitted at least to be very innocent merriment. Another -excellent joke of the same character is his remark on an Earl of Cork -not paying for his copy of the _Friend_—that he might have been an Earl -of _Bottle_ for him!—We have then some memorandums of his excursion into -Germany, and the conditions on which he agreed, on his return home in -1800, to write for the Morning Post, which was at that time not a very -ministerial paper, if we remember right. - -_A propos_ of the Morning Post, Mr. C. takes occasion to eulogise the -writings of Mr. Burke, and observes, that ‘as our very sign-boards give -evidence that there has been a Titian in the world, so the essays and -leading paragraphs of our journals are so many remembrancers of Edmund -Burke.’ This is modest and natural we suppose for a newspaper editor: -But our learned author is desirous of carrying the parallel a little -further,—and assures us, that nobody can doubt of Mr. Burke’s -consistency. ‘Let the scholar,’ says our biographer, ‘who doubts this -assertion, refer only to the speeches and writings of Edmund Burke at -the commencement of the American war, and compare them with his speeches -and writings at the commencement of the French Revolution. He will find -the principles exactly the same, and the deductions the same—but the -practical inferences almost opposite in the one case from those drawn in -the other, yet in both equally legitimate and confirmed by the results.’ - -It is not without reluctance that we speak of the vices and infirmities -of such a mind as Burke’s: But the poison of high example has by far the -widest range of destruction; and, for the sake of public honour and -individual integrity, we think it right to say, that however it may be -defended upon other grounds, the political career of that eminent -individual has no title to the praise of consistency. Mr. Burke, the -opponent of the American war—and Mr. Burke, the opponent of the French -Revolution, are not the same person, but opposite persons—not opposite -persons only, but deadly enemies. In the latter period, he abandoned not -only all his practical conclusions, but all the principles on which they -were founded. He proscribed all his former sentiments, denounced all his -former friends, rejected and reviled all the maxims to which he had -formerly appealed as incontestable. In the American war, he constantly -spoke of the rights of the people as inherent, and inalienable: After -the French Revolution, he began by treating them with the chicanery of a -sophist, and ended by raving at them with the fury of a maniac. In the -former case, he held out the duty of resistance to oppression, as the -palladium, and only ultimate resource, of natural liberty; in the -latter, he scouted, prejudged, vilified and nicknamed, all resistance in -the abstract, as a foul and unnatural union of rebellion and sacrilege. -In the one case, to answer the purposes of faction, he made it out, that -the people are always in the right; in the other, to answer different -ends, he made it out that they are always in the wrong—lunatics in the -hands of their royal keepers, patients in the sick-wards of an hospital, -or felons in the condemned cells of a prison. In the one, he considered -that there was a constant tendency on the part of the prerogative to -encroach on the rights of the people, which ought always to be the -object of the most watchful jealousy, and of resistance, when necessary: -In the other, he pretended to regard it as the sole occupation and -ruling passion of those in power, to watch over the liberties and -happiness of their subjects. The burthen of all his speeches on the -American war was conciliation, concession, timely reform, as the only -practicable or desirable alternative of rebellion: The object of all his -writings on the French Revolution was, to deprecate and explode all -concession and all reform, as encouraging rebellion, and an -irretrievable step to revolution and anarchy. In the one, he insulted -kings personally, as among the lowest and worst of mankind; in the -other, he held them up to the imagination of his readers as sacred -abstractions. In the one case, he was a partisan of the people, to court -popularity; in the other, to gain the favour of the Court, he became the -apologist of all courtly abuses. In the one case, he took part with -those who were actually rebels against his Sovereign; in the other, he -denounced, as rebels and traitors, all those of his own countrymen who -did not yield sympathetic allegiance to a foreign Sovereign, whom we had -always been in the habit of treating as an arbitrary tyrant. - -Judging from plain facts and principles, then, it is difficult to -conceive more ample proofs of inconsistency. But try it by the more -vulgar and palpable test of comparison. Even Mr. Fox’s enemies, we -think, allow _him_ the praise of consistency. _He_ asserted the rights -of the people in the American war, and continued to assert them in the -French Revolution. He remained visibly in his place; and spoke, -throughout, the same principles in the same language. When Mr. Burke -abjured these principles, he left this associate; nor did it ever enter -into the mind of a human being to impute the defection to any change in -Mr. Fox’s sentiments—any desertion by him of the maxims by which his -public life had been guided. Take another illustration, from an opposite -quarter. Nobody will accuse the principles of his present Majesty, or -the general measures of his reign, of inconsistency. If they had no -other merit, they have at least that of having been all along actuated -by one uniform and constant spirit: Yet Mr. Burke at one time vehemently -opposed, and afterwards most intemperately extolled them; and it was for -his recanting his opposition, not for his persevering in it, that he -received his pension. He does not himself mention his flaming speeches -in the American war, as among the public services which had entitled him -to this remuneration. - -The truth is, that Burke was a man of fine fancy and subtle reflection; -but not of sound and practical judgment—nor of high or rigid -principles.—As to his understanding, he certainly was not a great -philosopher; for his works of mere abstract reasoning are shallow and -inefficient:—Nor a man of sense and business; for, both in counsel and -in conduct, he alarmed his friends as much at least as his -opponents:—But he was a keen and accomplished pamphleteer—an ingenious -political essayist. He applied the habit of reflection, which he had -borrowed from his metaphysical studies, but which was not competent to -the discovery of any elementary truth in that department, with great -felicity and success, to the mixed mass of human affairs. He knew more -of the political machine than a recluse philosopher; and he speculated -more profoundly on its principles and general results than a mere -politician. He saw a number of fine distinctions and changeable aspects -of things, the good mixed with the ill, the ill mixed with the good; and -with a sceptical indifference, in which the exercise of his own -ingenuity was always the governing principle, suggested various topics -to qualify or assist the judgment of others. But for this very reason he -was little calculated to become a leader or a partisan in any important -practical measure: For the habit of his mind would lead him to find out -a reason for or against any thing: And it is not on speculative -refinements, (which belong to _every_ side of a question), but on a just -estimate of the aggregate mass and extended combinations of objections -and advantages, that we ought to decide and act. Burke had the power, -almost without limit, of throwing true or false weights into the scales -of political casuistry, but not firmness of mind—or, shall we say, -honesty enough—to hold the balance. When he took a side, his vanity or -his spleen more frequently gave the casting vote than his judgment; and -the fieriness of his zeal was in exact proportion to the levity of his -understanding, and the want of conscious sincerity. - -He was fitted by nature and habit for the studies and labours of the -closet; and was generally mischievous when he came out;—because the very -subtlety of his reasoning, which, left to itself, would have -counteracted its own activity, or found its level in the common sense of -mankind, became a dangerous engine in the hands of power, which is -always eager to make use of the most plausible pretexts to cover the -most fatal designs. That which, if applied as a general observation on -human affairs, is a valuable truth suggested to the mind, may, when -forced into the interested defence of a particular measure or system, -become the grossest and basest sophistry. Facts or consequences never -stood in the way of this speculative politician. He fitted them to his -preconceived theories, instead of conforming his theories to them. They -were the playthings of his style, the sport of his fancy. They were the -straws of which his imagination made a blaze, and were consumed, like -straws, in the blaze they had served to kindle. The fine things he said -about Liberty and Humanity, in his speech on the Begum’s affairs, told -equally well, whether Warren Hastings was a tyrant or not: Nor did he -care one jot who caused the famine he described, so that he described it -in a way to attract admiration. On the same principle, he represents the -French priests and nobles under the old regime as excellent moral -people, very charitable, and very religious, in the teeth of notorious -facts,—to answer to the handsome things he has to say in favour of -priesthood and nobility in general; and, with similar views, he -falsifies the records of our English Revolution, and puts an -interpretation on the word _abdication_, of which a schoolboy would be -ashamed. He constructed his whole theory of government, in short, not on -rational, but on picturesque and fanciful principles; as if the King’s -crown were a painted gewgaw, to be looked at on gala days; titles an -empty sound to please the ear; and the whole order of society a -theatrical procession. His lamentation over the age of chivalry, and his -projected crusade to restore it, is about as wise as if any one, from -reading the Beggar’s Opera, should take to picking of pockets; or, from -admiring the landscapes of Salvator Rosa, should wish to convert the -abodes of civilized life into the haunts of wild beasts and banditti. On -this principle of false refinement, there is no abuse, nor system of -abuses, that does not admit of an easy and triumphant defence; for there -is something which a merely speculative inquirer may always find out, -good as well as bad, in every possible system, the best or the worst; -and if we can once get rid of the restraints of common sense and -honesty, we may easily prove, by plausible words, that liberty and -slavery, peace and war, plenty and famine, are matters of perfect -indifference. This is the school of politics, of which Mr. Burke was at -the head; and it is perhaps to his example, in this respect, that we owe -the prevailing tone of many of those newspaper paragraphs, which Mr. -Coleridge thinks so invaluable an accession to our political philosophy. - -Burke’s literary talents, were, after all, his chief excellence. His -style has all the familiarity of conversation, and all the research of -the most elaborate composition. He says what he wants to say, by any -means, nearer or more remote, within his reach. He makes use of the most -common or scientific terms, of the longest or shortest sentences, of the -plainest and most downright, or of the most figurative modes of speech. -He gives for the most part loose reins to his imagination, and follows -it as far as the language will carry him. As long as the one or the -other has any resources in store to make the reader feel and see the -thing as he has conceived it,—in its nicest shade of difference, in its -utmost degree of force and splendour,—he never disdains, and never fails -to employ them. Yet, in the extremes of his mixed style there is not -much affectation, and but little either of pedantry or of coarseness. He -everywhere gives the image he wishes to give, in its true and -appropriate colouring: and it is the very crowd and variety of these -images that have given to his language its peculiar tone of animation, -and even of passion. It is his impatience to transfer his conceptions -entire, living, in all their rapidity, strength, and glancing variety—to -the minds of others, that constantly pushes him to the verge of -extravagance, and yet supports him there in dignified security— - - ‘Never so sure our rapture to create, - As when he treads the brink of all we hate.’ - -He is, with the exception of Jeremy Taylor, the most poetical of prose -writers, and at the same time his prose never degenerates into the mere -glitter or tinkling of poetry; for he always aims at overpowering rather -than at pleasing; and consequently sacrifices beauty and grandeur to -force and vividness. He has invariably a task to perform, a positive -purpose to execute, an effect to produce. His only object is therefore -to strike hard, and in the right place; if he misses his mark, he -repeats his blow; and does not care how ungraceful the action, or how -clumsy the instrument, provided it brings down his antagonist. - -Mr. C. enters next into a copious discussion of the merits of his friend -Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry,—which we do not think very remarkable either -for clearness or candour; but as a very great part of it is occupied -with specific inculpations of our former remarks on that ingenious -author, it would savour too much of mere controversy and recrimination, -if we were to indulge ourselves with any observations on the subject. -Where we are parties to any dispute, and consequently to be regarded as -incapable of giving an _impartial_ account of our adversary’s argument, -we shall not pretend to give any account of it at all; and therefore, -though we shall endeavour to give all due weight to Mr. C.’s reasonings, -when we have occasion to consider any new publication from the Lake -school, we must for the present decline any notice of the particular -objections he has here urged to our former judgments on their -productions; and shall pass over all this part of the work before us, by -merely remarking, that with regard to Mr. Wordsworth’s ingenious project -of confining the language of poetry to that which is chiefly in use -among the lower orders of society, and that, from horror or contempt for -the abuses of what has been called poetic diction, it is really -unnecessary to say anything—the truth and common sense of the thing -being so obvious, and, we apprehend, so generally acknowledged, that -nothing but a pitiful affectation of singularity could have raised a -controversy on the subject. There is, no doubt, a simple and familiar -language, common to almost all ranks, and intelligible through many -ages, which is the best fitted for the direct expression of strong sense -and deep passion, and which, consequently, is the language of the best -poetry as well as of the best prose. But it is not the exclusive -language of poetry. There is another language peculiar to this manner of -writing, which has been called _poetic diction_,—those flowers of -speech, which, whether natural or artificial, fresh or faded, are -strewed over the plainer ground which poetry has in common with prose: a -paste of rich and honeyed words, like the candied coat of the auricula; -a glittering tissue of quaint conceits and sparkling metaphors, crusting -over the rough stalk of homely thoughts. Such is the style of almost all -our modern poets; such is the style of Pope and Gray; such, too, very -often, is that of Shakespeare and Milton; and, notwithstanding Mr. -Coleridge’s decision to the contrary, of Spenser’s Faery Queen. Now this -style is the reverse of one made up of _slang_ phrases; for, as they are -words associated only with mean and vulgar ideas, poetic diction is such -as is connected only with the most pleasing and elegant associations; -and _both_ differ essentially from the middle or natural style, which is -a mere transparent medium of the thoughts, neither degrading nor setting -them off by any adventitious qualities of its own, but leaving them to -make their own impression, by the force of truth and nature. Upon the -whole, therefore, we should think this ornamented and coloured style, -most proper to descriptive or fanciful poetry, where the writer has to -lend a borrowed, and, in some sort, meretricious lustre to outward -objects, which he can best do by enshrining them in a language that, by -custom and long prescription, reflects the image of a poetical mind,—as -we think the common or natural style is the truly dramatic style, that -in which he can best give the impassioned, unborrowed, unaffected -thoughts of others. The pleasure derived from poetic diction is the same -as that derived from classical diction. It is in like manner made up of -words dipped in ‘the dew of Castalie,’—tinged with colours borrowed from -the rainbow,—‘sky-tinctured,’ warmed with the glow of genius, purified -by the breath of time,—that soften into distance, and expand into -magnitude, whatever is seen through their medium,—that varnish over the -trite and common-place, and lend a gorgeous robe to the forms of fancy, -but are only an incumbrance and a disguise in conveying the true touches -of nature, the intense strokes of passion. The beauty of poetic diction -is, in short, borrowed and artificial. It is a glittering veil spread -over the forms of things and the feelings of the heart; and is best laid -aside, when we wish to show either the one or the other in their naked -beauty or deformity. As the dialogues in Othello and Lear furnish the -most striking instances of plain, point-blank speaking, or of the real -language of nature and passion, so the Choruses in Samson Agonistes -abound in the fullest and finest adaptations of classic and poetic -phrases to express distant and elevated notions, born of fancy, religion -and learning. - -Mr. Coleridge bewilders himself sadly in endeavouring to determine in -what the essence of poetry consists;—Milton, we think, has told it in a -single line— - - ——‘Thoughts that voluntary move - Harmonious numbers.’ - -Poetry is the music of language, expressing the music of the mind. -Whenever any object takes such a hold on the mind as to make us dwell -upon it, and brood over it, melting the heart in love, or kindling it to -a sentiment of admiration;—whenever a movement of imagination or passion -is impressed on the mind, by which it seeks to prolong and repeat the -emotion, to bring all other objects into accord with it, and to give the -same movement of harmony, sustained and continuous, to the sounds that -express it,—this is poetry. The musical in sound is the sustained and -continuous; the musical in thought and feeling is the sustained and -continuous also. Whenever articulation passes naturally into intonation, -this is the beginning of poetry. There is no natural harmony in the -ordinary combinations of significant sounds: the language of prose is -not the language of music, or of _passion_: and it is to supply this -inherent defect in the mechanism of language—to make the sound an echo -to the sense, when the sense becomes a sort of echo to itself—to mingle -the tide of verse, ‘the golden cadences of poesy,’ with the tide of -feeling, flowing, and murmuring as it flows—or to take the imagination -off its feet, and spread its wings where it may indulge its own -impulses, without being stopped or perplexed by the ordinary -abruptnesses, or discordant flats and sharps of prose—that poetry was -invented. - -As Mr. C. has suppressed his Disquisition on the Imagination as -unintelligible, we do not think it fair to make any remarks on the 200 -pages of prefatory matter, which were printed, it seems, in the present -work, before a candid friend apprised him of this little objection to -the appearance of the Disquisition itself. We may venture, however, on -one observation, of a very plain and practical nature, which is forced -upon us by the whole tenor of the extraordinary history before -us.—Reason and imagination are both excellent things; but perhaps their -provinces ought to be kept more distinct than they have lately been. -‘Poets have such seething brains,’ that they are disposed to meddle with -everything, and mar all. Mr. C., with great talents, has, by an ambition -to be everything, become nothing. His metaphysics have been a dead -weight on the wings of his imagination—while his imagination has run -away with his reason and common sense. He might, we seriously think, -have been a very considerable poet—instead of which he has chosen to be -a bad philosopher and a worse politician. There is something, we -suspect, in these studies that does not easily amalgamate. We would not, -with Plato, absolutely banish poets from the commonwealth; but we really -think they should meddle as little with its practical administration as -may be. They live in an ideal world of their own; and it would be, -perhaps, as well if they were confined to it. Their flights and fancies -are delightful to themselves and to every body else; but they make -strange work with matter of fact; and, if they were allowed to act in -public affairs, would soon turn the world upside down. They indulge only -their own flattering dreams or superstitious prejudices, and make idols -or bugbears of what they please, caring as little for ‘history or -particular facts,’ as for general reasoning. They are dangerous leaders -and treacherous followers. Their inordinate vanity runs them into all -sorts of extravagances; and their habitual effeminacy gets them out of -them at any price. Always pampering their own appetite for excitement, -and wishing to astonish others, their whole aim is to produce a dramatic -effect, one way or other—to shock or delight their observers; and they -are as perfectly indifferent to the consequences of what they write, as -if the world were merely a stage for them to play their fantastic tricks -on.—As romantic in their servility as in their independence, and equally -importunate candidates for fame or infamy, they require only to be -distinguished, and are not scrupulous as to the means of distinction. -Jacobins or Antijacobins—outrageous advocates for anarchy and -licentiousness, or flaming apostles of persecution—always violent and -vulgar in their opinions, they oscillate, with a giddy and sickening -motion, from one absurdity to another, and expiate the follies of their -youth by the heartless vices of their advancing age. None so ready as -they to carry every paradox to its most revolting and nonsensical -excess—none so sure to caricature, in their own persons, every feature -of an audacious and insane philosophy:—In their days of innovation, -indeed, the philosophers crept at their heels like hounds, while they -darted on their distant quarry like hawks; stooping always to the lowest -game; eagerly snuffing up the most tainted and rankest scents; feeding -their vanity with the notion of the strength of their digestion of -poisons, and most ostentatiously avowing whatever would most effectually -startle the prejudices of others. Preposterously seeking for the -stimulus of novelty in truth, and the eclat of theatrical exhibition in -pure reason, it is no wonder that these persons at last became disgusted -with their own pursuits, and that, in consequence of the violence of the -change, the most inveterate prejudices and uncharitable sentiments have -rushed in to fill up the _vacuum_ produced by the previous annihilation -of common sense, wisdom, and humanity. - -This is the true history of our reformed Antijacobin poets; the life of -one of whom is here recorded. The cant of Morality, like the cant of -Methodism, comes in most naturally to close the scene: and as the -regenerated sinner keeps alive his old raptures and new-acquired -horrors, by anticipating endless ecstasies or endless tortures in -another world; so, our disappointed demagogue keeps up that ‘pleasurable -poetic fervour’ which has been the cordial and the bane of his -existence, by indulging his maudlin egotism and his mawkish spleen in -fulsome eulogies of his own virtues, and nauseous abuse of his -contemporaries[10]—in making excuses for doing nothing himself, and -assigning bad motives for what others have done.—Till he can do -something better, we would rather hear no more of him. - - - LETTERS OF HORACE WALPOLE - - VOL. XXXI.] [_December 1818._ - -Horace Walpole was by no means a venerable or lofty character:—But he -has here left us another volume of gay and graceful letters, which, -though they indicate no peculiar originality of mind, or depth of -thought, and are continually at variance with good taste and right -feeling, still give a lively and amusing view of the time in which he -lived. He was indeed a garrulous _old_ man nearly all his days; and, -luckily for his gossiping propensities, he was on familiar terms with -the gay world, and set down as a man of genius by the Princess Amelia, -George Selwyn, Mr. Chute, and all persons of the like talents and -importance. His descriptions of court dresses, court revels, and court -beauties, are in the highest style of perfection,—sprightly, fantastic -and elegant: And the zeal with which he hunts after an old portrait or a -piece of broken glass, is ten times more entertaining than if it were -lavished on a worthier object. He is indeed the very prince of -Gossips,—and it is impossible to question his supremacy, when he floats -us along in a stream of bright talk, or shoots with us the rapids of -polite conversation. He delights in the small squabbles of great -politicians and the puns of George Selwyn,—enjoys to madness the strife -of loo with half a dozen bitter old women of quality,—revels in a world -of chests, cabinets, commodes, tables, boxes, turrets, stands, old -printing, and old china,—and indeed lets us loose at once amongst all -the frippery and folly of the last two centuries, with an ease and a -courtesy equally amazing and delightful. His mind, as well as his house, -was piled up with Dresden china, and illuminated through painted glass; -and we look upon his heart to have been little better than a case full -of enamels, painted eggs, ambers, lapis-lazuli, cameos, vases and -rock-crystals. This may in some degree account for his odd and quaint -manner of thinking, and his utter poverty of feeling:—He could not get a -plain thought out of that cabinet of curiosities, his mind and he had no -room for feeling,—no place to plant it in, or leisure to cultivate it. -He was at all times the slave of elegant trifles; and could no more -screw himself up into a decided and solid personage, than he could -divest himself of petty jealousies and miniature animosities. In one -word, every thing about him was in little; and the smaller the object, -and the less its importance, the higher did his estimation and his -praises of it ascend. He piled up trifles to a colossal height—and made -a pyramid of nothings ‘most marvellous to see.’ - -His political character was a heap of confusion: but the key to it is -easy enough to find. He united an insufferable deal of aristocratical -pretension with Whig professions,—and, under an assumed carelessness and -liberality, he nourished a petty anxiety about court movements and a -degree of rancour towards those who profited by them, which we should -only look for in the most acknowledged sycophants of Government. He held -out austere and barren principles, in short, to the admiration of the -world,—but indemnified himself in practice by the indulgence of all the -opposite ones. He wore his horse-hair shirt as an _outer_ garment; and -glimpses might always be caught of a silken garment within. He was truly -‘of outward show elaborate; of inward less exact.’ But, setting his -political character—or rather the want of it—and some few private -failings, and a good many other questionable peculiarities, aside,—we -find Walpole an amusing companion, and should like to have such a -chronicler of small matters every fifty or sixty years;—or it might be -better, perhaps, if, like the aloe, they should blossom but once in a -century. With what spirit does he speak of the gay and noble visitors at -Strawberry Hill! How finely does he group, in his letters, the high-born -and celebrated beauties of the court, with whom it was his fortune and -his fancy to associate! - -‘Strawberry Hill is grown a perfect Paphos; it is the land of beauties. -On Wednesday, the Dutchesses of Hamilton and Richmond, and Lady -Ailesbury, dined there; the two latter staid all night. There never was -so pretty a sight as to see them all sitting in the shell. A thousand -years hence, when I begin to grow old, if that can ever be, I shall talk -of that event, and tell young people how much handsomer the women of my -time were than they will be. Then I shall say, “Women alter now: I -remember Lady Ailesbury looking handsomer than her daughter the pretty -Dutchess of Richmond, as they were sitting in the shell on my terrace, -with the Dutchess of Richmond, one of the famous Gunnings,” &c. &c. -Yesterday, t’other famous Gunning dined there. She has made a friendship -with my charming niece, to disguise her jealousy of the new Countess’s -beauty: there were they two, their Lords, Lord Buckingham, and -Charlotte. You will think that I did not choose men for my parties so -well as women. I don’t include Lord Waldegrave in this bad election.’ - -All the rest is in the same style: and lords and ladies are shuffled -about the whole work as freely as court cards in a party at Loo. Horace -Walpole, to be sure, is always Pam: but this only makes the interest -greater, and the garrulity more splendid. He is equally sprightly and -facetious, whether he describes a King’s death and funeral, or a quirk -of George Selwyn; and is nearly as amusing when he recounts the follies -and the fashions of the day, as when he affects to be patriotic, or -solemnizes into the sentimental. His style is not a bit less airy when -he deals with ‘the horrid story of Lord Ferrers’s murdering his -steward,’ than when it informs us that ‘Miss Chudleigh has called for -the council books of the subscription concert, and has struck off the -name of Mrs. Naylor.’ He is equally amusing whether he records the death -of the brave Balmerino, or informs us that ‘old Dunch is dead.’ - -The letters of eminent men make, to our taste, very choice and curious -reading; and, except when their publication becomes a breach of honour -or decorum, we are always rejoiced to meet with them in print. We should -except, perhaps, the letters of celebrated warriors; which, for the most -part, should only be published in the Gazette. But, setting these heroes -aside, whose wits, Pope has informed us, ‘are kept in ponderous vases,’ -letters are certainly the honestest records of great minds, that we can -become acquainted with; and we like them the more, for letting us into -the follies and treacheries of high life, the secrets of the gay and the -learned world, and the mysteries of authorship. We are ushered, as it -were, behind the scenes of life; and see gay ladies and learned men, the -wise, the witty, and the ambitious, in all the nakedness, or undress at -least, of their spirits. A poet, in his private letters, seldom thinks -it necessary to keep up the farce of feeling; but casts off the trickery -of sentiment, and glides into the unaffected wit, or sobers quietly into -the honest man. By his published works, we know that an author becomes a -‘Sir John with all Europe;’ and it can only be by his letters that we -discover him to be ‘Jack with his brothers and sisters, and John with -his familiars.’ This it is that makes the private letters of a literary -person so generally entertaining. He is glad to escape from the -austerity of composition, and the orthodoxy of thought; and feels a -relief in easy speculations or ludicrous expressions. The finest, -perhaps, in our language, are eminently of this description—we mean -those of Gray to his friends or literary associates. His poetry is too -scholastic and elaborate, and is too visibly the result of laborious and -anxious study. But, in his letters, he at once becomes an easy, and -graceful, and feeling writer. The composition of familiar letters just -suited his indolence, his taste, and his humour. His remarks on poetry -are nearly as good as poetry itself;—his observations on life are full -of sagacity and fine understanding;—and his descriptions of natural -scenery, or Gothic antiquities, are worth their weight in gold. Pope’s -letters, though extremely elegant, are failures as letters. He wrote -them to the world, not to his friends; and they have therefore very much -the air of universal secrets. Swift has recorded his own sour mind in -many a bitter epistle; and his correspondence remains a stern and brief -chronicle of the time in which he lived. Cowper hath unwittingly -beguiled us of many a long hour, by his letters to Lady Hesketh; and in -them we see the fluctuations of his melancholy nature more plainly, than -in all the biographical dissertations of his affectionate editor.——But -we must not make catalogues,—nor indulge longer in this eulogy on -letter-writing. We take a particular interest, we confess, in what is -thus spoken aside, as it were, and without a consciousness of being -overheard;—and think there is a spirit and freedom in the tone of works -written for the post, which is scarcely ever to be found in those -written for the press. We are much more edified by one letter of Cowper, -than we should be by a week’s confinement and hard labour in the -metaphysical Bridewell of Mr. Coleridge; and a single letter from the -pen of Gray, is worth all the pedlar-reasoning of Mr. Wordsworth’s -Eternal Recluse, from the hour he first squats himself down in the sun -to the end of his preaching. In the first we have the light unstudied -pleasantries of a wit, and a man of feeling;—in the last we are talked -to death by an arrogant old proser, and buried in a heap of the most -perilous stuff and the most dusty philosophy. - -But to come back to the work before us.—Walpole evidently formed his -style upon that of Gray, with whom he travelled; and, with his own fund -of pleasantry and sarcasm, we know of no other writer whom he could so -successfully have studied. There are some odd passages on Gray, -scattered up and down the present volume, which speak more for the poet -than for the justice or friendship of Walpole. In one letter he says, - -‘The first volume of Spencer is published with prints designed by -Kent;—but the most execrable performance you ever beheld. The graving -not worse than the drawing; awkward knights, scrambling Unas, hills -tumbling down themselves, no variety of prospect, and three or four -perpetual spruce firs.—Our charming Mr. Bentley is doing Mr. Gray as -much more honour as he deserves than Spencer!’ This is indeed a lordly -criticism. We really never saw so much bad taste condensed into so small -a portion of prose. But he next shows us what ladies of the court think -of men of letters, and how lords defend them. - -‘My Lady Ailesbury has been much diverted, and so will you too. Gray is -in their neighbourhood. My Lady Carlisle says _he is extremely like me -in his manner_. They went a party to dine on a cold loaf, and passed the -day. Lady A. protests he never opened his lips but once, and then only -said, “Yes, my Lady, I believe so.” - -‘I agree with you most absolutely in your opinion about Gray; he is the -worst company in the world. From a melancholy turn, from living -reclusely, and from a little too much dignity, he never converses -easily. All his words are measured and chosen, and formed into -sentences. His writings are admirable. He himself is not agreeable.’ - -But it is not only to his particular friends that he is thus amiably -candid. Two other great names are dealt with in the same spirit in the -following short sentence. - -‘Dr. Young has published a new book, on purpose, he says himself, to -have an opportunity of telling a story that he has known these forty -years. Mr. Addison sent for the young Lord Warwick, as he was dying, to -show him in what peace a Christian could die. Unluckily he died of -brandy. Nothing makes a Christian die in peace like being a maudlin! But -don’t say this in Gath, where you are.’ - -It is worthy of remark, indeed, that Walpole never speaks with respect -of any man of genius or talent, and, least of all, of those master -spirits who ‘have got the start of this majestic world.’ He envied all -great minds; and shrunk from encountering them, lest his own should -suffer by the comparison. He contrived indeed to quarrel with all his -better-spirited friends. Even the gentleman to whom these epistles were -addressed, a correspondent of three score years’ standing, fell at last -under his displeasure, and was dismissed his friendship. He turned out -the domestics of the heart as easily as those of the house; with little -or no notice, and with threats of giving them a bad character as a -return for their past services. He wished to have genius to wait upon -him; but was always surprised that it would not submit to be a servant -of all work. Poor Bentley, of whom we hear praises ‘high fantastical’ in -the early letters, meets with but scurvy treatment the moment he gets -out of fashion with his half-patron and half-friend. He is all spirit, -goodness and genius, till it falls to his turn to be disliked; and then -the altered patron sneers at his domestic misfortunes, depreciates his -talents, and even chuckles at the failure of a play which the artist’s -necessities required should be successful. The following is the -ill-natured passage to which we allude. - -‘No, I shall never cease being a dupe, till I have been undeceived round -by every thing that calls itself a virtue. I came to town yesterday, -through clouds of dust, to see The Wishes, and went actually feeling for -Mr. Bentley, and full of the emotions he must be suffering. What do you -think, in a house crowded, was the first thing I saw? Mr. and Madame -Bentley perched up in the front boxes, and acting audience at his own -play! No, all the impudence of false patriotism never came up to it. Did -one ever hear of an author that had courage to see his own first night -in public? I don’t believe Fielding or Foote himself ever did; and this -was the modest, bashful Mr. Bentley, that died at the thought of being -known for an author even by his own acquaintance! In the stage-box was -Lady Bute, Lord Halifax, and Lord Melcombe. I must say, the two last -entertained the house as much as the play. Your King was prompter, and -called out to the actors every minute to speak louder. The other went -backwards and forwards behind the scenes, fetched the actors into the -box, and was busier than Harlequin. The _curious_ prologue was not -spoken—the whole very ill acted. It turned out just what I remembered -it: the good parts extremely good; the rest very flat and vulgar, &c.’ - - -A poor painter of the name of Müntz is worse off even than Bentley; and -is abused in a very ungenerous way for want of gratitude, and unmerciful -extortion. There is a sad want of feeling and dignity in all this; but -the key to it is, that Walpole was a miser. He loved the arts after a -fashion; but his avarice pinched his affections. He would have had ‘that -which he esteemed the ornament of life,’ but that he ‘lived a coward in -his own esteem.’ The following haggling passage in one of his letters -would disgrace a petty merchant in Duke’s Place, in a bargain for the -reversion of an old pair of trowsers. - -‘I am disposed to prefer the younger picture of Madame Grammont by Lely; -but I stumbled at the price; twelve guineas for a copy in enamel is very -dear. Mrs. Vesey tells me his originals cost sixteen, and are not so -good as his copies. I will certainly have none of his originals. His, -what is his name? I would fain resist this copy; I would more fain -excuse myself for having it. I say to myself it would be rude not to -have it, now Lady Kingsland and Mr. Montagu have had so much trouble. -Well—_I think I must have it_, as my Lady Wishfort says, _why does not -the fellow take me?_ Do try if he will take ten;—remember it is the -younger picture.’ - -Thus did he coquet with his own avarice. Of poor Mason, another of his -dear friends, he speaks thus spitefully— - -‘Mr. Mason has published another drama, called Caractacus. There are -some incantations poetical enough, and odes so Greek as to have very -little meaning. But the whole is laboured, uninteresting, and no more -resembling the manners of Britons than of Japanese. It is introduced by -a piping elegy; for Mason, in imitation of Gray, _will cry and roar all -night_, without the least provocation.’ - -Mason might have endured the paltriness of this remark, if he could have -seen the following pertinent remark on the Cymbeline of Shakespeare. - -‘You want news. I must make it if I send it. To change the dulness of -the scene, I went to the play, where I had not been this winter. They -are so crowded, that though I went before six, I got no better place -than a fifth row, where I heard very ill, and was pent for five hours -without a soul near me that I knew. It was Cymbeline; and appeared to me -as long as if every body in it went really to Italy in every act, and -back again. With a few pretty passages and a scene or two, it is so -absurd and tiresome, that I am persuaded Garrick****’ - -This precious piece of criticism is cut short; whether from the sagacity -of the editor or the prudence of the publishers, we cannot say. But it -is much to be lamented. For it must have been very edifying to have seen -Shakespeare thus pleasantly put down with a dash of the Honourable Mr. -Walpole’s pen—as if he had never written any thing better than the -Mysterious Mother. - -A conversation is here recorded between Hogarth and Walpole, which seems -to us very curious and characteristic; though we cannot help smiling a -little at the conclusion, where our author humanely refrains from -erasing the line of praise which he had ‘consecrated’ to Hogarth;—as if -the painter would infallibly have been damned into oblivion by that -portentous erasure. But he is of the stuff that cannot die. With many -defects, he was a person of great and original powers—a true and a -terrific historian of the human heart: and his works will be remembered -and _read_, as long as men and women retain their old habits, passions -and vices. The following is the conversation of which we have spoken. - -‘_Hogarth._—I am told you are going to entertain the town with something -in our way. _Walpole._ Not very soon, Mr. Hogarth.—_H._ I wish you would -let me have it to correct; I should be very sorry to have you expose -yourself to censure; we painters must know more of those things than -other people. _W._ Do you think nobody understands painting but -painters? _H._ Oh! so far from it, there’s Reynolds who certainly has -genius; why but t’other day he offered a hundred pounds for a picture -that I would not hang in my cellars; and indeed to say truth, I have -generally found that persons, who had studied painting least, were the -best judges of it; but what I particularly wished to say to you was -about Sir James Thornhill (you know he married Sir James’s daughter); I -would not have you say any thing against him: There was a book published -some time ago, abusing him, and it gave great offence. He was the first -that attempted history in England; and I assure you, some Germans have -said that he was a very great painter. _W._ My work will go no lower -than the year one thousand seven hundred, and I really have not -considered whether Sir J. Thornhill will come into my plan or not: If he -does, I fear you and I shall not agree upon his merits. _H._ I wish you -would let me correct it; besides I am writing something of the same kind -myself—I should be sorry we should clash. _W._ I believe it is not much -known what my work is; very few persons have seen it. _H._ Why it is a -critical history of painting is it not? _W._ No, it is an antiquarian -history of it in England. I bought Mr. Vertue’s MSS. and I believe the -work will not give much offence; besides if it does I cannot help it: -when I publish any thing I give it to the world to think as they please. -_H._ Oh! if it is an antiquarian work we shall not clash; mine is a -critical work; I don’t know whether I shall ever publish it. It is -rather an apology for painters. I think it is owing to the good sense of -the English that they have not painted better. _W._ My dear Mr. Hogarth, -I must take my leave of you; you now grow too wild—and I left him. If I -had staid, there remained nothing but for him to bite me. I give you my -honour this conversation is literal and, perhaps as long as you have -known Englishmen and painters you never met with any thing so -distracted. I had consecrated a line to his genius (I mean for wit) in -my preface; I shall not erase it; but I hope no one will ask me if he is -not mad.’ - -We do not think he was mad:—But the self-idolatry of fanciful persons -often exhibits similar symptoms. A man of limited genius, accustomed to -contemplate his own conceptions, has long settled his ideas as to every -thing, and every other person existing in the world. He thinks nothing -truly bright that does not reflect his own image back upon -himself;—nothing truly beautiful, that is not made so by the lustre of -his own feelings. He lives in a sort of chaste singleness; and holds -every approach of a stronger power as dangerous to his solitary purity. -He thinks nothing so important as his own thoughts—nothing so low, that -his own fancy cannot elevate into greatness. He sees only ‘himself and -the universe;’ and will ‘admit no discourse to his beauty.’ He is -himself—alone! If such a man had had a voice in the management of the -flood, he would have suffered no creeping thing to enter the ark but -himself; and would have floated about the waters for forty days in -lonely magnificence. - -Passages of the kind, we have hitherto instanced, are very plentiful in -all parts of the work; and we are glad they are so numerous,—because -they will set Walpole’s higher pretensions at rest with posterity. Time -is a disinterested personage, and does his work on dull or rash men -fairly and effectually. He knows nothing of criticism but its austerity -and its sarcasm. He cannot feel poetry; and has, therefore, no right to -settle its laws, or imitate its language. His taste in painting was -affected and dogmatical. His conduct to men of genius was a piece of -insolence, which Posterity is bound to resent! The true heirs of fame -are not to be disturbed in the enjoyment of their property, by every -insolent pretender who steps in and affects a claim upon it. The world -is called on ‘to defend the right.’ - -To come, however, to the better side of our subject.—Walpole is, as we -have said, an inimitable gossip,—a most vivacious garrulous historian of -fair-haired women, and curious blue china. His garrulity, moreover, hath -a genius of its own—and a transparent tea-cup lets in the light of -inspiration upon it, and makes it shine with colours nigh divine. An -inlaid commode is, with him, the mind’s easy chair. We shall select a -few passages from the letters before us, which, for pleasantry, ease and -alertness, are by far the gayest _morceau_ of description we have read -of late. We may begin with a curious anecdote of Fielding, which is -almost as interesting as any thing in the book. Thus it is— - -‘Take sentiments out of their pantoufles, and reduce them to the -infirmities of mortality, what a falling off there is! I could not help -laughing in myself t’other day, as I went through Holborn in a very hot -day, at the dignity of human nature. All those foul old-clothes women -panting without handkerchiefs, and mopping themselves all the way down -within their loose jumps. Rigby gave me as strong a picture of nature. -He and Peter Bathurst, t’other night, carried a servant of the latter’s, -who had attempted to shoot him, before Fielding; who, to all his other -vocations, has, by the grace of Mr. Lyttleton, added that of Middlesex -Justice. He sent them word that he was at supper; that they must come -next morning. They did not understand that freedom, and ran up, where -they found him banqueting with a blind man, a w——, and three Irishmen, -on some cold mutton and a bone of ham, both in one dish, and the -dirtiest cloth. He never stirred, nor asked them to sit. Rigby, who had -seen him so often come to beg a guinea of Sir. C. Williams, and -Bathurst, at whose father’s he had lived for victuals, understood that -dignity as little, and pulled themselves chairs,—on which he civilized.’ - -It is very certain that the writings of men are coloured by their -indolence, their amusements, and their occupations; and this little peep -into Fielding’s private hours, lets us at once into his course of -studies, and is an admirable illustration of his Tom Jones, Jonathan -Wild, and other novels. We are taken into the artist’s workshop, and -shown the models from which he works; or rather, we break in upon him at -a time when he is copying from the _life_. It is a very idle piece of -morality, to lament over Fielding for this low indulgence of his -appetite for character. If he had been found quietly at his tea, he -would never have left behind him the name he has done. There is nothing -of a tea inspiration in any of his novels. They are assuredly the finest -things of the kind in the language; and we are Englishmen enough to -consider them the best in any language. They are indubitably the most -English of all the works of Englishmen. - -The descriptions of Lord Ferrers’s fatal murder, and of Balmerino’s -death, are given with considerable spirit—(our author, indeed, is -extremely _piquant_ in matters of life and death); and we are puzzled -which to select for our readers. They are both strongly illustrative of -the times in which Walpole and the heroes of them lived; but we cannot -afford room for them both; and we choose the letter on Lord Ferrers,—not -because it is better written, or that the subject is more interesting, -but because the book before us is open at that part, and because we -would not idly meddle with so heroic a fall as that of the Lord -Balmerino. - -‘The extraordinary history of Lord Ferrers is closed: He was executed -yesterday. Madness, that in other countries is a disorder, is here a -systematic character: It does not hinder people from forming a plan of -conduct, and from even dying agreeably to it. You remember how the last -Ratcliffe died with the utmost propriety; so did this horrid lunatic, -coolly and sensibly. His own and his wife’s relations had asserted that -he would tremble at last. No such thing; he shamed heroes. He bore the -solemnity of a pompous and tedious procession of above two hours, from -the Tower to Tyburn, with as much tranquillity as if he was only going -to his own burial, not to his own execution. He even talked of -indifferent subjects in the passage; and if the sheriff and the chaplain -had not thought that they had parts to act too, and had not consequently -engaged him in most particular conversation, he did not seem to think it -necessary to talk on the occasion. He went in his wedding clothes; -marking the only remaining impression on his mind. The ceremony he was -in a hurry to have over. He was stopped at the gallows by a vast crowd; -but got out of his coach as soon as he could, and was but seven minutes -on the scaffold; which was hung with black, and prepared by the -undertaker of his family at their expense. There was a new contrivance -for sinking the stage under him, which did not play well; and he -suffered a little by the delay, but was dead in four minutes. The mob -was decent, and admired him, and almost pitied him; so they would Lord -George, whose execution they are so angry at missing. I suppose every -highwayman will now preserve the blue handkerchief he has about his neck -when he is married, that he may die like a lord. With all his madness, -he was not mad enough to be struck with his aunt Huntingdon’s sermons. -The Methodists have nothing to brag of his conversion; though Whitfield -prayed for him, and preached about him. Even Tyburn has been above their -reach. I have not heard that Lady Fanny dabbled with his soul; but I -believe she is prudent enough to confine her missionary zeal to subjects -where the body may be her perquisite.’ - -The following is the account of Walpole’s visit to Newsted Abbey,—the -seat of the Byrons. - -‘As I returned, I saw Newsted and Althorpe; I like both. The former is -the very abbey. The great east window of the church remains, and -connects with the house; the hall entire, the refectory entire, the -cloister untouch’d, with the ancient cistern of the convent, and their -arms on; It is a private chapel, quite perfect. The park, which is still -charming, has not been so much unprofaned: The present lord has lost -large sums, and paid part in old oaks; five thousand pounds of which -have been cut near the house. In recompense, he has built two baby -forts, to pay his country in castles for damage done to the navy; and -planted a handful of Scotch firs, that look like ploughboys dress’d in -old family liveries for a public day. In the hall is a very good -collection of pictures, all animals; the refectory, now the great -drawing room, is full of Byrons; the vaulted roof remaining, but the -windows have new dresses making for them by a Venetian tailor.’ - -This is a careless, but happy description, of one of the noblest -mansions in England; and it will _now_ be read with a far deeper -interest than when it was written. Walpole saw the seat of the Byrons, -old, majestic, and venerable;—but he saw nothing of that magic beauty -which Fame sheds over the habitations of Genius, and which now mantles -every turret of Newsted Abbey. He saw it when Decay was doing its work -on the cloister, the refectory, and the chapel, and all its honours -seemed mouldering into oblivion. He could not know that a voice was soon -to go forth from those antique cloisters, that should be heard through -all future ages, and cry, ‘Sleep no more, to all the house.’ Whatever -may be its future fate, Newsted Abbey must henceforth be a memorable -abode. Time may shed its wild flowers on the walls, and let the fox in -upon the courtyard and the chambers. It may even pass into the hands of -unlettered pride or plebian opulence.—But it has been the mansion of a -mighty poet. Its name is associated to glories that cannot perish—and -will go down to posterity in one of the proudest pages of our annals. - -Our author is not often pathetic: But there are some touches of this -sort in the account of his visit to Houghton—though the first part is -flippant enough. - -‘The surprise the picture gave me is again renewed. Accustomed for many -years to see nothing but wretched daubs and varnished copies at -auctions, I look at these as enchantment. My own description of them -seems poor; but, shall I tell you truly, the majesty of Italian ideas -almost sinks before the warm nature of Flemish colouring. Alas! don’t I -grow old? My young imagination was fired with Guido’s ideas; must they -be plump and prominent as Abishag to warm me now? Does great youth feel -with poetic limbs, as well as see with poetic eyes? In one respect I am -very young; I cannot satiate myself with looking: an incident -contributed to make me feel this more strongly. A party arrived, just as -I did, to see the house; a man, and three women in riding dresses, and -they rode post through the apartments. I could not hurry before them -fast enough; they were not so long in seeing for the first time, as I -could have been in one room, to examine what I knew by heart. I remember -formerly being often diverted with this kind of _seers_; they come—ask -what such a room is called—in which Sir Robert lay—write it down—admire -a lobster or a cabbage in a market piece—dispute whether the last room -was green or purple—and then hurry to the inn for fear the fish should -be over-dressed. How different my sensations! Not a picture here but -recalls a history; not one but I remember in Downing-street or Chelsea, -where queens and crowds admired them,—though seeing them as little as -these travellers!’ - -There is some appearance of heart, too, in his account of Lady -Waldegrave’s sufferings on the death of her husband. She was a beautiful -woman; and Walpole seems to have been really kind to her. - -‘I had not risen from table, when I received an express from Lady Betty -Waldegrave, to tell me that a sudden change had happened; that they had -given him James’s powders, but that they feared it was too late; and -that he probably would be dead before I could come to my niece, for -whose sake she begged I would return immediately. I was indeed too late! -Too late for every thing.—Late as it was given, the powder vomited him -even in the agonies. Had I had power to direct, he should never have -quitted James:—But these are vain regrets!—Vain to recollect how -particularly kind he, who was kind to everybody, was to me! I found Lady -Waldegrave at my brother’s. She weeps without ceasing; and talks of his -virtues and goodness to her in a manner that distracts one. My brother -bears this mortification with more courage than I could have expected -from his warm passions: but nothing struck me more than to see my rough -savage Swiss, Louis, in tears as he opened my chaise.—I have a bitter -scene to come. To-morrow morning I carry poor Lady Waldegrave to -Strawberry. Her fall is great, from that adoration and attention that he -paid her,—from that splendour of fortune, so much of which dies with -him,—and from that consideration which rebounded to her from the great -deference which the world had for his character. Visions, perhaps. Yet -who could expect that they would have passed away even before that -fleeting thing, her beauty!’ - -This lady seems to have been afflicted nearly beyond the hope of -consolation. Nevertheless, she married again. It is not a bad sign, we -believe, when a widow sets in with a good wet grief: she has the better -chance of a fine day. Philosophers assert, indeed, that it is possible -for a woman to cry a sorrow clean out:—and we must confess, we have now -and then heard of such things. - -We must draw to a close now with our quotations—though we wish we had -room for more. For the author is exceedingly amusing in his attempt at -tracing his descent from Chaucer;—in his remarks on old and young -kings,—in his practical and prospective speculations on gout in the feet -and stomach,—and in his picture of himself, ‘with sweet peas stuck in -his hair!’ We should have liked, too, to extract a _bon mot_ or two of -George Selwyn, whose love of puns and executions was equally insatiable; -but they stick too fast in the looser texture of his historian, to be -disengaged with any moderate labour. The following little passage is -very pleasingly written. - -‘For what are we taking Belleisle?—I rejoiced at the little loss we had -on landing: For the glory, I leave it to the Common Council. I am very -willing to leave London to them too, and do pass half the week at -Strawberry, where my two passions, lilacs and nightingales, are in full -bloom. I spent Sunday as if it were Apollo’s birth-day; Gray and Mason -were with me, and we listened to the nightingales till one o’clock in -the morning. Gray has translated two noble incantations from the Lord -knows who, a Danish Gray, who lived the Lord knows when. They are to be -enchased in a history of English Bards, which Mason and he are writing, -but of which the former has not written a word yet, and of which the -latter, if he rides Pegasus at his usual foot pace, will finish the -first page two years hence!’ - -We cannot understand the Editor’s drift in leaving so many names -unprinted. The respect for the living has been carried, we think, to a -most awful extent: for names are continually left blank, which would -visit their sins, if at all, upon the third or fourth generation. In -many instances, too, the allusions are as plain as if the names had been -written at full length. At p. 185, for example, we perceive a delicate -attention of this sort to the family of Northumberland,—though few -readers can be so respectfully uninformed as to be at all perplexed by -the suppression. Chevy Chase has not left the Douglas and the Percy in -such comfortable security. The mystical passage is as follows. - -‘Lady R—— P—— pushed her on the birth-night against a bench. The -Dutchess of Grafton asked if it was true that Lady R—— kicked her? “Kick -me, Madam! when did you ever hear of a P——y that took a kick?” I can -tell you another anecdote of that house, that will not divert you less. -Lord March making them a visit this summer at Alnwic Castle, my Lord -received him at the gate and said, “I believe, my Lord, this is the -first time that ever a Douglas and a P——y met here in friendship.” Think -of this from a Smithson to a true Douglas.’ - -The beauty of the thing too, is, that Smithson (which alone could give -offence) is printed with all the letters—while Percy is delicately left -in initials and finals. - -There are some verses in the book, of which, out of regard to the -author’s memory, we shall say nothing. They are very apparently ‘by a -person of quality.’ Pope, we think, has written something like them -under that signature—which rather takes from their originality.——But we -now take our final leave of this lively volume, with our usual protest -against the enormous size into which this collection has been distended. -Book-sellers now-a-days only study how to construct large paper houses -for their little families of letterpress,—and never think of the -taxation to which they thus subject their readers. These Letters might -have been comfortably accommodated in a comely little octavo, and sold -at a reasonable price: Instead of which, they are put forth in a good -stiff quarto,—and are, to use old Marall’s phrase, ‘very chargeable.’ We -hope soon to see them in a more accessible shape. - - - LIFE OF SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS - - VOL. XXXIV.] [_August 1820._ - -This, with regard to its main object, must certainly be regarded as a -superfluous publication. Forty years after the death of Sir Joshua, Mr. -Farington has found himself called upon to put forth a thin octavo -volume, to revive the recollection of the dispute between their late -President and the Academy, and to correct an error into which Mr. Malone -had fallen, in supposing that Sir Joshua was not entirely to blame in -that business. This is a remarkable instance of the tenaciousness of -corporate bodies with respect to the immaculate purity of their conduct. -It was at first suggested that printed notes might be sufficient, with -references to the pages of Mr. Malone’s account: but it was finally -judged best to give it as a connected narrative—that the vindication of -the Academy might slip in only as a parenthesis or an episode. So we -have a full account of Sir Joshua’s birth and parentage, god-fathers and -god-mothers, with as many repetitions beside as were necessary to give a -colouring to Mr. Farington’s ultimate object. The manner in which the -plot of the publication is insinuated, is curious and characteristic: -But our business at present is with certain more general matters, on -which we have some observations to offer. - -‘In the present instance,’ says Mr. F., ‘we see how a character, formed -by early habits of consideration, self-government, and persevering -industry, acquired the highest fame; and made his path through life a -course of unruffled moral enjoyment. Sir Joshua Reynolds, when young, -wrote rules of conduct for himself. One of his maxims was, “that the -great principle of being happy in this world, is, not to mind or be -affected with small things.” To this rule he strictly adhered; and the -constant habit of controlling his mind contributed greatly to that -evenness of temper which enabled him to live pleasantly with persons of -all descriptions. Placability of temper may be said to have been his -characteristic. The happiness of possessing such a disposition was -acknowledged by his friend Dr. Johnson, who said, “Reynolds was the most -invulnerable man he had ever known.” - -‘The life of this distinguished artist exhibits a useful lesson to all -those who may devote themselves to the same pursuit. He was not of the -class of such as have been held up, or who have esteemed themselves, to -be heaven-born geniuses. He appeared to think little of such claims. It -will be seen, in the account of his progress to the high situation he -attained in his profession, that at no period was there in him any such -fancied inspiration; on the contrary, every youthful reader of the -Memoirs of Sir Joshua Reynolds may feel assured, that his ultimate -success will be in proportion to the resolution with which he follows -his example.’ - -This, we believe, is the current morality and philosophy of the present -day; and therefore it is of more consequence to observe, that it appears -to us to be a mere tissue of sophistry and folly. And first, as to -happiness depending on ‘not being affected with small things,’ it seems -plain enough, that a continued flow of pleasurable sensations cannot -depend every moment on great objects. Children are supposed to have a -fair share of enjoyment; and yet this arises chiefly from their being -delighted with trifles—‘pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.’ -The reason why we so seldom carry on the happy vivacity of early youth -into maturer age is, that we form to ourselves a higher standard of -enjoyment than we can realize; and that our passions gradually fasten on -certain favourite objects, which, in proportion to their magnitude, are -of rare occurrence, and, for the most part, out of our reach. The -example, too, which suggested these general remarks, actually exposes -their fallacy. Sir Joshua did _not_ owe his happiness to his contempt of -little things, but to his success in great ones—and it was by that -actual success, far more than by the meritorious industry and exertion -which contributed to it, that he was enabled to disregard little -vexations. Was Richardson, for example, who, it is observed afterwards, -‘had merit in his profession, but not of a high order, though he thought -so well on the subject of art, and had practised it so long,’ to feel an -equal moral enjoyment in the want of equal success? Was the idea of that -excellence, which he had so long laboured in vain to realize, to console -him for the loss of that ‘highest fame,’ which is here represented as -the invariable concomitant of persevering industry? Or was he to -disregard his failure as a trifle? Was the consciousness that he had -done his best, to stand him in stead of that ‘unruffled moral enjoyment’ -which Sir Joshua owed in no small degree to the coronet-coaches that -besieged his doors, to the great names that sat at his table, to the -beauty that crowded his painting-room, and reflected its loveliness back -from the lucid mirror of his canvas? These things do indeed put a man -above minding little inconveniences, and ‘greatly contribute to that -evenness of temper which enables him to live pleasantly with persons of -all descriptions.’ But was Hudson, Sir Joshua’s master, who had grown -old and rich in the cultivation of his art, and who found himself -suddenly outdone and eclipsed by his pupil, to derive much _unruffled -enjoyment_ from this petty circumstance, or to comfort himself with one -of those maxims which young Reynolds had written out for his conduct in -life? When Sir Joshua himself lost the use of one of his eyes, in the -decline of his life, he became peevish, and did not long survive the -practice of his favourite art. Suppose the same loss to have happened to -him in the meridian of his fame, we fear that all his consciousness of -merit, and all his efforts of industry, would have been insufficient to -have supplied that unruffled felicity which we are here taught to refer -exclusively to these high sources. - -The truth is, that those specious maxims, though they may seem at first -sight to minister to content, and to encourage to meritorious exertion, -lead in fact to a wrong estimate of human life, to unreasonable -anticipations of success, and to bitter repinings and regrets at what in -any reverse of fortune we think the injustice of society and the caprice -of nature. We have a very remarkable instance of this process of mental -sophistication, or the setting up a theory against experience, and then -wondering that human nature does not answer to our theory, in what our -author says on this very subject of Hudson, and his more fortunate -scholar afterwards. P. 46. ‘It might be thought that the talents of -Reynolds, to which no degree of ignorance or imbecility in the art could -be insensible, added to his extraordinary reputation, would have -extinguished every feeling of Jealousy or Rivalship in the mind of his -master Hudson; but the malady was so deeply seated as to defy the usual -remedies applied by time and reflection. _Hudson, when at the head of -his art, admired and praised by all, had seen a youth rise up and -annihilate both his Income and his Fame; and he never could divest his -mind of the feelings of mortification caused by the loss he had thus -sustained._’ This Mr. F. actually considers as something quite -extraordinary and unreasonable; and which might have been easily -prevented by a diligent study of Sir Joshua’s admirable aphorisms, -against being affected by small things. Such is our Academician’s -ethical simplicity, and enviable ignorance of the ways of the world! - -One would think that the name of Hudson, which occurs frequently in -these pages, might have taught our learned author some little distrust -of that other favourite maxim, that Genius is the effect of education, -encouragement, and practice. It is the basis, however, of his whole -moral and intellectual system; and is thus distinctly announced and -enforced in a very elaborate passage. - -‘With respect to his (Sir Joshua’s) early indications of talent for the -art he afterwards professed, it would be idle to dwell upon them as -manifesting any thing more than is common among boys of his age. As an -amusement he probably preferred drawing to any other to which he was -tempted. In the specimens which have been preserved, there is no sign of -premature ingenuity; his history is, in this respect, like what might be -written of very many other artists, perhaps of artists in general. His -attempts were applauded by kind and sanguine friends; and this -encouraged him to persevere till it became a fixed desire in him to make -further proficiency, and continually to request that it might be his -profession. It is said, that his purpose was determined by reading -Richardson’s Treatise on Painting. Possibly it might have been so; his -thoughts having been previously occupied with the subject. Dr. Johnson, -in his Life of Cowley, writes as follows—“In the windows of his mother’s -apartment lay Spenser’s Faery Queen, in which he very early took delight -to read, till by feeling the charms of verse, he became, as he relates, -irrecoverably a poet. Such are the accidents which, sometimes -remembered, and perhaps sometimes forgotten, produce that peculiar -designation of mind, and propensity for some certain science or -employment, which is commonly called Genius. The true genius is a man of -large general powers accidentally determined to some particular -direction. Sir Joshua Reynolds, the great painter of the present age, -had the first fondness for his art excited by the perusal of -Richardson’s Treatise.” In this definition of genius, Reynolds fully -concurred with Dr. Johnson; and he was himself an instance in proof of -its truth. He had a sound natural capacity, and, by observation and -long-continued labour, always discriminating with judgment, he obtained -universal applause, and established his claim to be ranked amongst those -to whom the highest praise is due; for his productions exhibited perfect -originality. No artist ever consulted the works of eminent predecessors -more than Sir Joshua Reynolds. He drew from every possible source -something which might improve his practice; and he resolved the whole of -what he saw in nature, and found in art, into a union, which made his -pictures a singular display of grace, truth, beauty and richness.’ - -From the time that Mr. Locke exploded _innate ideas_ in the commencement -of the last century, there began to be a confused apprehension in some -speculative heads, that there could be no innate faculties either; and -our half metaphysicians have been floundering about in this notion ever -since: as if, because there are no innate ideas, that is, no actual -impressions existing in the mind without objects, there could be no -peculiar capacity to receive them from objects; or as if there might not -be as great a difference in the capacity itself as in the outward -objects to be impressed upon it. We might as well deny, at once, that -there are organs or faculties to receive impressions, because there are -no innate ideas, as deny that there is an inherent difference in the -organs or faculties to receive impressions of any particular kind. If -the capacity exists (which it must do), there may, nay we should say -there _must_, be a difference in it, in different persons, and with -respect to different things. To allege that there is such a difference, -no more implies the doctrine of innate ideas, than to say that the brain -of a man is more fitted to discern external objects than a block of -marble, imports that there are innate ideas in the brain, or in the -block of marble. The impression, it is true, does not exist in the -sealing-wax till the seal has been applied to it: but there was the -previous capacity to receive the impression; and there may be, and most -probably is, a greater degree of fitness in one piece of sealing-wax -than in another. That the original capacity, the aptitude for certain -impressions or pursuits, should be necessarily the same in different -instances, with the diversity that we see in men’s organs, faculties, -and acquirements of various kinds, is a supposition not only gratuitous, -but absurd. There is the capacity of animals, the capacity of idiots, -and of half idiots and half madmen of various descriptions: there is -capacity, in short, of all sorts and degrees, from an oyster to a -Newton: Yet we are gravely told, that wherever there is a power of -sensation, the genius must be the same, and would, with proper -cultivation, produce the same effects. ‘No,’ say the French -materialists; ‘but in minds commonly well organized (_communement bien -organisés_), the results will, in the same given circumstances, be the -same.’ That is, in the same circumstances, and with the same _average_ -capacity, there will be the same average degree of genius or -imbecility—which is just an identical proposition. - -To make any sense at all of the doctrine, that circumstances are -everything and natural genius nothing, the result ought at least to -correspond to the aggregate of impressions, determining the mind this -way or that, like so many weights in a scale. But the advocates of this -doctrine allow that the result is not by any means according to the -known aggregate of impressions, but, on the contrary, that one of the -most insignificant, or one not at all perceived, will turn the scale -against the bias and experience of a man’s whole life. The reasoning is -here lame again. These persons wish to get rid of occult causes, to -refer every thing to distinct principles and a visible origin; and yet -they say that they know not how it is, that, in spite of all visible -circumstances, such a one should be an incorrigible blockhead and such -an other an extraordinary genius; but that, no doubt, there was a secret -influence exerted, a by-play in it, in which nature had no hand, but -accident gave a nod, and in a lucky or unlucky minute fixed the destiny -of both for life, by some slight and transient impulse! Now, this is -like the reasoning of the astrologers, who pretend that your whole -history is to be traced to the constellation under which you were born: -and when you object that two men born at the same time have the most -different character and fortune, they answer, that there was _an -imperceptible interval_ between the moment of their births, that made -the whole difference. But if this short interval, of which no one could -be aware, made the whole difference, it also makes their whole science -vain. Besides, the notion of an accidental impulse, a slight turn of the -screws giving a total revulsion to the whole frame of the mind, is only -intelligible on the supposition of an original or previous bias which -falls in with that impression, and catches at the long-wished for -opportunity of disclosing itself:—like combustible matter meeting with -the spark that kindles it into a flame. But it is little less than sheer -nonsense to maintain, while outward impressions are said to be every -thing, and the mind alike indifferent to all, that one single -unconscious impression shall decide upon a man’s whole character, -genius, and pursuits in life,—and all the rest thenceforward go for -nothing. - -Again, we hear it said that the difference of understanding or character -is not very apparent at first:—though this is not uniformly true—but -neither is the difference between an oak and a briar very great in the -seed or in the shoot:—yet will any one deny that the germ is there, or -that the soil, culture, the sun and heat alone produce the difference? -So circumstances are necessary to the mind: but the mind is necessary to -circumstances. The ultimate success depends on the joint action of both. -They were fools who believed in innate ideas, or talked of ‘heaven-born -genius’ without any means of developing it. They are greater, because -more learned fools, who assert that circumstances alone can create or -develop genius, where none exists. We may distinguish a stature of the -mind as well as of the body,—a mould, a form, to which it is -predetermined irrevocably. It is true that exercise gives strength to -the faculties both of mind and body; but it is not true that it is the -only source of strength in either case. Exercise will make a weak man -strong, but it will make a strong man stronger. A dwarf will never be a -match for a giant, train him ever so. And are there not dwarfs as well -as giants in intellect? Appearances are for it, and reason is not -against it. - -There are, beyond all dispute, persons who have a talent for particular -things, which according to Dr. Johnson’s definition of genius, proceeds -from ‘a greater general capacity accidentally determined to a particular -direction.’ But this, instead of solving, doubles the miracle of genius; -for it leaves entire all the former objections to inherent talent, and -supposes that one man ‘of large general capacity’ is all sorts of genius -at once. This is like admitting that one man may be naturally stronger -than another—but denying that he can be naturally stronger in the legs -or the arms only; and, deserting the ground of original equality, would -drive the theorist to maintain that the inequality which exists must -always be universal, and not particular, although all the instances we -actually meet with are particular only. Now surely we have no right to -give any man credit for genius in more things than he has shown a -particular genius in. In looking round us in the world, it is most -certain that we find men of large general capacity and no particular -talent, and others with the most exquisite turn for some particular -thing, and no general talent. Would Dr. Johnson have made Reynolds or -Goldsmith, Burke, by beginning early and continuing late? We should make -strange havoc by this arbitrary transposition of genius and industry. -Some persons cannot for their lives understand the first proposition in -Euclid. Would they ever make great mathematicians? Or does this -incapacity preclude them from ever excelling in any other art or -mystery? Swift was admitted by special grace to a Bachelor’s Degree at -Dublin College, which, however, did not prevent him from writing -Gulliver’s Travels: and Claude Lorraine was turned away by his master -from the trade of a pastry-cook to which he was apprenticed, for sheer -stupidity. People often fail most in what they set themselves most -diligently about, and discover an unaccountable _knack_ at something -else, without any effort or even consciousness that they possess it. One -great proof and beauty of works of true genius, is the ease, simplicity, -and freedom from conscious effort which pervades them. Not only in -different things is there this difference of skill and aptness -displayed; but in the same thing, to which a man’s attention is -continually directed, how narrow is the sphere of human excellence, how -distinct the line of pursuit which nature has marked out even for those -whom she has most favoured! Thus in painting, Raphael excelled in -drawing, Titian in colouring, Rembrandt in _chiaroscuro_. A small part -of nature was revealed to each by a peculiar felicity of conformation; -and they would have made sad work of it, if each had neglected his own -advantages to go in search of those of others, on the principle that -genius is a large general capacity, transferred, by will or accident, to -some particular channel. - -It may be said, that in all these cases it is habit, not nature, that -produces the disqualification for different pursuits. But if the bias -given to the mind, by a particular study, totally unfits it for others, -is it probable that there is something in the nature of those studies -which requires a particular bias and structure of the faculties to excel -in them, from the very first? If genius were, as some pretend, the mere -exercise of general power on a particular subject, without any -difference of organs or subordinate faculties, a man would improve -equally in every thing, and grow wise at all points. But if, besides -mere general power, there is a constant exercise and sharpening of -different organs and faculties required for any particular pursuit, then -a natural susceptibility of those organs and faculties must greatly -assist him in his progress. To argue otherwise, is to shut one’s eyes to -the whole mass of inductive evidence; and to run headlong into a -dogmatical theory, depending wholly on presumption and conjecture. We -would sooner go the whole length of the absurdities of craniology, than -get into this flatting-machine of the original sameness and -indiscriminate tendency of men’s faculties and dispositions. A painter, -of all men, should not give into any such notion. Does he pretend to see -differences in faces, and will he allow none in minds? Or, does he make -the outline of the head the criterion of a corresponding difference of -character, and yet reject all distinction in the original conformation -of the soul? Has he never been struck with _family_ likenesses? And is -there not an inherent, indestructible, and inalienable character to be -found in the individuals of such families answering to this -physiognomical identity, even in remote branches, where there has been -no communication when young, and where the situation, pursuits, -education, and character of the individuals have been totally opposite? -Again, do we not find persons with every external advantage, without any -intellectual superiority; and the greatest prodigies emerge from the -greatest obscurity? What made Shakespeare! Not his education as a -link-boy or a deer-stealer! Have there not been thousands of -mathematicians, educated like Sir Isaac Newton, who have risen to the -rank of Senior Wranglers, and never been heard of afterwards? Did not -Hogarth live in the same age with Hayman? Who will believe that Highmore -could, by any exaggeration of circumstances, have been transformed into -Michael Angelo? That Hudson was another Vandyke _incognito_; or that -Reynolds would, as our author dreads, have learned to paint like his -master, if he had staid to serve out his apprenticeship with him? The -thing was impossible.—Hudson had every advantage, as far as Mr. -Farington’s mechanical theory goes (for he was brought up under -Richardson), to enable him to break through the trammels of custom, and -to raise the degenerate style of art in his day. Why did he not? He had -not original force of mind either to inspire him with the conception, or -to impel him to execute it. Why did Reynolds burst through the cloud -that overhung the region of art, and shine out, like the glorious sun, -upon his native land? Because he had the genius to do it. It was nature -working in him, and forcing its way through all impediments of ignorance -and fashion, till it found its native element in undoubted excellence -and wide-spread fame. His eye was formed to drink in light, and to -absorb the splendid effects of shadowy obscurity; and it gave out what -it took in. He had a strong intrinsic perception of grace and -expression; and he could not be satisfied with the stiff, formal, -inanimate models he saw before him. There are indeed certain minds that -seem formed as conductors to truth and beauty, as the hardest metals -carry off the electric fluid, and round which all examples of -excellence, whether in art or nature, play harmless and ineffectual. -Reynolds was not one of these: but the instant he saw gorgeous truth in -natural objects, or artificial models, his mind ‘darted contagious -fire.’ It is said that he surpassed his servile predecessors by a more -diligent study, and more careful imitation of nature. But how was he -attracted to nature, but by the sympathy of real taste and genius? He -also copied the portraits of Gandy, an obscure but excellent artist of -his native county. A blockhead would have copied his master, and -despised Gandy: but Gandy’s style of painting satisfied and stimulated -his ambition, because he saw nature there. Hudson’s made no impression -on him, because it presented nothing of the kind. Why then did Reynolds -perform what he did? From the force and bias of his genius. Why did he -not do more? Because his natural bias did not urge him farther. As it is -the property of genius to find its true level, so it cannot rise above -it. He seized upon and naturalized the beauties of Rembrandt and Rubens, -because they were connate to his own turn of mind. He did not at first -instinctively admire, nor did he ever, with all his professions, make -any approach to the high qualities of Raphael or Michael Angelo, because -there was an obvious incompatibility between them. Sir Joshua did not, -after all, found a school of his own in general art, because he had not -strength of mind for it. But he introduced a better taste for art in -this country, because he had great taste himself, and sufficient genius -to transplant many of the excellences of others. - -Mr. Farington takes the trouble to vindicate Sir Joshua’s title to be -the author of his own Discourses—though this is a subject on which we -have never entertained a doubt; and conceive indeed that a doubt never -could have arisen, but from estimating the talents required for painting -too low in the scale of intellect, as something mechanical and -fortuitous; and from making literature something exclusive and paramount -to all other pursuits. Johnson and Burke were equally unlikely to have -had a principal or considerable hand in the Discourses. They have none -of the pomp, the vigour, or _mannerism_ of the one, nor the boldness, -originality, or extravagance of the other. They have all the internal -evidence of being Sir Joshua’s. They are subdued, mild, unaffected, -thoughtful,—containing sensible observations on which he laid too little -stress, and vague theories which he was not able to master. There is the -same character of mind in what he wrote, as of eye in what he painted. -His style is gentle, flowing, and bland: there is an inefficient -outline, with a mellow, felicitous, and delightful filling-up. In both, -the taste predominates over the genius: the manner over the matter! The -real groundwork of Sir Joshua’s Discourses is to be found in -Richardson’s Essays. - -We proceed to Mr. F.’s account of the state of art in this country, a -little more than half a century ago, which is no less accurate than it -is deplorable. It may lead us to form a better estimate of the merits of -Sir Joshua in rescuing it from this lowest point of degradation, and -perhaps assist our conjectures as to its future progress and its present -state. - -‘It was the lot of Sir Joshua Reynolds to be destined to pursue the art -of painting at a period when the extraordinary effort he made came with -all the force and effect of novelty. He appeared at a time when the art -was at its lowest ebb. What might be called an English school had never -been formed. All that Englishmen had done was to copy, and endeavour to -imitate, the works of eminent men, who were drawn to England from other -countries by encouragement, which there was no inducement to bestow upon -the inferior efforts of the natives of this island. In the reign of -Queen Elizabeth, Frederigo Zucchero, an Italian, was much employed in -England, as had been Hans Holbein, a native of Basle, in a former reign. -Charles the First gave great employment to Rubens and Vandyke. They were -succeeded by Sir Peter Lely, a native of Soest in Westphalia; and Sir -Godfrey Kneller came from Lubec to be, for a while, Lely’s competitor: -and after his death, he may be said to have had the whole command of the -art in England. He was succeeded by Richardson, the first English -painter that stood at the head of portrait painting in this country. -Richardson had merit in his profession, but not of a high order: and it -was remarkable, that a man who thought so well on the subject of art, -and more especially who practised so long, should not have been able to -do more than is manifested in his works. He died in 1745, aged 80. -Jervais, the friend of Pope, was his competitor, but very inferior to -him. Sir James Thornhill, also, was contemporary with Richardson, and -painted portraits; but his reputation was founded upon his historical -and allegorical compositions. In St. Paul’s cathedral, in the Hospital -at Greenwich, and at Hampton Court, his principal works are to be seen. -As Richardson in portraits, so Thornhill in history painting was the -first native of this island, who stood preeminent in the line of art he -pursued at the period of his practice. He died in 1732, aged 56. - -‘Horace Walpole, in his Anecdotes of Painting, observes, that “at the -accession of George the First, the arts were sunk to the lowest state in -Britain.” This was not strictly true. Mr. Walpole, who published at a -later time, should have dated the period of their utmost degradation to -have been in the middle of the last century, when the names of Hudson -and Hayman were predominant. It is true, Hogarth was then well known to -the public; but he was less so as a painter than an engraver, _though -many of his pictures representing subjects of humour and character are -excellent_; and Hayman, as a history painter, could not be compared with -Sir James Thornhill. - -‘Thomas Hudson was a native of Devonshire. His name will be preserved -from his having been the artist to whom Sir Joshua Reynolds was -committed for instruction. Hudson was the scholar of Richardson, and -married his daughter; and after the death of his father-in-law, -succeeded to the chief employment in portrait painting. He was in all -respects much below his master in ability; but being esteemed the best -artist of his time, commissions flowed in upon him; and his _business_, -as it might truly be termed, was carried on like that of a manufactory. -To his ordinary heads, draperies were added by painters who chiefly -confined themselves to that line of practice. No time was lost by Hudson -in the study of character, or in the search of variety in the position -of his figures: a few formal attitudes served as models for all his -subjects; and the _display_ of arms and hands, being the more difficult -parts, was managed with great economy, _by all the contrivances of -concealment_. - -‘To this scene of imbecile performance, Joshua Reynolds was sent by his -friends. He arrived in London on the 14th of October 1741, and on the -18th of that month he was introduced to his future preceptor. He was -then aged seventeen years and three months. The terms of the agreement -were, that provided Hudson approved him, he was to remain four years: -but might be discharged at pleasure. He continued in this situation two -years and a half, during which time he drew many heads upon paper; and -in his attempts in painting, succeeded so well in a portrait of Hudson’s -cook, as to excite his master’s jealousy. In this temper of mind, Hudson -availed himself of a very trifling circumstance to dismiss him. Having -one evening ordered Reynolds to take a picture to Van Haaken the drapery -painter; but as the weather proved wet he postponed carrying it till -next morning. At breakfast, Hudson demanded why he did not take the -picture the evening before? Reynolds replied, that “he delayed it on -account of the weather; but that the picture was delivered that morning -before Van Haaken rose from bed.” Hudson then said, “You have not obeyed -my orders, and shall not stay in my house.” On this peremptory -declaration, Reynolds urged that he might be allowed time to write to -his father, who might otherwise think he had committed some great crime. -Hudson, though reproached by his own servant for this unreasonable and -violent conduct, persisted in his determination: accordingly, Reynolds -went that day from Hudson’s house to an uncle who resided in the Temple, -and from thence wrote to his father, who, after consulting his neighbour -Lord Edgcumbe, directed him to come down to Devonshire. - -‘Thus did our great artist commence his professional career. Two remarks -may be made upon this event. First by quitting Hudson at this early -period, he avoided the danger of having his mind and his hand habituated -to a mean practice of the art, which, when established, is most -difficult to overcome. It has often been observed in the works of -artists who thus began their practice, that though they rose to marked -distinction, there have been but few who could wholly divest themselves -of the bad effects of a long-continued exercise of the eye and the hand -in copying ordinary works. In Hudson’s school, this was fully -manifested. Mortimer and Wright of Derby were his pupils. They were both -men of superior talents; but in Portraits they never succeeded beyond -what would be called mediocre performance. In this line their -productions were tasteless and laboured: fortunately, however, they made -choice of subjects more congenial with their minds. Mortimer, charmed -with the wild spirit of Salvator Rosa, made the exploits of lawless -banditti the chief subjects of his pencil; while Wright devoted himself -to the study of objects viewed by artificial light, and to the beautiful -effects of the moon upon landscape scenery: yet, even in these, though -deserving of great praise, the effects of their early practice were but -too apparent; their pictures being uniformly executed with what artists -call a heavy hand.’ p. 19. - -‘This is a humiliating retrospect for the lovers of art, and of their -country. In speculating upon its causes, we are half afraid to hint at -the probable effects of Climate,—so much is it now the fashion to decry -what was once so much overrated. Our theoretical opinions are directed -far more frequently by a spirit of petulant contradiction than of fair -inquiry. We detect errors in received systems, and then run into the -contrary extreme, to show how wise we are. Thus one folly is driven out -by another; and the history of philosophy is little more than an -alternation of blind prejudices and shallow paradoxes. Thus climate was -everything in the days of Montesquieu, and in our day it is nothing. Yet -it was but one of many cooperating causes at first—and it continues to -be one still. In all that relates to the senses, physical causes may be -allowed to operate very materially, without much violence to experience -or probability. ‘Are the _English_ a Musical people?’ is a question that -has been debated at great length, and in all the forms. But whether the -_Italians_ are a musical people, is a question not to be asked, any more -than whether they have a taste for the fine arts in general. Nor does -the subject ever admit of a question, where a faculty or genius for any -particular thing exists in the most eminent degree; for then it is sure -to show itself, and force its way to the light, in spite of all -obstacles. That which no one ever denied to any people, we may be sure -they actually possess: that which is as often denied as allowed them, we -may be sure they do not possess in a very eminent degree. That, to which -we make the angriest claim, and dispute the most about, whatever else -may be, is not our _forte_. The French are allowed by all the world to -be a dancing, talking, cooking people. If the English were to set up the -same pretensions, it would be ridiculous. But then, they say, they have -other excellences; and having these, they would have the former too. -They think it hard to be set down as a dull, plodding people: but is it -not equally hard upon others to be called vain and light? They tell us, -they are the wisest, the freest, and most moral people on the face of -the earth, without the frivolous accomplishments of their neighbours; -but they insist upon having these too, to be upon a par in every thing -with the rest of the world. We have our bards and sages (‘better none’), -our prose writers, our mathematicians, our inventors in useful and -mechanic arts, our legislators, our patriots, our statesmen, and our -fighting-men, in the field and in the ring:—In these we challenge, and -justly, all the world. We are not behind-hand with any people in all -that depends on hard thinking and deep and firm feeling, on long heads -and stout hearts:—But why must we excel also in the reverse of these,—in -what depends on lively perceptions, on quick sensibility, and on a -voluptuous effeminacy of temperament and character? An Englishman does -not ordinarily pretend to combine his own gravity, plainness and -reserve, with the levity, loquacity, grimace, and artificial politeness -(as it is called) of a Frenchman. Why then will he insist upon -engrafting the fine upon the domestic arts, as an indispensable -consummation of the national character? We may indeed cultivate them as -an experiment in natural history, and produce specimens of them, and -exhibit them as rarities in their kind, as we do hot-house plants and -shrubs; but they are not of native growth or origin. They do not spring -up in the open air, but shrink from the averted eye of Heaven, like a -Laplander into his hut. They do not sit as graceful ornaments, but as -excrescences on the English character: they are ‘like flowers in our -caps, dying or ere they sicken:’—they are exotics and aliens to the -soil. We do not import foreigners to dig our canals, or construct our -machines, or solve difficult problems in political economy, or write -Scotch novels for us—but we import our dancing-masters, our milliners, -our Opera-singers, our valets, and our travelling cooks,—as till lately -we did our painters and sculptors. - -The English (we take it) are a nation with certain decided features and -predominating traits of character; and if they have any characteristics -at all, this is one of them, that their feelings are internal rather -than external, reflex rather than organic,—and that they are more -inclined to contend with pain than to indulge in pleasure. ‘The stern -genius of the North,’ says Schlegel, ‘throws men back upon -themselves.’—The progress of the Fine Arts has hitherto been slow, and -wavering and unpromising in this country, ‘like the forced pace of a -shuffling nag,’ not like the flight of Pegasus; and their encouragement -has been cold and backward in proportion. They have been wooed and -won—as far as they have been won, which is no further than to a mere -promise of marriage—‘with coy, reluctant, amorous delay.’ They have not -rushed into our embraces, nor been mingled in our daily pastimes and -pursuits. It is two hundred and fifty years since this island was -civilized to all other intellectual purposes: but, till within half a -century, it was a desert and a waste in art. Were there no _terræ filii_ -in those days; no brood of giants to spring out of the ground, and -launch the mighty fragments of genius from their hands; to beautify and -enrich the public mind; to hang up the lights of the eye and of the soul -in pictured halls, in airy porticoes, and solemn temples; to illumine -the land, and weave a garland for their own heads, like ‘the crown which -Ariadne wore upon her bridal day,’ and which still shines brighter in -heaven? There were: but ‘their affections did not that way tend.’ They -were of the tribe of Isaachar, and not of Judah. There were two sisters, -Poetry and Painting: one was taken, and the other was left. - -Were our ancestors insensible to the charms of nature, to the music of -thought, to deeds of virtue or heroic enterprise? No. But they saw them -in their mind’s eye: they felt them at their heart’s core, and there -only. They did not translate their perceptions into the language of -sense: they did not embody them in visible images, but in breathing -words. They were more taken up with what an object suggested to combine -with the infinite stores of fancy or trains of feeling, than with the -single object itself; more intent upon the moral inference, the tendency -and the result, than the appearances of things, however imposing or -expressive, at any given moment of time. If their first impressions were -less vivid and complete, their after-reflections were combined in a -greater variety of striking resemblances, and thus drew a dazzling veil -over their merely sensitive impressions, which deadened and neutralized -them still more. Will it be denied that there is a wide difference, as -to the actual result, between the mind of a Poet and a Painter? Why then -should not this difference be inherent and original, as it undoubtedly -is in individuals, and, to all appearance, in nations? Or why should we -be uneasy because the same country does not teem with all varieties and -with each extreme of excellence and genius?[11] - -In this importunate theory of ours, we misconstrue nature, and tax -Providence amiss. In that short, but delightful season of the year, and -in that part of the country where we now write, there are wild woods and -banks covered with primroses and hyacinths for miles together, so that -you cannot put your foot between, and with a gaudy show ‘empurpling all -the ground,’ and branches loaded with nightingales whose leaves tremble -with their liquid notes: Yet the air does not resound, as in happier -climes, with shepherd’s pipe or roundelay, nor are the village-maids -adorned with wreaths of vernal flowers, ready to weave the braided -dance, or ‘returning with a choral song, when evening has gone down.’ -What is the reason? ‘We also are _not_ Arcadians!’ We have not the same -animal vivacity, the same tendency to external delight and show, the -same ear for melting sounds, the same pride of the eye, or -voluptuousness of the heart. The senses and the mind are differently -constituted; and the outward influences of things, climate, mode of -life, national customs and character, have all a share in producing the -general effect. We should say that the eye in warmer climates drinks in -greater pleasure from external sights, is more open and porous to them, -as the ear is to sounds; that the sense of immediate delight is fixed -deeper in the beauty of the object; that the greater life and animation -of character gives a greater spirit and intensity of expression to the -face, making finer subjects for history and portrait; and that the -circumstances in which a people are placed in a genial atmosphere, are -more favourable to the study of nature and of the human form. Claude -could only have painted his landscapes in the open air; and the Greek -statues were little more than copies from living, every-day forms. - -Such a natural aptitude and relish for the impressions of sense gives -not only more facility, but leads to greater patience, refinement, and -perfection in the execution of works of art. What our own artists do is -often up-hill work, against the grain:—not persisted in and brought to a -conclusion for the love of the thing; but, after the first dash, after -the subject is got in, and the gross general effect produced, they -grudge all the rest of their labour as a waste of time and pains. Their -object is not to look at nature, but to have their picture _exhibited_ -and _sold_. The want of intimate sympathy with, and entire repose on -nature, not only leaves their productions hard, violent, and crude, but -frequently renders them impatient, wavering, and dissatisfied with their -own walk of art, and never easy till they get into a different or higher -one, where they think they can earn more money or fame with less -trouble. By beginning over again, by having the same preliminary ground -to go over, with new subjects or bungling experiments, they seldom -arrive at that nice, nervous point that trembles on perfection. This -last stage, in which art is as it were identified with nature, an -English painter shrinks from with strange repugnance and peculiar -abhorrence. The French style is the reverse of ours: it is all dry -finishing without effect. We see their faults, and, as we conceive, -their general incapacity for art: but we cannot be persuaded to see our -own. - -The want of encouragement, which is sometimes set up as an -all-sufficient plea, will hardly account for this slow and irregular -progress of English art. There was no premium offered for the production -of dramatic excellence in the age of Elizabeth: there was no society for -the encouragement of works of wit and humour in the reign of Charles -II.: no committee of taste ever voted Congreve, or Steele, or Swift, a -silver vase, or a gold medal, for their comic vein: Hogarth was not -fostered in the annual exhibitions of the Royal Academy. In plain truth, -that is not the way in which that sort of harvest is produced. The seeds -must be sown in the mind: there is a fulness of the blood, a plethoric -habit of thought, that breaks out with the first opportunity on the -surface of society. Poetry has sprung up indigenously, spontaneously, at -all times of our history, and under all circumstances, with or without -encouragement: it is therefore a rich, natural product of the mind of -the country, unforced, unpampered, unsophisticated. It is obviously and -entirely genuine, ‘the unbought grace of life.’ If it be asked, why -Painting has all this time kept back, has not dared to show its face, or -retired ashamed of its poverty and deformity, the answer is -plain—because it did not shoot out with equal vigour and luxuriance from -the soil of English genius—because it was not the native language and -idiom of the country. Why then are we bound to suppose that it will -shoot up _now_ to an unequalled height—why are we confidently told and -required to predict to others that it is about to produce wonders, when -we see no such thing; when these very persons tell us that there has -been hitherto no such thing, but that it must and shall be revealed in -their time and persons? And though they complain that that public -patronage which they invoke, and which they pretend is alone wanting to -produce the high and palmy state of art to which they would have us look -forward, is entirely and scandalously withheld from it, and likely to be -so! - -We turn from this subject to another not less melancholy or -singular,—from the imperfect and abortive attempts at art in this -country formerly, to its present state of degeneracy and decay in Italy. -Speaking of Sir Joshua’s arrival at Rome in the year 1749, Mr. Farington -indulges in the following remarks. - -‘On his arrival at Rome, he found Pompeo Battoni, a native of Lucca, -possessing the highest reputation. His name was, indeed, known in every -part of Europe, and was every where spoken of as almost another Raphael; -but in that great school of art, such was the admiration he excited, or -rather such was the degradation of taste, that the students in painting -had no higher ambition than to be his imitators. - -‘Battoni had some talent, but his works are dry, cold, and insipid. That -such performances should have been so extolled in the very seat and -centre of the fine arts, seems wonderful. But in this manner has public -taste been operated upon; and from the period when art was carried to -the highest point of excellence known in modern times, it has thus -gradually declined. A succession of artists followed each other, who, -being esteemed the most eminent in their own time, were praised -extravagantly by an ignorant public; and in the several schools they -established, their own productions were the only objects of study. - -‘So widely spread was the fame of Battoni, that, before Reynolds left -England, his patron, Lord Edgcumbe, strongly urged the expediency of -placing himself under the tuition of so great a man. This -recommendation, however, on seeing the works of that master, he did not -choose to follow:—which showed that he was then above the level of those -whose professional views all concentrated in the productions of the -popular favourite. Indeed nothing could be more opposite to the spirited -execution, the high relish of colour, and powerful effect, which the -works of Reynolds at that time possessed, than the tame and inanimate -pictures of Pompeo Battoni. Taking a wiser course, therefore, he formed -his own plan, and studied chiefly in the Vatican, from the works of -Michael Angelo, Raphael, and Andrea del Sarto, with great diligence; -such indeed was his application, that to a severe cold, which he caught -in those apartments, he owed the deafness which continued during the -remainder of his life.’ p. 31. - -This account may serve to show that Italy is no longer Italy: why it is -so, is a question of greater difficulty. The soil, the climate, the -religion, the people are the same; and the men and women in the streets -of Rome still look as if they had walked out of Raphael’s pictures; but -there is no Raphael to paint them, nor does any Leo arise to encourage -them. This seems to prove that the perfection of art is the destruction -of art: that the models of this kind, by their accumulation, block up -the path of genius; and that all attempts at distinction lead, after a -certain period, to a mere lifeless copy of what has been done before, or -a vapid, distorted, and extravagant caricature of it. This is but a poor -prospect for those who set out late in art, and who have all the -excellence of their predecessors, and all the fastidious refinements of -their own taste, the temptations of indolence, and the despair of -vanity, to distract and encumber their efforts. The artists who revel in -the luxuries of genius thus prepared by their predecessors, clog their -wings with the honeyed sweets, and get drunk with the intoxicating -nectar. They become servitors and lacqueys to Art, not devoted servants -of Nature;—the fluttering, foppish, lazy retinue of some great name. The -contemplation of unattainable excellence casts a film over their eyes, -and unnerves their hands. They look on, and do nothing. In Italy, it -costs them a month to paint a hand, a year an eye: the feeble pencil -drops from their grasp, while they wonder to see an Englishman make a -hasty copy of the Transfiguration, turn over a portfolio of Piranesi’s -drawings for their next historical design, and read Winckelman on -_virtù_! We do much the same here, in all our collections and -exhibitions of modern or ancient paintings, and of the Elgin marbles, to -boot. A picture-gallery serves very well for a place to lounge in, and -talk about; but it does not make the student go home and set heartily to -work:—he would rather come again and lounge, and talk, the next day, and -the day after that. He cannot do _all_ that he sees there; and less will -not satisfy his expansive and refined ambition. He would be all the -painters that ever were—or none. His indolence combines with his vanity, -like alternate doses of provocatives and sleeping-draughts. He copies, -however, a favourite picture (though he thinks copying bad in -general),—or makes a chalk-drawing of it—or gets some one else to do it -for him.—We might go on: but we have written what many people will call -a lampoon already! - -There is another view of the subject more favourable and encouraging to -ourselves, and yet not immeasurably so, when all circumstances are -considered. All that was possible had been formerly done for art in -Italy, so that nothing more was left to be done. That is not the case -with us yet. Perfection is not the insurmountable obstacle to _our_ -success: we have enough to do, if we knew how. That is some inducement -to proceed. We can hardly be retrograde in our course. But there is a -difficulty in the way,—no less than our Establishment in Church and -State. Rome was the capital of the Christian and of the civilized world. -Her mitre swayed the sceptres of the earth; and the Servant of Servants -set his foot on the neck of kings, and deposed sovereigns with the -signet of the Fisherman. She was the eye of the world, and her word was -a law. She set herself up, and said, ‘All eyes shall see me, and all -knees shall bow to me.’ She ruled in the hearts of the people by -dazzling their senses, and making them drunk with hopes and fears. She -held in her hands the keys of the other world to open or shut; and she -displayed all the pomp, the trappings, and the pride of this. Homage was -paid to the persons of her ministers; her worship was adorned and made -alluring by every appeal to the passions and imaginations of its -followers. Art was rendered tributary to the support of this grand -engine of power; and Painting was employed, as soon as its fascination -was felt, to aid the devotion, and rivet the faith of the Catholic -believer. Thus religion was made subservient to interest, and art was -called in to aid in the service of this ambitious religion. The -patron-saint of every church stood at the head of his altar: the -meekness of love, the innocence of childhood, ‘amazing brightness, -purity, and truth,’ breathed from innumerable representations of the -Virgin and Child; and the Vatican was covered with the acts and -processions of Popes and Cardinals, of Christ and the Apostles. The -churches were filled with these objects of art and of devotion: the very -walls spoke. ‘A present deity they shout around; a present deity the -walls and vaulted roofs rebound.’ This unavoidably put in requisition -all the strength of genius, and all the resources of enthusiastic -feeling in the country. The spectator sympathized with the artist’s -inspiration. No elevation of thought, no refinement of expression, could -outgo the expectation of the thronging votaries. The fancy of the -painter was but a spark kindled from the glow of public sentiment. This -was a sort of patronage worth having. The zeal and enthusiasm and -industry of native genius was stimulated to works worthy of such -encouragement, and in unison with its own feelings. But by degrees the -tide ebbed: the current was dried up or became stagnant. The churches -were all supplied with altar-pieces: the niches were full, not only with -scriptural subjects, but with the stories of every saint enrolled in the -calendar, or registered in legendary lore. No more pictures were -wanted,—and then it was found that there were no more painters to do -them! The art languished, and gradually disappeared. They could not take -down the Madona of Foligno, or new-stucco the ceiling at Parma, that -other artists might undo what Raphael and Correggio had done. Some of -them, to be sure, did follow this desperate course; and spent their -time, as in the case of Leonardo’s Last Supper at Milan, in painting -over, that is, in defacing the works of their predecessors. Afterwards, -they applied themselves to landscape and classical subjects, with great -success for a time, as we see in Claude and N. Poussin; but the original -_state_ impulse was gone. - -What confirms the foregoing account, is, that at Venice, and other -places out of the more immediate superintendence of the Papal See, -though there also sacred subjects were in great request, yet the art -being patronized by rich merchants and nobles, took a more decided turn -to portraits;—magnificent indeed, and hitherto unrivalled, for the -beauty of the costume, the character of the faces, and the marked -pretensions of the persons who sat for them,—but still wildly remote -from that public and national interest that it assumed in the Roman -school. We see, in like manner, that painting in Holland and Flanders -took yet a different direction; was mostly scenic and ornamental, or -confined to local and personal subjects. Rubens’s pictures, for example, -differ from Raphael’s by a total want of religious enthusiasm and -studied refinement of expression, even where the subjects are the same; -and Rembrandt’s portraits differ from Titian’s in the grossness and want -of animation and dignity of his characters. There was an inherent -difference in the look of a Doge of Venice or one of the Medici family, -and that of a Dutch burgomaster. The climate had affected the picture, -through the character of the sitter, as it affected the genius of the -artist (if not otherwise) through the class of subjects he was -constantly called upon to paint. What turn painting has lately taken, or -is likely to take with us, now remains to be seen. - -With the Memoirs of Sir Joshua Mr. Farington very properly connects the -history of the institution of the Royal Academy from which he dates the -hopes and origin of all sound art in this country. There is here at -first sight an inversion of the usual order of things. The institution -of Academies in most countries has been coeval with the decline of art: -in ours, it seems, it is the harbinger, and main prop of its success. -Mr. F. thus traces the outline of this part of his subject with the -enthusiasm of an artist, and the fidelity of an historian. - -‘At this period (1760) a plan was formed by the artists of the -metropolis to draw the attention of their fellow-citizens to their -ingenious labours; with a view both to an increase of patronage, and the -cultivation of taste. Hitherto works of that kind produced in the -country were seen only by a few; the people in general knew nothing of -what was passing in the arts. Private collections were then -inaccessible, and there were no public ones; nor any casual display of -the productions of genius, except what the ordinary sales by auction -occasionally offered. Nothing, therefore, could exceed the ignorance of -a people who were in themselves learned, ingenious, and highly -cultivated in all things, excepting the arts of design. - -‘In consequence of this privation, it was conceived that a Public -Exhibition of the works of the most eminent Artists could not fail to -make a powerful impression; and if occasionally repeated, might -ultimately produce the most satisfactory effects. The scheme was no -sooner proposed than adopted; and being carried into immediate -execution, the result exceeded the most sanguine expectations of the -projectors. All ranks of people crowded to see the delightful novelty; -it was the universal topic of conversation; and a passion for the arts -was excited by that first manifestation of native talent, which, -cherished by the continued operation of the same cause, has ever since -been increasing in strength, and extending its effects through every -part of the Empire. - -‘The history of our Exhibitions affords itself the strongest evidence of -their impressive effect upon public taste. At their commencement, though -men of enlightened minds could distinguish and appreciate what was -excellent, the admiration of the _many_ was confined to subjects either -gross or puerile, and commonly to the meanest efforts of intellect; -whereas, at this time, the whole train of subjects most popular in the -earlier exhibitions have disappeared. The loaf and cheese, that could -provoke hunger, the cat and canary-bird, and the dead mackarel on a deal -board, have long ceased to produce astonishment and delight; while truth -of imitation now finds innumerable admirers, though combined with the -high qualities of beauty, grandeur, and taste. - -‘To our Public Exhibitions, and to arrangements that followed in -consequence of their introduction, this change must be chiefly -attributed. _The present generation appears to be composed of a new, and -at least, with respect to the arts, a superior order of beings._ -Generally speaking, their thoughts, their feelings, and language on -these subjects differ entirely from what they were sixty years ago. No -just opinions were at that time entertained on the merits of ingenious -productions of this kind. The state of the public mind, incapable of -discriminating excellence from inferiority, proved incontrovertibly that -a right sense of art in the spectator can only be acquired by long and -frequent observation; and that, without proper opportunities to improve -the mind and the eye, a nation would continue insensible of the true -value of the fine arts. - -‘The first or probationary Exhibition, which opened April 21st, 1760, -was at a large room in the Strand, belonging to the society for the -Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce, which had then been -instituted five or six years. It is natural to conclude, that the first -artist in the country was not indifferent to the success of a plan which -promised to be so extensively useful. Accordingly, four of his pictures -were for the first time here placed before the public, with whom, by the -channel now opened, he continued in constant intercourse as long as he -lived. - -‘Encouraged by the successful issue of the first experiment, the -_artistical body_ determined that it should be repeated the following -year. Owing, however, to some inconveniences experienced at their former -place of exhibition, and also to a desire to be perfectly independent in -their proceedings, they engaged, for their next public display, a -spacious room near the Spring Gardens’ entrance into the Park; at which -place the second Exhibition opened, May 9th, 1761. Here Reynolds sent -his fine picture of Lord Ligonier on horseback, a portrait of the Rev. -Laurence Sterne, and three others.... - -‘The artists had now fully proved the efficacy of their plan; and their -income exceeding their expenditure, affording a reasonable hope of a -permanent establishment, they thought they might solicit a Royal Charter -of Incorporation; and having applied to his Majesty for that purpose, he -was pleased to accede to their request. This measure, however, which was -intended to consolidate the body of artists, was of no avail: on the -contrary, it was probably the cause of its dissolution; for in less than -four years a separation took place, which led to the establishment of -the Royal Academy, and finally to the extinction of the incorporated -Society. The charter was dated January 26th, 1765; the secession took -place in October, 1768; and the Royal Academy was instituted December -10th in the same year.’ p. 53. - -On this statement we must be allowed to make a few remarks. First, the -four greatest names in English art, Hogarth, Reynolds, Wilson[12] and -West, were not formed by the Academy, but were formed before it; and the -first gave it as his opinion, that it would be a death-blow to the art. -He considered an Academy as a school for servile mediocrity, a hotbed -for cabal and dirty competition, and a vehicle for the display of idle -pretensions and empty parade. - -Secondly, we agree with the writer as to the deplorable state of the art -and of the public taste in general, which, at the period in question, -was as gross as it was insipid: but we do not think that it has been -improved so much since, as Mr. Farington is willing to suppose; nor that -the Academy has taken more than _half-measures_ for improving or -refining it. - - ‘They found it poor at first, and kept it so.’ - -They have attended to their own interests, and flattered their -customers, while they have neglected or cajoled the public. They may -indeed look back with triumph and pity to ‘the cat and canary-bird, the -dead mackarel and Deal board;’ but they seem to rest satisfied with this -conquest over themselves, and, ‘leaving the things that are behind, have -not pressed forward (with equal ardour) to the things that are before.’ -Theirs is a very moderate, not a Radical Reform in this respect. We do -_not_ find, even in the latest Exhibitions at Somerset House, -‘innumerable examples of truth of imitation, combined with the high -qualities of beauty, grandeur, and taste.’ The mass of the pictures -exhibited there are _not_ calculated to give the English people a true -notion, not merely of high art (as it is emphatically called), but of -the genuine objects of art at all. We do not believe—to take a plain -test of the progress we have made—that nine-tenths of the persons who go -there annually, and who go through the Catalogue regularly, would know a -Guido from a daub—the finest picture from one not badly executed -perhaps, but done in the worst taste, and on the falsest principles. The -vast majority of the pictures received there, and hung up in the most -conspicuous places, are pictures painted to please the natural vanity or -fantastic ignorance of the artist’s sitters, their friends and -relations, and to lead to more commissions for half and whole lengths—or -else pictures painted purposely to be seen in the Exhibition, to strike -across the Great Room, to catch attention, and force admiration, in the -distraction and dissipation of a thousand foolish faces and new-gilt -frames, by gaudy colouring and meretricious grace. We appeal to any man -of judgment, whether this is not a brief, but true summary, of ‘the -annual show’ at the Royal Academy? And is this the way to advance the -interests of art, or to fashion the public taste? There is not one head -in ten painted as a study from nature, or with a view to bring out the -real qualities of the mind or countenance. If there is any such -improvident example of unfashionable sincerity, it is put out of -countenance by the prevailing tone of _rouged_ and smiling folly, and -affectation all around it. - -The only pictures painted in any quantity as studies from nature, free -from the glosses of sordid art and the tincture of vanity, are -_portraits of places_; and it cannot be denied that there are many of -these that have a true and powerful look of nature: but then, as if this -was a matter of great indifference, and nobody’s business to see to, -they are seldom anything more than bare sketches, hastily got up for the -chance of a purchaser, and left unfinished to save time and trouble. -They are not, in general, lofty conceptions or selections of beautiful -scenery, but mere common out-of-door views, relying for their value on -their literal fidelity; and where, consequently, the exact truth and -perfect identity of the imitation is the more indispensable.—Our own -countryman, Wilkie, in scenes of domestic and familiar life, is equally -deserving of praise for the arrangement of his subjects, and care in the -execution: but we have to lament that he too is in some degree -chargeable with that fickleness and desultoriness in the pursuit of -excellence, which we have noticed above as incident to our native -artists, and which, we think, has kept him stationary, instead of being -progressive, for some years past. He appeared at one time as if he was -near touching the point of perfection in his peculiar department; and he -_may_ do it yet! But how small a part do his works form of the -Exhibition, and how unlike all the rest! - -It was the panic-fear that all this daubing and varnishing would be seen -through, and the scales fall off from the eyes of the public, in -consequence of the exhibition of some of the finest specimens of the Old -Masters at the British Institution, that called into clandestine -notoriety that disgraceful production, the _Catalogue Raisonné_. The -concealed authors of that work conceived, that a discerning public would -learn more of the art from the simplicity, dignity, force and truth, of -these admired and lasting models, in a short season or two, than they -had done from the Exhibitions of the Royal Academy for the last fifty -years: that they would see that it did not consist entirely in tints and -varnishes and megilps and washes for the skin, but that all the effects -of colour, and charms of expression, might be united with purity of -tone, with articulate forms, and exquisite finishing. They saw this -conviction rapidly taking place in the public mind, and they shrunk back -from it ‘with jealous leer malign.’ They persuaded themselves, and had -the courage to try to persuade others, that to exhibit approved -specimens of art in general, selected from the works of the most famous -and accomplished masters, was to destroy the germ of native art; was -cruelly to strangle the growing taste and enthusiasm of the public for -art in its very birth; was to blight the well-earned reputation, and -strike at the honest livelihood of the liberal professors of the school -of painting in England. They therefore set to work to decry these -productions as worthless and odious in the sight of the true adept: they -smeared over, with every epithet of low abuse, works and names sacred to -fame, and to generations to come: they spared no pains to heap ridicule -and obloquy on those who had brought these works forward: they did every -thing to disgust and blind the public to their excellence, by showing in -themselves a hatred and a loathing of all high excellence, and of all -established reputation in art, in which their paltry vanity and -mercenary spite were not concerned. They proved, beyond all -contradiction, that to keep back the taste of the town, and the -knowledge of the student, to the point to which _the Academy_ had found -it practicable to conduct it by its example, was the object of a -powerful and active party of professional intriguers in this country. If -the Academy had any hand, directly or indirectly, in this unprincipled -outrage upon taste and decency, they ought to be disfranchised (like -Grampound) to-morrow, as utterly unworthy of the trust reposed in them. - -The alarm indeed (in one sense) was not unfounded: for many persons who -had long been dazzled, not illumined, by the glare of the most modern -and fashionable productions, began to open their eyes to the beauties -and loveliness of painting, and to see reflected there as in a mirror -those hues, those expressions, those transient and heavenly glances of -nature, which had often charmed their own minds, but of which they could -find the traces nowhere else, and became true worshippers at the shrine -of genuine art. Whether this taste will spread beyond the immediate -gratification of the moment, or stimulate the rising generation to new -efforts, and to the adoption of a new and purer style, is another -question; with regard to which, for reasons above explained, we are not -very sanguine. - -We have a great respect for _high_ art, and an anxiety for its -advancement and cultivation; but we have a greater still for the -advancement and encouragement of _true_ art. That is the first, and the -last step. The knowledge of what is contained in nature is the only -foundation of legitimate art; and the perception of beauty and power, in -whatever objects or in whatever degree they subsist, is the test of real -genius. The principle is the same in painting an archangel’s or a -butterfly’s wing; and the very finest picture in the finest collection -may be one of a very common subject. We speak and think of Rembrandt as -Rembrandt, of Raphael as Raphael, not of the one as a portrait, of the -other as a history painter. Portrait may become history, or history -portrait, as the one or the other gives the soul or the mask of the -face. ‘_That_ is true history,’ said an eminent critic, on seeing -Titian’s picture of Pope Julius II. and his two nephews. He who should -set down Claude as a mere landscape painter, must know nothing of what -Claude was in himself; and those who class Hogarth as a painter of low -life, only show their ignorance of human nature. High art does not -consist in high or epic subjects, but in the manner of treating those -subjects; and that manner among us, as far as we have proceeded, has we -think been false and exceptionable. We appeal from the common cant on -this subject to the Elgin marbles. They are high art, confessedly: But -they are also true art, in our sense of the word. They do not deviate -from truth and nature in order to arrive at a fancied superiority to -truth and nature. They do not represent a vapid abstraction, but the -entire, undoubted, concrete object they profess to imitate. They are -like casts of the finest living forms in the world, taken in momentary -action. They are nothing more: and therefore certain great critics who -had been educated in the ideal school of art, think nothing of them. -They do not conform to a vague, unmeaning standard, made out of the -fastidious likings or dislikings of the artist; they are carved out of -the living, imperishable forms of nature, as the marble of which they -are composed was hewn from its native rock. They contain the truth, the -whole truth, and nothing but the truth. We cannot say so much of the -general style of history-painting in this country, which has proceeded, -as a first principle, on the determined and deliberate dereliction of -living nature, both as means and end. Grandeur was made to depend on -leaving out the details. Ideal grace and beauty were made to consist in -neutral forms, and character and expression. The first could produce -nothing but slovenliness; the second nothing but insipidity. The Elgin -marbles have proved, by oracular demonstration, that the utmost freedom -and grandeur of style is compatible with the minutest details,—the -variety of the subordinate parts not destroying the masses in the -productions of art more than in those of nature. Grandeur without -softness and precision, is only another name for grossness. These -invaluable fragments of antiquity have also proved, beyond dispute, that -ideal beauty and historic truth do not consist in middle or _average_ -forms, &c. but in harmonious outlines, in unity of action, and in the -utmost refinement of character and expression. We there see art -following close in the footsteps of nature, and exalted, raised, refined -with it to the utmost extent that either was capable of. With us, all -this has been reversed; and we have discarded nature at first, only to -flounder about, and be lost in a Limbo of Vanity. With them invention -rose from the ground of imitation: with us, the boldness of the -invention was acknowledged in proportion as no traces of imitation were -discoverable. Our greatest and most successful candidates in the epic -walk of art, have been those who founded their pretensions to be -history-painters on their not being portrait-painters. They could not -paint that which they had seen, and therefore they must be qualified to -paint that which they had not seen. There was not any one part of any -one of their pictures good for any thing; and therefore the whole was -grand, and an example of lofty art! There was not, in all probability, a -single head in an acre of canvas, that, taken by itself, was more than a -worthless daub, scarcely fit to be hung up as a sign at an alehouse -door: But a hundred of these bad portraits or wretched caricatures, -made, by numerical addition, an admirable historical picture! The faces, -hands, eyes, feet, had neither beauty nor expression, nor drawing, nor -colouring; and yet the composition and arrangement of these abortive and -crude materials, which might as well or better have been left blanks, -displayed the mind of the great master. Not one tone, one line, one look -for the eye to dwell upon with pure and intense delight, in all this -endless scope of subject and field of canvas. - -We cannot say that we in general like very large pictures; for this -reason, that, like overgrown men, they are apt to be bullies and -cowards. They profess a great deal, and perform little. They are often a -contrivance not to display magnificent conceptions to the greatest -advantage, but to throw the spectator to a distance, where it is -impossible to distinguish either gross faults or real beauties. - -The late Mr. West’s pictures were admirable for the composition and -grouping. In these respects they could not be better: as we see in the -print of the death of General Wolfe: but for the rest, he might as well -have set up a parcel of figures in wood, and painted them over with a -sign-post brush, and then copied what he saw, and it would have been -just as good. His skill in drawing was confined to a knowledge of -mechanical proportions and measurements, and was not guided in the line -of beauty, or employed to give force to expression. He, however, -laboured long and diligently to advance the interests of art in this his -adopted country; and if he did not do more, it was the fault of the -coldness and formality of his genius, not of the man.—Barry was another -instance of those who scorn nature, and are scorned by her. He could not -make a likeness of any one object in the universe: when he attempted it, -he was like a drunken man on horseback; his eye reeled, his hand refused -its office,—and accordingly he set up for an example of _the great -style_ in art, which, like charity, covers all other defects. It would -be unfair at the same time to deny, that some of the figures and groupes -in his pictures of the Olympic Games in the Adelphi, are beautiful -designs after the antique, as far as outline is concerned. In colour and -expression they are like wild Indians. The other pictures of his there, -are not worthy of notice; except as warnings to the misguided student -who would scale the high and abstracted steep of art, without following -the path of nature. Yet Barry was a man of genius, and an enthusiastic -lover of his art. But he unfortunately mistook his ardent aspiration -after excellence for the power to achieve it; assumed the capacity to -execute the greatest works instead of acquiring it; supposed that ‘the -bodiless creations of his brain’ were to start out from the walls of the -Adelphi like a dream or a fairy tale;—and the result has been, that all -the splendid illusions of his undigested ambition have, ‘like the -baseless fabric of a vision, left not a wreck behind.’ His name is not a -light or beacon, but a by-word and an ill omen in art. What he has left -behind him in writing on the subject, contains much real feeling and -interesting thought.—Mr. Fuseli is another distinguished artist who -complains that nature puts him out. But _his_ distortions and vagaries -are German, and not English: they lie like a night-mare on the breast of -our native art. They are too recondite, obscure, and extravagant for us: -we only want to get over the ground with large, clumsy strides, as fast -as we can; and do not go out of our way in search of absurdity. We -cannot consider his genius as naturalized among us, after the lapse of -more than half a century: and if in saying this we do not pay him a -compliment, we certainly do not intend it as a very severe censure. Mr. -Fuseli has wit and words at will; and, though he had never touched a -pencil, would be a man of extraordinary pretensions and talents. - -Mr. Haydon is a young artist of great promise, and much ardour and -energy; and has lately painted a picture which has carried away -universal admiration. Without wishing to detract from that tribute of -deserved applause, we may be allowed to suggest (and with no unfriendly -voice) that he has there, in our judgment, laid in the groundwork, and -raised the scaffolding, of a noble picture; but no more. There is -spirit, conception, force, and effect: but all this is done by the first -going over of the canvas. It is the foundation, not the superstructure -of a first-rate work of art. It is a rude outline, a striking and -masterly sketch. - -Milton has given us a description of the growth of a plant— - - ——‘So from the root - Springs lighter the green stalk; from thence the leaves - More airy; last the bright consummate flower.’ - -And we think this image might be transferred to the slow and perfect -growth of works of imagination. We have in the present instance the -rough materials, the solid substance and the glowing spirit of art; and -only want the last finishing and patient working up. Does Mr. Haydon -think this too much to bestow on works designed to breathe the air of -immortality, and to shed the fragrance of thought on a distant age? Does -he regard it as beneath him to do what Raphael has done? We repeat it, -here are bold contrasts, distinct grouping, a vigorous hand and striking -conceptions. What remains then, but that he should add to bold contrasts -fine gradations,—to masculine drawing nice inflections,—to vigorous -pencilling those softened and trembling hues which hover like air on the -canvas,—to massy and prominent grouping the exquisite finishing of every -face and figure, nerve and artery, so as to have each part instinct with -life and thought and sentiment, and to produce an impression in the -spectator not only that he can touch the actual substance, but that it -would shrink from the touch? In a word, Mr. Haydon has strength: we -would wish him to add to it refinement. Till he does this, he will not -remove the common stigma on British art. Nor do we ask impossibilities -of him: we only ask him to make that a leading principle in his -pictures, which he has followed so happily in parts. Let him take his -own Penitent Girl as a model,—paint up to this standard through all the -rest of the figures, and we shall be satisfied. His Christ in the -present picture we do not like, though in this we have no less an -authority against us than Mrs. Siddons. Mr. Haydon has gone at much -length into a description of his _idea_ of this figure in the Catalogue, -which is a practice we disapprove: for it deceives the artist himself, -and may mislead the public. In the idea he conveys to us from the -canvas, there can be no deception. Mr. Haydon is a devoted admirer of -the Elgin marbles; and he has taken advantage of their breadth and size -and masses. We would urge him to follow them also into their details, -their involved graces, the texture of the skin, the indication of a vein -or muscle, the waving line of beauty, their calm and motionless -expression; into all, in which they follow nature. But to do this, he -must go to nature and study her more and more, in the greatest and the -smallest things. In short, we wish to see this artist paint a picture -(he has now every motive to exertion and improvement) which shall not -only have a striking and imposing effect in the aggregate, but where the -impression of the whole shall be the joint and irresistible effect of -the value of every part. This is our notion of fine art, which we offer -to him, not by way of disparagement or discouragement, but to do our -best to promote the cause of truth and the emulation of the highest -excellence. - -We had quite forgotten the chief object of Mr. Farington’s book, Sir -Joshua’s dispute with the Academy about Mr. Bonomi’s election; and it is -too late to return to it now. We think, however, that Sir Joshua was in -the right, and the Academy in the wrong; but we must refer those who -require our reasons to Mr. Farington’s account; who, though he differs -from us in his conclusion, has given the facts too fairly to justify any -other opinion. He has also some excellent observations on the increasing -respectability of artists in society, from which, and from various other -passages of his work, we are inclined to infer that, on subjects not -relating to the Academy, he would be a sensible, ingenious, and liberal -writer. - - - THE PERIODICAL PRESS - - VOL. XXXVIII.] [_May 1823._ - -We often hear it asked, _Whether Periodical Criticism is, upon the -whole, beneficial to the cause of literature?_ And this question is -usually followed up by another, which is thought to settle the first, -_Whether Shakespeare could have written as he did, had he lived in the -present day?_ We shall not attempt to answer either of these questions: -But we will be bold to say, that we have at least one author at present, -whose productions spring up free and numberless, in the very hotbed of -criticism—a large and living refutation of the chilling and blighting -effects of such a neighbourhood. ‘But would not the author of Waverley -himself,’ resumes our tritical querist, ‘have written better, if he had -not had the fear of the periodical press before his eyes?’ We answer, -that he has no fear of the periodical press; and that we do not see how, -in any circumstances, he could have written better than he does. ‘But a -single exception does not disprove the rule.’ But he is not a single -exception. Is there not Lord Byron? Are there not many more?—only that -we are too near them to scan the loftiness of their pretensions, or to -guess at their unknown duration. Genius carries on an unequal strife -with Fame; nor will our bare word (if we durst presume to give it) make -the balance even. Time alone can show who are the authors of mortal or -immortal mould; and it is the height of wilful impertinence to -anticipate its award, and assume, because certain living authors are -new, that they never can become old. - -Waving, however, any answer to these ingenious questions, we will -content ourselves with announcing a truism on the subject, which, like -many other truisms, is pregnant with deep thought,—_viz. That periodical -criticism is favourable—to periodical criticism_. It contributes to its -own improvement—and its cultivation proves not only that it suits the -spirit of the times, but advances it. It certainly never flourished more -than at present. It never struck its roots so deep, nor spread its -branches so widely and luxuriantly. Is not the proposal of this very -question a proof of its progressive refinement? And what, it may be -asked, can be desired more than to have the perfection of one thing at -any one time? If literature in our day has taken this decided turn into -a critical channel, is it not a presumptive proof that it ought to do -so? Most things find their own level; and so does the mind of man. If -there is a preponderance of criticism at any one period, this can only -be because there are subjects, and because it is the time for it. We -complain that this is a Critical age; and that no great works of Genius -appear, because so much is said and written about them; while we ought -to reverse the argument, and say, that it is because so many works of -genius _have appeared_, that they have left us little or nothing to do, -but to think and talk about them—that if we did not do that, we should -do nothing so good—and if we do this well, we cannot be said to do -amiss! - -It has been stated as a kind of anomaly in the history of the Fine Arts, -that periods of the highest civilization are not usually distinguished -by the greatest works of original genius. But, instead of a remote or -doubtful deduction, this, if closely examined, will be found a -self-evident proposition. Take the case, for example, of ancient Greece. -The time of its greatest splendour, was when its first statues, -pictures, temples, tragedies, had been produced, when they existed in -the utmost profusion, and the taste for them had become habitual and -universal. But the time of the greatest Genius was undoubtedly the time -that produced them,—which was necessarily antecedent to the other: So -that if we were to wait till the era of the most general refinement, for -the production of the highest models of excellence, we should never -arrive at them at all; since it is these very models themselves, that, -by being generally studied, and diffused through social life, give birth -to the last degrees of taste and civilization. When the edifice is -raised and finished in all its parts, we have nothing to do but to -admire it; and invention gives place to judicious applause, or, -according to the temper of the observers, to petty cavils. While the -niches are empty, every nerve is strained, every faculty is called into -play, to supply them with the masterpieces of skill or fancy: when they -are full, the mind reposes on what has been done, or amuses itself by -comparing one excellence with another. Hence a masculine boldness and -creative vigour is the character of one age, a fastidious and effeminate -delicacy that of a succeeding one. This seems to be the order of nature: -and why should we repine at it? Why insist on combining all sorts of -advantages (even the most opposite) forcibly together; or refuse to -cultivate those that we possess, because there are others that we think -more highly of, but which are placed out of our reach? ‘We are nothing, -if not critical.’ Be it so: but then let us be critical, or we shall be -nothing. - -The demand for works of original genius, the craving after them, the -capacity for inventing them, naturally decay, when we have models of -almost every species of excellence already produced to our hands. When -this is the case, why call out for more? When art is a blank, then we -want genius, enthusiasm, and industry to fill it up: when it is teeming -with beauty and strength, then we want an eye to gaze at it, hands to -point out its striking features, leisure to luxuriate in, and be -enamoured of, its divine spirit. When we have Shakespeare, we do not -want more Shakespeares: one Milton, one Pope or Dryden, is enough. Have -we not plenty of Raphael’s, of Rubens’s, of Rembrandt’s pictures in the -world? _Terra plena nostri laboris_, is almost literally true of them. -Who has seen all the fine pictures, or read all the fine poetry, that -already exists?—and yet till we have done this, what do we want with -more? It is like leaving our own native country unexplored, to travel -into foreign lands. Do we not neglect the standard works to hunt after -mere novelty? This is not wisdom, but affectation or caprice. Learning -becomes, by degrees, an undigested heap, without pleasure or use. We do -not see the absolute necessity why another work should be written, or -another picture painted, till those that we already have are becoming -worm-eaten, or mouldering into decay. We can hardly expect a new harvest -till the old crop is off the ground. If we insist on absolute -originality in living writers or artists, we should begin by destroying -the works of their predecessors. We want another Osmyn to burn and spare -not—and then the work of extermination and the work of regeneration -would go on kindly together. Are we to learn all that is already known, -and, at the same time, to invent more? This would indeed be the ‘large -discourse of reason looking before and after.’ Who is there that can -boast of having read all the books that have been written, and that are -worth reading? Who is there that can read all those with which the -modern press teems, and which, did they not daily disappear and turn to -dust, the world would not be able to contain them? Are we to blame for -despatching the most worthless of these from time to time, or for -abridging the process of getting at the marrow of others, and thus -leaving the learned at leisure to contemplate the time-hallowed relics, -as well as the ephemeral productions, of literature? - -To instance in our own language only, is there not many a sterling old -author that lies neglected on solitary, unexplored shelves, or tottering -bookstalls, unknown to, or passed over by, the idle and the diligent, -the republication of which would be the greatest service that could be -performed by the modern man of letters? To master the Old English -Dramatic Writers, the most esteemed novelists, the good old comedies and -periodical works alone, would occupy the leisure of a life devoted to -taste and study. If we look at the rise and progress, the maturity and -decay, of each of these classes of excellence, we shall find that they -were limited in duration, and successive. The deep rich tragic vein of -Shakespeare, Webster, Ford, Deckar, Marlow, Beaumont and Fletcher, was -discovered and worked out in the time of Elizabeth and the two first -Stuarts. All that the heart of man could feel, all that the wit of man -could express on the most striking and interesting occasions, had been -exhausted by half a dozen great writers, who left little to their -successors but pompous turgidity or smooth common-place,—the art of -swelling trifles into importance, or taming rough boldness into -insipidity. But Comedy rose as Tragedy fell; and, in the age of Charles -II. and Queen Anne, Congreve, Wycherley and Vanburgh, were contemporary -with Dryden, Lee and Rowe. Otway, it is true, belonged to the same -period, a straggler from the veteran corps of tragic writers:—as, in a -range of lofty mountains, we generally see one green hill thrown to a -distance from the rest, and breaking the abrupt declivity into the level -plain. But at each of the periods here spoken of, the Tragic or the -Comic Muse was attended by a group of writers such as we can scarcely -hope to see again, and such as we have no right to complain of seeing -unrivalled, while _they_ are themselves suffered to remain undisturbed -in old collections and odd volumes. These probed the follies, as those -unveiled the passions, of men: depicted jealousy, rage, ambition, love, -madness, affectation, ignorance, conceit, in their most striking forms -and picturesque contrasts: took possession of the strongholds, the -‘vantage points of vice or vanity: filled the Stage with the mask of -living manners, or ‘the pomp of elder days:’ shook it with laughter, or -drowned it with tears—poured out the wine of life, the living spirit of -the drama, and left the lees to others. Little could afterwards be made -of the subject, except by resorting to inferior branches of it, or to a -second-hand imitation. No doubt, nature is exceedingly various; but the -capital eminences, the choicest points of view, are limited; and when -these have been once seized upon, we must either follow in the steps of -others, or turn aside to humbler and less practicable subjects. When the -highest places have been occupied, when the happiest strokes have been -anticipated, the ambition of the poet flags: without the stimulus of -novelty, the rapidity or eagerness of his blows ceases; and as soon as -he can avail himself of common-place and conventional artifices, he -shrinks from the task of original invention. Or, if he is bent on trying -his native strength, and adding to the stock of what has been effected -by others, it must be by striking into a new path, and cultivating some -neglected plot of ground. So, the Periodical Essayists, Steele and -Addison, succeeded to our great Comic Writers, and the Novelists, -Fielding, Sterne, Smollett, to these; and each left works superior to -any thing of the kind before, and unrivalled in their way by any thing -since. Thus genius, like the sun, seems not to rise higher and higher, -but from its first dawn to ascend to its meridian, and then decline; and -art, like life, may be said to have its stated periods of infancy, -manhood, and old age. Alas! the miracles of art stand often like proud -monuments in the waste of time. The age of Leo the Tenth is like a rock -rising out of the abyss,—with nothing before it, with nothing behind it! -As art rose high then, so did it sink low afterwards: and the Vatican -overlooks modern Italian art, stagnant, puny, steril, unwholesome, -ague-struck, as Rome itself overlooks the marshes of the Campagna. What -then? Does not the Vatican remain, the wonder of succeeding ages and -surrounding nations? And when it yields (as yield it must) to time’s -destructive rage, and its glories crumble into dust, a new Vatican will -arise, and other Raphaels and Michael Angelos will breathe the -inspiration of genius upon its walls! As fires kindled in the night send -their light to a vast distance, so Taste, an emanation from Genius, -lingers long after it; and when its mild radiance is extinguished, then -comes night and barbarism. Modern art, which took its rise in Italy, was -transplanted indeed elsewhere, and flourished in Holland, Spain, and -Flanders—it never took root in France, nor has it yet done so in -England—but the soil, where it first sprung up, became effete soon -after, and has produced scarcely any thing worth naming since. - -Not only are literature and art circumscribed by the limits of nature or -the mind of man, but each age or nation has a standard of its own, which -cannot be trespassed upon with impunity. Tragedy was at its height in -France, when it was on the decline with us; but then it was in a totally -different style of composition, which could never be successfully -naturalized in this country. Popularity can only be insured by the -sympathy of the audience with any given mode of representing nature. The -English genius excludes sententious and sentimental declamations on the -passions; and Shakespeare, were he alive, would be ‘cabin’d, cribbed, -confined,’ to say the least, on that very stage where his plays still -flourish, by the change of feeling and circumstances. He would not have -scope for his fancy: the passion would often seem groundless and -overwrought. To produce any thing new and striking at present, it is -necessary to shift the scene altogether, to take new subjects, an entire -new set of _Dramatis Personæ_,—to pitch the interest in the Heart of -Mid-Lothian, or suspend it in air with the Children of the Mist. We see -what Sir Walter Scott has done in this way, by turning up again to the -day the rich accumulated mould of ancient manners and wild unexplored -scenery of his native land; and we already see what some of his -imitators have done. In a word, literature is confined not only within -certain _natural_, but also within _local_ and _temporary_ limits, which -necessarily have fewer available topics; and when these are exhausted, -it becomes a _caput mortuum_, a shadow of itself. Nothing is easier, for -instance, than to show how, from the alteration of manners, the -brilliant dialogue of the older comedy has gradually disappeared from -the stage. The style of our common conversation has undergone a total -change from the personal and _piquant_ to the critical and didactic; -and, instead of aiming at elegant raillery or pointed repartee, the most -polished circles now discuss general topics, or analyze abstruse -problems. Wit, unless it is exercised on an indiscriminate subject, is -considered as an impertinence in civil life: yet we complain that the -stage is dull and prosaic. - -Farther, the Fine Arts, by their spread, interfere with one another, and -hinder the growth of originality. All the greatest things are done by -the division of labour—by the intense concentration of a number of -minds, each on a single and chosen object. But by the progress of -cultivation, different arts and exercises stretch out their arms to -impede, not to assist one another. Politics blend with poetry, painting -with literature; fashion and elegance must be combined with learning and -study: and thus the mind gets a smattering of every thing, and a mastery -in none. The mixing of acquirements, like the _mixing of liquors_, is no -doubt a bad thing, and _muddles_ the brain; but in a certain stage of -society, it is in some degree unavoidable. Rembrandt lived retired in -his cell of gorgeous light and shade. Night and Day waited upon him by -turns, or together: his eye gazed on the dazzling gloom, nor did he ask -for any other object. He existed wholly in this part of his art, which -he has stamped on his canvas with such vast and wondrous power. He was -not distracted or diverted from his favourite study by other things, by -penning a Sonnet, or reading the Morning’s Paper. Had he lived in our -time, or in a state of manners like ours, he would have been a hundred -other things, but not Rembrandt—a polite scholar, an imitator probably -of the antique, a pleasing versifier, ‘a chemist, statesman, fiddler, -and buffoon,’—every thing but what he was, the great master of light and -shade! Michael Angelo, again, had diversity of genius enough, and -grasped more arts than one with hallowed hands. Yet did he not use to -say, that ‘Painting was jealous, and required the whole man to herself?’ -How many modern accomplishments would it take to make a Michael Angelo? -Yet perhaps the flutter of idle pretensions, the glitter of fashion, the -cant of criticism, with the sense of his own deficiencies in frivolous -pursuits, might have dismayed the dauntless Youth who, with a blow of -his chisel, repaired the Meleager; who afterwards carved the Moses, -painted the Prophets and Sybils, reared the dome of St. Peter’s, and -fortified his native city against a foreign foe! The little might have -turned aside, in his triple career of renown, him whom the great could -not intimidate. - -One effect of the endowment of Institutions for the Fine Arts is, to -make the union of the accidents of fortune and fashion, that is, of the -extrinsic and meretricious, indispensable to the artist. He is violently -taken out of his own sphere, and thrust into one for which he is -qualified neither by nature nor habit. He must be able to make speeches -to assembled multitudes, to hold conversation with Princes. He climbs to -the highest honours of his profession by arts which have nothing to do -with it—by frivolous or servile means. He must have the ear of -committees, the countenance of the great. He takes precedence as a -matter of etiquette or costume. He rises, as he would at college or at -court. The chair of a Royal Academy for the Fine Arts must be filled by -a gentleman and scholar. So Sir Thomas Lawrence (_absit invidia_) is -chosen President, not more because he is the best portrait-painter in -existence, than because he is one of the finest gentlemen of the day. -This is confounding the essential differences of things, and weakening -the solid superstructure of art at its foundations.—A scholar was -formerly another name for a sloven, an artist was known only by his -works. Now, a professional man, who should come into the world, relying -on his genius or learning for his success, without other advantages, -would be looked upon as a pedant, a barbarian, or a poor creature. -‘Though he should have all knowledge, and could speak with the tongues -of angels, yet, without _affectation_, he would be nothing.’ He who is -not acquainted with the topic, who is not fashioned in the mode of the -day, is no better than a brute. We will not have the arts and sciences -‘relegated to obscure cloisters and villages: no, we will have them to -lift up their sparkling front in courts and palaces,’—in drawing-rooms -and booksellers’ shops. ‘The toe of the scholar must tread so close on -the heel of the courtier, that it galls his kibe.’ - -This is also a consequence of the approximation and amalgamation of -different ranks and pretensions from the more general diffusion of -knowledge. Each takes something of the colour, or borrows some of the -advantages, of its neighbour. A reflected light is thrown on all parts -of society. The polite affect literature: the literary affect to be -polite. Such a state of things, no doubt, produces a great deal of -mock-patronage and mock-gentility. What then? It cannot be prevented: -and is it not better to make the most of this florid and composite style -of manners, than to proscribe and stigmatize it altogether, or insist on -going back to the simple Doric or pure Gothic—to barbaric wealth or -cynical knowledge? ‘Take the good the Gods provide ye’—is our motto, and -our advice. The impulse that sways the human mind cannot be created by a -_fiat_ of captious discontent: it floats on the tide of mighty -CIRCUMSTANCE. By resisting this natural bias, and peevishly struggling -against the stream, we shall only lose the favourable opportunities we -possess, both for enjoyment and for use. It is not sufficient to say, -‘Let there be Shakespeares, and there were Shakespeares:’—but we have -writers in great numbers, respectable in their way, and suited to the -mediocrity of the age we live in: And, by cultivating sound principles -of taste and criticism, we can still point out the beauties of the old -authors, and improve the style of the new. There is a change in the -world, and we must conform to it. Instead of striving to revive the -spirit of old English literature, which is impossible, unless we could -restore the same state of things, and push the world back two centuries -in its course, let us add the last polish and fine finish to the modern -_Belles-Lettres_. Instead of imitating the poets or prose writers of the -age of Elizabeth, let us admire them at a distance. Let us remember, -that there is a great gulf between them and us—the gulf of ever-rolling -years. Let them be something sacred, and venerable to the imagination: -But let us be contented to serve as priests at the shrine of ancient -genius, and not attempt to mount the pedestal ourselves, or disturb the -sanctuary with our unwarranted pretensions. - -This is the course dictated no less by modesty than wisdom. Half the -cant of criticism (on the other side of the question) is envy of the -moderns, rather than admiration of the ancients. It is not that we -really wish our contemporaries to rival their predecessors in grandeur, -in force and depth; but that we wish them to fall short of themselves in -elegance, in taste, in ingenuity, and facility. The exclusive outcry in -favour of ancient models, is a _diversion_ to the exercise of modern -talents, and a misdirection to the age. If we cannot produce the great -and lasting works of former times, we may at least improve our knowledge -of the principles on which they were raised, and of the distinguishing -characteristics of each. If we have nothing to show equal to some of -these, let us make it up (to the best of our power) by a taste -susceptible of the beauties of all. If we do not succeed in solid folio, -let us excel in light duodecimo. If we are superficial, let us be -brilliant. If we cannot be profound, let us at least be popular. - -Why should we dismiss _the reading public_ with contempt, when we have -so little chance with the next generation? Literature formerly was a -sweet Heremitress, who fed on the pure breath of Fame, in silence and in -solitude; far from the madding strife, in sylvan shade or cloistered -hall, she trimmed her lamp or turned her hourglass, pale with studious -care, and aiming only to ‘make the age to come her own!’ She gave her -life to the perfecting some darling work, and bequeathed it, dying, to -posterity! Vain hope, perhaps; but the hope itself was fruition—calm, -serene, blissful, unearthly! Modern literature, on the contrary, is a -gay Coquette, fluttering, fickle, vain; followed by a train of -flatterers; besieged by a crowd of pretenders; courted, she courts -again; receives delicious praise, and dispenses it; is impatient for -applause; pants for the breath of popularity; renounces eternal fame for -a newspaper puff; trifles with all sorts of arts and sciences; coquettes -with fifty accomplishments—_mille ornatus habet, mille decenter_; is the -subject of polite conversation; the darling of private parties; the -go-between in politics; the directress of fashion; the polisher of -manners; and, like her winged prototype in Spenser, - - ‘Now this now that, she tasteth tenderly,’ - -glitters, flutters, buzzes, spawns, dies,—and is forgotten! But the very -variety and superficial polish show the extent and height to which -knowledge has been accumulated, and the general interest taken in -letters. - -To dig to the bottom of a subject through so many generations of -authors, is now impossible: the concrete mass is too voluminous and vast -to be contained in any single head; and therefore we must have essences -and samples as substitutes for it. We have collected a superabundance of -raw materials: the grand _desideratum_ now is, to fashion and render -them portable. Knowledge is no longer confined to the few: the object -therefore is, to make it accessible and attractive to the many. The -_Monachism_ of literature is at an end; the cells of learning are thrown -open, and let in the light of universal day. We can no longer be churls -of knowledge, ascetics in pretension. We must yield to the spirit of -change (whether for the better or worse); and ‘to beguile the time, look -like the time.’ A modern author may (without much imputation of his -wisdom) declare for a short life and a merry one. He may be a little -gay, thoughtless, and dissipated. Literary immortality is now let on -short leases, and he must be contented to succeed by rotation. A scholar -of the olden time had resources, had consolations to support him under -many privations and disadvantages. A light (that light which penetrates -the most clouded skies) cheered him in his lonely cell, in the most -obscure retirement: and, with the eye of faith, he could see the -meanness of his garb exchanged for the wings of the Shining Ones, and -the wedding-garment of the Spouse. Again, he lived only in the -contemplation of old books and old events; and the remote and future -became habitually present to his imagination, like the past. He was -removed from low, petty vanity, by the nature of his studies, and could -wait patiently for his reward till after death. WE exist in the bustle -of the world, and cannot escape from the notice of our contemporaries. -We must please to live, and therefore should live to please. We must -look to the public for support. Instead of solemn testimonies from the -learned, we require the smiles of the fair and the polite. If princes -scowl upon us, the broad shining face of the people may turn to us with -a favourable aspect. Is not this life (too) sweet? Would we change it -for the former if we could? But the great point is, that _we cannot_! -Therefore, let Reviews flourish—let Magazines increase and multiply—let -the Daily and Weekly Newspapers live for ever! We are optimists in -literature, and hold, with certain limitations, that, in this respect, -whatever is, is right! - -It has been urged as one fatal objection against periodical criticism, -that it is too often made the engine of party-spirit and personal -invective. This is an abuse of it greatly to be lamented; but in fact, -it only shows the extent and importance of this branch of literature, so -that it has become the organ of every thing else, however alien to it. -The current of political and individual obloquy has run into this -channel, because it has absorbed every topic. The bias to miscellaneous -discussion and criticism is so great, that it is necessary to insert -politics in a sort of sandwich of literature, in order to make them at -all palatable to the ordinary taste. The war of political pamphlets, of -virulent pasquinades, has ceased, and the ghosts of Junius and Cato, of -Gracchus and Cincinnatus, no longer ‘squeak and gibber’ in our modern -streets, or torment the air with a hubbub of hoarse noises. A Whig or -Tory _tirade_ on a political question, the abuse of a public character, -now stands side by side in a fashionable Review, with a disquisition on -ancient coins, or is introduced right in the middle of an analysis of -the principles of taste. This is a violation, no doubt, of the rules of -decorum and order, and might well be dispensed with: but the stock of -malice and prejudice in the world is much the same, though it has found -a more classical and agreeable vehicle to vent itself. Mere politics, -mere personal altercation, will not go down without an infusion of the -Belles-Lettres and the Fine Arts. This makes decidedly either for the -refinement or the frivolity of our taste. It is found necessary to -poison or to sour the public mind, by going to the well-head of polite -literature and periodical criticism,—which shows plainly how many drink -at that fountain, and will drink at no other. As a farther example of -this rage for conveying information in an easy and portable form, we -believe that booksellers will often refuse to purchase in a volume, what -they will give a handsome price for, if divided piecemeal, and fitted -for occasional insertion in a newspaper or magazine; so that the only -authors who, as a class, are not starving, are periodical essayists, as -almost the only writers who can keep their reputation above water are -anonymous critics. But we have enlarged sufficiently on the general -question, and shall now proceed to a more particular account of the -state of the Periodical Press. We consider this Article, however, as an -exception to our general rules of criticizing, and protest against its -being turned into a precedent; for if our several contemporaries were to -criticize one author as a constant habit, there would be no end of the -repeated reflections and continually lessening perspective of cavils and -objections, which would resemble nothing in nature but the _Caffée des -Milles Colonnes_! - -The staple literature of the Periodical Press may, we presume, be fairly -divided into Newspapers, Magazines, and Reviews; and of each of these, -if we have courage to go through with it, we shall say a word or two in -their order. - -The ST. JAMES’S CHRONICLE is, we have understood, the oldest existing -paper in London. We are not quite sure whether it was in this or in -another three-times-a-week paper (the Englishman[13]) that we first met -with some extracts from Mr. Burke’s Letter to a Noble Lord in the year -1796, and on the instant became converts to his familiar, inimitable, -powerful prose style. The richness of Burke showed, indeed, more -magnificent, contrasted with the meagreness of the ordinary style of the -paper into which his invective was thrown. Let any one, indeed, who may -be disposed to disparage modern intellect and modern letters, look over -a file of old newspapers (only thirty or forty years back), or into -those that, by prescription, keep up the old-fashioned style in -accommodation to the habitual dulness of their readers, and compare the -poverty, the meanness, the want of style and matter in their original -paragraphs, with the amplitude, the strength, the point and terseness -which characterize the leading journals of the day, and he will perhaps -qualify the harshness of his censure. We have not a Burke, indeed—we -have not even a Junius; but we have a host of writers, working for their -bread on the spur of the occasion, and whose names are not known, formed -upon the model of the best writers who have gone before them, and -reflecting many of their graces. - -Let any one (for instance) compare the St. James’s Chronicle, which is -on the model of the old school, with the MORNING CHRONICLE, which is, or -was at least, at the head of the new. This paper we have been long used -to think the best, both for amusement and instruction, that issued from -the daily press. It is full, but not crowded; and we have -breathing-spaces and openings left to pause upon each subject. We have -plenty and variety. The reader of a morning paper ought not to be -crammed to satiety. He ought to rise from the perusal light and -refreshed. Attention is paid to every topic, but none is overdone. There -is a liberality and decorum. Every class of readers is accommodated with -its favourite articles, served up with taste, and without sparing for -the sharpest sauces.[14] A copy of verses is supplied by one of the -popular poets of the day; a prose essay appears in another page, which, -had it been written two hundred years ago, might still have been read -with admiration; a correction of a disputed reading, in a classical -author, is contributed by a learned correspondent. The politician may -look profound over a grave dissertation on a point of constitutional -history; a lady may smile at a rebus or a charade. Here, Pitt and Fox, -Burke and Sheridan, maintained their nightly combats over again; here -Porson criticized, and Jekyll punned. An appearance of conscious dignity -is kept up, even in the Advertisements, where a principle of proportion -and separate grouping is observed; the announcement of a new work is -kept distinct from the hiring of a servant of all work, or the sailing -of a steam-yacht. - -The late Mr. Perry, who raised the Morning Chronicle into its present -consequence, held the office of Editor for nearly forty years; and he -held firm to his party and his principles all that time,—a long term for -political honesty and consistency to last! He was a man of strong -natural sense, some acquired knowledge, a quick tact; prudent, -plausible, and with great heartiness and warmth of feeling. This last -quality was perhaps of more use to him than any other, in the sphere in -which he moved. His cordial voice and sanguine mode of address made -friends, whom his sincerity and gratitude insured. An overflow of animal -spirits, sooner than any thing else, floats a man into the tide of -success. Nothing cuts off sympathy so much as the obvious suppression of -the kindly impulses of our nature. He who takes another slightly by the -hand, will not stick to him long, nor in difficulties. Others perceive -this, and anticipate the defection, or the hostile blow. Among the ways -and means of success in life, if good sense is the first, good nature is -the second. If we wish others to be attached to us, we must not seem -averse or indifferent to them. Perry was more vain than proud. This made -him fond of the society of lords, and them of his. His shining -countenance reflected the honour done him, and the alacrity of his -address prevented any sense of awkwardness or inequality of pretensions. -He was a little of a coxcomb, and we do not think he was a bit the worse -for it. A man who does not think well of himself, generally thinks ill -of others; nor do they fail to return the compliment. Towards the last, -he, to be sure, received visitors in his library at home, something in -the style of the Marquis Marialva in Gil Blas. He affected the scholar. -On occasion of the death of Porson, he observed that ‘_Epithalamia_ were -thrown into his coffin;’ of which there was an awkward correction next -day,—‘For _Epithalamia_ read _Epicedia_!’ The worst of it was, that a -certain consciousness of merit, with a little overweening pretension, -sometimes interfered with the conduct of the paper. Mr. Perry was not -like a contemporary editor, who never writes a sentence himself, and -assigns, as a reason for it, that ‘he has too many interests to manage -as it is, without the addition of his own literary vanity.’ The Editor -of the Morning Chronicle wrote up his own paper; and he had an ambition -to have it thought, that every good thing in it, unless it came from a -lord, or an acknowledged wit, was his own. If he paid for the article -itself, he thought he paid for the credit of it also. This sometimes -brought him into awkward situations. He wished to be head and chief of -his own paper, and would not have any thing behind the editor’s desk, -greater than the desk itself. He was frequently remiss himself, and was -not sanguine that others should make up the deficiency. He possessed a -most tenacious memory, and often, in the hottest periods of -Parliamentary warfare, carried off half a Debate on his own shoulders. -The very first time he was intrusted with the task of reporting speeches -in the House of Commons, a singular lapse of memory occurred to him. -Soon after he had taken his seat in the Gallery, some accident put him -out, and he remained the whole night stupified and disconcerted. When -the House broke up, he returned to the office of the paper for which he -was engaged, in despair, and professing total inability to give a single -word of it. But he was prevailed upon to sit down at the writing-desk. -The sluices of memory, which were not empty, but choked up, began to -open, and they poured on, till he had nearly filled the paper with a -_verbatim_ account of the speech of a Lord Nugent, when his employer, -finding his mistake, told him this would never do, but he must begin -over again, and merely give a general and _historical_ account of what -had passed. Perry snapped his fingers at this release from his terrors; -and it has been observed, that the _historical_ mode of giving a Debate -was his delight ever afterwards. From the time of Woodfall, the Morning -Chronicle was distinguished by its superior excellence in reporting the -proceedings of Parliament. Woodfall himself often filled the whole paper -without any assistance. This, besides the arduousness of the -undertaking, necessarily occasioned delay. At present, several Reporters -take the different speeches in succession—(each remaining an hour at a -time)—go immediately, and transcribe their notes for the press; and, by -this means, all the early part of a debate is actually printed before -the last speaker has risen upon his legs. The public read the next day -at breakfast-time (perhaps), what would make a hundred octavo pages, -every word of which has been spoken, written out, and printed within the -last twelve or fourteen hours! - -The TIMES NEWSPAPER is, we suppose, entitled to the character it gives -itself, of being the ‘Leading Journal of Europe,’ and is perhaps the -greatest engine of temporary opinion in the world. Still it is not to -our taste—either in matter or manner. It is elaborate, but heavy; full, -but not readable: it is stuffed up with official documents, with -matter-of-fact details. It seems intended to be deposited in the office -of the Keeper of the Records, and might be imagined to be composed as -well as printed with a steam-engine. It is pompous, dogmatical, and full -of pretensions, but neither light, various, nor agreeable. It sells -more, and contains more, than any other paper; and when you have said -this, you have said all. It presents a most formidable front to the -inexperienced reader. It makes a toil of a pleasure. It is said to be -calculated for persons in business, and yet it is the business of a -whole morning to get through it. Bating voluminous details of what had -better be omitted, the same things are better done in the Chronicle. To -say nothing of poetry (which may be thought too frivolous and attenuated -for the atmosphere of the city), the prose is inferior. No equally -sterling articles can be referred to in it, either for argument or wit. -More, in short, is effected in the Morning Chronicle, without the -formality and without the effort. The Times is not a _classical_ paper. -It is a commercial paper, a paper of business, and it is conducted on -principles of trade and business. It floats with the tide: it sails with -the stream. It has no other principle, as we take it. It is not -ministerial; it is not patriotic; but it is _civic_. It is the lungs of -the British metropolis; the mouthpiece, oracle, and echo of the Stock -Exchange; the representative of the mercantile interest. One would think -so much gravity of style might be accompanied with more steadiness and -weight of opinion. But _the_ TIMES conforms to the changes of the time. -It bears down upon a question, like a first-rate man of war, with -streamers flying and all hands on deck; but if the first broadside does -not answer, turns short upon it, like a triremed galley, firing off a -few paltry squibs to cover its retreat. It takes up no falling cause; -fights no up-hill battle; advocates no great principle; holds out a -helping hand to no oppressed or obscure individual. It is ‘ever strong -upon the stronger side.’ Its style is magniloquent; its spirit is not -magnanimous. It is valiant, swaggering, insolent, with a hundred -thousand readers at its heels; but the instant the rascal rout turn -round with the ‘whiff and wind’ of some fell circumstance, the Times, -the renegade, inconstant Times, turns with them! Let the mob shout, let -the city roar, and the voice of the Times is heard above them all, with -outrageous deafening clamour; but let the vulgar hubbub cease, and no -whisper, no echo of it is ever after heard of in the Times. Like Bully -Bottom in the play, it then ‘aggravates its voice so, as if it were a -singing dove, an it were any nightingale.’ Its coarse ribaldry is turned -to a harmless jest; its swelling rhodomontade sinks to a vapid -common-place; and the editor amuses himself in the interval, before -another great explosion, by collecting and publishing from time to time, -Affidavits of the numbers of his paper sold in the last stormy period of -the press. - -The Times rose into notice through its diligence and promptitude in -furnishing Continental intelligence, at a time when foreign news was the -most interesting commodity in the market; but at present it engrosses -every other department. It grew obscene and furious during the -revolutionary war; and the nicknames which Mr. Walter bestowed on the -French Ruler were the counters with which he made his fortune. When the -game of war and madness was over, and the proprietor wished to pocket -his dear-bought gains quietly, he happened to have a writer in his -employ who wanted to roar on, as if any thing more was to be got by his -continued war-whoop, and who scandalized the whole body of disinterested -Jews, contractors, and stock-jobbers, by the din and smithery with -which, in the piping time of peace, he was for rivetting on the chains -of foreign nations. It was found, or thought at least, that this could -not go on. The tide of gold no longer flowed up the river, and the tide -of Billingsgate and blood could no longer flow down it, with any -pretence to decency, morality, or religion. There is a cant of -patriotism in the city: there is a cant of humanity among hackneyed -politicians. The _writer_ of the LEADING ARTICLE, it is true, was a -fanatic; but the _proprietor_ of the LEADING JOURNAL was neither a -martyr nor confessor. The principles gave way to the policy of the -paper; and this was the origin of the NEW TIMES. - -This new Morning paper is one which every Tory ought to encourage. If -the friend of the people cannot _away with_ it, the friend of power -ought not to be without it. Nay, it may be of use to the liberal or the -wavering; for it goes all lengths, boggles at no consequences, and -unmasks the features of despotism fearlessly and shamelessly, without -remorse and without pity. The Editor deals in no half measures, in no -half principles; but is a thorough-paced stickler for the modernized -doctrines of passive obedience and non-resistance. Dr. Sacheverel, in -his day, could not go beyond him. He is no flincher, no trimmer; he -‘champions _Legitimacy_ to the outrance.’ There is something in this -spirit, that if it exposes the possessor to hatred, exempts him from -contempt. The present Editor of the New, and late Editor of the Old -Times, whatever we may think of his opinions, must be acknowledged to be -staunch, determined, and consistent in maintaining them. He is a violent -partisan, blind to the blots in his own cause; and, by this means, he -often opens the eyes of others to them. He has no evasion, no disguises. -Let him take up a wrong argument (which he does on principle) and no one -can beat him in pushing it to the _reductio ad absurdum_: let him engage -in a bad cause (which he does by instinct) and no consideration of -prudence or compassion will make him turn back. He is a logician, and -will not bate one ace of his argument. He goes the utmost length of the -spirit, as well as the principles, of his party. If we like the spirit -of despotism, we see it exemplified in his views and sentiments: if we -like the principles, we find them in full perfection, and without any -cowardly drawback in his reasonings. He is the true organ of the -_Ultras_, at home or abroad. It is the creed, we believe, of all -legitimate princes, that the world was made for them; and this sentiment -is stamped, fixed, seared in inverted but indelible characters, on the -mind of the Editor of the New Times, who, we believe, would march to a -stake, in testimony of the opinion that he and all mankind ought to be -held as slaves, in fee and perpetuity, by half a dozen lawful rulers of -the species. He lays it down, for instance, in so many words, that -‘Louis XVIII. has the same undoubted right (in kind and in degree) to -the throne of France, that Mr. Coke has to his estate of Holkham in -Norfolk:’ and from this declaration he never swerves, not even in -thought. Other writers may argue upon the assumption of this principle, -or now and then, in a moment of unexpected triumph, avow it; but he -alone has the glory and the shame of making it the acknowledged, -undisguised basis of all his reasoning. He is fascinated, in short, with -the abstract image of royalty; he has swallowed love-powders from -despotism; he is drunk with the spirit of servility; mad with the hatred -of liberty; flagrant, obscene in the exposure of the shameful parts of -his cause; and his devotion to power amounts to a prostration of all his -faculties. It is strange, as well as lamentable, to see this misguided -enthusiasm, this preposterous pertinacity in wilful degradation. Yet it -is not without its use. Its honesty warns us of the consequences we have -to dread: as its consistency insures us some compensation in some part -or other of the system. There is no pure evil, but hypocrisy. Every -principle (almost) if consistently followed up, leads to some good, by -some reaction on itself. It is only by tergiversation, by tricking, by -being false to all opinion, and picking out the bad of every cause to -suit it to our own interest, that we get a vile compost of intolerable -and opposite abuses. Thus, we should say that superstition, while it was -real, with all its evils, had its redeeming points, in the faith and -zeal of those who were actuated by it, into whatever excesses they might -be hurried: but we object entirely to modern fanaticism, which is the -patchwork product of a perverted intellect, with all the absurdity and -all the mischief, without one particle of sincerity, to justify it. -Despotism even has its advantages; but we see no good in modern -despotism, which has lost its reverence, and retains only the odiousness -of power. The STATE DOCTOR of the NEW TIMES is, however, a perfect -_Preux Chevalier_, compared with some of his hireling contemporaries: -another Peter the Hermit, to preach an everlasting crusade against -Jacobins and Levellers, and to rekindle another Holy War in favour of -_Divine Right_. There is a dramatic interest in the fury of his -exclamations, which induces us to make some allowance for the barbarism -of his creed. He is less mischievous than when he wrote in the OLD -TIMES, which trimmed between power and popularity, and oiled the wheels -of Despotism with the cant of Liberty. He does not now fawn on public -opinion, but sets it at defiance, both in theory and practice. He does -not mix up the grossness of faction with the refinements of sophistry. -He does not uphold the principles, and insult the persons, of the -aristocracy. No one was more bitter against the late queen, or more able -or strenuous in the cause of her enemies; but he maintained a certain -respect for her rank and birth. He did not think that every species of -outrage and indecency, heaped on the daughter of a prince, the consort -of a king, was the most delicate compliment that could be paid to -royalty; but conceived, that when we forget what is due to place and -title, we make a gap in ceremony and outward decorum, through which all -such persons may be assailed with impunity. Perhaps this starched, -pedantic preference of principles to persons, may not, after all, be the -surest road to court favour; but we respect any one who is ever liable -to a frown from a patron, or to be left in a minority by his own party. -There is nothing truly contemptible, but that which is always tacking -and veering before the breath of power. - -This naturally leads us to the COURIER; which is a paper of shifts and -expedients, of bare assertions, and thoughtless impudence. It denies -facts on the word of a minister, and dogmatizes by authority. ‘The force -of dulness can no farther go:’—but its pertness keeps pace with its -_dulness_. It sets up a lively pretension to safe common-places and -stale jests; and has an alternate gaiety and gravity of manner:—The -_matter_ is nothing. Compared with the solemn quackery of the Old or New -Times, the ingenious editor is the Merry-Andrew of the political show. -The Courier is intended for country readers, the clergy and gentry, who -do not like to be disturbed with a _reason_ for any thing, but with whom -the self-complacent shallowness of the editor passes for a self-evident -proof that every thing is as it should be. It is a paper that those who -run may read. It asks no thought: it creates no uneasiness. In it the -last quarter’s assessed taxes are always made good: the harvest is -abundant; trade reviving; the Constitution unimpaired; the minister -immaculate, and the Monarch the finest gentleman in his dominions. The -writer has no idea beyond a certain set of cant phrases, which he -repeats by rote, and never puzzles any one by the smallest glimpse of -meaning in what he says. This lacquey to the Treasury, in short, puts -one in mind of those impudent valets at the doors of great houses—sleek, -saucy, empty, and vulgar—who give short answers, and laugh into the -faces of those who come with complaints and grievances to their -masters—think their employers great men, and themselves clever -fellows—eat, drink, sleep, and let the world _slide_! - -The SUN is a paper that _appears_ daily, but never _shines_. The editor, -who is an agreeable man, has a sinecure of it; and the public trouble -their heads just as little about it as he does. - -The TRAVELLER is not a new, but a newly-conducted evening paper; which, -if it has not much wit or brilliancy, is distinguished by sound -judgment, careful information, and constitutional principles. - -We really cannot presume to scan the transcendent merits of the MORNING -POST and FASHIONABLE WORLD—and, in short, the other daily papers must -excuse us for saying nothing about them. - -Of the WEEKLY JOURNALISTS, Cobbett stands first in power and popularity. -Certainly he has earned the latter: would that he abused the former -less! We once tried to cast this Antæus to the ground; but the -earth-born rose again, and still staggers on, blind or one-eyed, to his -remorseless, restless purpose,—sometimes running upon posts and -pitfalls—sometimes shaking a country to its centre. It is best to say -little about him, and keep out of his way; for he crushes, by his -ponderous weight, whomsoever he falls upon; and, what is worse, drags to -cureless ruin whatever cause he lays his hands upon to support. - -The EXAMINER stands next to Cobbett in talent; and is much before him in -moderation and steadiness of principle. It has also a much greater -variety both of tact and subject. Indeed, an agreeable rambling scope -and freedom of discussion is so much in the author’s way, that the -reader is at a loss under what department of the paper to look for any -particular topic. A literary criticism, perhaps, insinuates itself under -the head of the Political Examiner; and the theatrical critic, or lover -of the Fine Arts, is stultified by a _tirade_ against the Bourbons. If -the dishes are there, it does not much signify in what order they are -placed. With the exception of a little egotism and _twaddle_, and -flippancy and dogmatism about religion or morals, and mawkishness about -firesides and furious Buonapartism, and a vein of sickly sonnet-writing, -we suspect the Examiner must be allowed (whether we look to the design -or execution of the general run of articles in it) to be the ablest and -most respectable of the publications that issue from the weekly press. - -The NEWS is also an excellent paper—interspersed with historical and -classical knowledge, written in a good taste, and with an excellent -spirit. Its circulation is next, we believe, to that of the OBSERVER, -which has twice as many murders, assaults, robberies, fires, accidents, -offences, as any other paper, and sells proportionably. Shadows affright -the town as well as substances, and ill news fly fast. We apprehend -these are the chief of the weekly journals. There are others that have -become notorious for qualities that ought to have consigned them long -ago to the hands of the common hangman; and some that, by their tameness -and indecision, have been struggling into existence ever since their -commencement. There is ability, but want of direction, in several of the -last. - -As to the Weekly Literary Journals, Gazettes, &c. they are a truly -insignificant race—a sort of flimsy announcements of favoured -publications—insects in letters, that are swallowed up in the larger -blaze of full-orbed criticism, and where - - ‘Coming _Reviews_ cast their shadows before!’ - -We cannot condescend to enumerate them. Before we quit this part of our -subject, we must add, that Scotland boasts but one original newspaper, -the SCOTSMAN, and that newspaper but one subject—Political Economy.—The -Editor, however, may be said to be king of it! - -Of the _Magazines_, which are a sort of _cater-cousins_ to ourselves, we -would wish to speak with tenderness and respect. There is the -Gentleman’s Magazine, at one extremity of the series, and Mr. -Blackwood’s at the other—and between these there is the European, which -is all abroad,—and the Lady’s, which is all at home,—and the London, and -the Monthly, and the New Monthly—nay, hold; for if all their names were -to be written down, one Article or one Number would hardly contain -them—so many of them are there, and such antipathy do they hold to each -other! For the GENTLEMAN’S MAGAZINE we profess an affection. We like the -name, we like the title of the Editor, (Mr. Sylvanus Urban—what a rustic -civility is there in it!)—we like the frontispiece of St. John’s Gate—a -well-preserved piece of useless antiquity, an emblem of the work—we like -the table of contents, which promises no more than it performs. There we -are sure of finding the last lingering remains of a former age, with the -embryo production of the new—some nine days wonder, some forlorn _Hic -jacet_—all that is forgotten, or soon to be so—an alligator stuffed, a -mermaid, an Egyptian mummy—South-sea inventions, or the last improvement -on the spinning-jenny—an epitaph in Pancras Church-yard, the head of -Memnon, Lord Byron’s Farewell, a Charade by a Young Lady, and Dr. -Johnson’s dispute with Osborn the bookseller! Oh! happy mixture of -indolence and study, of order and disorder! Who, with the Gentleman’s -Magazine held carelessly in his hand, has not passed minutes, hours, -days, in _lackadaisical_ triumph over _ennui_! Who has not taken it up -on parlour window-seats? Who has not ran it slightly through in -reading-rooms? If it has its faults, they are those of an agreeable old -age; and we could almost wish some ill to those who can say any harm of -it. - -The MONTHLY MAGAZINE was originally an improvement on the Gentleman’s, -and the model on which succeeding ones have been formed. It was a -literary Miscellany, variously and ably supported—a sort of repository -for the leading topics of conversation of the day; but it has of late -degenerated into a register of patents, and an account of the -proprietor’s philosophy of the universe, in answer to Sir Isaac Newton! -Other publications have succeeded to it, and prevailed. Which of these -is the best, the LONDON or the NEW MONTHLY? We are not the Œdipus to -solve this riddle; and indeed it might be difficult, for we believe many -of the writers are the same in each. But both contain articles, we will -be bold to say, in the form of Essays, Theatrical Criticism, -_Jeux-d’esprit_, which may be considered as the flower and cream of -periodical literature. To those who judge of books in the lump, by the -cubic contents, the binding, or the letters on the back, and who think -that all that is conveyed between blue or yellow or orange-tawny covers, -must be vain and light as the leaves that flutter round it, we would -remark, that many of these fugitive, unowned productions, have been -collected, and met with no unfavourable reception, in solid octavo or -compact duodecimo. Are there not the quaint and grave subtleties of -Elia, the extreme paradoxes of the author of Table Talk, the Confessions -of an Opium-eater, the copious tales of Traditional Literature, all from -one Magazine? We believe, the agreeable lucubrations of Mr. Geoffrey -Crayon also first ventured to meet the public eye in an obscure -publication of the same sort— - - ‘With a blush, - Modest as morning, when she coldly eyes - The youthful Phœbus!’ - -To say truth, some such ordeal seems almost necessary as a passport to -literary reputation. The public like to taste works in the sample, -before they swallow them whole. If in the two leading Magazines just -alluded to, we do not meet with any great fund of anecdote, with much -dramatic display of character, with the same number of successful -experiments in the world of letters as at an earlier period of our -history, yet the reader may perhaps think the want of these in a great -measure compensated by a better sustained tone of general reflection, of -mild sentiment, and liberal taste; which we hold, in spite of some -strong exceptions, to be the true characteristics of the age. The fault -of the London Magazine is, that it wants a sufficient unity of direction -and purpose. There is no particular bias or governing spirit,—which -neutralizes the interest. The articles seem thrown into the letter-box, -and to come up like blanks or prizes in the lottery—all is in a -confused, unconcocted state, like the materials of a rich plum-pudding -before it has been well boiled. On the contrary, there may be said to be -too much tampering with the management of the New Monthly, till the -taste and spirit evaporate. A thing, by being overdone, stands a chance -of being insipid—the fastidious may end in languor—the agreeable may -cloy by repetition. The Editor, we are afraid, _pets_ it too much,—and -it is accordingly more remarkable for delicacy than robustness of -constitution, and, by being faultless, loses some of its effect. - -Over-refinement, however, cannot be charged as the failing of most of -our periodical publications. Some are full of polemical orthodoxy—some -of methodistical deliration—some inculcate servility, and others preach -up sedition—some creep along in a series of dull truisms and stale -moralities—while others, more ‘lively, audible, and full of vent,’ -subsist on the great staple of falsehood and personality, and enjoy all -the advantages that result from an entire contempt for the restraints of -decency, consistency, or candour. There is no pretence, indeed, or -concealment of the principles on which such works are conducted: and the -reader feels almost as if he were admitted to look in on a club of -thorough-going hack authors, in their moments of freedom and exaltation. -There is plenty of _slang-wit_ going, and some shrewd remark. The pipes -and tobacco are laid on the table, with a set-out of oysters and whisky, -and bludgeons and sword-sticks in the corner! A profane parody is -recited, or a libel on an absent member—and songs are sung in mockery of -their former friends and employers. From foul words they get to blows -and broken heads; till, drunk with ribaldry, and stunned with noise, -they proceed to throw open the windows and abuse the passengers in the -street, for their want of religion, morals, and decorum! This is a -modern and an enormous abuse, and requires to be corrected. - -The illiberality of the Periodical Press is ‘the sin that most easily -besets it.’ We have already accounted for this from the rank and -importance it has assumed, which have made it a necessary engine in the -hands of party. The abuse, however, has grown to a height that renders -it desirable that it should be crushed, if it cannot be corrected; for -it threatens to overlay, not only criticism and letters, but to root out -all common honesty and common sense from works of the greatest -excellence, upon large classes of society. All character, all decency, -the plainest matters of fact, or deductions of reason, are made the -sport of a nickname, an inuendo, or a bold and direct falsehood. The -continuance of this nuisance rests not with the writers, but with the -public; it is they that pamper it into the monster it is; and, in order -to put an end to the traffic, the best way is to let them see a little -what sort of thing it is which they encourage. Both of the extreme -parties in the State, the Ultra-Whigs as well as the Ultra-Royalists, -have occasionally trespassed on the borders of this enormity: But it is -only the worst part of the Ministerial Press that has had the -temptation, the hardihood, or the cowardice to make literature the mere -tool and creature of party-spirit; and, in the sacredness of the cause -in which it was embarked, to disregard entirely the profligacy of the -means. It was pious and loyal to substitute abuse for argument, and -private scandal for general argument. He who calumniated his neighbour -was a friend to his country. If you could not reply to your opponent’s -objections, you might caricature his person; if you were foiled by his -wit or learning, you might recover your advantage by stabbing his -character. The cry of ‘No Popery,’ or ‘the Constitution is in danger,’ -was an answer to all cavils or scruples. Who would hesitate about the -weapons he used to repel an attack on all that was dear and valuable in -civil institutions? He who drew off the public attention from a popular -statement, by alluding to a slip in the private history of an -individual, did well; he who embodied a flying rumour as an undoubted -fact, for the same laudable end, did better; and he who invented a -palpable falsehood, did best of all. He discovered most invention, most -zeal, and most boldness; and received the highest reward for the -sacrifice of his time, character, and principle. If the jest took, it -was gravely supported; if it was found out, it was well intended: To -belie a Whig, a Jacobin, a Republican, or a Dissenter, was doing God and -the king good service; at any rate, whether true or false, detected or -not, the imputation left a stain behind it, and would be ever after -coupled with the name of the individual, so as to disable him, and deter -others from doing farther mischief. Knowledge, writing, the press was -found to be the great engine that governed public opinion; and the -scheme therefore was, to make it recoil upon itself, and act in a -retrograde direction to its natural one. Prejudice and power had a -provocation to this extreme and desperate mode of defence, in their -instinctive jealousy of any opposition to their sentiments or will. They -felt that reason was against them—and therefore it was necessary that -they should be against reason,—they felt, too, that they could extend -impunity to their agents and accomplices, whom they could easily screen -from reprisals. Conscious that they were no match for modern -philosophers and reformers in abstract reasoning, they paid off their -dread of their talents and principles by a proportionable contempt for -their persons, for which no epithets could be too mean or hateful. These -were therefore poured out in profusion by their satellites. The -nicknames, the cant phrases, too, were all in favour of existing -institutions and opinions, and were easily devised in a contest where -victory, not truth, was the object. The warfare was therefore turned -into this channel from the first; and what passion dictated, a cunning -and mercenary policy has continued. The Anti-Jacobin was one of the -first that gave the alarm, that set up the war-whoop of reckless slander -and vulgar abuse. Here is a specimen. - -‘Mr. Coleridge having been dishonoured at Cambridge for preaching Deism, -has, since that time, left his native country; commenced citizen of the -world; left his poor children fatherless, and his wife destitute. _Ex -hoc disce omnes_—his friend Southey and others.’ - -This is the way in which a man of the most exemplary habits and strict -morals was included in the same sentence of reprobation with one of -greater genius, though perhaps of more irregular conduct; while the -imputations in both cases were impudent falsehoods—probably known to be -so, or else founded on some idle report, eagerly caught up and -maliciously exaggerated. What has been the effect? Why, that these very -persons have, in the end, joined that very pack of hunting-tigers that -strove to harass them to death, and now halloo longest and loudest in -the chase of blood. Nor was the result, after all, so unnatural as it -might at first appear. They saw that there was but one royal road to -reputation. The new Temple of Fame was built as an outwork to the rotten -boroughs, and the warders were busy on the top of it, pouring down -scalding lead and horrible filth on all those who approached, and -demanded entrance, without well-attested political credentials. ‘The -manna’ of court favour ‘was falling’; and our pilgrims to the land of -promise, slowly, reluctantly, but perhaps wisely, got out of the way of -it. Who, indeed, was likely to stand, for any length of time, ‘the -pelting of this pitiless storm’—the precipitation of nicknames from such -a height, the thundering down of huge volumes of dirt and rubbish, the -ugly blows at character, the flickering jests on personal defects—with -the complacent smiles of the great, and the angry shouts of the mob, to -say nothing of the Attorney-General’s informations, filed _ex officio_, -and the well-paid depositions of spies and informers? It was a hard -battle to fight. The enemy were well entrenched on the heights of place -and power, and skulked behind their ramparts—those whom they assailed -were exposed, and on the _pavé_. It was the forlorn hope of genius and -independence struggling for fame and bread; and it is no wonder that -many of the candidates _turned tail_, and fled from such fearful odds. - -The beauty of it is, that there is generally no reparation or means of -redress. From the nature of the imputations, it is frequently impossible -distinctly to refute them, or to gain a hearing to the refutation. But -if the calumniators are detected and exposed, they plead authority and -the _King’s privilege_! They assume a natural superiority over you, as -if, being of a different party, you were of an inferior species, and -justly liable to be tortured, worried, and hunted to death, like any -other vermin. They have a right to say what they please of you, to -invent or propagate any falsehood or misrepresentation that suits their -turn. The greater falsehood, the more merit; the more barefaced the -imposture, the more pious the fraud. You are a Whig, a reformer—does not -that of itself imply all other crimes and misdemeanours? That being once -granted, they have a clear right to heap every other outrage, every -other indignity, upon you as a matter of course; and you cannot complain -of that which is no more than a commutation of punishment. You are an -enthusiast in the cause of liberty: does it not follow that you must be -a bad poet? You are against Ministers; is it to be supposed that you can -write a line of prose without repeated offences against sense and -grammar? If it be once admitted that you are an opposition writer of -some weight and celebrity, it follows, of course, that the government -scribbler should get a _carte blanche_ to fill up your character and -pretensions, life, parentage, and education. Your mind and morals are, -in justice, _deodands_ to the Crown, and should be handed over to the -court critic to be dissected without mercy, like the body of a condemned -malefactor. The disproportion between the fact and the allegation only -points the _moral_ the more strongly against you; for the odiousness of -your conduct, in differing with men in office and their sycophants, is -such, that no colours can be black enough to paint it; and if you are -not really guilty of all the petty vices and absurdities imputed to you, -it is plain that you ought to be so, to answer to their theory, and as a -_fiction_ in loyalty, for the credit of church and state. You are a bad -subject, they pretend: that you are a bad writer and bad man, is a -self-evident consequence that will be at once admitted by all the -respectable and well-disposed part of the community. You are entitled, -in short, neither to justice nor mercy: and he who _volunteers_ to -deprive you of a livelihood or your good name by any means, however -atrocious or dastardly, is entitled to the thanks of his own country. - -One of their most common expedients is, to strew their victim over and -over with epithets of abuse, and to trust to the habitual association -between words and things for the effect of their application. There was -an instance of this, some little time ago, in a well-known paper, with -which we shall exemplify our doctrine. It was in reference to the -assault made on Sir Hudson Lowe by young Las Casas. - -‘A French lad, of the name of Las Casas, the son of one of Buonaparte’s -Counts, waylaid Sir Hudson Lowe in the street on Tuesday, and struck -him, because Sir Hudson did his duty properly, as an English Governor, -at St. Helena, and as keeper of the _miscreant_ of whom he had the -charge. The Chronicle put forth yesterday a letter without an address, -said to be from the boy himself, signed Baron ——, something. In this he -confesses the assault, which, in default of other witnesses, will -substantiate the fact, and consign him, _as soon as the thief-takers can -catch him_, no doubt to the pleasing recreation of the tread-mill for a -given time.’ - -We pass over the terms ‘miscreant,’—‘fellow,’ &c.; but there is a -refinement, in one part of this paragraph, worth notice. It is said, as -if casually, that the ‘thief-takers were after him.’ What! had he been -accused of picking pockets, of shop-lifting, or petty larceny? No; but -though the fact was known to be quite different, the feeling, it was -thought, would be the same. His offence would be transferred, by the -operation of this choice expression, to the class of misdemeanors which -thief-takers are employed to look after; and thus young Las Casas, for -resenting the unworthy treatment of his father and old master, has an -indirect imputation fastened on him, by which he is confounded in the -imagination with felons and housebreakers, and other persons for whom -the ‘tread-mill’ is a suitable punishment! Such is the force of -words—the power of prejudice—and the means of poisoning public opinion. - -Take another illustration in a native instance. A man of classical taste -and attainments appears to be editor of an Opposition Journal. He -publishes (it is the fault of his stars) an elegant and pathetic poem. -The first announcement of the work, in a Ministerial publication, sets -out with a statement, that the author has lately been relieved from -Newgate—which gives a felon-like air to the production, and makes it -necessary for the fashionable reader to perform a sort of quarantine -against it, as if it had the gaol-infection. It is declared by another -critic, in the same pay, to be unreadable from its insipidity, and -afterwards, by the same critic, to be highly pernicious and -inflammatory—a slight contradiction, but no matter! This, and fifty -other inconsistencies, would all go down, provided they were equally -malignant and unblushing. The writer may contradict himself as often as -he pleases: if he only speaks _against_ the work, his criticism is sound -and orthodox. Nor is it only obnoxious writers on politics themselves, -but all their friends and acquaintance, or those whom they casually -notice, that come under this sweeping anathema. It is proper to make a -clear stage. The friends of Cæsar must not be suspected of an amicable -intercourse with patriotic and incendiary writers. A young poet comes -forward: an early and favourable notice appears of some boyish verses of -his in the Examiner, independently of all political opinion. That alone -decides his fate; and from that moment he is set upon, pulled in pieces, -and hunted into his grave by the whole venal crew in full cry after him. -It was crime enough that he dared to accept praise from so disreputable -a quarter. He should have thrown back his bounty in the face of the -donor, and come with his manuscript in his hand, to have poetical -justice dealt out to him by the unbiassed author of the Baviad and -Mæviad! His tenderness and beauties would then have been exalted with -_faint_ praise, instead of being mangled and torn to pieces with -ruthless, unfeeling rage; his faults would have been gently hinted at, -and attributed to youth and inexperience; and his profession, instead of -being made the subject of loud ribald jests by vile buffoons, would have -been introduced to enhance the merit of his poetry. But a different fate -awaited poor Keats! His fine fancy and powerful invention were too -obvious to be treated with mere neglect; and as he had not been ushered -into the world with the court-stamp upon him, he was to be crushed as a -warning to genius how it keeps company with honesty, and as a sure means -of inoculating the ingenuous spirit and talent of the country with -timely and systematic servility! We sometimes think that writers are -alarmed at the praises that even _we_ bestow upon them, lest it should -preclude them from the approbation of the authorized sources of fame! - -This system thus pursued is intended to amount, and in fact does amount, -to a prohibition to authors to write, and to the public to read any -works that have not the Government mark upon them. The professed object -is to gag the one, and hoodwink the others, and to persuade the world -that all talent, taste, elegance, science, liberality and virtue, are -confined to a few hack-writers and their employers. One would think the -public would resent this gross attempt to impose on their -understandings, and encroach on their liberty of private judgment. When -a gentleman is reading a new work, of which he is beginning to form a -favourable opinion, is it to be borne that he should have it snatched -out of his hands, and tossed into the dirt by a retainer of the -_literary police_? Can he be supposed to pick it up afterwards, either -to read himself, or to lend it to a friend, sullied and disfigured as it -is? But the truth we fear is, that the public, besides their -participation in the same prejudices, are timid, indolent, and easily -influenced by a little swaggering and an air of authority. They like to -amuse their leisure with reading a new work; and if they have more -leisure, have no objection to fill it up with listening to an abuse of -the writer. If they approve of candour and equity in the abstract, they -do not disapprove of a little scandal and tittle-tattle by the by. They -take in a disgusting publication, because it is ‘amusing and -clever’—that is, full of incredible assertions which make them stare, -and of opprobrious epithets applied to high characters, which, by their -smartness and incongruity, operate as a lively stimulus to their -ordinary state of ennui. This happens on the Sunday morning; and the -rest of the week passes in unravelling the imposture, and expressing a -very edifying mixture of wonder and indignation at it. Such a paper was -detected, not long ago, in the fabrication of a low falsehood against a -most respectable gentleman, who was said to have proposed a dinner and -rump and dozen, in triumph over the death of Lord Castlereagh. This was -said to have taken place in a public room, so that the exposure of the -falsehood was immediate and complete. Not long before, it put a leading -question to a popular member for the city, as if some ill-conduct of his -had caused his father’s death: it was shown that this gentleman’s father -had died before he was born! Is it to be supposed that the writer knew -the facts? We should rather think not. He probably neither knew nor -cared any thing about them. It was his vocation to hazard the dark -insinuation, and to trust to chance and the malice of mankind for its -success. The blow was well meant, though it failed. But was it not a -blow to the paper itself? Alas, no; it still blunders on; and the public -gape after it, half in fear half in indignation. It slanders a virtuous -lady; it insults the misfortunes of a Noble House; it rakes up the -infirmities of the dead; it taints (for whatever it touches it -contaminates) the unborn. No matter. They or their family had sinned in -being Whigs—and there are still men in England, it would appear, who -think that this is the way by which differences of opinion should be -revenged or prevented. - -It used to be the boast of English gentlemen, that their political -contentions were conducted in a spirit, not merely of perfect fairness, -but of mutual courtesy and urbanity; and that, even among the lower -orders, quarrels were governed by a law of honour and chivalry, which -proscribed all base advantages, and united all the spectators against -him by whom a _foul blow_ was given or attempted. We trust that this -spirit is not yet extinguished among us; and that it will speedily -assert itself, by trampling under foot that base system of mean and -malignant defamation, by which our Periodical Press has recently been -polluted and disgraced. We would avoid naming works that desire nothing -so much as notoriety; but it is but too well known, that the work of -intimidation and deceit, of cruel personality and audacious fabrication, -has been carried on, for several years, in various periodical -publications, daily, weekly, monthly, and quarterly,—that it has been -urged with unrelenting eagerness in the metropolis, in spite of the -public discountenance of the leaders of the party which it disgraces by -its pretended support; and then propagated into various parts of the -country, for purposes of local annoyance. It is equally well known and -understood too, that this savage system of bullying and assassination is -no longer pursued from the impulse of angry passions or furious -prejudices, but on a cold-blooded mercenary calculation of the profits -which idle curiosity, and the vulgar appetite for slander, may enable -its authors to derive from it. Where this is to stop, we do not presume -to conjecture,—unless the excess leads to the remedy, and the -distempered appetite of the public be surfeited, and so die. This is by -no means an unlikely, and, we hope, may be a speedy consummation. In the -mean time, the extent and extravagance of the abuse has already had the -effect, not only of making individual attacks less painful or alarming, -but even, in many cases, of pointing out to the judicious the proper -objects of their gratitude and respect. For ourselves, at least, we do -not hesitate to acknowledge, that, when we find an author savagely and -perseveringly attacked by this gang of literary retainers, we -immediately feel assured, not only that he is a good writer, but an -honest man; and if a statesman is once selected as the butt of -outrageous abuse in the same quarter, we consider it as a satisfactory -proof that he has lately rendered some signal service to his country, or -aimed a deadly blow at corruption. - -We have put ourselves out of breath with this long lecture on the great -opprobrium of our periodical literature,—and dare not now go on to the -ticklish chapter of _Reviews_. We do not, however, by any means renounce -the design; and hope one day to be enabled to resume it, and to astonish -our readers with a full and ingenuous account of our own merits and -demerits, and those of our rivals. - - - LANDOR’S IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS - - VOL. XL.] [_March 1824._ - -This work is as remarkable an instance as we have lately met with of the -strength and weakness of the human intellect. It displays considerable -originality, learning, acuteness, terseness of style, and force of -invective—but it is spoiled and rendered abortive throughout by an utter -want of temper, of self-knowledge, and decorum. Mr. Landor’s mind is far -from barren in feeling or in resources; but over the natural, and (what -might be) the useful growth of these, there every where springs up a -luxuriant crop of caprice, dogmatism, extravagance, intolerance, -quaintness, and most ludicrous arrogance,—like the red and blue flowers -in corn, that, however they may dazzle the passenger’s eye, choke up the -harvest, and mock the hopes of the husbandman. We are not ignorant of -the school to which our author belongs; and could name other writers -who, in the course of a laborious life, and in productions numerous and -multiform—some recent and suited to the times, some long and luckily -forgotten,—in odes, inscriptions, madrigals, epics,—in essays, histories -and reviews,—have run into as many absurdities, and as many extremes: -But never did we see, bound up in the same volume, close-packed, and -pointed with all the significance of style, the same number of -contradictions, staring one another in the face, and quarrelling for the -precedence. Mr. Landor’s book is a perfect ‘institute and digest’ of -inconsistency: it is made up of mere antipathies in nature and in -reasoning. It is a _chef-d’œuvre_ of self-opinion and self-will, -strangling whatever is otherwise sound and excellent in principle, -defacing whatever is beautiful in style and matter. - -If it be true (as has been said) that - - ‘Great wits to madness nearly are allied,’ - -we know few writers that have higher or more unequivocal pretensions in -this way than the author of the ‘Imaginary Conversations.’ Would it be -believed, that, trampling manfully on all history and tradition, he -speaks of Tiberius as a _man of sentiment_, who retired to Capri merely -to indulge a tender melancholy on the death of a beloved wife: and will -have it that Nero was a most humane, amiable, and deservedly popular -character—not arguing the points as doubtful or susceptible of question, -but assuming them, _en passant_, as most absolute and peremptory -conclusions—as if whatever was contrary to common sense and common -feeling carried conviction on the face of it? In the same page he -assures us, with the same oracular tranquillity, that the conflagration -of Rome, and the great fire of London, were both wise and voluntary -measures, arising from the necessity of purifying the cities after -sickness, and leaving no narrow streets in their centres! and on turning -the leaf, it is revealed to us, that ‘there is nothing in Rome, _or in -the world_, equal to—the circus in Bath!’ He spells the words _foreign_ -and _sovereign_, ‘foren’ and ‘sovran,’ and would go to the stake, or -send others there, to prove the genuineness of these orthographies, -which he adopts on the authority of Milton; and yet he abuses Buonaparte -for being the ape of Antiquity, and talking about Miltiades. He cries up -Mr. Locke as ‘the most _elegant_ of English prose writers,’ for no other -reason (as we apprehend) than that he has often been considered as the -least so; and compares Dr. Johnson’s style to ‘that article of dress -which the French have lately made peace with’ (a pair of pantaloons), -‘divided into two parts, equal in length, breadth, and substance, with a -protuberance before and behind.’ He pronounces sentence upon the lost -works of two ancient writers, Democritus and Menander, that the former -would be worth all the philosophical remains of antiquity, and the -latter not be worth having,—precisely because he can know nothing about -the matter; the will to decide superseding the necessity of any positive -ground of opinion, and the spirit of contradiction standing him in lieu -of all other conviction. Boileau, according to our critic, had not a -particle of sense, wit, or taste: Pope, to be sure, was of a different -opinion—and we take it to be just possible that Boileau would have -thought himself indemnified by the homage of the one for the scorn of -the other! He speaks of Pitt as a poor creature, who did not see an inch -before him, and of Fox as a charlatan; and says modestly in reference to -some history he is writing, that he trusts ‘Posterity will not confound -him with the Coxes and the Foxes of the age.’ It would be rather too -much in his own manner perhaps to say, that no one who could write this -sentence, will ever write a history—but we hazard the conjecture -notwithstanding—and leave it to time to decide. He announces that -Alfieri was the greatest man in Europe, though his greatness has not yet -been generally acknowledged. This, however, is exactly the reason that -Mr. Landor vouches for it, because whether he was so or not, rests -solely on his _ipse dixit_. It is a fine thing to be one of the oracles -of Fame! With equal modesty and candour he declares literary men to be -as much superior to lords and kings as these last are to the meanest of -their vassals. In a dialogue between Prince Maurocordato and General -Colocotroni, he wishes the Greeks to substitute the bow for the use of -fire-arms; and to this experimental crotchet, we suspect, he would -sacrifice the Greek cause,—or any other. He has a hit at Lord Byron, and -another at Mr. Thomas Moore, and a compliment to Lady Morgan. It is hard -to say which he hates most—the English Government or the French -people—Buonaparte or the Bourbons. He considers Buonaparte as a miracle, -only because no man with so little talent ever gained such an -ascendancy; and certainly with the qualifications our author allows him, -he must have dealt with the Devil to do what he did; and, as if -determined to conciliate no party and have all the world against him, he -takes care to inform the reader at the same time, that in the most -remarkable English victory in the last fifty years, ‘the prudence and -skill of the commander (Wellington) were altogether wanting.’ He brings -it as a proof of Buonaparte’s stupidity, that ‘he knew nothing of -judicial astrology, _which hath certain laws assigned to it_, and -fancied he could unite it with atheism, as easily as the iron crown with -the lilies.’ He tells us, that ‘he did his utmost in pursuing this -tyrant to death, recommending and insisting on nothing less:’ but that -now he is dead, ‘he is sorry for it.’ So hot, indeed, is he on this -scent, that he is for bringing Louis XIV. to life, in order to have him -‘carted to condign punishment in the _Place de Grêve_, or at Tyburn.’ We -cannot understand this coincidence in the proposed fate of two persons -so different; nor how Mr. Landor should call ‘the battle of Waterloo the -most glorious to the victors since that of Leuctra,’ while he recommends -a resort to tyrannicide, and points out its objects, to get rid of the -legitimate consequences of that battle; nor why he should strike ‘his -marble table with his palm,’ or call his country names—‘degenerate -Albion,’—‘recreant slave,’ &c. &c. for not aiding ‘in the cause of -freedom in Greece,’ when she has his thanks and praise for putting down -the principle, at one blow, all over the world! Kings and nations, -however, do not change like whiffling politicians. The one are governed -by their prejudices, the other by their interests;—Mr. Landor and his -friends by the opinion of the moment, by a fit of the spleen, by the -first object that stirs their vanity or their resentment. - -The work before us is an edifying example of the spirit of Literary -Jacobinism,—flying at all game, running _a-muck_ at all opinions, and at -continual cross-purposes with its own. To avoid misconstruction, -however, we should add, that we mean by this term, that despotism of the -mind, which only emancipates itself from authority and prejudice, to -grow impatient of every thing like an appearance of opposition, and to -domineer over and dictate its sudden, crude, violent, and varying -opinions, to the rest of the world. This spirit admits neither of equal -nor superior, follower nor precursor: ‘it travels in a road so narrow -where but one goes abreast.’ It claims a monopoly of sense, wit, and -wisdom. To agree with it is an impertinence: to differ from it a crime. -It tramples on old prejudices: it is jealous of new pretensions. It -seizes with avidity on all that is startling or obnoxious in opinions, -and when they are countenanced by any one else, discards them as no -longer fit for its use. Thus persons of this temper affect atheism by -way of distinction; and if they can succeed in bringing it into fashion, -become orthodox again, in order not to be with the vulgar. Their creed -is at the mercy of every one who assents to, or who contradicts it. All -their ambition, all their endeavour is, to seem wiser than the whole -world besides. If they are forced to adopt a _common-place_, they -exaggerate it into a paradox, by their manner of stating it. So, in the -‘Imaginary Conversations,’ we learn, that ‘for every honest Italian, -there are,’ not ten, or a hundred, but ‘a hundred thousand honest -Englishmen.’ They hate whatever falls short of, whatever goes beyond, -their favourite theories. In the one case they hurry on before to get -the start of you; in the other, they suddenly turn back, to hinder you, -and defeat themselves. It is not the love of truth, or of mankind, that -urges them on—but the love of distinction; and they run into every -extreme, and every folly, in order to indulge their overweening -self-complacency and affected singularity. - -An inordinate, restless, incorrigible self-love, is the key to all their -actions and opinions, extravagancies, and meannesses, servility and -arrogance. Whatever sooths and pampers this they applaud; whatever -wounds or interferes with it they utterly and vindictively abhor. If an -author is read and admired, they decry him; and if he is obscure or -forgotten, or unintelligible, they extol him to the skies. But if they -should succeed in bringing him into notice, and fixing him in the -firmament of fame, they soon find out that there are spots in the sun, -and draw the cloud of envy over his merits. A general is with them a -hero, if he is unsuccessful or a traitor; if he is a conqueror in the -cause of liberty, or a martyr to it, he is a poltroon. Whatever is -doubtful, remote, visionary in philosophy, or wild and dangerous in -politics, they fasten upon eagerly, ‘recommending and insisting on -nothing less;’—reduce the one to demonstration, the other to practice, -and they turn their backs upon their own most darling schemes, and leave -them in the lurch immediately. With them everything is _in posse_, -nothing _in esse_. The reason is, that they would have others take all -their opinions implicitly from their infallibility: if a thing has -grounds or evidence of its own to rest upon, so that they are no longer -called in like prophets, to vouch for its truth, this is a sufficient -excuse for them to discard it, and to look out for new _terræ incognitæ_ -to exercise their quackery and second-sight upon. So they cry up a -_protegé_ of their own, that nobody has ever heard of, as a prodigious -genius, while he does nothing to justify the character they give of him, -and exists only through the breath of their nostrils;—let him come -forward in his own person, encouraged by their applause, and convince -the world that he has something in him, and they immediately set to work -to prove that he has borrowed all his ideas from them,—and is besides a -person of bad moral character! They are of the church-militant; they -pull down, but they will not build up, nor let any one else do it. They -devote themselves to a cause, to a principle while it is in doubt or -struggling for existence;—let it succeed, and they become jealous of it, -and revile and hate the man by whom it has risen, or by whom it stands, -like a triumphal arch over the ruins of barbaric thrones! For any one to -do more for a cause than they have done, to be more talked of than they -are, is a piece of presumption not hastily to be forgiven. - -We consider the spirit which we have here attempted to analyze, as -maintained in a state of higher concentration in this work than in any -other we have for some time seen. Some of Mr. Southey’s lucubrations -contain pretty good samples of it; but in him it is ‘dashed and brewed’ -with other elements. He has been to court, is one of a _firm_, and mixes -something of the cant of methodism with his effusions. But Mr. Landor -keeps a _private still_ of his own, where the unrectified spirit remains -in its original vigour and purity,—cold indeed, and without the frothy -effervescence of its first running, but unabated in activity, strength -and virulence. We have pointed out what we regard as the ‘damning sin’ -of this work; and having thus entered our protest, and guarded the -reader against its mischievous tendency, we hold ourselves at liberty to -extract what amusement or instruction we can from it. We are far from -wishing to represent our author as ‘to every good word and work -reprobate.’ On the contrary, we think he is naturally prone to what is -right, but diverted from it by the infirmity we speak of. He has often -much strength of thought, and vigour and variety of style; and we should -be mortified, indeed, and deserving of mortification, if the petty -provocation he has attempted to give us, could deter us from doing him -that justice. He is excellent, whenever excellence is compatible with -singularity. It is the fault of the school to which he belongs, not that -they are blind to truth, or indifferent to good—but truth to be welcome -must be a rare discovery of their own; they only woo her as a youthful -bride; and are too soon satiated with the possession of what they -desire, out of fickleness, or as the gloss of novelty wears off—or sue -out a divorce from jealousy, and a dread of rivals in the favour of -their former mistress! - -This was the reason, whatever might be the pretext, why the same set of -persons raised such an outcry against Buonaparte, and _alone_ insisted -on his assassination. They had no great objection to what he was -doing—but they could not bear to think that he had done more than they -had ever dreamt of. While they were building castles in the air, he gave -law to Europe. He carved out with the sword, what they had only traced -with the pen. ‘Never,’ says Mr. Landor, ‘had been such good laws so well -administered over a considerable portion of Europe. The services he -rendered to society were great, manifold, and extensive.’ But these -services were hateful in their eyes—because he aggrandized himself in -performing them. The power he wielded, the situation he occupied, -excited their envy, much more than the stand he made against the common -enemy, their gratitude. They were ready enough at all times to pull down -kings, but they hated him worse who trampled, by his own might, on their -necks—as more rivals to themselves, as running in the same race, and -going farther in it. Any service, in short, any triumph is odious in -their eyes, be it over whom, or in favour of what it will. Their great -idol now is Washington; but this is because he acted upon comparatively -a narrow theatre, and belongs to a people whose greatness is rather -prospective than present; and also, because there is something in his -mechanical habits and cold formality that appeases their irritable -spleen. - -The Dialogues are thirty-six in number, and on a great variety of -curious and interesting topics. The style of the period is sometimes -well imitated, without being mimicked; and a good deal of character, and -sometimes of humour, is thrown into the tone of the different speakers. -We give the following, between Roger Ascham and Lady Jane Gray, as one -of the most pleasing, and as a relief to the severity and harshness of -our introductory speculation. - -‘_Ascham._ Thou art going, my dear young lady, into a most awful state: -thou art passing into matrimony and great wealth. God hath willed it so: -submitt[15] in thankfulness. Thy affections are rightly placed and well -distributed. Love is a secondary passion in those who love most, a -primary in those who love least. He who is inspired by it in a great -degree, is inspired by honour in a greater: it never reaches its -plenitude of growth and perfection, but in the most exalted minds.... -Alas! alas! - -‘_Jane._ What aileth my virtuous Ascham? what is amiss? why do I -tremble? - -‘_Ascham._ I see perils on perils which thou dost not see, although thou -art wiser than thy poor old master. And it is not because Love hath -blinded thee, for that surpasseth his supposed omnipotence, but it is -because thy tender heart having always leaned affectionately upon good, -hath felt and known nothing of evil. I once persuaded thee to reflect -much; let me now persuade thee to avoid the habitude of reflection, to -lay aside books, and to gaze carefully and steadfastly on what is under -and before thee. - -‘_Jane._ I have well bethought me of all my duties: O how extensive they -are! what a goodly and fair inheritance! But tell me, wouldst thou -command me never more to read Cicero and Epictetus and Polybius? the -others I do resign unto thee: they are good for the arbour and for the -gravel walk: but leave unto me, I beseech thee, my friend and father, -leave unto me, for my fire-side and for my pillow, truth, eloquence, -courage, constancy. - -‘_Ascham._ Read them on thy marriage-bed, on thy childbed, on thy -death-bed! Thou spotless, undrooping lily, they have fenced thee right -well! These are the men for men: these are to fashion the bright and -blessed creatures, O Jane, whom God one day shall smile upon in thy -chaste bosom.... Mind thou thy husband. - -‘_Jane._ I sincerely love the youth who hath espoused me; I love him -with the fondest, the most solicitous affection. I pray to the Almighty -for his goodness and happiness, and do forget, at times, unworthy -supplicant! the prayers I should have offered for myself. O never fear -that I will disparage my kind religious teacher, by disobedience to my -husband in the most trying duties. - -‘_Ascham._ Gentle is he, gentle and virtuous; but time will harden him: -time must harden even thee, sweet Jane! Do thou, complacently and -indirectly, lead him from ambition. - -‘_Jane._ He is contented with me and with home. - -‘_Ascham._ Ah, Jane, Jane! men of high estate grow tired of -contentedness. - -‘_Jane._ He told me he never liked books unless I read them to him. I -will read them to him every evening: I will open new worlds to him, -richer than those discovered by the Spaniard: I will conduct him to -treasures.... O what treasures!... On which he may sleep in innocence -and peace. - -‘_Ascham._ Rather do thou walk with him, ride with him, play with him, -be his faery, his page, his every thing that love and poetry have -invented; but watch him well, sport with his fancies; turn them about -like the ringlets round his cheeks; and if ever he meditate on power, -go, toss up thy baby to his brow, and bring back his thoughts into his -heart by the music of thy discourse. Teach him to live unto God and unto -thee: and he will discover that women, like the plants in woods, derive -their softness and tenderness from the shade.’ II. 54. - -We must say we think this Dialogue is written _con amore_. It is imbued -with the very spirit of some of those old writers, where ‘all is -conscience and tender heart.’ Mr. Landor’s over-anxious mind reposes on -the innocence of youth and beauty, on the simplicity of his subject, on -the reverence due and willingly paid, because silently exacted, to age -and antiquity! Even the quaintness, the abruptness, the wanderings and -the puerility, are delightful, and happily characteristic. While we are -in good humour with our author, we will extract another conversation of -the same period, and distinguished by the same vein of felicitous -imitation, in the sentiment of which we also go along with him heart and -hand,—that between Elizabeth and Burleigh, on the trite subject of -Spenser’s pension. - -‘_Elizabeth._ I advise thee again, Churlish Cecil, how that our Edmund -Spenser, whom thou calledst most uncourteously a whining whelp, hath -good and solid reason for his complaint. God’s blood! shall the lady -that tieth my garter and shuffleth the smock over my head, or the lord -that steddieth my chair’s back while I eat, or the other that looketh to -my buck-hounds lest they be mangy, be holden by me in higher esteem and -estate than he who hath placed me among the bravest of past times, and -will as safely and surely set me down among the loveliest in the future? - -‘_Cecil._ Your highness must remember he carouseth fully for such -deserts.... A hundred pounds a year of unclipt monies, and a butt of -canary wine.[16] - -‘_Elizabeth._ The monies are not enow to sustain a pair of grooms and a -pair of palfreys, and more wine hath been drunken in my presence at a -feast. The monies are given to such men, that they may not incline nor -be obligated to any vile or lowly occupation; and the canary, that they -may entertain such promising Wits as court their company and converse; -and that in such manner there may be alway in our land a succession of -these heirs of Fame. He hath written, not indeed with his wonted -fancifulness, nor in learned and majestical language, but in homely and -rustic wise, some verses which have moved me; and haply the more so, -inasmuch as they demonstrate to me that his genius hath been dampened by -his adversities. Read them. - - ‘_Cecil._ How much is lost when neither heart nor eye - Rose-winged Desire or fabling Hope deceives; - When boyhood with quick throb hath ceased to spy - The dubious apple in the yellow leaves; - - ‘When, springing from the turf where youth reposed, - We find but deserts in the far-sought shore; - When the huge book of Faery-land lies closed, - And those strong brazen clasps will yield no more. - -‘_Elizabeth._ The said Edmund hath also furnished unto the weaver at -Arras, John Blaquieres, on my account, a description for some of his -cunningest wenches to work at, supplied by mine own self, indeed as far -as the subject-matter goes, but set forth by him with figures and -fancies, and daintily enough bedecked. I could have wished he had -thereunto joined a fair comparison between Dian ... no matter ... he -might perhaps have fared the better for it ... but poet’s wits, God help -them! when did they ever sit close about them? Read the poesy, not -over-rich, and concluding very awkwardly and meanly. - - ‘_Cecil._ Where forms the lotus, with its level leaves - And solid blossoms, many floating isles, - What heavenly radiance swift-descending cleaves - The darksome wave! unwonted beauty smiles - - ‘On its pure bosom, on each bright-eyed flower, - On every nymph, and twenty sate around.... - Lo! ’twas Diana ... from the sultry hour - Hither she fled, nor fear’d she sight nor sound. - - ‘Unhappy youth, whom thirst and quiver-reeds - Drew to these haunts, whom awe forbade to fly, - Three faithful dogs before him rais’d their heads, - And watched and wonder’d at that fixed eye. - - ‘Forth sprang his favorite ... with her arrow-hand - Too late the Goddess hid what hand may hide, - Of every nymph and every reed complain’d, - And dashed upon the bank the waters wide. - - ‘On the prone head and sandal’d feet they flew— - Lo! slender hoofs and branching horns appear! - The last marred voice not even the favorite knew, - But bayed and fastened on the upbraiding deer. - - ‘Far be, chaste Goddess, far from me and mine, - The stream that tempts thee in the summer noon! - Alas, that ‘vengeance dwells with charms divine.... - -‘_Elizabeth._ Psha! give me the paper: I forwarned thee how it ended ... -pitifully, pitifully. - -‘_Cecil._ I cannot think otherwise than that the undertaker of the -aforecited poesy hath choused your Highness; for I have seen painted, I -know not where, the identically same Dian, with full as many nymphs, as -he calls them, and more dogs. So small a matter as a page of poesy shall -never stir my choler, nor twitch my purse-string. - -‘_Elizabeth._ I have read in Plinius and Mela of a runlet near Dodona, -which kindled by approximation an unlighted torch, and extinguished a -lighted one. Now, Cecil, I desire no such a jetty to be celebrated as -the decoration of my court: in simpler words, which your gravity may -more easily understand, I would not, from the fountain of Honour, give -lustre to the dull and ignorant, deadening and leaving in ‘cold -obstruction’ the lamp of literature and genius. I ardently wish my reign -to be remembered: if my actions were different from what they are, I -should as ardently wish it to be forgotten. Those are the worst of -suicides, who voluntarily and prepensely stab or suffocate their fame, -when God has commanded them to stand up on high for an ensample. We call -him parricide who destroys the author of his existence: tell me, what -shall we call him who casts forth to the dogs and birds of prey, its -most faithful propagator and most firm support? The parent gives us few -days and sorrowful; the poet many and glorious: the one (supposing him -discreet and kindly) best reproves our faults; the other best -remunerates our virtues. A page of poesy is a little matter—be it so—but -of a truth I do tell thee, Cecil, it shall master full many a bold heart -that the Spaniard cannot trouble—it shall win to it full many a proud -and flighty one, that even chivalry and manly comeliness cannot touch. I -may shake titles and dignities by the dozen from my breakfast-board—but -I may not save those upon whose heads I shake them from rottenness and -oblivion. This year they and their sovran dwell together, next year they -and their beagle. Both have names, but names perishable. The keeper of -my privy seal is an earl—what then? The keeper of my poultry-yard is a -Cæsar. In honest truth, a name given to a man is no better than a skin -given to him: what is not natively his own, falls off and comes to -nothing. I desire in future to hear no contempt of penmen, unless a -depraved use of the pen shall have so cramped them, as to incapacitate -them for the sword and for the council-chamber. If Alexander was the -Great, what was Aristoteles who made him so? who taught him every art -and science he knew, except three, those of drinking, of blaspheming, -and of murdering his bosom-friends. Come along: I will bring thee back -again nearer home. Thou mightest toss and tumble in thy bed many nights, -and never eke out the substance of a stanza; but Edmund, if perchance I -should call upon him for his counsel, would give me as wholesome and -prudent as any of you. We should indemnify such men for the injustice we -do unto them in not calling them about us, and for the mortification -they must suffer at seeing their inferiors set before them. Edmund is -grave and gentle,—he complains of Fortune, not of Elizabeth,—of courts, -not of Cecil. I am resolved, so help me God, he shall have no further -cause for his repining. Go, convey unto him these twelve silver-spoons, -with the apostols on them, gloriously gilded; and deliver into his hand -these twelve large golden pieces, sufficing for the yearly maintenance -of another horse and groom;—besides which, set open before him with due -reverence this bible, wherein he may read the mercies of God towards -those who waited in patience for his blessing; and this pair of cremisin -silken hosen, which thou knowest I have worne only thirteen months, -taking heed that the heelpiece be put into good and sufficient -restauration at my sole charges, by the Italian woman at Charing-Cross.’ -I. 91. - -We think that this is very pleasant and brave ‘fooling,’ and that our -author has hit off the familiar pedantic tone of the Maiden Queen well. -The sentiment with which Elizabeth seems in the foregoing Dialogue, to -regard the Muses as among her Maids of Honour, and the patronage she is -ready to extend to poets as the most agreeable and permanent class of -court-chroniclers, must be considered as characteristic of the person -and the age, and not attributed to the author. _His_ literary _fierté_ -is quite in the tone of the present age, nor can he be suspected of -representing poets as destined to nothing higher than to be danglers -upon the great. He has put his opinion on this subject beyond a doubt. -In a very different style, he makes Salomon, the Florentine Jew, thus -address Alfieri, the tragic poet. - -‘Be contented, Signor Conte, with the glory of our first great -dramatist, and neglect altogether any inferior one. Why vex and torment -yourself about the French? They buzz and are troublesome while they are -swarming; but the master will soon hive them. _Is the whole nation worth -the worst of your tragedies?_ All the present race of them, all the -creatures in the world which excite your indignation, will lie in the -grave, while young and old are clapping their hands or beating their -bosoms at your _Bruto Primo_. Consider, to make one step further, that -kings and emperours should, in your estimation, be but as grasshoppers -and beetles,—let them consume a few blades of your clover, without -molesting them, without bringing them to crawl on you and claw you. The -difference between them and men of genius is almost as great, as between -men of genius and those higher Intelligences who act in immediate -subordination to the Almighty. Yes, I assert it, without flattery and -without fear, the Angels are not higher above mortals, than you are -above the proudest that trample on them.’ - -We think Mr. Landor’s friend, the poet-laureate, cannot do better than -turn this passage into hexameter verse, and present it as his next -Birth-day Ode. The author’s dislike of the French has here inspired him -with a contempt for emperors and kings, and with an admiration for men -of genius. He sets out with a fit of the spleen, rises to the sublime, -and ends in the mock-heroic. We do not soar so high. Without pretending -to settle the precedence between poets and any higher order of -Intelligences, we certainly think they have something better to do than -to varnish over state-puppets, and hold them up to the gaze of -posterity. Yet this menial use of their talents seems to have been the -highest which even persons like Elizabeth formerly contemplated in their -patronage of them. If Spenser had merely distinguished himself by his -flattering and fanciful portraits of his royal mistress, we should think -no more of him now than of ‘the lady that tied on her garter.’ He has -entitled himself to our gratitude, by introducing us into the presence -of his mistress, Fancy, the true Faery Queen, ‘the fairest princess -under sky;’ and showing us the purple lights of Love and Beauty -reflected in his tremulous page, like evening skies in pure and still -waters. What is it that the poets of elder times have indeed done for -us, besides paying awkward compliments and writing fulsome dedications -to their patrons? They spread out a brighter heaven above our heads, a -softer and a greener earth beneath our feet. They do in truth ‘paint the -lily,’ they ‘throw a perfume on the violet, and add another hue unto the -rainbow.’ From them the murmuring stream borrows its thoughtful music; -they steep the mountain’s head in azure, and the nodding grove waves in -visionary grandeur in their page. Solitude becomes more solitary, -silence eloquent, joy extatic; they lend wings to Hope, and put a heart -into all things. Poetry hangs its lamp on high, shedding sweet -influence; and not an object in nature is seen, unaccompanied by the -sound of ‘famous poets’ verse.’ They add another spring to man’s life, -breathe the balm of immortality into the soul, and by their aid, a dream -and a glory is ever around us. Queen Elizabeth ordered Shakespear to -_continue_ Falstaff. He has indeed been _continued_; for he has come -down to us, and is living to this day! Otway would have thought it a -great thing to have had _Venice Preserved_ patronised, and a box taken -by a dutchess on the night of its first appearance. But is this ‘the -spur that the clear spirit doth raise?’ Is it for this that we envy him, -or that so many would have wished like him to live, even though doomed -as the consequence, like him to die? No, but for the sake of those -thousand hearts that have melted with Belvidera’s sorrows, for those -tears that have streamed from bright eyes, and that young and old have -shed so many thousand times over her fate! This is the spur to Fame, -this is the boast of letters, that they are the medium through which -whatever we feel and think (that we take most pride and interest in) is -imparted and lives in the brain, and throbs in the bosoms of a countless -multitude. We breathe the thoughts of others as they breathe ours, like -common air, in spite of the distance of place, and the lapse of time. -Mind converses everywhere with mind, and we drink of knowledge as of a -river. We ourselves (Mr. Landor will excuse the egotism of the -transition) once took shelter from a shower of rain in a ruined hovel in -the Highlands, where we found an old shepherd apparently regardless of -the storm and of his flock, reading a number of the Edinburgh Review! -Need we own that this little incident inspired us with a feeling of -almost poetical vanity? From that time the blue and yellow covers seemed -to take a tinge from the humid arch, that spanned the solitude before -us, and our thoughts were commingled with the elements! - -The _Conversation between Oliver Cromwell and Walter Noble_ on the -beheading of Charles I., displays a good deal of the blunt knavery of -old Nol, and a mixture of honour and honesty in the old Roundhead. We -here also find some touches that illustrate Mr. Landor’s political -views. Thus Cromwell is made to say, ‘I abominate and detest -kingship;’—to which Noble answers—‘I abominate and detest hangmanship; -but in certain stages of society, both are necessary. Let them go -together, we want neither now.’ The same dramatic appreciation of the -intellect of the speakers, and of the literary tone of the age, appears -in the _Eighth Conversation, between King James I. and Isaac Casaubon_; -and in many of the others, whether relating to ancient or modern times. -The verisimilitude does not arise from a studied use of peculiar -phrases, or an exaggeration of peculiar opinions, but the writer seems -to be well versed in the productions and characters of the individuals -he brings upon the stage, and the adaptation takes place unconsciously -and without any apparent effort. A remarkable instance of this occurs in -the dialogue between Ann Boleyn and Henry VIII., into which the rough, -boisterous, voluptuous, cruel and yet gamesome character of that -monarch, whose gross and pampered selfishness has but one parallel in -the British annals, is transfused with all the truth and spirit of -history—or of the Author of Waverley! In the _Fourth Dialogue_ ‘between -Professor Porson and Mr. Southey,’ we meet with an assertion which we -think Mr. Landor would hardly have hazarded in the lifetime of the -former, and to which we cannot assent, even to show our candour. ‘Take -up,’ says the Laureate, ‘a poem of Wordsworth’s, _and read it_; I would -rather say, read them all; and knowing that a mind like yours must grasp -closely what comes within it, I will then appeal to you whether any poet -of our country, since Shakespear, has exerted a greater variety of -powers, with less strain and less ostentation.’ Some persons (we do not -know whether the poet himself is of the number) have, we understand, -compared Mr. Wordsworth to Milton; but we did not expect ever to see a -resemblance suggested between him and Shakespeare. If ever two men were -the antipodes of each other, they are so; and even this we think is -paying compliment enough to Mr. Wordsworth. We are also of opinion, in -the very teeth of the _dictum_ of the brother bard, that let his other -merits be what they may, no English writer of any genius has shown -_less_ variety of powers, with _more_ effort and more significance of -pretension. Mr. Southey, in the _Imaginary Conversation_, goes on to lay -before the Professor ‘an unpublished and incomplete poem’ of the same -author, the _Laodamia_, and recites it, but only _in imagination_; after -which some ingenious verbal criticisms are made on one or two particular -passages. This poem has since been published; and we have no hesitation -in saying, that it is a poem the greater part of which might be read -aloud in Elysium, and that the spirits of departed heroes and sages -might gather round and listen to it! It is sweet and solemn; and, though -there is some poorness in the diction, and some indistinctness in the -images, it breathes of purity and tenderness, in very genuine and lofty -measures. We have great pleasure in saying this—but we must be permitted -to add, that we are firmly persuaded Mr. Wordsworth would never have -written this classical and manly composition, but for those remarks on -his former style, for which we have the misfortune to fall under the -lash of Mr. Landor’s pen. - -The _Ninth Conversation_ (‘_Marchese Pallavicini and Walter Landor_‘) -contains _scandal_ against the English Government—_Conversation X._ -(‘_General Kleber and some French Officers_‘) _scandal_ against the -French—_Conversation XI._ (‘_Buonaparte and the President of the -Senate_’) _scandal_ against good taste and common decency. Let Mr. -Landor cancel it—let his publishers strike their asterisks through it. -It is short, and not sweet. These fabulous stories about the expedition -into Egypt, these low-minded and scurrilous aspersions on Buonaparte, -which the Tories palmed upon the credulity of their gulls, the Jacobin -poets, have been long discarded by the inventors, and linger only in the -pages, rankle only in the hearts of their converts. We would recommend -to Mr. Landor, before he writes on this subject again, to read over the -allegory of his friend Spenser, describing _Occasion_ and _Furor_, and -not to be refreshing his groundless and mischievous resentments every -moment with a ‘Cymocles, oh! I burn!’ It is by no means a sufficient -reason to believe a thing that it provokes our anger, or excites our -disgust; nor is it wise or decorous to bay the moon, and then quarrel -with the echo of our own voice. Mr. Landor keeps up a clamour raised by -the worst men to answer the worst purposes, only to persuade himself, if -possible, that he has not been its dupe. This is the worst of our -author’s style—it continually explodes and _detonates_—one cannot read -him in security, for fear of springing a mine, if any of his prejudices -are touched, or passions roused. He is made of combustible -materials—sits hatching treason, like the Guy Faux of letters, and is -equally ready to blow up a Legitimate Despot, or pounce upon an usurper! -Let us turn to Humphrey Hardcastle and Bishop Burnet,—in which the -garrulous, credulous, acute, vulgar, and yet graphic style of the -latter, is very pleasingly caricatured. - -‘_Hardcastle._ The pleasure I have taken in the narration of your -Lordship is for the greater part independent of what concerns my family. -I never knew that my uncle was a poet, and could hardly have imagined -that he approached near enough to Mr. Cowley for jealousy or -competition. - -‘_Bishop Burnet._ Indeed, they who discoursed on such matters were of -the same opinion, excepting some few, who see nothing before them, and -every thing behind. These declared that Hum would overtop Abraham, if he -could only drink rather less, think rather more, and feel rather -rightlier; that he had great spunk and spirit, and that not a fan was -left on a lap when any one sang his airs. Poets, like ministers of -state, have their parties; and it is difficult to get at truth upon -questions not capable of demonstration, nor founded on matter of fact. -To take any trouble about them, is an unwise thing: it is like mounting -a wall covered with broken glass: you cut your fingers before you reach -the top, and you only discover at last that it is within a span or two -of equal height on both sides. Who would have imagined that the youth -who was carried to his long home the other day, I mean my Lord -Rochester’s reputed child, Mr. George Nelly, was for several seasons a -great poet? Yet I remember the time when he was so famous an one that he -ran after Mr. Milton up Snow Hill, as the old gentleman was leaning on -his daughter’s arm, from the Poultry, and treading down the heel of his -shoe, called him a rogue and a liar, while another poet sprang out from -a grocer’s shop, clapping his hands, and crying, “_Bravely done! by -Belzebub! the young cock spurs the blind buzzard gallantly._” On some -neighbour representing to Mr. George the respectable character of Mr. -Milton, and the probability that at some future time he might be -considered as among our geniuses, and such as would reflect a certain -portion of credit on his ward, and asking him withal why he appeared to -him a rogue and a liar, he replied, “I have proofs known to few: I -possess a sort of drama by him, entitled Comus, which was composed for -the entertainment of Lord Pembroke, who held an appointment under the -King; and this very John has since changed sides, and written in defence -of the Commonwealth.”—Mr. George began with satirizing his father’s -friends, and confounding the better part of them with all the hirelings -and nuisances of the age, with all the scavengers of lust and all the -linkboys of literature; with Newgate solicitors, the patrons of -adulterers and forgers, who, in the long vocation, turn a penny by -puffing a ballad, and are promised a shilling in silver, for their own -benefit, on crying down a religious tract. He soon became reconciled to -the latter, and they raised him upon their shoulders above the heads of -the wittiest and the wisest. This served a whole winter. Afterwards, -whenever he wrote a bad poem, he supported his sinking fame by some -signal act of profligacy—an elegy by a seduction, an heroic by an -adultery, a tragedy by a divorce. On the remark of a learned man, that -irregularity is no indication of genius, he began to lose ground -rapidly, when on a sudden he cried out at the Haymarket, _There is no -God!_ It was then surmised more generally and more gravely that there -was something in him, and he stood upon his legs almost to the last. -_Say what you will_, once whispered a friend of mine, _there are things -in him strong as poison, and original as sin_. Doubts, however, were -entertained by some, on more mature reflection, whether he earned all -his reputation by that witticism: for soon afterwards he declared at the -cockpit, that he had purchased a large assortment of cutlasses and -pistols, and that, as he was practising the use of them from morning to -night, it would be imprudent in persons who were without them either to -laugh or boggle at the Dutch vocabulary with which he had enriched our -language.... Having had some concern in bringing his reputed father to a -sense of penitence for his offences, I waited on the youth likewise in a -former illness, not without hope of leading him ultimately to a better -way of thinking. I had hesitated too long: I found him far advanced in -his convalescence. My arguments are not worth repeating. He replied -thus: “I change my mistresses as Tom Southern his shirt, from economy. I -cannot afford to keep few: and I am determined not to be forgotten till -I am vastly richer. But I assure you, Dr. Burnet, for your comfort, that -if you imagine I am led astray by lasciviousness, as you call it, and -lust, you are quite as much mistaken as if you called a book of -arithmetic a bawdy book. I calculate on every kiss I give, modest or -immodest, on lip or paper. I ask myself one question only—what will it -bring me?” On my marvelling, and raising up my hands, “You churchmen,” -he added, with a laugh, “are too hot in all your quarters for the calm -and steddy contemplation of this high mystery.” He spake thus loosely, -Mr. Hardcastle, and I confess, I was disconcerted and took my leave of -him. If I gave him any offence at all, it could only be when he said, -“_I should be sorry to die before I have written my life_,” and I -replied, “_Rather say before you have mended it_.”—“But, doctor,” -continued he, “the work I propose may bring me a hundred pounds;” -whereunto I rejoined, “that which I, young gentleman, suggest in -preference will be worth much more to you.” At last he is removed from -among the living: let us hope the best: to wit, that the mercies which -have begun with man’s forgetfulness will be crowned with God’s -forgiveness.’ I. 164. - -In the _Conversation between Peter Leopold and the President du Paty_, -there is a good deal of curious local information and sensible remark; -but there is too constant a balance kept up between the arguments in -favour of reform, and the difficulties attending it. Our author is one -of those _cats-cradle_ reasoners who never see a decided advantage in -any thing but indecision, one of those adepts in political Platonics, -who are always in love with the theory of what is right, till it comes -to be put in practice. On the subject of this dialogue, we have but one -remark to repeat, which is, that in such matters to be _nominally_ -humane is to be _practically_ so—that where there is a disposition in -governments to lessen the sum of human misery, there is the power,—and -that the spirit of humanity is the great thing wanting to society! - -We own we like Mr. Landor best when he introduces the great men of -antiquity upon the carpet. He seems then to throw aside his narrow and -captious prejudices, expands his view with the distance of the objects -he contemplates, and infuses a strength, a severity, a fervour and -sweetness into his style, not unworthy of the admirable models whom he -would be supposed to imitate. Such in great part is the tone of the -observations that pass between Demosthenes and Eubulides. - -‘_Eubulides._ In your language, O Demosthenes! there is a resemblance to -the Ilissus, whose waters, as you must have observed, are in most -seasons pure and limpid and equable in their course, yet abounding in -depths, of which when we discern the bottom, we wonder that we discern -it so clearly: the same river at every storm swells into a torrent, -without ford or boundary, and is the stronger and the more impetuous -from resistance. - -‘_Demosthenes._ Language is part of a man’s character. - -‘_Eubulides._ It is often artificial. - -‘_Demosthenes._ Often both are so. I spoke not of such language as that -of Gorgias and Isocrates, and other rhetoricians, but of that which -belongs to eloquence, of that which enters the heart, however closed -against it, of that which pierces like the sword of Perseus, of that -which carries us away upon its point as easily as Medea her children, -and holds the world below in the same suspense and terror.—I had to form -a manner, with great models on one side of me and Nature on the other. -Had I imitated Plato (the writer then most admired) I must have fallen -short of his amplitude and dignity; and his sentences are seldom such as -could be admitted into a popular harangue. Xenophon is elegant, but -unimpassioned, and not entirely free, I think, from affectation. -Herodotus is the most faultless, and perhaps the most excellent of all. -What simplicity! what sweetness! what harmony! not to mention his -sagacity of inquiry and his accuracy of description: he could not, -however, form an orator for the times in which we live. Aristoteles and -Thucydides were before me: I trembled lest they should lead me where I -might raise a recollection of Pericles, whose plainness and conciseness -and gravity they have imitated, not always with success. Laying down -these qualities as the foundation, I have ventured on more solemnity, -more passion: I have also been studious to bring the powers of _action_ -into play, that great instrument in exciting the affections, which -Pericles disdained. He and Jupiter could strike my head with their -thunderbolts and stand serene and motionless: I could not.’ I. 233. - -The Dialogue in the second volume between Pericles and Sophocles -breathes the spirit of patriotism and of antiquity, perhaps in a still -higher strain, with a bastard allusion, we suspect, to recent politics. -The Conversations between Aristotle and Callisthenes, and between Lord -Chatham and Lord Chesterfield, (also in the second volume), contain an -admirable estimate, equally sound and acute, of the characters of -Aristotle and Plato. Our critic appears to have studied and to have -understood these authors well. In our opinion, he rates Cicero too high; -we do not mean as to style or oratory, but as a thinker. In this -respect, there is little memorable, or new, or profound, in him; and ‘he -was at best’ (as it has been said) ‘but an elegant reporter of the Greek -philosophy.’ Neither can we agree that his historian, Middleton, is so -entirely free from affectation as our author supposes. It is Lord -Chatham who is made to pronounce the panegyric upon Locke, as ‘the most -elegant of English prose writers,’ which, if our author were not a -deliberate paradox-monger, might seem an uncivil irony. His eulogist -does not mend the matter much by his definition of elegance, which one -would think intended as a test of Lord Chesterfield’s politeness. He -makes it to consist in a mean between too much prolixity and too much -conciseness. Now, (supposing this to be intended seriously) Mr. Locke -was certainly one of the most circuitous and diffuse of all writers. -This distinguished person neither excelled in the graces of style, -according to our author’s singular assertion, nor was he (according to -the common opinion) the founder of the modern system of metaphysical -philosophy. The credit of having laid the basis of this system, and of -having completed the great outline of the plan, is beyond all question -due to the philosopher of Malmesbury. Mr. Locke’s real _forte_ was great -practical good sense, a determination to look at every question, free -from prejudice and according to the evidence suggested to him, and a -patient and persevering _doggedness_ of understanding in contending with -difficulties, and finding out and weighing arguments of opposite -tendency. The most valuable parts of his celebrated Essay are those -which relate not to the _nature_ but to the _conduct_ of the -understanding; and on that subject, he often proves himself a most sage -and judicious adviser. Mr. Locke’s Treatise on Education (with all its -defects, and an occasional appearance of pedantry), laid the foundation -of the modern improvements in that important branch of study; and his -book upon Government (written in defence of the Revolution of 1688) -remained unimpeached up to the period of the battle of Waterloo. The -author of the _Essay on Human Understanding_ undoubtedly ranks as the -third name in English philosophy, after Newton and Bacon; yet perhaps -others, as Hobbes, Berkeley, Butler, Hume, Hartley, and, even in our own -times, Horne Tooke, have shown a firmer grasp of mind, as well as -greater originality and subtlety of invention, in the same field of -inquiry. This opinion may, however, be thought by some petulant and -daring, not to say profane; and we may be accused, in forming or -delivering it, of having encroached unawares on the exercise of Mr. -Landor’s exclusive right of private judgment and free inquiry. - -The controversy between the Abbé Delille and our author in person, of -which Boileau is the leading subject, is an amusing specimen of verbal -criticism. All that it proves however is, that this kind of criticism -proves nothing but the acuteness of the writer, and also that those -poets who pique themselves on being most exempt from it are the most -liable to it. Pope is an example among ourselves. Those who are in the -habit of attending to the smallest things, do not see the farthest -before them; and, in polishing and correcting one line, they overlook or -fall into some fresh mistake in another. The altering and retouching, -after a lapse of time, or during the probation of Horace’s ‘nine years,’ -is sure to lead to inconsistency and partial oversights. Mr. Landor, in -some instances, we imagine, confounds humour with blunders. Thus the -truism in the line— - - ‘Que, si sous Adam même, _et loin avant Noë_,’ - -we should consider as a mere piece of _naïveté_, in the manner of La -Fontaine. We will give up, however, without scruple, Boileau’s -mock-heroics, as we would some English ones of later date. But his -satire and his sense we cannot relinquish all at once, though he was a -Frenchman, and, what is still worse, a Frenchman of the age of Louis -XIV.! It is hard that a people who arrogate all perfections to -themselves should possess none; nor can we think that so vast and -magnificent a reputation as their literature has acquired, could be -raised, as Mr. L. would persuade us, without either art or genius? The -Dialogue between Kosciusko and Poniatowski (a subject capable of better -things) is remarkable for nothing but a mawkish philanthropy, and a -problematical defence of General Pichegru for betraying the Republic and -leaguing with the Bourbons. We have nothing to say to this; but, as our -author has dedicated one of these volumes to General Mina, will he -forgive our recommending him to write a third, in order to inscribe it -to Balasteros? - -When our literary dramatist attempts common or vulgar humour, he fails -totally, as in the slang Conversation entitled _Cavaliere Punto Michino, -and Mr. Denis Eusebius Talcranagh_. The interview between David Hume and -John Home is another failure, at least in so far as relates to -character. The author represents the latter as a quiet contented parish -minister,—the fact being, that soon after the publication of his play, -he abandoned the clerical profession, and went about a fine gentleman, -with a blue coat and a pigtail. Horne Tooke’s collision with Dr. Johnson -produces only some meagre etymologies and orthographical pedantry, and a -tolerably just and highly pointed character of Junius; that between -Washington and Franklin only a dull recipe for curing the disorders of -Ireland. Prince Maurocordoto and General Colocotroni defend the Greeks, -in the Twelfth Conversation of the second volume, on very new and -learned principles; but as we have no skill in wood craft, nor in -flat-bottomed boats, we pass it over. The last Conversation (supposed to -take place between Marcus Tullius Cicero, and his brother Quintus, on -the night before his death) is full of an eloquent and philosophic -melancholy, which makes it on the whole our favourite:—that between -Lopez Banos and Romero Alpuente, we dare be sworn, is the author’s; at -least it had need, it will be _caviare to the multitude_. _Par example._ - -‘_Banos._ At length, Alpuente, the saints of the Holy Alliance have -declared war against us. - -‘_Alpuente._ I have not heard it until now. - -‘_Banos._ They have directed a memorial to the king of France, inviting -him to take such measures as his Majesty, in his wisdom, shall deem -convenient, in order to avert the calamities of war, and the dangers of -discord, from his frontier. - -‘_Alpuente._ God forbid that so great a king should fall upon us! O -Lord, save us from our enemy, who would eat us up quick, so despitefully -and hungrily is he set against us. - -‘_Banos._ Read the manifesto ... why do you laugh? Is not this a -declaration of hostilities? - -‘_Alpuente._ To Spaniards, yes. I laughed at the folly and impudence of -men, who, for the present of a tobacco-box with a fool’s head upon it, -string together these old peeled pearls of diplomatic eloquence, and -foist them upon the world as arguments and truths. Do kings imagine that -they can as easily deceive as they can enslave? and that the mind is as -much under their snaffle, as the body is under their axe and halter? -Show me one of them, Lopez, who has not violated some promise, who has -not usurped some territory, who has not oppressed and subjugated some -neighbour; then I will believe him, then I will obey him, then I will -acknowledge that those literary heralds who trumpet forth his praises -with the newspaper in their hands, are creditable and upright and -uncorrupted. The courage of Spain delivered these wretches from the cane -and drumhead of a Corsican. Which of them did not crouch before him? -which did not flatter him? which did not execute his orders? which did -not court his protection? which did not solicit his favour? which did -not entreat his forbearance? which did not implore his pardon? which did -not abandon and betray him?’ - -_’Tis a pretty picture_; and did the author suppose, in his blindness to -the past and to the future, that the august personages of whom he -speaks, after escaping from this state of abject degradation and -subjection to that iron scourge, would voluntarily submit to be at the -beck and nod of every puny pretender who sets up an authority over them, -and undertakes to tutor and _cashier_ kings at his discretion? But not -to interrupt the dialogue, which thus continues:— - -‘No ties either of blood or of religion, led or restrained these -neophytes in holiness. And now, forsooth, the calamities of war, and the -dangers of discord are to be averted, by arming one part of our -countrymen against the other, by stationing a military force on our -frontier, for the reception of murderers and traitors and incendiaries, -and by pointing the bayonet and cannon in our faces. When we smiled at -the insults of a beaten enemy, they dictated terms and conditions. At -last, his _most Christian Majesty_ tells his army, that the nephew of -Henry the fourth shall march against us ... with his feather! - -‘_Banos._ Ah! that weighs more. The French army will march over fields -which cover French armies, and over which the oldest and bravest part of -it fled in ignominy and dismay, before our shepherd boys and hunters. -What the veterans of Napoleon failed to execute, the household of Louis -will accomplish. Parisians! let your comic opera-house lie among its -ruins; it cannot be wanted this season. - -‘_Alpuente._ Shall these battalions which fought so many years for -freedom, so many for glory, be supplementary bands to barbarians from -Caucasus and Imaus? Shall they shed the remainder of their blood to -destroy a cause, for the maintenance of which they offered up its first -libation? Time will solve this problem, the most momentous in its -solution that ever lay before man. If we are conquered, of which at -present I have no apprehension, Europe must become the theatre of new -wars, and be divided into three parts, afterwards into two, and the next -generation will see all her states and provinces the property of one -autocrat, and governed by the most ignorant and lawless of her -nations.[17] - -‘_Banos._ Never was there a revolution, or material change in -government, effected with so little bloodshed, so little opposition, so -little sorrow or disquietude, as ours. Months had passed away, years -were rolling over us, institutions were consolidating, superstition was -relaxing, ingratitude and perfidy were as much forgotten by us, as our -services and sufferings were forgotten by Ferdinand, when emissaries, -and gold and arms, and FAITH, inciting to discord and rebellion, crossed -our frontier ... and our fortresses were garnished with the bayonets of -France, and echoed with the watchwords of the Vatican. If Ferdinand had -regarded his oath, and had acceded, in _our_ sense of the word _faith_, -to the constitution of his country, from which there was hardly a -dissentient voice among the industrious and the unambitious, among the -peaceable and the wise, would he have eaten one dinner with less -appetite, or have embroidered one petticoat with less taste? Would the -saints along his chapel-walls have smiled upon him less graciously, or -would thy tooth, holy Dominic, have left a less pleasurable impression -on his lips? His most Christian Majesty demands _that Ferdinand the -seventh may give his people those institutions which they can have from -him only_! Yes, these are his expressions, Alpuente; these the -doctrines, for the propagation of which our country is to be invaded -with fire and sword; this is government, this is order, this is faith! -Ferdinand _was_ at liberty to give us his institutions: he gave them: -what were they? The inquisition in all its terrors, absolute and -arbitrary sway, scourges and processions, monks and missionaries, and a -tooth of St. Dominic to crown them all.... To support the throne that -crushes us, and the altar that choaks us, march forward the warlike -Louis and the _preux_ Chateaubriant, known among his friends to be as -firm in belief as Hobbes, Talleyrand, or Spinoza; and behold them -advancing, side by side, against the calm opponents of Roman bulls and -French charts. Although his Majesty be brave as Maximin at a breakfast, -he will find it easier to eat his sixty-four cutlets than to conquer -Spain. I doubt whether the same historian shall have to commemorate both -exploits. - -‘_Alpuente._ In wars the least guilty are the sufferers. In these, as in -everything, we should contract as much as possible the circle of human -misery. The deluded and enslaved should be so far spared as is -consistent with security: the most atrocious of murderers and -incendiaries, the purveyors and hirers of them, should be removed at any -expense or hazard. If we show little mercy to the robber who enters a -house by force, and if less ought to be shown to him who should enter it -in the season of distress and desolation, what portion of it ought to be -extended towards those who assail every house in our country? How much -of crime and wretchedness may often be averted, how many years of -tranquillity may sometimes be ensured to the world _by one well-chosen -example_! Is it not better than to witness the grief of the virtuous for -the virtuous, and the extinction of those bright and lofty hopes, for -which the best and wisest of every age contended? Where is the man, -worthy of the name, who would be less affected at the lamentation of one -mother for her son, slain in defending his country, than at _the -extermination of some six or seven usurpers_, commanding or attempting -its invasion? National safety legitimates every mean employed upon it. -Criminals have been punished differently in different countries: but all -enlightened, all honest, all civilised men, must agree _who_ are -criminals. The Athenians were perhaps as well-informed and intelligent -as the people on lake Ladoga: they knew nothing of the _knout_, I -confess; and no family amongst them boasted a succession of _assassins_, -in wives, sons, fathers, and husbands: but he who endangered or injured -his country was condemned to the draught of hemlock! They could punish -the offence in another manner: if any nation cannot, shall that nation -therefore leave it unpunished? And shall the guiltiest of men enjoy -impunity, from a consideration of modes and means? Justice is not to be -neglected, because what is preferable is unattainable. A house-breaker -is condemned to die, a city-breaker is celebrated by an inscription over -the gate. The murder of thousands, soon perpetrated and past, is not the -greatest mischief he does: it is followed by the baseness of millions, -deepening for ages. Every virtuous man in the universe is a member of -that grand Amphictyonic council, which should pass sentence on the too -powerful, and provide that it be duly executed. It is just, and it is -necessary, that those who pertinaciously insist on so unnatural a state -of society, should suffer by the shock things make in recovering their -equipoise.’ II. 269. - -We have given this _tirade_, not with any view to comment on the -sentiments it conveys, but to justify what we have said of the -outrageous spirit that so frequently breaks out in the present work, and -that might reasonably ‘condemn the author to the draught of hellebore.’ -We believe the attempt to revive the exploded doctrine of tyrannicide is -peculiar to the reformed Jacobins. We remember a long and well-timed -article in the FRIEND, some years ago, on this subject; nor do the -strong allusions to the same remedy, in a celebrated journal, form an -exception to this remark, at a time when a renegado from the same school -directed its attacks upon the Corsican hero. These modern monks and -literary jesuits, who would fain set up their own fanatic notions -against law and reason, and dictate equally to legitimate kings and -revolutionary usurpers, find fault with Napoleon for having thrown his -sword into the scale of opinion; and now, finding the want of it, sooner -than be baulked of their fancy, would (as far as we can understand their -meaning) substitute the dagger. We cannot applaud their expedients; nor -sympathize with that ‘final hope’ which seems ‘flat despair.’ If these -pragmatical persons could have every thing their own way—if they could -confer power and take away the abuse of it—if they could put down -tyrants with the sword, and give the law to conquerors with the pen—we -should not despair of seeing some good result from this new theocracy. -The worst we could fear would be from their fickleness, rashness, and -inconsiderate thirst for novelty; but they would not, by their ill-timed -servility and gratuitous phrensy, help to bring down the iron hand of -power upon us, or enclose us in the dungeons of prejudice and -superstition! As it is, they have contrived to throw open the -flood-gates of despotism—‘to shut exceeds their power:’ they have got -rid of one tyrant, to establish the principle in perpetuity, and to root -out the very name of Freedom. Those of them who are sincere, who are not -bribed to silence by places and pensions obtained by their momentary -complaisance and seeming inconsistency, speak out, and are sorry for the -part they have taken, now that it is too late. They strike ‘the marble -table with their palm’—they call their country recreant and base—they -invoke the shade of Leonidas—they apostrophize the spirit of -Bolivar—they polish their style like a steel breastplate—they point -their sentences like daggers against the bloated apathy of -legitimacy—they publish satires on the constitution, and print libels on -departed ministers in asterisks—they invent new modes of warfare, and -recommend new modes of extermination against despots;—and, in return for -all this, the Holy Allies laugh at them, their credulity, their rage, -their helplessness, and disappointment. There was one man whom they did -not laugh at, but whom they feared and hated; and they persuaded Mr. -Landor and others that what they feared and hated above all other -things, was out of love to Liberty and Humanity! - -Mr. Landor has interspersed some pieces of poetry through these volumes. -His muse still retains her _implicit_ and inextricable style. The -author, some five-and-twenty years ago, published a poem under the title -of Gebir, in Latin and English, and equally unintelligible in both, but -of which we have heard two lines quoted by his admirers. - - ‘Pleas’d they remember their august abodes, - And murmur as the ocean murmurs there.’ - -This relates to the sound which sea-shells make if placed close to the -ear, and is beautiful and mystic, like something composed in a dream. -His tragedy of Count Julian we have not seen. - - - SHELLEY’S POSTHUMOUS POEMS - - VOL. XL.] [_July 1824._ - -Mr. Shelley’s style is to poetry what astrology is to natural science—a -passionate dream, a straining after impossibilities, a record of fond -conjectures, a confused embodying of vague abstractions,—a fever of the -soul, thirsting and craving after what it cannot have, indulging its -love of power and novelty at the expense of truth and nature, -associating ideas by contraries, and wasting great powers by their -application to unattainable objects. - -Poetry, we grant, creates a world of its own; but it creates it out of -existing materials. Mr. Shelley is the maker of his own poetry—out of -nothing. Not that he is deficient in the true sources of strength and -beauty, if he had given himself fair play (the volume before us, as well -as his other productions, contains many proofs to the contrary): But, in -him, fancy, will, caprice, predominated over and absorbed the natural -influences of things; and he had no respect for any poetry that did not -strain the intellect as well as fire the imagination—and was not -sublimed into a high spirit of metaphysical philosophy. Instead of -giving a language to thought, or lending the heart a tongue, he utters -dark sayings, and deals in allegories and riddles. His Muse offers her -services to clothe shadowy doubts and inscrutable difficulties in a robe -of glittering words, and to turn nature into a brilliant paradox. We -thank him—but we must be excused. Where we see the dazzling -beacon-lights streaming over the darkness of the abyss, we dread the -quicksands and the rocks below. Mr. Shelley’s mind was of ‘too fiery a -quality’ to repose (for any continuance) on the probable or the true—it -soared ‘beyond the visible diurnal sphere,’ to the strange, the -improbable, and the impossible. He mistook the nature of the poet’s -calling, which should be guided by involuntary, not by voluntary -impulses. He shook off, as an heroic and praiseworthy act, the trammels -of sense, custom, and sympathy, and became the creature of his own will. -He was ‘all air,’ disdaining the bars and ties of mortal mould. He -ransacked his brain for incongruities, and believed in whatever was -incredible. Almost all is effort, almost all is extravagant, almost all -is quaint, incomprehensible, and abortive, from aiming to be more than -it is. Epithets are applied, because they do not fit: subjects are -chosen, because they are repulsive: the colours of his style, for their -gaudy, changeful, startling effect, resemble the display of fireworks in -the dark, and, like them, have neither durability, nor keeping, nor -discriminate form. Yet Mr. Shelley, with all his faults, was a man of -genius; and we lament that uncontrollable violence of temperament which -gave it a forced and false direction. He has single thoughts of great -depth and force, single images of rare beauty, detached passages of -extreme tenderness; and, in his smaller pieces, where he has attempted -little, he has done most. If some casual and interesting idea touched -his feelings or struck his fancy, he expressed it in pleasing and -unaffected verse: but give him a larger subject, and time to reflect, -and he was sure to get entangled in a system. The fumes of vanity rolled -volumes of smoke, mixed with sparkles of fire, from the cloudy -tabernacle of his thought. The success of his writings is therefore in -general in the inverse ratio of the extent of his undertakings; inasmuch -as his desire to teach, his ambition to excel, as soon as it was brought -into play, encroached upon, and outstripped his powers of execution. - -Mr. Shelley was a remarkable man. His person was a type and shadow of -his genius. His complexion, fair, golden, freckled, seemed transparent -with an inward light, and his spirit within him - - ——‘so divinely wrought, - That you might almost say his body thought.’ - -He reminded those who saw him of some of Ovid’s fables. His form, -graceful and slender, drooped like a flower in the breeze. But he was -crushed beneath the weight of thought which he aspired to bear, and was -withered in the lightning-glare of a ruthless philosophy! He mistook the -nature of his own faculties and feelings—the lowly children of the -valley, by which the skylark makes its bed, and the bee murmurs, for the -proud cedar or the mountain-pine, in which the eagle builts its eyry, -‘and dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun.’—He wished to make of -idle verse and idler prose the frame-work of the universe, and to bind -all possible existence in the visionary chain of intellectual beauty— - - ‘More subtle web Arachne cannot spin, - Nor the fine nets, which oft we woven see - Of scorched dew, do not in th’ air more lightly flee.’ - -Perhaps some lurking sense of his own deficiencies in the lofty walk -which he attempted, irritated his impatience and his desires; and urged -him on, with winged hopes, to atone for past failures by more arduous -efforts, and more unavailing struggles. - -With all his faults, Mr. Shelley was an honest man. His unbelief and his -presumption were parts of a disease, which was not combined in him -either with indifference to human happiness, or contempt for human -infirmities. There was neither selfishness nor malice at the bottom of -his illusions. He was sincere in all his professions; and he practised -what he preached—to his own sufficient cost. He followed up the letter -and the spirit of his theoretical principles in his own person, and was -ready to share both the benefit and the penalty with others. He thought -and acted logically, and was what he professed to be, a sincere lover of -truth, of nature, and of human kind. To all the rage of paradox, he -united an unaccountable candour and severity of reasoning: in spite of -an aristocratic education, he retained in his manners the simplicity of -a primitive apostle. An Epicurean in his sentiments, he lived with the -frugality and abstemiousness of an ascetick. His fault was, that he had -no deference for the opinions of others, too little sympathy with their -feelings (which he thought he had a right to sacrifice, as well as his -own, to a grand ethical experiment)—and trusted too implicitly to the -light of his own mind, and to the warmth of his own impulses. He was -indeed the most striking example we remember of the two extremes -described by Lord Bacon as the great impediments to human improvement, -the love of Novelty, and the love of Antiquity. ‘The first of these -(impediments) is an extreme affection of two extremities, the one -Antiquity, the other Novelty; wherein it seemeth the children of time do -take after the nature and malice of the father. For as he devoureth his -children, so one of them seeketh to devour and suppress the other; while -Antiquity envieth there should be new additions, and Novelty cannot be -content to add, but it must deface. Surely the advice of the Prophet is -the true direction in this matter: _Stand upon the old ways, and see -which is the right and good way, and walk therein_. Antiquity deserveth -that reverence, that men should make a stand thereupon, and discover -what is the best way; but when the discovery is well taken, then to take -progression. And to speak truly, _Antiquitas seculi Juventus mundi_. -These times are the ancient times, when the world is ancient, and not -those which we count ancient, _ordine retrogrado_, by a computation -backwards from ourselves.’ (ADVANCEMENT OF LEARNING, Book I. p. -46.)—Such is the text: and Mr. Shelley’s writings are a splendid -commentary on one half of it. Considered in this point of view, his -career may not be uninstructive even to those whom it most offended; and -might be held up as a beacon and warning no less to the bigot than the -sciolist. We wish to speak of the errors of a man of genius with -tenderness. His nature was kind, and his sentiments noble; but in him -the rage of free inquiry and private judgment amounted to a species of -madness. Whatever was new, untried, unheard of, unauthorized, exerted a -kind of fascination over his mind. The examples of the world, the -opinion of others, instead of acting as a check upon him, served but to -impel him forward with double velocity in his wild and hazardous career. -Spurning the world of realities, he rushed into the world of nonentities -and contingencies, like air into a _vacuum_. If a thing was old and -established, this was with him a certain proof of its having no solid -foundation to rest upon: if it was new, it was good and right. Every -paradox was to him a self-evident truth; every prejudice an undoubted -absurdity. The weight of authority, the sanction of ages, the common -consent of mankind, were vouchers only for ignorance, error, and -imposture. Whatever shocked the feelings of others, conciliated his -regard; whatever was light, extravagant, and vain, was to him a -proportionable relief from the dulness and stupidity of established -opinions. The worst of it however was, that he thus gave great -encouragement to those who believe in all received absurdities, and are -wedded to all existing abuses: his extravagance seeming to sanction -their grossness and selfishness, as theirs were a full justification of -his folly and eccentricity. The two extremes in this way often meet, -jostle,—and confirm one another. The infirmities of age are a foil to -the presumption of youth; and ‘there the antics sit,’ mocking one -another—the ape Sophistry pointing with reckless scorn at ‘palsied eld,’ -and the bed-rid hag. Legitimacy, rattling her chains, counting her -beads, dipping her hands in blood, and blessing herself from all change -and from every appeal to common sense and reason! Opinion thus -alternates in a round of contradictions: the impatience or obstinacy of -the human mind takes part with, and flies off to one or other of the two -extremes ‘of affection’ and leaves a horrid gap, a blank sense and -feeling in the middle, which seems never likely to be filled up, without -a total change in our mode of proceeding. The martello-towers with which -we are to repress, if we cannot destroy, the systems of fraud and -oppression should not be castles in the air, or clouds in the verge of -the horizon, but the enormous and accumulated pile of abuses which have -arisen out of their continuance. The principles of sound morality, -liberty and humanity, are not to be found only in a few recent writers, -who have discovered the secret of the greatest happiness to the greatest -numbers, but are truths as old as the creation. To be convinced of the -existence of wrong, we should read history rather than poetry: the -levers with which we must work out our regeneration are not the cobwebs -of the brain, but the warm, palpitating fibres of the human heart. It is -the collision of passions and interests, the petulance of party-spirit, -and the perversities of self-will and self-opinion that have been the -great obstacles to social improvement—not stupidity or ignorance; and -the caricaturing one side of the question and shocking the most -pardonable prejudices on the other, is not the way to allay heats or -produce unanimity. By flying to the extremes of scepticism, we make -others shrink back, and shut themselves up in the strongholds of bigotry -and superstition—by mixing up doubtful or offensive matters with -salutary and demonstrable truths, we bring the whole into question, -fly-blow the cause, risk the principle, and give a handle and a pretext -to the enemy to treat all philosophy and all reform as a compost of -crude, chaotic, and monstrous absurdities. We thus arm the virtues as -well as the vices of the community against us; we trifle with their -understandings, and exasperate their self-love; we give to superstition -and injustice all their old security and sanctity, as if they were the -only alternatives of impiety and profligacy, and league the natural with -the selfish prejudices of mankind in hostile array against us. To this -consummation, it must be confessed that too many of Mr. Shelley’s -productions pointedly tend. He makes no account of the opinions of -others, or the consequences of any of his own; but proceeds—tasking his -reason to the utmost to account for every thing, and discarding every -thing as mystery and error for which he cannot account by an effort of -mere intelligence—measuring man, providence, nature, and even his own -heart, by the limits of the understanding—now hallowing high mysteries, -now desecrating pure sentiments, according as they fall in with or -exceeded those limits; and exalting and purifying, with Promethean heat, -whatever he does not confound and debase. - -Mr. Shelley died, it seems, with a volume of Mr. Keats’s poetry grasped -with one hand in his bosom! These are two out of four poets, patriots -and friends, who have visited Italy within a few years, both of whom -have been soon hurried to a more distant shore. Keats died young; and -‘yet his infelicity had years too many.’ A canker had blighted the -tender bloom that o’erspread a face in which youth and genius strove -with beauty; the shaft was sped—venal, vulgar, venomous, that drove him -from his country, with sickness and penury for companions, and followed -him to his grave. And yet there are those who could trample on the faded -flower—men to whom breaking hearts are a subject of merriment—who laugh -loud over the silent urn of Genius, and play out their game of venality -and infamy with the crumbling bones of their victims! To this band of -immortals a third has since been added!—a mightier genius, a haughtier -spirit, whose stubborn impatience and Achilles-like pride only Death -could quell. Greece, Italy, the world, have lost their poet-hero; and -his death has spread a wider gloom, and been recorded with a deeper awe, -than has waited on the obsequies of any of the many great who have died -in our remembrance. Even detraction has been silent at his tomb; and the -more generous of his enemies have fallen into the rank of his mourners. -But he set like the sun in his glory; and his orb was greatest and -brightest at the last; for his memory is now consecrated no less by -freedom than genius. He probably fell a martyr to his zeal against -tyrants. He attached himself to the cause of Greece, and dying, clung to -it with a convulsive grasp, and has thus gained a niche in her history; -for whatever _she_ claims as hers is immortal, even in decay, as the -marble sculptures on the columns of her fallen temples! - -The volume before us is introduced by an imperfect but touching Preface -by Mrs. Shelley, and consists almost wholly of original pieces, with the -exception of _Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude_, which was out of -print; and the admirable Translation of the _May-day Night_, from -Goethe’s Faustus. - -_Julian and Maddalo_ (the first Poem in the collection) is a -Conversation or Tale, full of that thoughtful and romantic humanity, but -rendered perplexing and unattractive by that veil of shadowy or of -glittering obscurity, which distinguished Mr. Shelley’s writings. The -depth and tenderness of his feelings seems often to have interfered with -the expression of them, as the sight becomes blind with tears. A dull, -waterish vapour, clouds the aspect of his philosophical poetry, like -that mysterious gloom which he has himself described as hanging over the -Medusa’s Head of Leonardo da Vinci. The metre of this poem, too, will -not be pleasing to every body. It is in the antique taste of the rhyming -parts of Beaumont and Fletcher and Ben Jonson—blank verse in its freedom -and unbroken flow, falling into rhymes that appear altogether -accidental—very colloquial in the diction—and sometimes sufficiently -prosaic. But it is easier showing than describing it. We give the -introductory passage. - - ‘I rode one evening with Count Maddalo - Upon the bank of land which breaks the flow - Of Adria towards Venice: a bare strand - Of hillocks, heaped from ever-shifting sand, - Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds, - Such as from earth’s embrace the salt ooze breeds, - Is this: an uninhabited sea-side, - Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried, - Abandons; and no other object breaks - The waste, but one dwarf tree and some few stakes - Broken and unrepaired, and the tide makes - A narrow space of level sand thereon, - Where ’twas our wont to ride while day went down. - This ride was my delight. I love all waste - And solitary places; where we taste - The pleasure of believing what we see - Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be: - And such was this wide ocean, and this shore - More barren than its billows; and yet more - Than all, with a remember’d friend I love - To ride as then I rode;—for the winds drove - The living spray along the sunny air - Into our faces; the blue heavens were bare, - Stripped to their depths by the awakening North; - And, from the waves, sound like delight broke forth - Harmonising with solitude, and sent - Into our hearts aerial merriment. - So, as we rode, we talked; and the swift thought, - Winging itself with laughter, lingered not, - But flew from brain to brain,—such glee was ours, - Charged with light memories of remembered hours, - None slow enough for sadness: till we came - Homeward, which always makes the spirit tame.’ &c. - ‘Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should alight - O’er the horizon of the mountains—Oh! - How beautiful is sunset, when the glow - Of heaven descends upon a land like thee, - Thou paradise of exiles, Italy! - Thy mountains, seas, and vineyards, and the towers - Of cities they encircle!—It was ours - To stand on thee, beholding it: and then, - Just where we had dismounted, the Count’s men - Were waiting for us with the gondola. - As those who pause on some delightful way, - Tho’ bent on pleasant pilgrimage, we stood, - Looking upon the evening and the flood, - Which lay between the city and the shore, - Paved with the image of the sky; the hoar - And aery Alps, towards the North, appeared, - Thro’ mist, an heaven-sustaining bulwark, reared - Between the east and west; and half the sky - Was roofed with clouds of rich emblazonry, - Dark purple at the zenith, which still grew - Down the steep west into a wondrous hue - Brighter than burning gold, even to the rent - Where the swift sun yet paused in his descent - Among the many-folded hills—they were - Those famous Euganean hills, which bear, - As seen from Lido thro’ the harbour piles, - The likeness of a clump of peaked isles— - And then, as if the earth and sea had been - Dissolv’d into one lake of fire, were seen - Those mountains towering, as from waves of flame, - Around the vaporous sun, from which there came - The inmost purple spirit of light, and made - Their very peaks transparent. “Ere it fade,” - Said my companion, “I will show you soon - A better station.” So, o’er the lagune - We glided; and from that funereal bark - I leaned, and saw the city, and could mark - How from their many isles, in evening’s gleam, - Its temples and its palaces did seem - Like fabrics of enchantment piled to Heaven. - I was about to speak, when—“We are even - Now at the point I meant”—said Maddalo, - And bade the gondolieri cease to row. - “Look, Julian, on the west, and listen well - If you hear not a deep and heavy bell.” - I looked, and saw between us and the sun - A building on an island, such an one - As age to age might add, for uses vile— - A windowless, deformed, and dreary pile; - And on the top an open tower, where hung - A bell, which in the radiance swayed and swung, - We could just hear its hoarse and iron tongue: - The broad sun sank behind it, and it tolled - In strong and black relief. “What you behold - Shall be the madhouse and its belfry tower,”— - Said Maddalo, “and even at this hour, - Those who may cross the water hear that bell, - Which calls the maniacs, each one from his cell, - To vespers,” &c. - - ‘The broad star - Of day meanwhile had sunk behind the hill; - And the black bell became invisible; - And the red tower looked grey; and all between, - The churches, ships, and palaces, were seen - Huddled in gloom. Into the purple sea - The orange hues of heaven sunk silently. - We hardly spoke, and soon the gondola - Conveyed me to my lodging by the way.’ - -The march of these lines is, it must be confessed, slow, solemn, sad: -there is a sluggishness of feeling, a dearth of imagery, an unpleasant -glare of lurid light. It appears to us, that in some poets, as well as -in some painters, the organ of colour (to speak in the language of the -adepts) predominates over that of form; and Mr. Shelley is of the -number. We have everywhere a profusion of dazzling hues, of glancing -splendours, of floating shadows, but the objects on which they fall are -bare, indistinct, and wild. There is something in the preceding extract -that reminds us of the arid style and matter of Crabbe’s versification, -or that apes the labour and throes of parturition of Wordsworth’s blank -verse. It is the preface to a story of Love and Madness—of mental -anguish and philosophic remedies—not very intelligibly told, and left -with most of its mysteries unexplained, in the true spirit of the modern -metaphysical style—in which we suspect there is a due mixture of -affectation and meagreness of invention. - -This poem is, however, in Mr. Shelley’s best and _least mannered_ -manner. If it has less brilliancy, it has less extravagance and -confusion. It is in his stanza-poetry, that his Muse chiefly runs riot, -and baffles all pursuit of common comprehension or critical acumen. The -_Witch of Atlas_, the _Triumph of Life_, and _Marianne’s Dream_, are -rhapsodies or allegories of this description; full of fancy and of fire, -with glowing allusions and wild machinery, but which it is difficult to -read through, from the disjointedness of the materials, the incongruous -metaphors and violent transitions, and of which, after reading them -through, it is impossible, in most instances, to guess the drift or the -moral. They abound in horrible imaginings, like records of a ghastly -dream;—life, death, genius, beauty, victory, earth, air, ocean, the -trophies of the past, the shadows of the world to come, are huddled -together in a strange and hurried dance of words, and all that appears -clear, is the passion and paroxysm of thought of the poet’s spirit. The -poem entitled the _Triumph of Life_, is in fact a new and terrific -_Dance of Death_; but it is thus Mr. Shelley transposes the appellations -of the commonest things, and subsists only in the violence of contrast. -How little this poem is deserving of its title, how worthy it is of its -author, what an example of the waste of power, and of genius ‘made as -flax,’ and devoured by its own elementary ardours, let the reader judge -from the concluding stanzas. - - ... ‘The grove - Grew dense with shadows to its inmost covers, - The earth was grey with phantoms, and the air - Was peopled with dim forms; as when there hovers - - A flock of vampire-bats before the glare - Of the tropic sun, bringing, ere evening, - Strange night upon some Indian vale;—thus were - - Phantoms diffused around; and some did fling - Shadows of shadows, yet unlike themselves, - Behind them; some like eaglets on the wing - - Were lost in the white day; others like elves - Danced in a thousand unimagined shapes - Upon the sunny streams and grassy shelves; - - And others sate chattering shrill like restless apes - On vulgar hands, * * * * * - Some made a cradle of the ermined capes - - Of kingly mantles; some across the tire - Of pontiffs rode, like demons; others played - Under the crown which girded with empire - - A baby’s or an idiot’s brow, and made - Their nests in it. The old anatomies - Sate hatching their bare broods under the shade - - Of demon wings, and laughed from their dead eyes - To reassume the delegated power, - Array’d in which those worms did monarchize, - - Who make this earth their charnel. Others more - Humble, like falcons, sate upon the fist - Of common men, and round their heads did soar; - - Or like small gnats and flies, as thick as mist - On evening marshes, thronged about the brow - Of lawyers, statesmen, priest and theorist;— - - And others, like discoloured flakes of snow, - On fairest bosoms and the sunniest hair, - Fell, and were melted by the youthful glow - - Which they extinguished * * * * * - - The marble brow of youth was cleft - With care; and in those eyes where once hope shone, - Desire, even like a lioness bereft - - Of her last cub, glared ere it died; each one - Of that great crowd sent forth incessantly - These shadows, numerous as the dead leaves blown - - In autumn evening from a poplar tree. - Each like himself, and like each other were - At first; but some, distorted, seemed to be - - Obscure clouds, moulded by the casual air; - And of this stuff the car’s creative ray - Wrapt all the busy phantoms that were there, - - As the sun shapes the clouds, &c.’ - -Any thing more filmy, enigmatical, discontinuous, unsubstantial than -this, we have not seen; nor yet more full of morbid genius and vivifying -soul. We cannot help preferring _The Witch of Atlas_ to _Alastor, or the -Spirit of Solitude_; for, though the purport of each is equally -perplexing and undefined, (both being a sort of mental voyage through -the unexplored regions of space and time), the execution of the one is -much less dreary and lamentable than that of the other. In the ‘Witch,’ -he has indulged his fancy more than his melancholy, and wantoned in the -felicity of embryo and crude conceits even to excess. - - ‘And there lay Visions, swift, and sweet, and quaint, - Each in its thin sheath like a chrysalis; - Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint - With the soft burthen of intensest bliss; - - ‘And odours in a kind of aviary - Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept, - Clipt in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy - Had woven from dew-beams while the moon yet slept; - As bats at the wired window of a dairy, - They beat their vans; and each was an adept, - When loosed and missioned, making wings of winds, - To stir sweet thoughts or sad in destined minds.’ p. 34. - -We give the description of the progress of the ‘Witch’s’ boat as a -slight specimen of what we have said of Mr. Shelley’s involved style and -imagery. - - ‘And down the streams which clove those mountains vast, - Around their inland islets, and amid - The panther-peopled forests, whose shade cast - Darkness and odours, and a pleasure hid - In melancholy gloom, the pinnace past: - By many a star-surrounded pyramid - Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky, - And caverns yawning round unfathomably. - - · · · · · - - ‘And down the earth-quaking cataracts which shiver - Their snow-like waters into golden air, - Or under chasms unfathomable ever - Sepulchre them, till in their rage they tear - A subterranean portal for the river, - It fled—the circling _sunbows_ did upbear - Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray, - Lighting it far upon its lampless way.’ - -This we conceive to be the very height of wilful extravagance and -mysticism. Indeed it is curious to remark every where the proneness to -the marvellous and supernatural, in one who so resolutely set his face -against every received mystery, and all traditional faith. Mr. Shelley -must have possessed, in spite of all his obnoxious and indiscreet -scepticism, a large share of credulity and wondering curiosity in his -composition, which he reserved from common use, and bestowed upon his -own inventions and picturesque caricatures. To every other species of -imposture or disguise he was inexorable; and indeed it is only his -antipathy to established creeds and legitimate crowns that ever tears -the veil from his _ideal_ idolatries, and renders him clear and -explicit. Indignation makes him pointed and intelligible enough, and -breathes into his verse a spirit very different from his own boasted -spirit of Love. - -The _Letter to a Friend in London_ shows the author in a pleasing and -familiar, but somewhat prosaic light; and his _Prince Athanase, a -Fragment_, is, we suspect, intended as a portrait of the writer. It is -amiable, thoughtful, and not much overcharged. We had designed to give -an extract, but from the apparently personal and doubtful interest -attached to it, perhaps it had better be read altogether, or not at all. -We rather choose to quote a part of the _Ode to Naples_, during her -brief revolution,—in which immediate and strong local feelings have at -once raised and pointed Mr. Shelley’s style, and made of light-winged -“toys of feathered cupid,” the flaming ministers of Wrath and Justice. - - · · · · · - - ‘Naples! thou Heart of men which ever pantest - Naked, beneath the lidless eye of heaven! - Elysian City which to calm enchantest - The mutinous air and sea: they round thee, even - As sleep round Love, are driven! - Metropolis of a ruined Paradise - Long lost, late won, and yet but half regained! - - · · · · · - - ‘What though Cimmerian Anarchs dare blaspheme - Freedom and thee! thy shield is as a mirror - To make their blind slaves see, and with fierce gleam - To turn his hungry sword upon the wearer. - A new Acteon’s error - Shall their’s have been—devoured by their own hounds! - Be thou like the imperial Basilisk - Killing thy foe with unapparent wounds! - Gaze on oppression, till at that dead risk - Aghast she pass from the Earth’s disk, - Fear not, but gaze—for freemen mightier grow, - And slaves more feeble, gazing on their foe; - If Hope and Truth and Justice may avail, - Thou shalt be great—All hail! - - · · · · · - - ‘Didst thou not start to hear Spain’s thrilling pæan - From land to land re-echoed solemnly, - Till silence became music? From the Æean[18] - To the cold Alps, eternal Italy - Starts to hear thine! The Sea - Which paves the desart streets of Venice, laughs - In light and music; widowed Genoa wan - By moonlight spells ancestral epitaphs, - Murmuring, where is Doria? fair Milan, - Within whose veins long ran - The vipers[19] palsying venom, lifts her heel - To braise his head. The signal and the seal - (If Hope and Truth and Justice can avail) - Art Thou of all these hopes.—O hail! - - ‘Florence! beneath the sun, - Of cities fairest one, - Blushes within her bower for Freedom’s expectation; - From eyes of quenchless hope - Rome tears the priestly cope, - As ruling once by power, so now by admiration - An athlete stript to run - From a remoter station - For the high prize lost on Philippi’s shore:— - As then Hope, Truth, and Justice did avail, - So now may Fraud and Wrong!—O hail! - - ‘Hear ye the march as of the Earth-born Forms - Arrayed against the everliving Gods? - The crash and darkness of a thousand storms - Bursting their inaccessible abodes - Of crags and thunder-clouds? - See ye the banners blazoned to the day, - Inwrought with emblems of barbaric pride? - Dissonant threats kill Silence far away, - The serene Heaven which wraps our Eden, wide - With iron light is dyed! - The Anarchs of the North lead forth their legions, - Like Chaos o’er creation, uncreating; - An hundred tribes nourished on strange religions - And lawless slaveries,—down the aërial regions - Of the white Alps, desolating, - Famished wolves that bide no waiting, - Blotting the glowing footsteps of old glory, - Trampling our columned cities into dust, - Their dull and savage lust - On Beauty’s corse to sickness satiating— - They come! The fields they tread look black and hoary - With fire—from their red feet the streams run gory! - - ‘Great Spirit, deepest Love! - Which rulest and dost move - All things which live and are, within the Italian shore; - Who spreadest heaven around it, - Whose woods, rocks, waves, surround it: - Who sittest in thy star, o’er Ocean’s western floor, - Spirit of beauty! at whose soft command - The sunbeams and the showers distil its foison - From the Earth’s bosom chill; - O bid those beams be each a blinding brand - Of lightning! bid those showers be dews of poison! - Bid the Earth’s plenty kill! - Bid thy bright heaven above, - Whilst light and darkness bound it, - Be their tomb who planned - To make it ours and thine! - Or with thine harmonising ardours fill - And raise thy sons, as o’er the prone horizon - Thy lamp feeds every twilight wave with fire— - Be man’s high hope and unextinct desire - The instrument to work thy will divine! - Then clouds from sunbeams, antelopes from leopards, - And frowns and fears from Thee - Would not more swiftly flee - Than Celtic wolves from the Ausonian shepherds. - Whatever, Spirit, from thy starry shrine - Thou yieldest or withholdest, O let be - This city of thy worship ever free!’ - -This Ode for Liberty, though somewhat turbid and overloaded in the -diction, we regard as a fair specimen of Mr. Shelley’s highest -powers—whose eager animation wanted only a greater sternness and -solidity to be sublime. The poem is dated _September 1820_. Such were -then the author’s aspirations. He lived to see the result,—and yet Earth -does not roll its billows over the heads of its oppressors! The reader -may like to contrast with this the milder strain of the following -stanzas, addressed to the same city in a softer and more desponding -mood. - - ‘The sun is warm, the sky is clear, - The waves are dancing fast and bright, - Blue isles and snowy mountains wear - The purple noon’s transparent light - Around its unexpanded buds; - Like many a voice of one delight, - The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, - The City’s voice itself is soft, like Solitude’s. - - ‘I see the Deep’s untrampled floor - With green and purple seaweeds strown; - I see the waves upon the shore, - Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown: - I sit upon the sands alone, - The lightning of the noon-tide ocean - Is flashing round me, and a tone - Arises from its measured motion, - How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. - - ‘Yet now despair itself is mild, - Even as the winds and waters are; - I could lie down like a tired child, - And weep away the life of care - Which I have borne and yet must bear, - Till death like sleep might steal on me, - And I might feel in the warm air - My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea - Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony. - - ‘Some might lament that I were cold, - As I, when this sweet day is gone, - Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, - Insults with this untimely moan; - They might lament—for I am one - Whom men love not,—and yet regret, - Unlike this day, which, when the sun - Shall on its stainless glory set, - Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.’ - -We pass on to some of Mr. Shelley’s smaller pieces and translations, -which we think are in general excellent and highly interesting. His -_Hymn of Pan_ we do not consider equal to Mr. Keats’s sounding lines in -the Endymion. His _Mont Blanc_ is full of beauties and of defects; but -it is akin to its subject, and presents a wild and gloomy desolation. -GINEVRA, a fragment founded on a story in the first volume of the -‘_Florentine Observer_,’ is like a troublous dream, disjointed, painful, -oppressive, or like a leaden cloud, from which the big tears fall, and -the spirit of the poet mutters deep-toned thunder. We are too much -subject to these voluntary inflictions, these ‘moods of mind,’ these -effusions of ‘weakness and melancholy,’ in the perusal of modern poetry. -It has shuffled off, no doubt, its old pedantry and formality; but has -at the same time lost all shape or purpose, except that of giving vent -to some morbid feeling of the moment. The writer thus discharges a fit -of the spleen or a paradox, and expects the world to admire and be -satisfied. We are no longer annoyed at seeing the luxuriant growth of -nature and fancy clipped into armchairs and peacocks’ tails; but there -is danger of having its stately products choked with unchecked -underwood, or weighed down with gloomy nightshade, or eaten up with -personality, like ivy clinging round and eating into the sturdy oak! The -_Dirge_, at the conclusion of this fragment, is an example of the manner -in which this craving after novelty, this desire ‘to elevate and -surprise,’ leads us to ‘overstep the modesty of nature,’ and the bounds -of decorum. - - ‘Ere the sun through heaven once more has roll’d - _The rats in her heart - Will have made their nest_, - And the worms be alive in her golden hair, - While the spirit that guides the sun, - Sits throned in his flaming chair, - She shall sleep.’ - -The ‘worms’ in this stanza are the old and traditional appendages of the -grave;—the ‘rats’ are new and unwelcome intruders; but a modern artist -would rather shock, and be disgusting and extravagant, than produce no -effect at all, or be charged with a want of genius and originality. In -the unfinished scenes of Charles I., (a drama on which Mr. Shelley was -employed at his death) the _radical_ humour of the author breaks forth, -but ‘in good set terms’ and specious oratory. We regret that his -premature fate has intercepted this addition to our historical drama. -From the fragments before us, we are not sure that it would be fair to -give any specimen. - -The TRANSLATIONS from Euripides, Calderon, and Goethe in this Volume, -will give great pleasure to the scholar and to the general reader. They -are executed with equal fidelity and spirit. If the present publication -contained only the two last pieces in it, the _Prologue in Heaven_, and -the _May-day Night_ of the Faust (the first of which Lord Leveson Gower -has omitted, and the last abridged, in his very meritorious translation -of that Poem), the intellectual world would receive it with an _All -Hail!_ We shall enrich our pages with a part of the _May-day Night_, -which the Noble Poet has deemed untranslateable. - - ‘_Chorus of Witches._ The stubble is yellow, the corn is green, - Now to the brocken the witches go; - The mighty multitude here may be seen - Gathering, witch and wizard, below. - Sir Urean is sitting aloft in the air; - Hey over stock; and hey over stone! - ’Twixt witches and incubi, what shall be done? - Tell it who dare! tell it who dare! - - _A Voice._ Upon a snow-swine, whose farrows were nine, - Old Baubo rideth alone. - - _Chorus._ Honour her to whom honour is due, - Old mother Baubo, honour to you! - An able sow, with old Baubo upon her, - Is worthy of glory, and worthy of honour! - The legion of witches is coming behind, - Darkening the night, and outspeeding the wind. - - _A Voice._ Which way comest thou? - - _A Voice._ Over Ilsenstein; - The owl was awake in the white moonshine; - I saw her at rest in her downy nest, - And she stared at me with her broad, bright eye. - - _Voices._ And you may now as well take your course on to Hell, - Since you ride by so fast, on the headlong blast. - - _A Voice._ She dropt poison upon me as I past. - Here are the wounds— - - _Chorus of Witches._ Come away! come along! - The way is wide, the way is long, - But what is that for a Bedlam throng? - Stick with the prong, and scratch with the broom! - The child in the cradle lies strangled at home, - And the mother is clapping her hands— - - _Semi-Chorus of Wizards I._ We glide in - Like snails when the women are all away; - And from a house once given over to sin - Woman has a thousand steps to stray. - - _Semi-Chorus II._ A thousand steps must a woman take, - Where a man but a single spring will make. - - _Voices above._ Come with us, come with us, from Felunsee. - - _Voices below._ With what joy would we fly, through the upper sky! - We are washed, we are ’nointed, stark naked are we: - But our toil and our pain is forever in vain. - - _Both Chorusses._ The wind is still, the stars are fled, - The melancholy moon is dead; - The magic notes, like spark on spark, - Drizzle, whistling through the dark. - Come away! - - _Voices below._ Stay, oh stay! - - _Meph._ What thronging, dashing, raging, rustling; - What whispering, babbling, hissing, bustling; - What glimmering, spurting, stinking, burning, - As Heaven and Earth were overturning. - There is a true witch-element about us. - Take hold on me, or we shall be divided— - Where are you? - - _Faust (from a distance)._ Here. - - _Meph._ What! - I must exert my authority in the house. - Place for young Voland! Pray make way, good people. - Take hold on me, Doctor, and with one step - Let us escape from this unpleasant crowd: - They are too mad for people of my sort. - I see young witches naked there, and old ones - Wisely attired with greater decency. - Be guided now by me, and you shall buy - A pound of pleasure with a drachm of trouble. - I hear them tune their instruments—one must - Get used to this damned scraping. Come, I’ll lead you - Among them; and what there you do and see - As a fresh compact ’twixt us two shall be. - How say you now? This space is wide enough— - Look forth, you cannot see the end of it— - An hundred bonfires burn in rows, and they - Who throng around them seem innumerable: - Dancing and drinking, jabbering, making love, - And cooking are at work. Now tell me, friend, - What is there better in the world than this? - - _Faust._ In introducing us, do you assume - The character of wizzard or of devil? - - _Meph._ In truth, I generally go about - In strict incognito: and yet one likes - To wear one’s orders upon gala days. - I have no ribbon at my knee; but here - At home, the cloven foot is honourable. - See you that snail there?—she comes creeping up, - And with her feeling eyes hath smelt out something. - I could not, if I would, mask myself here. - Come now, we’ll go about from fire to fire: - I’ll be the pimp and you shall be the lover.’ p. 409. - -The preternatural imagery in all this medley is, we confess, -(comparatively speaking) meagre and monotonous; but there is a squalid -nudity, and a fiendish irony and scorn thrown over the whole, that is -truly edifying. The scene presently after proceeds thus. - - ‘_Meph._ Why do you let that fair girl pass from you, - Who sung so sweetly to you in the dance? - - _Faust._ A red mouse in the middle of her singing - Sprung from her mouth! - - _Meph._ That was all right, my friend; - Be it enough that the mouse was not grey. - Do not disturb your hour of happiness - With close consideration of such trifles. - - _Faust._ Then saw I— - - _Meph._ What? - - _Faust._ Seest thou not a pale - Fair girl, standing alone, far, far away? - She drags herself now forward with slow steps, - And seems as if she moved with shackled feet; - I cannot overcome the thought that she - Is like poor Margaret! - - _Meph._ Let it be—pass on— - No good can come of it—it is not well - To meet it.—It is an enchanted phantom, - A lifeless idol; with its numbing look - It freezes up the blood of man; and they - Who meet its ghastly stare are turned to stone, - Like those who saw Medusa. - - _Faust._ Oh, too true! - Her eyes are like the eyes of a fresh corpse - Which no beloved hand has closed, alas! - That is the heart which Margaret yielded to me— - Those are the lovely limbs which I enjoyed! - - _Meph._ It is all magic, poor deluded fool; - She looks to every one like his first love. - - _Faust._ Oh, what delight! what woe! I cannot turn - My looks from her sweet piteous countenance. - How strangely does a single blood-red line, - Not broader than the sharp edge of a knife, - Adorn her lovely neck! - - _Meph._ Aye, she can carry - Her head under her arm upon occasion; - Perseus has cut it off for her! These pleasures - End in delusion!’— - -The latter part of the foregoing scene is to be found in both -translations; but we prefer Mr. Shelley’s, if not for its elegance, for -its simplicity and force. Lord Leveson Gower has given, at the end of -his volume, a translation of Lessing’s Faust, as having perhaps -furnished the hint for the larger production. There is an old tragedy of -our own, founded on the same tradition, by Marlowe, in which the author -has treated the subject according to the spirit of poetry, and the -learning of his age. He has not evaded the main incidents of the fable -(it was not the fashion of the dramatists of his day), nor sunk the -chief character in glosses and episodes (however subtle or alluring), -but has described Faustus’s love of learning, his philosophic dreams and -raptures, his religious horrors and melancholy fate, with appropriate -gloom or gorgeousness of colouring. The character of the old -enthusiastic inquirer after the philosopher’s stone, and dealer with the -Devil, is nearly lost sight of in the German play: its bold development -forms the chief beauty and strength of the old English one. We shall -not, we hope, be accused of wandering too far from the subject, if we -conclude with some account of it in the words of a contemporary writer. -‘The _Life and Death of Dr. Faustus_, though an imperfect and unequal -performance, is Marlowe’s greatest work. Faustus himself is a rude -sketch, but is a gigantic one. This character may be considered as a -personification of the pride of will and eagerness of curiosity, -sublimed beyond the reach of fear and remorse. He is hurried away, and, -as it were, devoured by a tormenting desire to enlarge his knowledge to -the utmost bounds of nature and art, and to extend his power with his -knowledge. He would realize all the fictions of a lawless imagination, -would solve the most subtle speculations of abstruse reason; and for -this purpose, sets at defiance all mortal consequences, and leagues -himself with demoniacal power, with “fate and metaphysical aid.” The -idea of witchcraft and necromancy, once the dread of the vulgar, and the -darling of the visionary recluse, seems to have had its origin in the -restless tendency of the human mind, to conceive of, and aspire to, more -than it can achieve by natural means; and in the obscure apprehension, -that the gratification of this extravagant and unauthorized desire can -only be attained by the sacrifice of all our ordinary hopes and better -prospects, to the infernal agents that lend themselves to its -accomplishment. Such is the foundation of the present story. Faustus, in -his impatience to fulfil at once, and for a few short years, all the -desires and conceptions of his soul, is willing to give in exchange his -soul and body to the great enemy of mankind. Whatever he fancies, -becomes by this means present to his sense: whatever he commands, is -done. He calls back time past, and anticipates the future: the visions -of antiquity pass before him, Babylon in all its glory, Paris and Œnone: -all the projects of philosophers, or creations of the poet, pay tribute -at his feet: all the delights of fortune, of ambition, of pleasure and -of learning, are centred in his person; and, from a short-lived dream of -supreme felicity and drunken power, he sinks into an abyss of darkness -and perdition. This is the alternative to which he submits; the bond -which he signs with his blood! As the outline of the character is grand -and daring, the execution is abrupt and fearful. The thoughts are vast -and irregular, and the style halts and staggers under them.’[20] - - - LADY MORGAN’S LIFE OF SALVATOR - - VOL. XL.] [_July 1824._ - -We are not among the devoted admirers of Lady Morgan. She is a clever -and lively writer—but not very judicious, and not very natural. Since -she has given up making novels, we do not think she has added much to -her reputation—and indeed is rather more liable than before to the -charge of tediousness and presumption. There is no want, however, either -of amusement or instruction in her late performances—and we have no -doubt she would write very agreeably, if she was only a little less -ambitious of being always fine and striking. But though we are thus -clear-sighted to her defects, we must say, that we have never seen -anything more utterly unjust, or more disgusting and disgraceful, than -the abuse she has had to encounter from some of our Tory journals—abuse, -of which we shall say no more at present, than that it is incomparably -less humiliating to the object than to the author. - -Common justice seemed to require this observation from us—nor will it -appear altogether out of place when we add, that we cannot but suspect -that it is to a feeling connected with that subject that we are indebted -for the work now before us. Salvator Rosa was, like his fair biographer, -in hostility with the High-church and High-monarchy men of his day; and -the enemy of the Holy Alliance, in the nineteenth century, must have -followed with peculiar interest the fortunes of an artist who was so -obnoxious to the suspicions of the Holy Office in the seventeenth. - -There are few works more engaging than those which reveal to us the -private history of eminent individuals; the lives of painters seem to be -even more interesting than those of almost any other class of men; and, -among painters, there are few names of greater note, or that have a more -powerful attraction, than that of Salvator Rosa. We are not sure, -however, that Lady Morgan’s work is not, upon the whole, more calculated -to dissolve than to rivet the spell which these circumstances might, at -first, throw over the reader’s mind. The great charm of biography -consists in the individuality of the details, the familiar tone of the -incidents, the bringing us acquainted with the persons of men whom we -have formerly known only by their works or names, the absence of all -exaggeration or pretension, and the immediate appeal to facts instead of -theories. We are afraid, that, if tried by these rules, Lady Morgan will -be found _not_ to have written _biography_. A great part of the work is, -accordingly, very fabulous and apocryphal. We are supplied with few -anecdotes or striking _traits_, and have few _data_ to go upon, during -the early and most anxious period of Salvator’s life; but a fine -opportunity is in this way afforded to _conjecture_ how he did or did -not pass his time; in what manner, and at what precise era, his peculiar -talents first developed themselves; and how he must have felt in certain -situations, supposing him ever to have been placed in them. In one -place, for example, she employs several pages in describing Salvator’s -being taken by his father from his village-home to the College of -Somasco, with a detailed account of the garments in which he and his -father may be presumed to have been dressed; the adieus of his mother -and sisters; the streets, the churches by which they passed; in short, -with an admirable panoramic view of the city of Naples and its environs, -as it would appear to any modern traveller; and an assurance at the end, -that ‘Such was the scenery of the Vomiro in the beginning of the -seventeenth century; such is it now!’ Added to all which, we have, at -every turn, pertinent allusions to celebrated persons who visited Rome -and Italy in the same century, and perhaps wandered in the same -solitudes, or were hid in the recesses of the same ruins; and learned -dissertations on the state of the arts, sciences, morals, and politics, -from the earliest records up to the present day. On the meagre thread of -biography, in short, Lady Morgan has been ambitious to string the -flowers of literature and the pearls of philosophy, and to strew over -the obscure and half-forgotten origin of poor Salvator the colours of a -sanguine enthusiasm and a florid imagination! So fascinated indeed is -she with the splendour of her own style, that whenever she has a simple -fact or well-authenticated anecdote to relate, she is compelled to -apologize for the homeliness of the circumstance, as if the flat -realities of her story were unworthy accompaniments to the fine -imaginations with which she has laboured to exalt it. - -We could have wished, certainly, that she had shown less pretension in -this respect. Women write well, only when they write naturally: And -therefore we could dispense with their inditing prize-essays or solving -_academic questions_;—and should be far better pleased with Lady Morgan -if she would condescend to a more ordinary style, and not insist -continually on playing the diplomatist in petticoats, and strutting the -little Gibbon of her age! - -Another circumstance that takes from the interest of the present work -is, that the subject of it was both an author and an artist, or, as Lady -Morgan somewhat affectedly expresses it, a painter-poet. It is chiefly -in the latter part of this compound character, or as a satirist, comic -writer and actor, that he comes upon the stage in these volumes; and the -enchantment of the scene is hurt by it. - -The great secret of our curiosity respecting the lives of painters is, -that they seem to be a different race of beings, and to speak a -different language from ourselves. We want to see what is the connecting -link between pictures and books, and how colours will translate into -words. There is something mystical and anomalous to our conceptions in -the existence of persons who talk by natural signs, and express their -thoughts by pointing to the objects they wish to represent. When they -put pen to paper, it is as if a dumb person should stammer out his -meaning for the first time, or as if the bark of a tree (repeating the -miracle in Virgil) should open its lips and discourse. We have no notion -how Titian could be witty, or Raphael learned; and we wait for the -solution of the problem, as for the result of some curious experiment in -natural history. Titian’s acquitting himself of a compliment to Charles -V., or Raphael’s writing a letter to a friend, describing his idea of -the Galatea, excites our wonder, and holds us in a state of breathless -suspense, more than the first having painted all the masterpieces of the -Escurial, or than the latter’s having realized the divine idea in his -imagination. Because they have a language which we want, we fancy they -must want, or cannot be at home in ours;—we start and blush to find, -that, though few are painters, all men are, and naturally must be, -orators and poets. We have a stronger desire to see the autographs of -artists than of authors or emperors; for we somehow cannot imagine in -what manner they would form their tottering letters, or sign their -untaught names. We in fact exercise a sort of mental superiority and -imaginary patronage over them (delightful in proportion as it is mixed -up with a sense of awe and homage in other respects); watch their -progress like that of grown children; are charmed with the imperfect -glimmerings of wit or sense; and secretly expect to find them,—or -express all the impertinence of an affected surprise if we do not—what -Claude Lorraine is here represented to have been out of his painting -room, little better than natural changelings and drivellers. It pleases -us therefore to be told, that Gaspar Poussin, when he was not painting, -rode a hunting; that Nicolas was (it is pretended) a miser and a -pedant—that Domenichino was retired and modest, and Guido and Annibal -Caracci unfortunate! This is as it should be, and flatters our -self-love. Their works stand out to ages bold and palpable, and dazzle -or inspire by their beauty and their brilliancy;—That is enough—the rest -sinks into the ground of obscurity, or is only brought out as something -odd and unaccountable by the patient efforts of good-natured curiosity. -But all this fine theory and flutter of contradictory expectations is -balked and knocked on the head at once, when, instead of a dim and -shadowy figure in the back-ground, a mere name, of which nothing is -remembered but its immortal works, a poor creature performing miracles -of art, and not knowing how it has performed them, a person steps -forward, bold, gay, _gaillard_, with all his faculties about him, master -of a number of accomplishments which he is not backward to display, -mingling with the throng, looking defiance around, able to answer for -himself, acquainted with his own merits, and boasting of them, not -merely having the gift of speech, but a celebrated _improvisatore_, -musician, comic actor and buffoon, patriot and cynic, reciting and -talking equally well, taking up his pen to write satires, and laying it -down to paint them. There is a vulgarity in all this practical bustle -and restless stage-effect, that takes away from that abstracted and -simple idea of art which at once attracts and baffles curiosity, like a -distinct element in nature. ‘Painting,’ said Michael Angelo, is jealous, -and requires the whole man to herself.’ And there is some thing sacred -and privileged in the character of those heirs of fame, and their -noiseless reputation, which ought not, we think, to be gossipped to the -air, babbled to the echo, or proclaimed by beat of drum at the corners -of streets, like a procession or a puppet-show. We may peep and pry into -the ordinary life of painters, but it will not do to strip them -stark-naked. A speaking portrait of them—an anecdote or two—an -expressive saying dropped by chance—an incident marking the bent of -their genius, or its fate, are delicious; but here we should draw the -curtain, or we shall profane this sort of image-worship. Least of all do -we wish to be entertained with private brawls, or professional -squabbles, or multifarious pretensions. ‘The essence of genius,’ as Lady -Morgan observes, ‘is concentration.’ So is that of enthusiasm. We lay -down the ‘Life and Times of Salvator Rosa,’ therefore, with less -interest in the subject than when we took it up. We had rather not read -it. Instead of the old and floating traditions on the subject,—instead -of the romantic name and romantic pursuits of the daring copyist of -Nature, conversing with her rudest forms, or lost in lonely -musing,—eyeing the clouds that roll over his head, or listening to the -waterfal, or seeing the fresh breeze waving the mountain-pines, or -leaning against the side of an impending rock, or marking the bandit -that issues from its clefts, ‘housing with wild men, with wild usages,’ -himself unharmed and free,—and bequeathing the fruit of his -uninterrupted retirement and out-of-doors studies as the best legacy to -posterity,—we have the Coviello of the Carnival, the _causeur_ of the -saloons, the political malecontent, the satirist, sophist, caricaturist, -the trafficker with Jews, the wrangler with courts and academies, and, -last of all, the painter of history, despising his own best works, and -angry with all who admired or purchased them. - -The worst fault that Lady Morgan has committed is in siding with this -infirmity of poor Salvator, and pampering him into a second Michael -Angelo. The truth is, that the judgment passed upon him by his -contemporaries was right in this respect. He was a great landscape -painter; but his histories were comparatively forced and abortive. If -this had been merely the opinion of his enemies, it might have been -attributed to envy and faction; but it was no less the deliberate -sentiment of his friends and most enthusiastic partisans; and if we -reflect on the nature of our artist’s genius or his temper, we shall -find that it could not well have been otherwise. This from a child was -wayward, indocile, wild and irregular, unshackled, impatient of -restraint, and urged on equally by success or opposition into a state of -jealous and morbid irritability. Those who are at war with others, are -not at peace with themselves. It is the uneasiness, the turbulence, the -acrimony within that recoils upon external objects. Barry abused the -Academy, because he could not paint himself. If he could have painted up -to his own _idea_ of perfection, he would have thought this better than -exposing the ill-directed efforts or groundless pretensions of others. -Salvator was rejected by the Academy of St. Luke, and excluded, in -consequence of his hostility to reigning authorities, and his unlicensed -freedom of speech, from the great works and public buildings in Rome; -and though he scorned and ridiculed those by whose influence this was -effected, yet neither the smiles of friends and fortune, nor the -flatteries of fame, which in his lifetime had spread his name over -Europe, and might be confidently expected to extend it to a future age, -could console him for the loss, which he affected to despise, and would -make no sacrifice to obtain. He was indeed hard to please. He denounced -his rivals and maligners with bitterness; and with difficulty tolerated -the enthusiasm of his disciples, or the services of his patrons. He was -at all times full of indignation, with or without cause. He was easily -exasperated, and not willing soon to be appeased, or to subside into -repose and good humour again. He slighted what he did best; and seemed -anxious to go out of himself. In a word, irritability rather than -sensibility, was the category of his mind: he was more distinguished by -violence and restlessness of will, than by dignity or power of thought. -The truly great, on the contrary, are sufficient to themselves, and so -far satisfied with the world. ‘Their mind to them is a kingdom,’ from -which they look out, as from a high watchtower or noble fortress, on the -passions, the cabals, the meannesses and follies of mankind. They shut -themselves up ‘in measureless content;’ or soar to the great, discarding -the little; and appeal from envious detraction or ‘unjust tribunals -under change of times,’ to posterity. They are not satirists, cynics, -nor the prey of these; but painters, poets, and philosophers. - -Salvator was the victim of a too morbid sensibility, or of early -difficulty and disappointment. He was always quarrelling with the world, -and lay at the mercy of his own piques and resentments. But antipathy, -the spirit of contradiction, captious discontent, fretful impatience, -produce nothing fine in character, neither dwell on beauty, nor pursue -truth, nor rise into sublimity. The splenetic humourist is not the -painter of humanity. Landscape painting is the obvious resource of -misanthropy. Our artist, escaping from the herd of knaves and fools, -sought out some rude solitude, and found repose there. Teased by the -impertinence, stung to the quick by the injustice of mankind, the -presence of the works of nature would be a relief to his mind, and -would, by contrast, stamp her striking features more strongly there. In -the coolness, in the silence, in the untamed wildness of mountain -scenery, in the lawless manners of its inhabitants, he would forget the -fever and the anguish, and the artificial restraints of society. We -accordingly do not find in Salvator’s rural scenes either natural beauty -or fertility, or even the simply grand; but whatever seizes attention by -presenting a barrier to the will, or scorning the power of mankind, or -snapping asunder the chain that binds us to the kind—the barren, the -abrupt, wild steril regions, the steep rock, the mountain torrent, the -bandit’s cave, the hermit’s cell,—all these, while they released him -from more harassing and painful reflections, soothed his moody spirit -with congenial gloom, and found a sanctuary and a home there. Not only -is there a corresponding determination and singleness of design in his -landscapes (excluding every approach to softness, or pleasure, or -ornament), but the strength of the impression is confirmed even by the -very touch and mode of handling; he brings us in contact with the -objects he paints; and the sharpness of a rock, the roughness of the -bark of a tree, or the ruggedness of a mountain path are marked in the -freedom, the boldness, and firmness of his pencilling. There is not in -Salvator’s scenes the luxuriant beauty and divine harmony of Claude, nor -the amplitude of Nicolas Poussin, nor the gorgeous richness of -Titian—but there is a deeper seclusion, a more abrupt and total escape -from society, more savage wildness and grotesqueness of form, a more -earthy texture, a fresher atmosphere, and a more obstinate resistance to -all the effeminate refinements of art. Salvator Rosa then is, beyond all -question, the most _romantic_ of landscape painters; because the very -violence and untractableness of his temper threw him with instinctive -force upon those objects in nature which would be most likely to sooth -and disarm it; while, in history, he is little else than a caricaturist -(we mean compared with such men as Raphael, Michael Angelo, &c.), -because the same acrimony and impatience have made him fasten on those -subjects and aspects of the human mind which would most irritate and -increase it; and he has, in this department, produced chiefly distortion -and deformity, sullenness and rage, extravagance, squalidness, and -poverty of appearance. But it is time to break off this long and -premature digression, into which our love of justice and of the arts -(which requires, above all, that no more than justice should be done to -any one) had led us, and return to the elegant but somewhat fanciful -specimen of biography before us. Lady Morgan (in her flattery of the -dead, the most ill-timed and unprofitable, but least disgusting of all -flattery) has spoken of the historical compositions of Salvator in terms -that leave no distinction between him and Michael Angelo; and we could -not refrain from entering our protest against such an inference, and -thus commencing our account of her book with what may appear at once a -piece of churlish criticism and a want of gallantry. - -The materials of the first volume, containing the account of Salvator’s -outset in life, and early struggles with fortune and his art, are -slender, but spun out at great length, and steeped in very brilliant -dyes. The contents of the second volume, which relates to a period when -he was before the public, was in habits of personal intimacy with his -future biographers, and made frequent mention of himself in letters to -his friends which are still preserved, are more copious and authentic, -and on that account—however Lady Morgan may wonder at it—more -interesting. Of the artist’s infant years, little is known, and little -told; but that little is conveyed with all the ‘pride, pomp, and -circumstance of glorious’ authorship. It is said, that the whole matter -composing the universe might be compressed in a nutshell, taking away -the porous interstices and flimsy appearances: So, we apprehend, that -all that is really to be learnt of the subject of these Memoirs from the -first volume of his life, might be contained in a single page of solid -writing. - -It appears that our artist was born in 1615, of poor parents, in the -Borgo de Renella, near Naples. His father, Vito Antonio Rosa, was an -architect and landsurveyor, and his mother’s name was Giulia Grecca, who -had also two daughters. Salvator very soon lost his full baptismal name -for the nickname of Salvatoriello, in consequence of his mischievous -tricks and lively gesticulations when a boy, or, more probably, this was -the common diminutive of it given to all children. He was intended by -his parents for the church, but early showed a truant disposition, and a -turn for music and drawing. He used to scrawl with burnt sticks on the -walls of his bed-room, and contrived to be caught in the fact of -sketching outlines on the chapel-walls of the Certosa, when some priests -were going by to mass, for which he was severely whipped. He was then -sent to school at the monastery of the _Somasco_ in Naples, where he -remained for two years, and laid in a good stock of classical learning, -of which he made great use in his after life, both in his poems and -pictures. Salvator’s first knowledge of painting was imbibed in the -workshop of Francesco Francanzani (a painter at that time of some note -in Naples), who had married one of his sisters, and under whose eye he -began his professional studies. Soon after this he is supposed to have -made a tour through the mountains of the Abruzzi, and to have been -detained a prisoner by the banditti there. On the death of his father, -he endeavoured to maintain his family by sketches in landscape or -history, which he sold to the brokers in Naples, and one of these (his -_Hagar in the Wilderness_), was noticed and purchased by the celebrated -Lanfranco, who was passing the broker’s shop in his carriage. Salvator -finding it in vain to struggle any longer with chagrin and poverty in -his native place, went to Rome, where he met with little encouragement, -and fell sick, and once more returned to Naples. An accident, or rather -the friendship of an old school-fellow, now introduced him into the -suite of the Cardinal Brancaccia, and his picture of Prometheus brought -him into general notice, and recalled him to Rome. About the same time, -he appeared in the Carnival with prodigious _eclat_ as an -_improvisatore_ and comic actor; and from this period may be dated the -commencement of his public life as a painter, a satirist, and a man of -general talents. - -Except on these few tangible points the Manuscript yawns dreadfully; but -Lady Morgan, whose wit or courage never flags, fills up the hollow -spaces, and ‘skins and films the _missing_ part,’ with an endless and -dazzling profusion of digressions, invectives, and hypotheses. It is -with pleasure that we give a specimen of the way in which she thus -magnifies trifles, and enlarges on the possibilities of her subject. -Salvator was born in 1615. As the birth of princes is announced by the -discharge of artillery and the exhibition of fireworks, her ladyship -thinks proper to usher in the birth of her hero with the following -explosion of imagery and declamation. - -‘The sweeping semicircle which the most fantastic and singular city of -Naples marks on the shore of its unrivalled bay, from the Capo di -Pausilippo to the Torrione del Carmine, is dominated by a lofty chain of -undulating hills, which take their distinctive appellations from some -local peculiarity or classical tradition. The high and insulated rock of -St. Elmo, which overtops the whole, is crowned by that terrible fortress -to which it gives its name—a fearful and impregnable citadel, that, -since the first moment when it was raised by an Austrian conqueror to -the present day, when it is garrisoned by a Bourbon with Austrian -troops, has poured down the thunder of its artillery to support the -violence, or proclaim the triumphs of foreign interference over the -rights and liberties of a long-suffering and oft-resisting people. - -‘Swelling from the base of the savage St. Elmo, smile the lovely heights -of _San Martino_, where, through chestnut woods and vineyards, gleam the -golden spires of the monastic palace of the Monks of the Certosa.[21] A -defile cut through the rocks of the _Monte Donzelle_, and shaded by the -dark pines which spring from their crevices, forms an umbrageous pathway -from this superb convent to the _Borgeo di Renella_, the little capital -of a neighbouring hill, which, for the peculiar beauty of its position, -and the views it commands, is still called “_l’ameno villaggio_.” At -night the fires of Vesuvius almost bronze the humble edifices of -Renella; and the morning sun, as it rises, discovers from various -points, the hills of Vomiro and Pausilippo, the shores of Puzzuoli and -of Baiæ, the islets of Nisiti, Capri, and Procida, till the view fades -into the extreme verge of the horizon, where the waters of the -Mediterranean seem to mingle with those clear skies whose tint and -lustre they reflect. - -‘In this true “_nido paterno_” of genius, there dwelt, in the year 1615, -an humble and industrious artist called Vito Antonia Rosa—a name even -then not unknown to the arts, though as yet more known than prosperous. -Its actual possessor, the worthy Messire Antonio, had, up to this time, -struggled with his good wife Giulia Grecca and two daughters still in -childhood, to maintain the ancient respectability of his family. Antonio -was an architect and landsurveyor of some note, but of little gains; and -if, over the old architectural portico of the Casaccia of Renella might -be read, - - “_Vito Antonio Rosa, Agremensore ed Architecto_;” - -the intimation was given in vain! Few passed through the decayed Borgo -of Renella, and still fewer, in times so fearful, were able to profit by -the talents and profession which the inscription advertised. The family -of Rosa, inconsiderable as it was, partook of the pressure of the times; -and the pretty Borgo, like its adjacent scenery, (no longer the haunt of -Consular voluptuaries, neither frequented by the great nor visited by -the curious) stood lonely and beautiful—unencumbered by those fantastic -_belvideras_ and grotesque pavilions, which in modern times rather -deform than beautify a site, for which Nature has done all, and Art can -do nothing. - -‘The cells of the Certosa, indeed, had their usual complement of lazy -monks and “_Frati conversi_.” The fortress of St. Elmo, then as now, -manned by Austrian troops, glittered with foreign pikes. The cross rose -on every acclivity, and the sword guarded every pass: but the villages -of Renella and San Martino, of the Vomiro and of Pausilippo, were -thinned of their inhabitants to recruit foreign armies; and this earthly -paradise was dreary as the desert, and silent as the tomb. - -‘The Neapolitan barons, those restless but brave feudatories, whose -resistance to their native despots preserved something of the ancient -republican spirit of their Greek predecessors, now fled from the -capital. They left its beautiful environs to Spanish viceroys, and to -their official underlings; and sullenly shut themselves up in their -domestic fortresses of the Abruzzi or of Calabria. “La Civiltà,” a class -then including the whole of the middle and professional ranks of society -of Naples, was struggling for a bare existence in the towns and cities. -Beggared by taxation levied at the will of their despots, and collected -with every aggravation of violence, its members lived under the -perpetual _surveillance_ of foreign troops and domestic _sbirri_, whose -suspicions their brooding discontents were well calculated to nourish. - -‘The people—the debased, degraded people—had reached that maximum of -suffering beyond which human endurance cannot go. They were famished in -the midst of plenty, and, in regions the most genial and salubrious, -were dying of diseases, the fearful attendants on want. Commerce was at -a stand, agriculture was neglected, and the arts, under the perpetual -dictatorship of a Spanish court-painter, had no favour but for the -_Seguaci_ of Lo Spagnuoletto. - -‘In such times of general distress and oppression, when few had the -means or the spirit to build, and still fewer had lands to measure or -property to transfer, it is little wonderful that the humble architect -and landsurveyor of Renella,’ &c. - -And so she gets down to the humble parentage of her hero; and after -telling us that his father was chiefly anxious that he should _not_ be -an artist, and that both parents resolved to dedicate him to religion, -she proceeds to record, that he gave little heed to his future vocation, -but manifested various signs of a disposition for all the fine arts. -This occasioned considerable uneasiness and opposition on the part of -those who had destined him to something very different; and ‘the cord of -paternal authority, drawn to its extreme tension, was naturally -snapped.’—And upon this her volatile pen again takes _its roving -flight_. - -‘The truant Salvatoriello fled from the restraints of an uncongenial -home, from Albert Le Grand and Santa Caterina di Sienna, and took -shelter among those sites and scenes whose imagery soon became a part of -his own intellectual existence, and were received as impressions long -before they were studied as subjects. Sometimes he was discovered by the -_Padre Cercatore_ of the convent of Renella, among the rocks and caverns -of Baiæ, the ruined temples of Gods, and the haunts of Sibyls. Sometimes -he was found by a gossip of Madonna Giulia, in her pilgrimage to a -“_maesta_,” sleeping among the wastes of the Solfatara, beneath the -scorched branches of a blasted tree, his head pillowed by lava, and his -dream most probably the vision of an infant poet’s slumbers. For even -then he was - - “the youngest he - That sat in shadow of Apollo’s tree,” - -seeing Nature with a poet’s eye, and sketching her beauties with a -painter’s hand.’ p. 45. - -Now this is well imagined and quaintly expressed; it pleases the fair -writer, and should offend nobody else. But we cannot say quite so much -of the note which is appended to it, and couched in the following terms. - -‘Rosa drew his first impressions from the magnificent scenery of -Pausilippo and Vesuvius; Hogarth found his in a pot-house at Highgate, -where a drunken quarrel and a broken nose “first woke the God within -him.” Both, however, reached the sublime in their respective -vocations—Hogarth in the grotesque, and Salvator in the majestic!’ - -Really these critics who have crossed the Alps do take liberties with -the rest of the world,—and do not recover from a certain giddiness ever -after. In the eagerness of partisanship, the fair author here falsifies -the class to which these two painters belonged. Hogarth did _not_ excel -in the ‘grotesque,’ but in the ludicrous and natural,—nor Salvator in -the ‘majestic,’ but in the wild and gloomy features of man or nature; -and in talent Hogarth had the advantage—a million to one. It would not -be too much to say, that he was probably the greatest observer of -manners, and the greatest comic genius, that ever lived. We know no one, -whether painter, poet, or prose-writer, not even Shakspeare, who, in his -peculiar department, was so teeming with life and invention, so -over-informed with matter, so ‘full to overflowing,’ as Hogarth was. We -shall not attempt to calculate the quantity of pleasure and amusement -his pictures have afforded, for it is quite incalculable. As to the -distinction between ‘high and low’ in matters of genius, we shall leave -it to her Ladyship’s other critics. But shall Hogarth’s world of truth -and nature (his huge total farce of human life) be reduced to ‘a drunken -quarrel and a broken nose?’ We will not retort this sneer by any insult -to Salvator; he did not paint his pictures in opposition to Hogarth. -There is an air about his landscapes sacred to our imaginations, though -different from the close atmosphere of Hogarth’s scenes; and not the -less so, because the latter could paint something better than ‘a broken -nose.’ Nothing provokes us more than these exclusive and invidious -comparisons, which seek to raise one man of genius by setting down -another, and which suppose that there is nothing to admire in the -greatest talents, unless they can be made a foil to bring out the weak -points or nominal imperfections of some fancied rival. - -We might transcribe, for the entertainment of the reader, the passage to -which we have already referred, describing Salvator’s departure, in the -company of his father, for the college of the _Congregazione Somasco_; -but we prefer one which, though highly coloured and somewhat dramatic, -is more to our purpose—the commencement of Salvator’s studies as an -artist under his brother-in-law Francanzani. We cannot, however, do this -at once: for, in endeavouring to lay our hands upon the passage, we were -as usual intercepted by showers of roses and clouds of perfume. Lady -Morgan’s style resembles ‘another morn risen on mid-noon.’ We must make -a career therefore with the historian, and reach the temple of painting -through the sounding portico of music. It appears that Salvator, after -he left the brotherhood of the _Somasco_, with more poetry than logic in -his head, devoted himself to music; and Lady Morgan preludes her -narration with the following eloquent passage. - -‘All Naples—(where even to this day love and melody make a part of the -existence of the people)—all Naples was then resounding to guitars, -lutes and harps, accompanying voices, which forever sang the fashionable -_canzoni_ of Cambio Donato, and of the Prince di Venusa.[22] Neither -German phlegm, nor Spanish gloom, could subdue spirits so tuned to -harmony, nor silence the passionate _serenatas_ which floated along the -shores, and reverberated among the classic grottoes of Pausilippo. -Vesuvius blazed, St. Elmo thundered from its heights, conspiracy brooded -in the caves of Baiæ, and tyranny tortured its victim in the dungeons of -the Castello Nuovo; yet still the ardent Neapolitans, amidst all the -horrors of their social and political _position_,[23] could snatch -moments of blessed forgetfulness, and, reckless of their country’s woes -and their own degradation, could give up hours to love and music, which -were already numbered in the death-warrants of their tyrants.... It was -at this moment, when peculiar circumstances were awakening in the region -of the syrens “the hidden soul of harmony,” when the most beautiful -women of the capital and the court gave a public exhibition of their -talents and _their charms_, and glided in their feluccas on the -moonlight midnight seas, with harps of gold and hands of snow, that the -contumacious students of the _Padri Somaschi_ escaped from the -restraints of their cloisters, and the horrid howl of their _laude -spirituali_, to all the intoxication of sound and sight, with every -sense in full accordance with the musical passion of the day. It is -little wonderful, if, at this epoch of his life, Salvator gave himself -up unresistingly to the pursuit of a science, which he cultivated with -ardour, even when time had preached his tumultuous pulse to rest; or if -the floating capital of genius, which was as yet unappropriated, was in -part applied to that species of composition, which, in the youth of man -as of nations, precedes deeper and more important studies, and for -which, in either, there is but one age. All poetry and passion, his -young Muse “dallied with the innocence of love;” and inspired strains, -which, though the simple breathings of an ardent temperament, the -exuberance of youthful excitement, and an overteeming sensibility, were -assigning him a place among the first Italian lyrists of his age. Little -did he then dream that posterity would apply the rigid rules of -criticism to the “idle visions” of his boyish fancy; or that his bars -and basses would be conned and analyzed by the learned umpires of future -ages—declared “not only admirable for a _dilettante_, but, in point of -melody, superior to that of most of the masters of his time.”[24] - - * * * * * - -‘It happened at this careless, gay, but not idle period of Salvator’s -life, than an event occurred which hurried on his vocation to that art, -to which his parents were so determined that he should _not_ addict -himself, but to which Nature had so powerfully directed him. His -probation of adolescence was passed: his hour was come; and he was about -to approach that temple whose threshold he modestly and poetically -declared himself unworthy to pass. - - “Del immortalide al tempio augusto - Dove serba la gloria e i suoi tesori.” - -‘At one of the popular festivities annually celebrated at Naples in -honour of the Madonna, the beauty of Rosa’s elder sister captivated the -attention of a young painter, who, though through life unknown to -“fortune,” was not even then “unknown to fame.” The celebrated and -unfortunate Francesco Francanzani, the inamorata of La Signorina Rosa, -was a distinguished pupil of the Spagnuoletto school; and his picture of -San Giuseppe, for the Chiesa Pellegrini, had already established him as -one of the first painters of his day. Francanzani, like most of the -young Neapolitan painters of his time, was a turbulent and factious -character, vain and self-opinionated; and, though there was in his works -a certain grandeur of style, with great force and depth of colouring, -yet the impatience of his disappointed ambition, and indignation at the -neglect of his acknowledged merit, already rendered him reckless of -public opinion.[25] - -‘It was the peculiar vanity of the painters of that day to have -beautiful wives. Albano had set the example’—[as if any example need be -set, or the thing had been done in concert]—‘Domenichino followed it to -his cost; Rubens turned it to the account of his profession; and -Francanzani, still poor and struggling, married the portionless daughter -of the most indigent artist in Naples, and thought perhaps more of the -model than the wife. This union, and, still more, a certain sympathy in -talent and character between the brothers-in-law, frequently carried -Salvator to the _stanza_ or work-room of Francesco. Francesco, by some -years the elder, was then deep in the faction and intrigues of the -Neapolitan school; and was endowed with that bold eloquence, which, -displayed upon bold occasions, is always so captivating to young -auditors. It was at the foot of his kinsman’s easel, and listening to -details which laid perhaps the foundation of that contemptuous opinion -he cherished through life for schools, academies, and all incorporated -pedantry and pretension,[26] that Salvator occasionally amused himself -in copying, on any scrap of _board_ or paper which fell in his way, -whatever pleased him in Francesco’s pictures. His long-latent genius -thus accidentally awakened, resembled the _acqua buja_, whose cold and -placid surface kindles like spirits on the contact of a spark. In these -first, rude, and hasty sketches, Francanzani, as Passeri informs us, saw -“_molti segni d’un indole spirituosa_” (great signs of talent and -genius); and he frequently encouraged, and sometimes corrected, the -copies _which so nearly approached the originals_. But Salvator, who was -destined to imitate none, but to be imitated by many, soon grew -impatient of repeating another’s conceptions, and of following in an art -in which he already perhaps felt, with prophetic throes, that he was -born to lead. His visits to the workshop of Francanzani grew less -frequent; his days were given to the scenes of his infant wanderings; he -departed with the dawn, laden with his portfolio filled with primed -paper, and a pallet covered with oil colours; and it is said, that even -then he not only sketched, but coloured from nature. When the pedantry -of criticism (at the suggestion of envious rivals) accused him of having -acquired, in his colouring, too much of the _impasting_ of the -_Spagnuoletto_ school, it was not aware that his faults, like his -beauties, were original; and that he sinned against the rules of art, -only because he adhered too faithfully to nature.’—[Salvator’s flesh -colour is as remarkably dingy and _Spagnuolettish_, as the tone of his -landscapes is fresh and clear.]—‘Returning from these arduous but not -profitless rambles, through wildernesses and along precipices, -impervious to all save the enterprise of fearless genius, he sought -shelter beneath his sister’s roof, where a kinder welcome awaited him -than he could find in that home where it had been decreed from his birth -that _he should not be a painter_. - -‘Francanzani was wont, on the arrival of his brother-in-law, to rifle -the contents of his portfolio; and he frequently found there -compositions hastily thrown together, but selected, drawn, and coloured -with a boldness and a breadth, which indicated the confidence of a -genius sure of itself. The first accents of “the thrilling melody of -sweet renown” which ever vibrated to the heart of Salvator, came to his -ear on these occasions in the Neapolitan _patois_ of his relation, who, -in glancing by lamp-light over his labours, would pat him smilingly on -the head, and exclaim, “_Fruscia, fruscia, Salvatoriello—che va buono_,” -(“Go on, go on, this is good”)—simple plaudits! but frequently -remembered in after-times (when the dome of the Pantheon had already -rung with the admiration extorted by his Regulus) as the first which -cheered him in his arduous progress.’ p. 94. - -The reader cannot fail to observe here how well every thing is made out: -how agreeably every thing is assumed: how difficulties are smoothed -over, little abruptnesses rounded off: how each circumstance falls into -its place just as it should, and answers to a preconceived idea, like -the march of a verse or the measure of a dance: and how completely that -imaginary justice is everywhere done to the subject, which, according to -Lord Bacon, gives poetry so decided an advantage over history! Yet this -is one of our fair authoress’s most severe and literal passages. Her -prose-Muse is furnished with wings; and the breeze of Fancy carries her -off her feet from the plain ground of matter-of-fact, whether she will -or no. Lady Morgan, in this part of her subject, takes occasion to -animadvert on an opinion of Sir Joshua’s respecting our artist’s choice -of a particular style of landscape painting. - -‘_Salvator Rosa_,’ says Sir J. Reynolds, ‘_saw the necessity of trying -some new source of pleasing the public in his works. The world were -tired of Claude Lorraine’s and G. Poussin’s long train of imitators._’ - -‘_Salvator therefore struck into a wild, savage kind of nature, which -was new and striking._’ - -‘The first of these paragraphs contains a strange anachronism. When -Salvator _struck into a new line_, Poussin and Claude, who, though his -elders, were his contemporaries, had as yet no train of imitators. The -one was struggling for a livelihood in France, the other was cooking and -grinding colours for his master at Rome. Salvator’s early attachment to -Nature in her least imitated forms, was not the result of speculation -having any reference to the public: it was the operation of original -genius, and of those particular tendencies which seemed to be breathed -into his soul at the moment it first quickened. From his cradle to his -tomb he was the creature of impulse, and the slave of his own vehement -volitions.’—_Note_, p. 97–8. - -We think this is spirited and just. Sir Joshua, who borrowed from almost -all his predecessors in art, was now and then a little too ready to -detract from them. We dislike these attempts to explain away successful -talent into a species of studied imposture—to attribute genius to a -plot, originality to a trick. Burke, in like manner, accused Rousseau of -the same kind of _malice prepense_ in bringing forward his paradoxes—as -if he did it on a theory, or to astonish the public, and not to give -vent to his peculiar humours and singularity of temperament. - -We next meet with a poetical version of a picturesque tour undertaken by -Salvator among the mountains of the Abruzzi, and of his detention by the -banditti there. We have much fine writing on the subject; but after a -world of charming theories and romantic conjectures, it is left quite -doubtful whether this last event ever took place at all—at least we -could wish there was some better confirmation of it than a vague rumour, -and an etching by Salvator of a ‘_Youth taken captive by banditti, with -a female figure pleading his cause_,’ which the historian at once -identifies with the adventures of the artist himself, and ‘moralizes -into a thousand similes.’ We are indemnified for the dearth of -satisfactory evidence on this point by animated and graceful transitions -to the history and manners of the Neapolitan banditti, their -physiognomical distinctions and political intrigues, to the grand -features of mountain scenery, and to the character of Salvator’s style, -founded on all these exciting circumstances, real or imaginary. On the -death of his father, Vito Antonio, which happened when he was about -seventeen, the family were thrown on his hands for support, and he -struggled for some time with want and misery, which he endeavoured to -relieve by his hard bargains with the _rivenditori_ (picture-dealers) in -the _Strada della Carità_, till necessity and chagrin forced him to fly -to Rome. The purchase of his _Hagar_ by Lanfranco is the only bright -streak in this period of his life, which cheered him for a moment with -faint delusive hope. - -The art of writing may be said to consist in thinking of nothing but -one’s subject: the art of book-making, on the contrary, can only subsist -on the principle of laying hands on everything that can supply the place -of it. The author of the ‘Life and Times of Salvator Rosa,’ though -devoted to her hero, does not scruple to leave him sometimes, and to -occupy many pages with his celebrated contemporaries, Domenichino, -Lanfranco, Caravaggio, and the sculptor Bernini, the most splendid -coxcomb in the history of art, and the spoiled child of vanity and -patronage. Before we take leave of Naples, we must introduce our readers -to some of this good company, and pay our court in person. We shall -begin with Caravaggio, one of the _characteristic_ school both in mind -and manners. The account is too striking in many respects to be passed -over, and affords a fine lesson on the excesses and untamed -irregularities of men of genius. - -‘In the early part of the seventeenth century, the manner of the -Neapolitan school was purely _Caravaggesque_. Michael Angelo Amoreghi, -better known as _Il Caravaggio_ (from the place of his birth in the -Milanese, where his father held no higher rank than that of a stone -mason), was one of those powerful and extraordinary geniuses which are -destined by their force and originality to influence public taste, and -master public opinion, in whatever line they start. The Roman School, to -which the almost celestial genius of Raphael had so long been as a -tutelary angel, sinking rapidly into degradation and feebleness, -suddenly arose again under the influence of a new chief, whose -professional talent and personal character stood opposed in the strong -relief of contrast to that of his elegant and poetical predecessor. - -‘The influence of this “_uomo intractabile e brutale_,” this _passionate -and intractable man_, as he is termed by an Italian historian of the -arts, sprang from the depression of the school which preceded him. -Nothing less than the impulsion given by the force of contrast, and the -shock occasioned by a violent change, could have produced an effect on -the sinking art such as proceeded from the strength and even coarseness -of Caravaggio. He brought back nature triumphant over mannerism—nature, -indeed, in all the exaggeration of strong motive and overbearing -volition; but still it _was_ nature; and his bold example dissipated the -languor of exhausted imitation, and gave excitement even to the tamest -mediocrity and the feeblest conception.... When on his first arrival in -Rome (says Bellori) the cognoscenti advised him to study from the -antiques, and take Raphael as his model, he used to point to the -promiscuous groups of men and women passing before him, and say, “those -were the models and the masters provided him by Nature.” Teased one day -by a pedant on the subject, he stopped a gipsey-girl who was passing by -his window, called her in, placed her near his easel, and produced his -splendid _Zingara in atto di predire l’avventure_, his well-known and -exquisite Egyptian Fortune-teller. His _Gamblers_ was done in the same -manner. - -‘The temperament which produced this peculiar genius was necessarily -violent and gloomy. Caravaggio tyrannized over his school, and attacked -his rivals with other arms than those of his art. He was a professed -duellist; and having killed one of his antagonists in a rencontre, he -fled to Naples, where an asylum was readily granted him. His manner as a -painter, his character as a man, were both calculated to succeed with -the Neapolitan school; and the _maniera Caravaggesca_ thenceforward -continued to distinguish its productions, till the art, there, as -throughout all Europe, fell into utter degradation, and became lost -almost as completely as it had been under the Lower Empire. - -‘In a warm dispute with one of his own young friends in a tennis-court, -he had struck him dead with a racket, having been himself severely -wounded. Notwithstanding the triumphs with which he was loaded in -Naples, where he executed some of his finest pictures, he soon got weary -of his residence there, and went to Malta. His superb picture of the -Grand Master obtained for him the cross of Malta, a rich golden chain, -placed on his neck by the Grand Master’s own hands, and two slaves to -attend him. But all these honours did not prevent the new knight from -falling into his old habits. _Il suo torbido ingegno_, says Bellori, -plunged him into new difficulties; he fought and wounded a noble -cavalier, was thrown into prison by the Grand Master, escaped most -miraculously, fled to Syracuse, and obtained the suffrages of the -Syracusans by painting his splendid picture of the _Santa Morte_, for -the church of Santa Lucia. In apprehension of being taken by the Maltese -knights, he fled to Messina, from thence to Palermo, and returned to -Naples, where hopes were given him of the Pope’s pardon. Here, picking a -quarrel with some military men at an inn door, he was wounded, took -refuge on board a felucca, and set sail for Rome. Arrested by a Spanish -guard, at a little port (where the felucca cast anchor), by mistake, for -another person, when released he found the felucca gone, and in it all -his property. Traversing the burning shore under a vertical sun, he was -seized with a brain-fever, and continued to wander through the deserts -of the Pontine Marshes, till he arrived at Porto Ercoli, when he expired -in his fortieth year.’ p. 139. - -We have seen some of the particulars differently related; but this -account is as probable as any; and it conveys a startling picture of the -fate of a man led away by headstrong passions and the pride of -talents,—an intellectual outlaw, having no regard to the charities of -life, nor knowledge of his own place in the general scale of being. How -different, how superior, and yet how little more fortunate, was the -amiable and accomplished Domenichino (the ‘most sensible of painters’), -who was about this time employed in painting the dome of St. Januarius! - -‘Domenichino reluctantly accepted the invitation (1629); and he arrived -in Naples with the zeal of a martyr devoted to a great cause, but with a -melancholy foreboding, which harassed his noble spirit, and but ill -prepared him for the persecution he was to encounter. Lodged under the -special protection of the _Deputati_, in the _Palazzo dell’ -Arcivescovato_, adjoining the church, on going forth from his sumptuous -dwelling the day after his arrival, he found a paper addressed to him -sticking in the key-hole of his anteroom. It informed him, that if he -did not instantly return to Rome, he should never return there with -life. Domenichino immediately presented himself to the Spanish viceroy, -the _Conte Monterei_, and claimed protection for a life then employed in -the service of the church. The piety of the count, in spite of his -partiality to the faction [of Spagnuoletto], induced him to pledge the -word of a grandee of Spain, that Domenichino should not be molested; and -from that moment a life, no longer openly assailed, was embittered by -all that the littleness of malignant envy could invent to undermine its -enjoyments and blast its hopes. Calumnies against his character, -criticisms on his paintings, ashes mixed with his colours, and anonymous -letters, were the miserable means to which his rivals resorted; and to -complete their work of malignity, they induced the viceroy to order -pictures from him for the Court of Madrid; and when these were little -more than laid in in dead colours, they were carried to the viceregal -palace, and placed in the hands of Spagnuoletto to retouch and alter at -pleasure. In this disfigured and mutilated condition, they were -despatched to the gallery of the King of Spain. Thus drawn from his -great works by despotic authority, for the purpose of effecting his -ruin, enduring the complaints of the _Deputati_, who saw their -commission neglected, and suffering from perpetual calumnies and -persecutions, Domenichino left the superb picture of the _Martyrdom of -San Gennaro_, which is now receiving the homage of posterity, and fled -to Rome; taking shelter in the solemn shades of Frescati, where he -resided some time under the protection of Cardinal Ippolito -Aldobrandini. It was at this period that Domenichino was visited by his -biographer Passeri, then an obscure youth, engaged to assist in the -repairs of the pictures in the cardinal’s chapel. “When we arrived at -Frescati,” says Passeri in his simple style, “Domenichino received me -with much courtesy; and hearing that I took a singular delight in the -belles-lettres, it increased his kindness to me. I remember me, that I -gazed on this man as though he were an angel. I remained till the end of -September, occupied in restoring the chapel of St. Sebastian, which had -been ruined by the damp. Sometimes Domenichino would join us, singing -delightfully to recreate himself as well as he could. When night set in -we returned to our apartment, while he most frequently remained in his -own, occupied in drawing, and permitting none to see him. Sometimes, -however, to pass the time, he drew caricatures of us all, and of the -inhabitants of the villa; and when he succeeded to his satisfaction, he -was wont to indulge in immoderate fits of laughter; and we, who were in -the adjoining room, would run in to know his reason, and then he showed -us his spirited sketches (_spiritose galanterie_). He drew a caricature -of me with a guitar, one of Canini the painter, and one of the guarda -roba, who was lame with the gout, and of the subguarda roba, a most -ridiculous figure. To prevent our being offended, he also caricatured -himself. These portraits are now preserved by Signor Giovanni Pietro -Bellori in his study.” _Vita di Domenichino._—Obliged, however, at -length, to return to Naples to fulfil his fatal engagements, overwhelmed -both in mind and body by the persecutions of his _soi-disant_ patrons -and his open enemies, he died, says Passeri, “_fra mille crepacuori_,” -amidst a _thousand heart-breakings_, with some suspicion of having been -poisoned, in 1641.’ p. 150. - -We could wish Lady Morgan had preserved more of this _simple style of -Passeri_. We confess we prefer it to her own more brilliant and -artificial one; for instance, to such passages as the following, -describing Salvator’s first entrance into the city of Rome. - -‘In entering the greatest city of the world at the Ave Maria, the hour -of Italian recreation’—(Why must he have entered it at this hour, except -for the purpose of giving the author an apology for the following -eloquent reflections?)—‘in passing from the silent desolate suburbs of -San Giovanni to the Corso (then a place of crowded and populous resort), -where the princes of the Conclave presented themselves in all the pomp -and splendour of Oriental satraps, the feelings of the young and -solitary stranger must have suffered a revulsion, in the consciousness -of his own misery. Never, perhaps, in the deserts of the Abruzzi, in the -solitudes of Otranto, or in the ruins of Pæstum, did Salvator experience -sensations of such utter loneliness, as in the midst of this gaudy and -multitudinous assemblage; for in the history of melancholy _sensations_ -there are few comparable to that _sense_ of _isolation_, to that -_desolateness_ of soul, which accompanies the first entrance of the -friendless on a world where all, save they, have ties, pursuits, and -homes.’ p. 174. - -When we come to passages like this, so buoyant, so airy, and so -brilliant, we wish we could forget that history is not a pure voluntary -effusion of sentiment, and that we could fancy ourselves reading a page -of Mrs. Radcliffe’s Italian, or Miss Porter’s Thaddeus of Warsaw! -Presently after, we learn, that ‘Milton and Salvator, who, in genius, -character, and political views, bore no faint resemblance to each other, -though living at the same time both in Rome and Naples, remained -mutually unknown. The obscure and indigent young painter had, doubtless, -no means of presenting himself to the great republican poet of -England;—if, indeed, he had then ever heard of one so destined to -illustrate the age in which both flourished.’—p. 176. This is the least -apposite of all our author’s critical juxtapositions; if we except the -continual running parallel between Salvator, Shakspeare, and Lord Byron, -as the three demons of the imagination personified. Modern critics can -no more confer rank in the lists of fame, than modern heralds can -confound new and old nobility. - -Salvator’s first decided success at Rome, or in his profession, was in -his picture of Prometheus, exhibited in the Pantheon, when he was -little more than twenty, and which stamped his reputation as an artist -from that time forward, though it did not lay the immediate foundation -of his fortune. In this respect, his rejection by the Academy of St. -Luke, and the hostility of Bernini, threw very considerable obstacles -in his way. Lady Morgan celebrates the success of this picture at -sufficient length, and with enthusiastic sympathy, and accompanies the -successive completion of his great historical efforts afterwards, the -_Regulus_, the _Purgatory_, the _Job_, the _Saul_, and the _Conspiracy -of Catiline_, with appropriate comments; but, as we are tainted with -heresy on this subject, we shall decline entering into it, farther -than to say generally, that we think the colouring of Salvator’s flesh -dingy, his drawing meagre, his expressions coarse or violent, and his -choice of subjects morose and monotonous. The figures in his -landscape-compositions are admirable for their spirit, force, wild -interest, and daring character; but, in our judgment, they cannot -stand alone as high history, nor, by any means, claim the first rank -among epic or dramatic productions. His landscapes, on the contrary, -as we have said before, have a boldness of conception, a unity of -design, and felicity of execution, which, if it does not fill the mind -with the highest sense of beauty or grandeur, assigns them a place by -themselves, which invidious comparison cannot approach or divide with -any competitor. They are original and _perfect_ in their kind; and -that kind is one that the imagination requires for its solace and -support; is always glad to return to, and is never ashamed of, the -wild and abstracted scenes of nature. Having said thus much by way of -explanation, we hope we shall be excused from going farther into the -details of an obnoxious hypercriticism, to which we feel an equal -repugnance as professed worshippers of fame and genius! Our readers -will prefer, to our sour and fastidious (perhaps perverse) criticism, -the lively account which is here given of Salvator’s first appearance -in a new character—one of the masks of the Roman carnival—which had -considerable influence in his subsequent pursuits and success in life. - -‘Towards the close of the Carnival in 1639, when the spirits of the -revellers (as is always the case in Rome) were making a brilliant rally -for the representations of the last week, a car, or stage, highly -ornamented, drawn by oxen, and occupied by a masked troop, attracted -universal attention by its novelty and singular representations. The -principal personage announced himself as a certain Signor Formica, a -Neapolitan actor, who, in the character of Coviello, a charlatan, -displayed so much genuine wit, such bitter satire, and exquisite humour, -rendered doubly effective by a Neapolitan accent and national -gesticulations, that other representations were abandoned; and gipsies -told fortunes, and Jews hung in vain. The whole population of Rome -gradually assembled round the novel, the inimitable Formica. The people -relished his flashes of splenetic humour aimed at the great; the higher -orders were delighted with an _improvisatore_, who, in the intervals of -his dialogues, sung to the lute, of which he was a perfect master, the -Neapolitan ballads, then so much in vogue. The attempts made by his -fellow-revellers to obtain some share of the plaudits he so abundantly -received, whether he spoke or sung, asked or answered questions, were -all abortive; while he, (says Baldinucci), “at the head of every thing -by his wit, eloquence, and brilliant humour, drew half Rome to himself.” -The contrast between his beautiful musical and poetical compositions, -and those Neapolitan gesticulations in which he indulged, when, laying -aside his lute, he presented his vials and salves to the delighted -audience, exhibited a versatility of genius, which it was difficult to -attribute to any individual then known in Rome. Guesses and suppositions -were still vainly circulating among all classes, when, on the close of -the Carnival, Formica, ere he drove his triumphal car from the Piazza -Navona, which, with one of the streets in the Trasevere, had been the -principal scene of his triumph, ordered his troop to raise their masks, -and, removing his own, discovered that Coviello was the sublime author -of the Prometheus, and his little troop the “Partigiani” of Salvator -Rosa. All Rome was from this moment (to use a phrase which all his -biographers have adopted) “_filled with his fame_.” That notoriety which -his high genius had failed to procure for him, was obtained at once by -those lighter talents which he had nearly suffered to fall into neglect, -while more elevated views had filled his mind.’ p. 253. - -Lady Morgan then gives a very learned and sprightly account of the -characters of the old Italian comedy, with a notice of Moliere, and -sprinklings of general reading, from which we have not room for an -extract. Salvator, after this event, became the rage in Rome; his -society and conversation were much sought after, and his _improvisatore_ -recitations of his own poetry, in which he sketched the outline of his -future Satires, were attended by some of the greatest wits and most -eminent scholars of the age. He on one occasion gave a burlesque comedy -in ridicule of Bernini, the favourite court-artist. This attack drew on -him a resentment, the consequences of which, ‘like a wounded snake, -dragged their slow length’ through the rest of his life. Those who are -the loudest and bitterest in their complaints of persecution and -ill-usage are the first to provoke it. In the warfare waged so fondly -and (as it is at last discovered) so unequally with the world, the -assailants and the sufferers will be generally found to be the same -persons. We would not, by this indirect censure of Salvator, be -understood to condemn or discourage those who have an inclination to go -on the same _forlorn hope_: we merely wish to warn them of the nature of -the service, and that they ought not to prepare for a triumph, but a -martyrdom! If they are ambitious of that, let them take their course. - -Salvator’s success in his new attempt threw him in some measure, from -this time forward, into the career of comedy and letters: painting, -however, still remained his principal pursuit and strongest passion. His -various talents and agreeable accomplishments procured him many friends -and admirers, though his hasty temper and violent pretensions often -defeated their good intentions towards him. He wanted to force his -Histories down the throats of the public and of private individuals, who -came to purchase his pictures, and turned from, and even insulted those -who praised his landscapes. This jealousy of a man’s self, and -quarrelling with the favourable opinion of the world, because it does -not exactly accord with our own view of our merits, is one of the most -tormenting and incurable of all follies. We subjoin the two following -remarkable instances of it. - -‘The Prince Francesco Ximenes having arrived in Rome, found time, in the -midst of the honours paid to him, to visit Salvator Rosa; and, being -received by the artist in his gallery, he told him frankly, that he had -come for the purpose of seeing and purchasing some of those beautiful -small landscapes, whose manner and subjects had delighted him in many -foreign galleries.—“Be it known then to your Excellency,” interrupted -Rosa impetuously, “that _I know nothing of landscape-painting_! -Something indeed I do know of painting _figures_ and _historical -subjects_, which I strive to exhibit to such eminent judges as yourself, -in order that once for all I may banish from the public mind that -fantastic humour of supposing I am a landscape, and not an historical -painter.” - -‘Shortly after, a very rich cardinal, whose name is not recorded, called -on Salvator to purchase some pictures; and as his Eminence walked up and -down the gallery, he always paused before some certain _quadretti_, and -never before the historical subjects, while Salvator muttered from time -to time between his clenched teeth, “_Sempre, sempre, pæsi piccoli_.” -When at last the Cardinal glanced his eye over some great historical -picture, and carelessly asked the price as a sort of company question, -Salvator bellowed forth “_Un milione_.” His Eminence, stunned or -offended, hurried away, and returned no more.’ - -Other stories are told of the like import. And yet if Salvator had been -more satisfied in his own mind of the superiority of his historical -pictures, he would have been less anxious to make others converts to his -opinion. So shrewd a man ought to have been aware of the force of the -proverb about _nursing the ricketty child_. - -One of the most creditable _traits_ in the character of Salvator is the -friendship of Carlo Rossi, a wealthy Roman citizen, who raised his -prices and built a chapel to his memory; and one of the most pleasant -and flattering to his talents is the rivalry of Messer Agli, an old -Bolognese merchant, who came all the way to Florence (while Salvator was -residing there) to enter the lists with him as the clown and -quack-doctor of the _commedia della arte_. - -We loiter on the way with Lady Morgan—which is a sign that we do not -dislike her company, and that our occasional severity is less real than -affected. She opens many pleasant vistas, and calls up numerous themes -of never-failing interest. Would that we could wander with her under the -azure skies and golden sunsets of Claude Lorraine, amidst classic groves -and temples, and flocks, and herds, and winding streams, and distant -hills and glittering sunny vales, - - ——‘Where universal Pan, - Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance, - Leads on the eternal spring;’— - -or repose in Gaspar Poussin’s cool grottos, or on his breezy summits, or -by his sparkling waterfalls!—but we must not indulge too long in these -delightful dreams. Time presses, and we must on. It is mentioned in this -part of the narrative which treats of Salvator’s contemporaries and -great rivals in landscape, that Claude Lorraine, besides his natural -stupidity in all other things, was six-and-thirty before he began to -paint (almost the age at which Raphael died), and in ten years after -was—what no other human being ever was or will be. The lateness of the -period at which he commenced his studies, render those unrivalled -masterpieces which he has left behind him to all posterity a greater -miracle than they would otherwise be. One would think that perfection -required at least a whole life to attain it. Lady Morgan has described -this divine artist very prettily and poetically; but her description of -Gaspar Poussin is as fine, and might in some places be mistaken for that -of his rival. This is not as it should be; since the distance is -immeasurable between the productions of Claude Lorraine and all other -landscapes whatever—with the single exception of Titian’s -backgrounds.[27] Sir Joshua Reynolds used to say (such was his opinion -of the faultless beauty of his style), that ‘there would be another -Raphael before there was another Claude!’ - -The first volume of the present work closes with a spirited account of -the short-lived revolution at Naples, brought about by the celebrated -Massaniello. Salvator contrived to be present at one of the meetings of -the patriotic conspirators by torchlight, and has left a fine sketch of -the unfortunate leader. An account of this memorable transaction will be -found in Robertson, and a still more striking and genuine one in the -Memoirs of Cardinal de Retz. - -We must hasten through the second volume with more rapid strides. -Salvator, after the failure and death of Massaniello, returned to Rome, -disappointed, disheartened, and gave vent to his feelings on this -occasion by his two poems, _La Babilonia_, and _La Guerra_, which are -full of the spirit of love and hatred, of enthusiasm and bitterness.[28] -About the same time, he painted his two allegorical pictures of ‘Human -Frailty,’ and ‘Fortune.’ These were exhibited in the Pantheon; and from -the sensation they excited, and the sinister comments that were made on -them, had nearly conducted Salvator to the Inquisition. In the picture -of ‘Fortune,’ more particularly, ‘the nose of one powerful ecclesiastic, -and the eye of another, were detected in the brutish physiognomy of the -swine who were treading pearls and flowers under their feet; a Cardinal -was recognised in an ass scattering with his hoof the laurel and myrtle -which lay in his path, and in an old goat reposing on roses. Some there -were who even fancied the infallible lover of Donna Olympia, the Sultana -Queen of the Quirinal! The cry of atheism and sedition—of contempt of -established authorities—was thus raised under the influence of private -pique and long-cherished envy. It soon found an echo in the painted -walls where the Conclave sat “in close divan,” and it was bandied about -from mouth to mouth till it reached the ears of the Inquisitor, within -the dark recesses of his house of terrors.’ II. 20. - -The consequence was, that our artist was obliged to fly from Rome, after -waiting a little to see if the storm would blow over, and to seek an -asylum in the court of the Grand Duke of Tuscany at Florence. Here he -passed some of the happiest years of his life, flattered by princes, -feasting nobles, conversing with poets, receiving the suggestions of -critics, painting landscapes or history as he liked best, composing and -reciting his own verses, and making a fortune, which he flung away again -as soon as he had made it, with the characteristic improvidence of -genius. Of the gay, careless, and friendly intercourse in which he -passed his time, the following passages give a very lively intimation. - -‘It happened that Rosa, in one of those fits of idleness to which even -his strenuous spirit was occasionally liable, flung down his pencil, and -sallied forth to communicate the infection of his _far niente_ to his -friend Lippi. On entering his _studio_, however, he found him labouring -with great impetuosity on the back-ground of his picture of the _Flight -into Egypt_; but in such sullen vehemence, or in such evident -ill-humour, that Salvator demanded, “Che fai, amico?”—“What am I about?” -said Lippi; “I am going mad with vexation. Here is one of my best -pictures ruined: I am under a spell, and cannot even draw the branch of -a tree, nor a tuft of herbage.”—“Signore Dio!” exclaimed Rosa, twisting -the paletti off his friend’s thumb, “what colours are here?” and -scraping them off, and gently pushing away Lippi, he took his place, -murmuring, “Let me see! who knows but I may help you out of the scrape?” -Half in jest and half in earnest, he began to touch and retouch, and -change, till nightfall found him at the easel, finishing one of the best -back-ground landscapes he ever painted. All Florence came the next day -to look at his _chef-d’œuvre_, and the first artists of the age took it -as a study. - -‘A few days afterwards, Salvator called upon Lippi, found him preparing -a canvas, while Malatesta read aloud to him and Ludovico Seranai the -astronomer, the MS. of his poem of the Sphynx. Salvator, with a -noiseless step, took his seat in an old Gothic window, and, placing -himself in a listening attitude, with a bright light falling through -stained glass upon his fine head, produced a splendid study, of which -Lippi, without a word of his intention, availed himself; and executed, -with incredible rapidity, the finest picture of Salvator that was ever -painted. Several copies of it were taken with Lippi’s permission, and -Ludovico Seranai purchased the original at a considerable price. In this -picture Salvator is dressed in a cloth habit, with richly slashed -sleeves, turnovers, and a collar. It is only a head and bust, and the -eyes are looking towards the spectator.’ II. 66. - -At one time, his impatience at being separated from Carlo Rossi and -other friends was so great, that he narrowly risked his safety to obtain -an interview with them. About three years after he had been at Florence, -he took post-horses, and set off for Rome at midnight. Having arrived at -an inn in the suburbs, he despatched messages to eighteen of his -friends, who all came, thinking he had got into some new scrape; -breakfasted with them, and returned to Florence, before his Roman -persecutors or his Tuscan friends were aware of his adventure. - -Salvator, however, was discontented even with this splendid lot, and -sought to embower himself in entire seclusion, and in deeper bliss, in -the palace of the Counts Maffei at Volterra, and in the solitudes in its -neighbourhood. Here he wandered night and morn, drinking in that slow -poison of reflection which his soul loved best—planning his _Catiline -Conspiracy_—preparing his Satires for the press—and weeding out their -Neapolitanisms, in which he was assisted by the fine taste and quick -tact of his friend Redi. This appears to have been the only part of his -life to which he looked back with pleasure or regret. He however left -this enviable retreat soon after, to return to Rome, partly for family -reasons, and partly, no doubt, because the deepest love of solitude and -privacy does not wean the mind, that has once felt the feverish -appetite, from the desire of popularity and distinction. Here, then, he -planted himself on the Monte Pincio, in a house situated between those -of Claude Lorraine and Nicholas Poussin—and used to walk out of an -evening on the fine promenade near it, at the head of a group of gay -cavaliers, musicians, and aspiring artists; while Nicholas Poussin, the -very genius of antiquity personified, and now bent down with age -himself, led another band of reverential disciples, side by side, with -some learned virtuoso or pious churchman! Meantime, commissions poured -in upon Salvator, and he painted successively his _Jonas_ for the King -of Denmark—his _Battle-piece_ for Louis XIV., still in the Museum at -Paris—and, lastly, to his infinite delight, an Altar-piece for one of -the churches in Rome. Salvator, about this time, seems to have imbibed -(even before he was lectured on his want of economy by the _Fool_ at the -house of his friend Minucci) some idea of making the best use of his -time and talents. - -‘The Constable Colonna (it is reported) sent a purse of gold to Salvator -Rosa on receiving one of his beautiful landscapes. The painter, not to -be outdone in generosity, sent the prince another picture, as a -present,—which the prince insisted on remunerating with another purse; -another present and another purse followed; and this struggle between -generosity and liberality continued, to the tune of many other pictures -and presents, until the prince, finding himself a loser by the contest, -sent Salvator two purses, with an assurance that he gave in, _et lui -céda le champ de bataille_.’ - -Salvator was tenacious in demanding the highest prices for his pictures, -and brooking no question as to any abatement; but when he had promised -his friend Ricciardi a picture, he proposed to restrict himself to a -subject of one or two figures; and they had nearly a quarrel about it. - -‘In April 1662,’ says his biographer, ‘and not long after his return to -Rome, his love of wild and mountainous scenery, and perhaps his -wandering tendencies, revived by his recent journey, induced him to -visit Loretto, or at least to make that holy city the _shrine_ of a -pilgrimage, which it appears was one rather of taste than of devotion. -His feelings on this journey are well described in one of his own -_Letters_ inserted in the Appendix. “I could not,” says Salvator, “give -you any account of my return from Loretto, till I arrived here on the -sixth of May. I was for fifteen days in perpetual motion. The journey -was beyond all description curious and picturesque: much more so than -the route from hence to Florence. There is a strange mixture of savage -wildness and domestic scenery, of plain and precipice, such as the eye -delights to wander over. I can safely swear to you, that the tints of -these mountains by far exceed all I have ever observed under your Tuscan -skies; and as for your Verucola, which I once thought a dreary desert, I -shall henceforth deem it a fair garden, in comparison with the scenes I -have now explored in these Alpine solitudes. O God! how often have I -sighed to possess, how often since called to mind, those solitary -hermitages which I passed on my way! How often wished that fortune had -reserved for me such a destiny! I went by Ancona and Torolo, and on my -return visited Assisa—all sites of extraordinary interest to the genius -of painting. I saw at Terni (four miles out of the high road) the famous -waterfal of Velino; an object to satisfy the boldest imagination by its -terrific beauty—a river dashing down a mountainous precipice of near a -mile in height, and then flinging up its foam to nearly an equal -altitude! Believe, that while in this spot, I moved not, saw not, -without bearing you full in my mind and memory.” See p. 277. - -He begins another letter, of a later date, on his being employed to -paint the altar of San Giovanni de Fiorentini, thus gaily:— - -‘_Sonate le campane_—Ring out the chimes!—At last after thirty years -existence in Rome, of hopes blasted and complaints reiterated against -men and gods, the occasion is accorded me for giving one altar-piece to -the public.’ - -His anxiety to finish this picture in time for a certain festival, kept -him, he adds, ‘secluded from all commerce of the pen, and from every -other in the world; and I can truly say, that I have forgotten myself, -even to neglecting to eat; and so arduous is my application, that when I -had nearly finished, I was obliged to keep my bed for two days; and had -not my recovery been assisted by emetics, certain it is it would have -been all over with me in consequence of some obstruction in the stomach. -Pity me then, dear friend, if for the glory of my pencil, I have -neglected to devote my pen to the service of friendship.’—_Letter to the -Abate Ricciardi._ - -Passeri has left the following particulars recorded of him on the day -when this picture (_the Martyrdom of Saint Damian and Saint Cosmus_) was -first exhibited. - -‘He (Salvator) had at last exposed his picture in the San Giovanni de’ -Fiorentini; and I, to recreate myself, ascended on that evening to the -heights of _Monte della Trinità_, where I found Salvator walking arm in -arm with Signor Giovanni Carlo dei Rossi, so celebrated for his -performance on the harp of three strings, and brother to that Luigi -Rossi, who is so eminent all over the world for his perfection in -musical composition. And when Salvator (who was my intimate friend) -perceived me, he came forward laughingly, and said to me these precise -words:—“Well, what say the malignants now? Are they at last convinced -that I _can_ paint on the great scale? Why, if not, then e’en let -Michael Angelo come down, and do something better. Now at least I have -stopped their mouths, and shown the world what I am worth.” I shrugged -my shoulders. I and the Signor Rossi changed the subject to one which -lasted us till nightfall; and from this (continues Passeri in his -rambling way[29]) it may be gathered how _gagliardo_ he (Salvator) was -in his own opinion. Yet it may not be denied but that he had all the -endowments of a marvellous great painter! one of great resources and -high perfection; and had he no other merit, he had at least that of -being the originator of his own style. He spoke, this evening, of Paul -Veronese more than of any other painter, and praised the Venetian school -greatly. _To Raphael he had no great leaning_, for it was the fashion of -the Neapolitan School to call him hard, _di pietra_, dry,’ &c. p. 172. - -Our artist’s constitution now began to break, worn out perhaps by the -efforts of his art, and still more by the irritation of his mind. In a -letter dated in 1666, he complains, - -‘I have suffered two months of agony, even with the abstemious regimen -of chicken broth! My feet are two lumps of ice, in spite of the woollen -hose I have imported from Venice. I never permit the fire to be quenched -in my own room, and am more solicitous than even the Cavalier Cigoli,’ -(who died of a cold caught in painting a fresco in the Vatican). ‘There -is not a fissure in the house that I am not daily employed in diligently -stopping up, and yet with all this I cannot get warm; nor do I think the -torch of love, or the caresses of Phryne herself, would kindle me into a -glow. For the rest, I can talk of any thing but my pencil: my canvass -lies turned to the wall; my colours are dried up now, and for ever; nor -can I give my thoughts to any subject whatever, but chimney-corners, -brasiers, warming-pans, woollen gloves, woollen caps, and such sort of -gear. In short, dear friend, I am perfectly aware that I have lost much -of my original ardour, and am absolutely reduced to pass entire days -without speaking a word. Those fires, once mine and so brilliant, are -now all spent, or evaporating in smoke. Woe unto me, should I ever be -reduced to exercise my pencil for bread!’ - -Yet after this, he at intervals produced some of his best pictures. The -scene, however, was now hastening to a close; and the account here given -of his last days, though containing nothing perhaps very memorable, will -yet, we think, be perused with a melancholy interest. - -‘A change in his complexion was thought to indicate some derangement of -the liver, and he continued in a state of great languor and depression -during the autumn of 1672; but in the winter of 1673, the total loss of -appetite, and of all power of digestion, reduced him almost to the last -extremity; and he consented, at the earnest request of Lucrezia and his -numerous friends, to take more medical advice. He now passed through the -hands of various physicians, whose ignorance and technical pedantry come -out with characteristic effect in the simple and matter-of-fact details -which the good Padre Baldovini has left of the last days of his eminent -friend. Various cures were suggested by the Roman faculty for a disease -which none had yet ventured to name. Meantime the malady increased, and -showed itself in all the life-wearing symptoms of sleeplessness, loss of -appetite, intermitting fever, and burning thirst. A French quack was -called in to the sufferer; and his prescription was, that he should -drink water abundantly, and nothing but water. While, however, under the -care of this Gallic Sangrado, a confirmed dropsy unequivocally declared -itself; and Salvator, now acquainted with the nature of his disease, -once more submitted to the entreaties of his friends; and, at the -special persuasion of the Padre Francesco Baldovini, placed himself -under the care of a celebrated Italian empiric, then in great repute in -Rome, called Dr. Penna. - -‘Salvator had but little confidence in medicine. He had already, during -this melancholy winter, discarded all his physicians, and literally -_thrown physic to the dogs_. But hope, and spring, and love of life, -revived together; and, towards the latter end of February he consented -to receive the visits of Penna, who had cured Baldovini (on the good -father’s own word) of a confirmed dropsy the year before. When the -doctor was introduced, Salvator, with his wonted manliness, called on -him to answer the question he was about to propose with honesty and -frankness, viz. _Was his disorder curable?_ Penna, after going through -certain professional forms, answered, “that his disorder was a simple, -and not a complicated dropsy, and that therefore it was curable.” - -‘Salvator instantly and cheerfully placed himself in the doctor’s hands, -and consented to submit to whatever he should subscribe. “The remedy of -Penna,” says Baldovini, “lay in seven little vials, of which the -contents were to be swallowed every day.” But it was obvious to all, -that as the seven vials were emptied, the disorder of Rosa increased; -and on the seventh day of his attendance, the doctor declared to his -friend Baldovini, that the malady of his patient was beyond his reach -and skill. - -‘The friends of Salvator now suggested to him their belief that his -disease was brought on and kept up by his rigid confinement to the -house, so opposed to his former active habits of life; but when they -urged him to take air and exercise, he replied significantly to their -importunities, “I take exercise! I go out! if this is your counsel, how -are you deceived!” At the earnest request, however, of Penna, he -consented to see him once more; but the moment he entered his room he -demanded of him, “if he _now_ thought that he was curable?” Penna, in -some emotion, prefaced his verdict by declaring solemnly, “that he -should conceive it no less glory to restore so illustrious a genius to -health, and to the society he was so calculated to adorn, than to save -the life of the Sovereign Pontiff himself; but that, as far as his -science went, the case was now beyond the reach of human remedy.” While -Penna spoke, Salvator, who was surrounded by his family and many -friends, fixed his penetrating eyes on the physician’s face, with the -intense look of one who sought to read his sentence in the countenance -of his judge ere it was verbally pronounced;—but that sentence was now -passed! and Salvator, who seemed more struck by surprise than by -apprehension, remained silent and in a fixed attitude! His friends, -shocked and grieved, or awed by the expression of his countenance, which -was marked by a stern and hopeless melancholy, arose and departed -silently one by one. After a long and deep reverie, Rosa suddenly left -the room, and shut himself up alone in his study. There in silence, and -in unbroken solitude, he remained for two days, holding no communication -with his wife, his son or his most intimate friends; and when at last -their tears and lamentations drew him forth, he was no longer -recognisable. Shrunk, feeble, attenuated, almost speechless, he sunk on -his couch, to rise no more! - -‘Life was now wearing away with such obvious rapidity, that his friends, -both clerical and laical, urged him in the most strenuous manner to -submit to the ceremonies and forms prescribed by the Roman Catholic -church in such awful moments. How much the solemn sadness of those -moments may be increased, even to terror and despair, by such pompous -and lugubrious pageants all who have visited Italy—all who still visit -it, can testify. Salvator demanded what they required of him. They -replied, “in the first instance to receive the sacrament as it is -administered in Rome to the dying.”—“To receiving the sacrament,” says -his confesser Baldovini, “he showed no repugnance (_non se mostrò -repugnante_); but he vehemently and positively refused to allow the -host, with all the solemn pomp of its procession, to be brought to his -house, which he deemed unworthy of the divine presence.” - -‘The rejection of a ceremony which was deemed in Rome indispensably -necessary to salvation, and by one who was already stamped with the -church’s reprobation, soon took air; report exaggerated the circumstance -into a positive expression of infidelity; and the gossipry of the Roman -Anterooms was supplied for the time with a subject of discussion, in -perfect harmony with their slander, bigotry, and idleness. “As I went -forth from Salvator’s door,” relates the worthy Baldovini, “I met the -_Canonica Scornio_, a man who has taken out a license to speak of all -men as he pleases. ‘And how goes it with Salvator?’ demands of me this -Canonico. ‘Bad enough, I fear.’—‘Well, a few nights back, happening to -be in the anteroom of a certain great prelate, I found myself in the -centre of a circle of disputants, who were busily discussing whether the -aforesaid Salvator would die a schismatic, a Huguenot, a Calvinist, or a -Lutheran?’—‘He will die, Signor Canonico,’ I replied, ‘when it pleases -God, a better Catholic than any of those who now speak so slightingly of -him!’—and so I pursued my way.” - -‘On the 15th of March Baldovini entered the patient’s chamber. But, to -all appearance, Salvator was suffering great agony. “How goes it with -thee, Rosa?” asked Baldovini kindly, as he approached him. “Bad, bad!” -was the emphatic reply. While writhing with pain, the sufferer after a -moment added:—“To judge by what I now endure, the hand of death grasps -me sharply.” - -‘In the restlessness of pain, he now threw himself on the edge of the -bed, and placed his head on the bosom of Lucrezia, who sat supporting -and weeping over him. His afflicted son and friend took their station at -the other side of his couch, and stood watching the issue of these -sudden and frightful spasms in mournful silence. At that moment a -celebrated Roman physician, the Doctor Catanni, entered the apartment. -He felt the pulse of Salvator, and perceived that he was fast sinking. -He communicated his approaching dissolution to those most interested in -the melancholy intelligence, and it struck all present with unutterable -grief. Baldovini, however, true to his sacred calling, even in the depth -of his human affliction, instantly despatched the young Agosto to the -neighbouring Convent _della Trinità_, for the holy Viaticum. While life -was still fluttering at the heart of Salvator, the officiating priest of -the day arrived, bearing with him the holy apparatus of the last -mysterious ceremony of the church. The shoulders of Salvator were laid -bare, and anointed with the consecrated oil: some prayed fervently, -others wept, and all even still hoped; but the taper which the Doctor -Catanni held to the lips of Salvator, while the Viaticum was -administered, burned brightly and steadily! Life’s last sigh had -transpired, as Religion performed her last rite.’ p. 205. - -Salvator left a wife and son, (a boy of about thirteen), who inherited a -considerable property, in books, prints, and bills of exchange, which -his father had left in his banker’s hands for pictures painted in the -last few years of his life. - -We confess we close these volumes with something of a melancholy -feeling. We have, in this great artist, another instance added to the -list of those who, being born to give delight to others, appear to have -lived only to torment themselves, and, with all the ingredients of -happiness placed within their reach, to have derived no benefit either -from talents or success. Is it, that the outset of such persons in life -(who are raised by their own efforts from want and obscurity) jars their -feelings and sours their tempers? Or that painters, being often men -without education or general knowledge, overrate their own pretensions, -and meet with continual mortifications in the rebuffs they receive from -the world, who do not judge by the same individual standard? Or is a -morbid irritability the inseparable concomitant of genius? None of these -suppositions fairly solves the difficulty; for many of the old painters -(and those the greatest) were men of mild manners, of great modesty, and -good temper. Painting, however, speaks a language known to few, and of -which all pretend to judge; and may thus, perhaps, afford more occasion -to pamper sensibility into a disease, where the seeds of it are sown too -deeply in the constitution, and not checked by proportionable -self-knowledge and reflection. Where an artist of genius, however, is -not made the victim of his own impatience, or of idle censures, or of -the good fortune of others, we cannot conceive of a more delightful or -enviable life. There is none that implies a greater degree of thoughtful -abstraction, or a more entire freedom from angry differences of opinion, -or that leads the mind more out of itself, and reposes more calmly on -the grand and beautiful, or the most casual object in nature. Salvator -died young. He had done enough for fame; and had he been happier, he -would perhaps have lived longer. We do not, in one sense, feel the loss -of painters so much as that of other eminent men. They may still be said -to be present with us bodily in their works: we can revive their memory -by every object we see; and it seems as if they could never wholly die, -while the ideas and thoughts that occupied their minds while living -survive, and have a palpable and permanent existence in the forms of -external nature. - - - AMERICAN LITERATURE—DR. CHANNING - - VOL. I.] [_October 1829._ - -Of the later American writers, who, besides Dr. Channing, have acquired -some reputation in England, we can only recollect Mr. Washington Irving, -Mr. Brown, and Mr. Cooper. To the first of these we formerly paid an -ample tribute of respect; nor do we wish to retract a tittle of what we -said on that occasion, or of the praise due to him for brilliancy, ease, -and a faultless equability of style. Throughout his polished pages, no -thought shocks by its extravagance, no word offends by vulgarity or -affectation. All is gay, but guarded,—heedless, but sensitive of the -smallest blemish. We cannot deny it—nor can we conceal it from ourselves -or the world, if we would—that he is, at the same time, deficient in -nerve and originality. Almost all his sketches are like patterns taken -in silk paper from our classic writers;—the traditional manners of the -last age are still kept up (stuffed in glass cases) in Mr. Irving’s -modern version of them. The only variation is in the transposition of -dates; and herein the author is chargeable with a fond and amiable -anachronism. He takes Old England for granted as he finds it described -in our stock-books of a century ago—gives us a Sir Roger de Coverley in -the year 1819, instead of the year 1709; and supposes old English -hospitality and manners, relegated from the metropolis, to have taken -refuge somewhere in Yorkshire, or the fens of Lincolnshire. In some -sequestered spot or green savannah, we can conceive Mr. Irving enchanted -with the style of the wits of Queen Anne;—in the bare, broad, straight, -mathematical streets of his native city, his busy fancy wandered through -the blind alleys and huddled zig-zag sinuosities of London, and the -signs of Lothbury and East-Cheap swung and creaked in his delighted -ears. The air of his own country was too poor and thin to satisfy the -pantings of youthful ambition; he gasped for British popularity,—he -came, and found it. He was received, caressed, applauded, made giddy: -the national politeness owed him some return, for he imitated, admired, -deferred to us; and, if his notions were sometimes wrong, yet it was -plain he thought of nothing else, and was ready to sacrifice every thing -to obtain a smile or a look of approbation. It is true, he brought no -new earth, no sprig of laurel gathered in the wilderness, no red bird’s -wing, no gleam from crystal lake or new-discovered fountain, (neither -grace nor grandeur plucked from the bosom of this Eden-state like that -which belongs to cradled infancy); but he brought us _rifaciméntos_ of -our own thoughts—copies of our favourite authors: we saw our self -admiration reflected in an accomplished stranger’s eyes; and the lover -received from his mistress, the British public, her most envied favours. - -Mr. Brown, who preceded him, and was the author of several novels which -made some noise in this country, was a writer of a different stamp. -Instead of hesitating before a scruple, and aspiring to avoid a fault, -he braved criticism, and aimed only at effect. He was an inventor, but -without materials. His strength and his efforts are convulsive -throes—his works are a banquet of horrors. The hint of some of them is -taken from Caleb Williams and St. Leon, but infinitely exaggerated, and -carried to disgust and outrage. They are full (to disease) of -imagination,—but it is forced, violent, and shocking. This is to be -expected, we apprehend, in attempts of this kind in a country like -America, where there is, generally speaking, no _natural imagination_. -The mind must be excited by overstraining, by pulleys and levers. Mr. -Brown was a man of genius, of strong passion, and active fancy; but his -genius was not seconded by early habit, or by surrounding sympathy. His -story and his interests are not wrought out, therefore, in the ordinary -course of nature; but are, like the monster in Frankenstein, a man made -by art and determined will. For instance, it may be said of him, as of -Gawin Douglas, ‘Of Brownies and Bogilis full is his Buik.’ But no ghost, -we will venture to say, was ever seen in North America. They do not walk -in broad day; and the night of ignorance and superstition which favours -their appearance, was long past before the United States lifted up their -head beyond the Atlantic wave. The inspired poet’s tongue must have an -echo in the state of public feeling, or of involuntary belief, or it -soon grows harsh or mute. In America, they are ‘so well policied,’ so -exempt from the knowledge of fraud or force, so free from the assaults -of _the flesh and the devil_, that in pure hardness of belief they hoot -the _Beggar’s Opera_ from the stage: with them, poverty and crime, -pickpockets and highwaymen, the lock-up-house and the gallows, are -things incredible to sense! In this orderly and undramatic state of -security and freedom from natural foes, Mr. Brown has provided one of -his heroes with a demon to torment him, and fixed him at his back;—but -what is to keep him there? Not any prejudice or lurking superstition on -the part of the American reader: for the lack of such, the writer is -obliged to make up by incessant rodomontade, and face-making. The want -of genuine imagination is always proved by caricature: monsters are the -growth, not of passion, but of the attempt forcibly to stimulate it. In -our own unrivalled Novelist, and the great exemplar of this kind of -writing, we see how ease and strength are united. Tradition and -invention meet half way; and nature scarce knows how to distinguish -them. The reason is, there is here an old and solid ground in previous -manners and opinion for imagination to rest upon. The air of this bleak -northern clime is filled with legendary lore: Not a castle without the -stain of blood upon its floor or winding steps: not a glen without its -ambush or its feat of arms: not a lake without its Lady! But the map of -America is not historical; and, therefore, works of fiction do not take -root in it; for the fiction, to be good for any thing, must not be in -the author’s mind, but belong to the age or country in which he lives. -The genius of America is essentially mechanical and modern. - -Mr. Cooper describes things to the life, but he puts no motion into -them. While he is insisting on the minutest details, and explaining all -the accompaniments of an incident, the story stands still. The elaborate -accumulation of particulars serves not to embody his imagery, but to -distract and impede the mind. He is not so much the master of his -materials as their drudge: He labours under an epilepsy of the fancy. He -thinks himself bound in his character of novelist to tell the truth, the -whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Thus, if two men are struggling -on the edge of a precipice for life or death, he goes not merely into -the vicissitudes of action or passion as the chances of the combat vary; -but stops to take an inventory of the geography of the place, the shape -of the rock, the precise attitude and display of the limbs and muscles, -with the eye and habits of a sculptor. Mr. Cooper does not seem to be -aware of the infinite divisibility of mind and matter; and that an -‘abridgment’ is all that is possible or desirable in the most individual -representation. A person who is so determined, may write volumes on a -grain of sand or an insect’s wing. Why describe the dress and appearance -of an Indian chief, down to his tobacco-stopper and button-holes? It is -mistaking the province of the artist for that of the historian; and it -is this very obligation of painting and statuary to fill up all the -details, that renders them incapable of telling a story, or of -expressing more than a single moment, group, or figure. Poetry or -romance does not descend into the particulars, but atones for it by a -more rapid march and an intuitive glance at the more striking results. -By considering truth or matter-of-fact as the sole element of popular -fiction, our author fails in massing and in impulse. In the midst of -great vividness and fidelity of description, both of nature and manners, -there is a sense of jejuneness,—for half of what is described is -insignificant and indifferent; there is a hard outline,—a little manner; -and his most striking situations do not tell as they might and ought, -from his seeming more anxious about the mode and circumstances than the -catastrophe. In short, he anatomizes his subjects; and his characters -bear the same relation to living beings that the botanic specimens -collected in a portfolio do to the living plant or tree. The sap does -not circulate kindly; nor does the breath of heaven visit, or its dews -moisten them. Or, if Mr. Cooper gets hold of an appalling circumstance, -he, from the same tenacity and thraldom to outward impressions, never -lets it go: He repeats it without end. Thus, if he once hits upon the -supposition of a wild Indian’s eyes glaring through a thicket, every -bush is from that time forward furnished with a pair; the page is -studded with them, and you can no longer look about you at ease or in -safety. The high finishing we have spoken of is particularly at variance -with the rudeness of the materials. In Richardson it was excusable, -where all was studied and artificial; but a few dashes of red ochre are -sufficient to paint the body of a savage chieftain; nor should his -sudden and frantic stride on his prey be treated with the precision and -punctiliousness of a piece of _still life_. There are other American -writers, (such as the historiographer of _Brother Jonathan_,) who carry -this love of veracity to a pitch of the marvellous. They run riot in an -account of the dishes at a boarding-house, as if it were a banquet of -the Gods; and recount the overturning of a travelling stage-waggon with -as much impetuosity, turbulence, and exaggerated enthusiasm, as if it -were the fall of Phaeton. ’ In the absence of subjects of real interest, -men make themselves an interest out of nothing, and magnify mole-hills -into mountains. This is not the fault of Mr. Cooper: He is always true, -though sometimes tedious; and correct, at the expense of being insipid. -His _Pilot_ is the best of his works; and truth to say, we think it a -masterpiece in its kind. It has great unity of purpose and feeling. -Every thing in it may be said - - ——‘To suffer a _sea-change_ - Into something new and strange.’ - -His Pilot never appears but when the occasion is worthy of him; and when -he appears, the result is sure. The description of his guiding the -vessel through the narrow strait left for her escape, the sea-fight, and -the incident of the white topsail of the English man-of-war appearing -above the fog, where it is first mistaken for a cloud, are of the first -order of graphic composition; to say nothing of the admirable episode of -Tom Coffin, and his long figure coiled up like a rope in the bottom of -the boat. The rest is _common-place_; but then it is American -common-place. We thank Mr. Cooper he does not take every thing from us, -and therefore we can learn something from him. He has the saving grace -of originality. We wish we could impress it, ‘line upon line, and -precept upon precept,’ especially upon our American brethren, how -precious, how invaluable _that_ is. In art, in literature, in science, -the least bit of nature is worth all the plagiarism in the world. The -great secret of Sir Walter Scott’s enviable, but unenvied success, lies -in his transcribing from nature instead of transcribing from books. - -Anterior to the writers above mentioned, were other three, who may be -named as occupying (two of them at least) a higher and graver place in -the yet scanty annals of American Literature. These were Franklin, the -author (whoever he was) of the _American Farmer’s Letters_, and Jonathan -Edwards. - -Franklin, the most celebrated, was emphatically an American. He was a -great experimental philosopher, a consummate politician, and a paragon -of common sense. His _Poor Robin_ was an absolute manual for a country -in leading-strings, making its first attempts to go alone. There is -nowhere compressed in the same compass so great a fund of local -information and political sagacity, as in his _Examination before the -Privy Council_ in the year 1754. The fine _Parable against -Persecution_, which appears in his miscellaneous works, is borrowed -from Bishop Taylor. Franklin is charged by some with a want of -imagination, or with being a mere prosaic, practical man; but the -instinct of the true and the useful in him, had more genius in it than -all the ‘metre-ballad-mongering’ of those who take him to task. - -The _American Farmer’s Letters_, (published under a feigned name[30] a -little before the breaking out of the American war,) give us a tolerable -idea how American scenery and manners may be treated with a lively, -poetic interest. The pictures are sometimes highly coloured, but they -are vivid and strikingly characteristic. He gives not only the objects, -but the feelings, of a new country. He describes himself as placing his -little boy in a chair screwed to the plough which he guides, (to inhale -the scent of the fresh furrows,) while his wife sits knitting under a -tree at one end of the field. He recounts a battle between two snakes -with an Homeric gravity and exuberance of style. He paints the dazzling, -almost invisible flutter of the humming-bird’s wing: Mr. Moore’s airiest -verse is not more light and evanescent. His account of the manners of -the Nantucket people, their frank simplicity, and festive rejoicings -after the perils and hardships of the whale-fishing, is a true and -heartfelt picture. There is no fastidious refinement or cynical -contempt: He enters into their feelings and amusements with the same -alacrity as they do themselves; and this is sure to awaken a -fellow-feeling in the reader. If the author had been thinking of the -effect of his description in a London drawing-room, or had insisted on -the most disagreeable features in the mere littleness of national -jealousy, he would have totally spoiled it. But health, joy, and -innocence, are good things all over the world, and in all classes of -society; and, to impart pleasure, need only be described in their -genuine characters. The power to sympathize with nature, without -thinking of ourselves or others, if it is not a definition of genius, -comes very near to it. From this liberal unaffected style, the Americans -are particularly cut off by habitual comparisons with us, or upstart -claims of their own;—by the dread of being thought vulgar, which -necessarily makes them so, or the determination to be fine, which must -for ever prevent it. The most interesting part of the author’s work is -that where he describes the first indications of the breaking out of the -American war—the distant murmur of the tempest—the threatened inroad of -the Indians like an inundation on the peaceful back-settlements: his -complaints and his auguries are fearful. But we have said enough of this -_Illustrious Obscure_; for it is the rule of criticism to praise none -but the over-praised, and to offer fresh incense to the idol of the day. - -It is coming more within canonical bounds, and approaching nearer the -main subject of this notice, to pay a tribute to the worth and talents -of Jonathan Edwards; the well-known author of the _Treatise on the -Will_, who was a Massachusetts divine and most able logician. Having -produced _him_, the Americans need not despair of their metaphysicians. -We do not scruple to say, that he is one of the acutest, most powerful, -and, of all reasoners, the most conscientious and sincere. His closeness -and candour are alike admirable. Instead of puzzling or imposing on -others, he tries to satisfy his own mind. We do not say whether he is -right or wrong; we only say that his method is ‘an honest method:’ there -is not a trick, a subterfuge, a verbal sophism in his whole book. Those -who compare his arguments with what Priestley or Hobbes have written on -the same question, will find the one petulant and the other dogmatical. -Far from taunting his adversaries, he endeavours with all his might to -explain difficulties; and acknowledges that the words _Necessity_, -_Irresistible_, _Inevitable_, &c., which are applied to external force, -acting in spite of the will, are misnomers when applied to acts, or a -necessity emanating from the will itself; and that the repugnance of his -favourite doctrine to common sense and feeling, (in which most of his -party exult as a triumph of superior wisdom over vulgar prejudice,) is -an unfortunate stumbling-block in the way of truth, arising out of the -structure of language itself. His anxiety to clear up the scruples of -others, is equal, in short, to his firmness in maintaining his own -opinion. - -We could wish that Dr. Channing had formed himself upon this manly and -independent model, instead of going through the circle of reigning -topics, to strike an affected balance between ancient prejudice and -modern paradox; to trim to all opinions, and unite all suffrages; to -calculate the vulgar clamour, or the venal sophistry of the British -press, for the meridian of Boston. Dr. Channing is a great tactician in -reasoning; and reasoning has nothing to do with tactics. We do not like -to see a writer constantly trying to steal a march upon opinion without -having his retreat cut off—full of pretensions, and void of offence. It -is as bad as the opposite extreme of outraging decorum at every step; -and is only a more covert mode of attracting attention, and gaining -surreptitious applause. We never saw any thing more guarded in this -respect than Dr. Channing’s _Tracts_ and _Sermons_—more completely -suspended between heaven and earth. He keeps an eye on both worlds; -kisses hands to the reading public all round; and does his best to stand -well with different sects and parties. He is always in advance of the -line, in an amiable and imposing attitude, but never far from succour. -He is an Unitarian; but then he disclaims all connexion with Dr. -Priestley, as a materialist; he denounces Calvinism and the Church of -England; but to show that this proceeds from no want of liberality, -makes the _amende honorable_ to Popery and Popish divines;—is an -American Republican and a French Bourbonist—abuses Bonaparte, and -observes a profound silence with respect to Ferdinand—likes wit, -provided it is serious—and is zealous for the propagation of the Gospel -and the honour of religion; but thinks it should form a coalition with -reason, and be surrounded with a halo of modern lights. We cannot -combine such a system of checks and saving clauses. We are dissatisfied -with the want not only of originality of view, but of moral daring. And -here we will state a suspicion, into which we have been led by more than -one American writer, that the establishment of civil and religious -liberty is not quite so favourable to the independent formation, and -free circulation of opinion, as might be expected. Where there is a -perfect toleration—where there is neither Censorship of the press nor -Inquisition, the public take upon themselves the task of _surveillance_, -and exercise the functions of a literary police, like so many familiars -of the _Holy Office_. In a monarchy, or mixed government, there is an -appeal open from the government to the people; there is a natural -opposition, as it were, between prejudice, or authority, and reason: but -when the community take the power into their own hands, and there is but -one body of opinion, and one voice to express it, there can be no -_reaction_ against it; and to remonstrate or resist, is not only a -public outrage, but sounds like a personal insult to every individual in -the community. It is differing from the company; you become a _black -sheep in the flock_. There is no excuse or mercy for it. Hence the too -frequent cowardice, jesuitism, and sterility, produced by this -republican discipline and drilling. Opinions must march abreast—must -keep in rank and file, and woe to the caitiff thought that advances -before the rest, or turns aside! This uniformity, and equal purpose on -all sides, leads (if not checked) to a monstrous Ostracism in public -opinion. Whoever outstrips, or takes a separate path to himself, is -considered as usurping an unnatural superiority over the whole. He is -treated not with respect or indulgence, but indignity. - -We like Dr. Channing’s Sermons best; his Criticisms less; his Politics -least of all. We think several of his Discourses do great honour to -himself and his profession, and are highly respectable models of -pulpit-composition. We would instance more particularly, and recommend -to the perusal of our readers, that _On the Duties of Children_. The -feeling, the justness of observation, the tenderness, and the severity, -are deserving of all praise. The author here appears in a truly amiable -and advantageous light. This composition alone makes us believe, that he -is a good, and might, with proper direction and self-reliance, have been -even a great man. We shall give a long extract with the more pleasure, -as we are assuredly actuated by no ill-will towards the reverend author, -and only wish to point out how very considerable ability, and probable -uprightness of intention, may be warped and injured by a wrong bias, and -candidateship for false and contradictory honours. - -‘_First_, You are required to view and treat your parents with respect. -Your tender, inexperienced age requires that you think of yourselves -with humility, and conduct yourselves with modesty; that you respect the -superior age, and wisdom, and improvements of your parents, and observe -towards them a submissive deportment. Nothing is more unbecoming you; -nothing will render you more unpleasant in the eyes of others, than -froward or contemptuous conduct towards your parents. There are -children, and I wish I could say there are only a few, who speak to -their parents with rudeness, grow sullen at their rebukes, behave in -their presence as if they deserved no attention, hear them speak without -noticing them, and rather ridicule than honour them. There are many -children at the present day who think more highly of themselves than of -their elders; who think that their own wishes are first to be gratified; -who abuse the condescension and kindness of their parents, and treat -them as servants rather than superiors. Beware, my young friends, lest -you grow up with this assuming and selfish spirit. Regard your parents -as kindly given you by God, to support, direct, and govern you in your -present state of weakness and inexperience. Express your respect for -them in your manner and conversation. Do not neglect those outward signs -of dependence and inferiority which suit your age. You are young, and -you should therefore take the lowest place, and rather retire than -thrust yourselves forward into notice. You have much to learn, and you -should therefore hear, instead of seeking to be heard. You are -dependent, and you should therefore ask instead of demanding what you -desire, and you should receive every thing from your parents as a -favour, and not as a debt. I do not mean to urge upon you a slavish fear -of your parents. Love them, and love them ardently; but mingle a sense -of their superiority with your love. Feel a confidence in their -kindness; but let not this confidence make you rude and presumptuous, -and lead to indecent familiarity. Talk to them with openness and -freedom; but never contradict with violence; never answer with passion -or contempt. - -‘_Secondly_, You should be grateful to your parents. Consider how much -you owe them. The time has been, and it was not a long time past, when -you depended wholly on their kindness,—when you had no strength to make -a single effort for yourselves,—when you could neither speak nor walk, -and knew not the use of any of your powers. Had not a parent’s arm -supported you, you must have fallen to the earth, and perished. Observe -with attention the infants which you often see, and consider that a -little while ago you were as feeble as they are: you were only a burden -and a care, and you had nothing with which you could repay your parents’ -affection. But did they forsake you? How many sleepless nights have they -been disturbed by your cries! When you were sick, how tenderly did they -hang over you! With what pleasure have they seen you grow up in health -to your present state; and what do you now possess which you have not -received from their hands? God, indeed, is your great parent, your best -friend, and from him every good gift descends; but God is pleased to -bestow every thing upon you through the kindness of your parents. To -your parents you owe every comfort: you owe to them the shelter you -enjoy from the rain and cold, the raiment which covers, and the food -which nourishes you. While you are seeking amusements, or are employed -in gaining knowledge at school, your parents are toiling that you may be -happy, that your wants may be supplied, that your minds may be improved, -that you may grow up and be useful in the world. And when you consider -how often you have forfeited all this kindness, and yet how ready they -have been to forgive you, and to continue their favours, ought not you -to look upon them with the tenderest gratitude? What greater monster can -there be than an unthankful child, whose heart is never warmed by the -daily expressions of parental solicitude; who, instead of requiting his -best friend by his affectionate conduct, is sullen and passionate, and -thinks his parents will do nothing for him, because they will not do all -he desires? Consider how much better they can decide for you than you -can for yourselves. You know but little of the world in which you live. -You hastily catch at every thing which promises you pleasure; and unless -the authority of a parent should restrain you, you would soon rush into -ruin, without a thought or a fear. In pursuing your own inclinations, -your health would be destroyed, your minds would run to waste, you would -grow up slothful, selfish, a trouble to others, and burdensome to -yourselves. Submit, then, cheerfully to your parents. Have you not -experienced their goodness long enough to know, that they wish to make -you happy, even when their commands are most severe? Prove, then, your -sense of this goodness by doing cheerfully what they require. When they -oppose your wishes, do not think that you have more knowledge than they. -Do not receive their commands with a sour, angry, sullen look, which -says, louder than words, that you obey only because you dare not rebel. -If they deny your requests, do not persist in urging them, but consider -how many requests they have already granted you. Do not expect that your -parents are to give up every thing to you, but study to give up every -thing to them. Do not wait for them to threaten, but when a look tells -you what they want, fly to perform it. This is the way in which you can -best reward them for all their pains and labours. In this way you will -make their house pleasant and cheerful. But if you are disobedient, -perverse, and stubborn, you will make home a place of contention, noise, -and anger, and your best friends will have reason to wish that you had -never been born. A disobedient child almost always grows up ill-natured -and disobliging to all with whom he is connected. None love him, and he -has no heart to love any but himself. If you would be amiable in your -temper and manner, and desire to be beloved, let me advise you to begin -your life with giving up your wills to your parents. - -‘Again, You must express your respect for your parents, by placing -unreserved confidence in them. This is a very important part of your -duty. Children should learn to be honest, sincere, open-hearted to their -parents. An artful, hypocritical child is one of the most unpromising -characters in the world. You should have no secrets which you are -unwilling to disclose to your parents. If you have done wrong, you -should openly confess it, and ask that forgiveness which a parent’s -heart is so ready to bestow. If you wish to undertake any thing, ask -their consent. Never begin any thing in the hope you can conceal your -design. If you once strive to impose on your parents, you will be led -on, from one step to another, to invent falsehoods, to practise -artifice, till you will become contemptible and hateful. You will soon -be detected, and then none will trust you. Sincerity in a child will -make up for many faults. Of children, he is the worst who watches the -eyes of his parents, pretends to obey as long as they see him, but as -soon as they have turned away, does what they have forbidden. Whatever -else you do, never deceive. Let your parents learn your faults from your -own lips, and be assured they will never love you the less for your -openness and sincerity.’—(_Sermons and Tracts_, p. 233.) - -The whole discourse is prettily turned, and made out with great -simplicity and feeling. There is a want neither of heart nor head. Dr. -Channing here does well, for he trusts to his own observations and -convictions. We may also give what he says in answer to Fenelon, on the -subject of _self-annihilation_, as another favourable specimen of free -enquiry, and of a higher or more philosophical cast. - -‘We have said that self-crucifixion and love to God are, in Fenelon’s -system, the two chief constituents, or elements, of virtue and -perfection. To these we will give separate attention, although in truth, -they often coalesce, and always imply one another. We begin with -self-crucifixion, or what is often called self-sacrifice, and on this we -chiefly differ from the expositions of our author. Perhaps the word -_self_ occurs more frequently than any other in Fenelon’s writings, and -he is particularly inclined to place it in contrast with, and in -opposition to, God. According to his common teaching, God and self are -hostile influences or attractions, having nothing in common; the one the -concentration of all evil, the other of all good. Self is the principle -and the seat of all guilt and misery. He is never weary of pouring -reproach on self; and, generally speaking, sets no limits to the duty of -putting it to a painful death. Now, language like this has led men to -very injurious modes of regarding themselves and their own nature, and -made them forgetful of what they owe to themselves. It has thrown a -cloud over man’s condition and prospects. It has led to self-contempt, a -vice as pernicious as pride. A man, when told perpetually to crucify -_himself_, is apt to include under this word his whole nature; and we -fear that, under this teaching, our nature is repressed, its growth -stinted, its free movements chained, and, of course, its beauty, grace, -and power impaired. We mean not to charge on Fenelon this error of which -we have spoken, or to hold him responsible for its effects. But we do -think that it finds shelter under his phraseology; and we deem it so -great, so pernicious, as to need a faithful exposition. Men err in -nothing more than in disparaging and wronging their own nature. None are -just to themselves. The truth on this great subject is indeed so -obscured, that it may startle as a paradox. A human being, justly -viewed, instead of being bound to general self-crucifixion, cannot -reverence and cherish himself too much. This position, we know, is -strong; but strong language is needed to encounter strong delusion. We -would teach that great limitations must be set to the duty of renouncing -or denying ourselves, and that no self-crucifixion is virtuous but that -which concurs with, and promotes self-respect. We will unfold our -meaning, beginning with positions which we presume will be controverted -by none.’ - -Dr. Channing, after showing that the mind, the body, and even self-love, -are parts of our nature which cannot well be dispensed with, thus -proceeds:— - -‘Now, it is not true that self-love is our only principle, or that it -constitutes ourselves any more than other principles; and the wrong done -to our nature by such modes of speech, needs to be resisted. Our nature -has other elements or constituents, and vastly higher ones, to which -self-love was meant to minister, and which are at war with its excesses. -For example, we have reason or intellectual energy given us for the -pursuit and acquisition of truth; and this is essentially a -disinterested principle, for truth, which is its object, is of a -universal, impartial nature. The great province of the intellectual -faculty is to acquaint the individual with the laws and order of the -divine system; a system, which spreads infinitely beyond himself, and of -which he forms a small part; which embraces innumerable beings equally -favoured by God, and which proposes, as its sublime and beneficent end, -the ever-growing good of the whole. Again, human nature has a variety of -affections, corresponding to our domestic and most common relations; -affections, which in multitudes overpower self-love, which make others -the chief object of our care, which nerve the arm for ever-recurring -toil by day, and strengthen the wearied frame to forego the slumbers of -the night. Then there belongs to every man the general sentiment of -humanity, which responds to all human sufferings—to a stranger’s tears -and groans, and often prompts to great sacrifices for his relief. Above -all, there is the moral principle, that which should especially be -called a man’s self; for it is clothed with a kingly authority over his -whole nature, and was plainly given to bear sway over every desire. This -is evidently a disinterested principle. Its very essence is -impartiality. It has no respect of persons. It is the principle of -justice, taking the rights of all under its protection, and frowning on -the least wrong, however largely it may serve ourselves. This moral -nature especially delights in, and enjoins a universal charity, and -makes the heart thrill with exulting joy, at the sight or hearing of -magnanimous deeds, of perils fronted, or death endured in the cause of -humanity. Now, these various principles, and especially the last, are as -truly ourselves as self-love. When a man thinks of himself, these ought -to occur to him as his chief attributes. He can hardly injure himself -more than by excluding these from his conception of himself, and by -making self-love the great constituent of his nature. - -‘We have urged these remarks on the narrow sense often given to the word -_self_, because we are persuaded that it leads to degrading ideas of -human nature, and to the pernicious notion that we practise a virtuous -self-sacrifice in holding it in contempt. We would have it understood, -that high faculties form this despised self, as truly as low desires; -and we would add, that when these are faithfully unfolded, this self -takes rank among the noblest beings in the universe. To illustrate this -thought, we ask the reader’s attention to an important, but -much-neglected, view of virtue and religion. These are commonly spoken -of in an abstract manner, as if they were distinct from ourselves—as if -they were foreign existences, which enter the human mind, and dwell -there in a kind of separation from itself. Now, religion and virtue, -wherever they exist, are the mind itself, and nothing else. A good man’s -piety and virtue are not distinct possessions; they are himself, and all -the glory which belongs to them, belongs to himself. What is religion? -Not a foreign inhabitant—not something alien to our nature, which comes -and takes up its abode in the soul. It is the soul itself, lifting -itself up to its Maker. What is virtue? It is the soul listening to, and -revering and obeying a law which belongs to its very essence—the law of -duty. We sometimes smile when we hear men decrying human nature, and in -the same breath extolling religion to the skies, as if religion were any -thing more than human nature acting in obedience to its chief law. -Religion and virtue, as far as we possess them, are ourselves; and the -homage which is paid to these attributes, is in truth a tribute to the -soul of man. Self-crucifixion, then, should it exclude self-reverence, -would be any thing but virtue. - -‘We would briefly suggest another train of thought leading to the same -result. Self-crucifixion, or self-renunciation, is a work, and work -requires an agent. By whom, then, is it accomplished? We answer, by the -man himself, who is the subject of it. It is he who is summoned to the -effort. He is called by a voice within, and by the law of God, to put -forth power over himself, to rule his own spirit, to subdue every -passion. Now, this inward power, which self-crucifixion supposes and -demands, is the most signal proof of a high nature which can be given. -It is the most illustrious power which God confers. It is a sovereignty -worth more than that over outward nature. It is the chief constituent of -the noblest order of virtues; and its greatness, of course, demonstrates -the greatness of the human mind, which is perpetually bound and summoned -to put it forth. But this is not all; self-crucifixion has an object, an -end. And what is it? Its great end is to give liberty and energy to our -nature. Its aim is not to break down the soul, but to curb those lusts -and passions which “war against the soul,” that the moral and -intellectual faculties may rise into new life, and may manifest their -divine original. Self-crucifixion, justly viewed, is the suppression of -the passions, that the power and progress of thought, and conscience, -and pure love, may be unrestrained. It is the destruction of the brute, -that the angel may unfold itself within. It is founded on our godlike -capacities, and the expansion and glory of these is the end. Thus the -very duty, which by some is identified with self-contempt, implies and -imposes self-reverence. It is the belief and the choice of perfection, -as our inheritance and our end.’ - -This is extremely well meant, and very ably executed. There is a _primâ -philosophiâ_ view of the subject, which is, we think, above the ordinary -level of polemical reasoning in our own country. In the line of argument -adopted by our author, there is a strong reflection of the original and -masterly views of the innate capacity of the soul for piety and -goodness, insisted on in Bishop Butler’s _Sermons_—a work which has -fallen into neglect, partly because of the harshness and obscurity of -its style, but more because it contains neither a libel on human nature, -nor a burlesque upon religion. There is much in the above train of -thought silently borrowed from this profound work. Dr. Channing’s -argument is, we think, good and sound against the misanthropes in -philosophy, and the cynics in religion, who alike maintain the absolute -falsity of all human virtue; but the Bishop of Cambray might say, that, -with respect to him, it was not a practical answer, so much as a verbal -evasion; neither meeting his views nor removing the source of his -complaints. Fenelon assuredly, in wishing to annihilate self, did not -wish to extirpate charity and faith, but to crush the old serpent, the -great enemy of these. There is no doubt of the capacity of the soul for -good and evil; the only question is, which principle prevails and -triumphs. The satirist and the man of the world laugh at the pretension -to superior sanctity and disinterestedness; the pious enthusiast may -then be excused if he weeps at the want of them. - -How far does that likeness to God, and sympathy with the whole human -race, which Fenelon deprecates the want of, and Dr. Channing boasts of, -as the inseparable attribute and chief ornament of man, really take -place or not in the present state of things, and as a preparation for -another and infinitely more important one? If we regard the moral -capacity of man, _self_ is a unit that counts millions. Its essence and -its glory, says our optimist, is to comprehend the whole human race in -its benevolent regards. Does it do so? The understanding runs along the -whole chain of being; the affections stop, for the most part, at the -first link in the chain. Sense, appetite, pride, passion, engross the -whole of this self, and leave it nearly indifferent, if not averse, to -all other claims on its attention. In order that the moral attainments -should keep pace with the vaunted capacity of man, knowledge should be -identified with feeling. We know that there are a million of other -beings of as much worth, of the same nature, made in the image of God -like ourselves. Have we the same sympathy with every one of these? Do we -feel a million times more for all of them put together, than for -ourselves? The least pain in our little finger gives us more concern and -uneasiness, than the destruction of millions of our fellow-beings. -Fenelon laments bitterly and feelingly this disparity between duty and -inclination, this want of charity, and eating of self into the soul. -What is the consequence of the disproportionate ratios in which the head -and the heart move? This paltry _self_, looking upon itself as of more -importance than all the rest of the world, fancies itself the centre of -the universe, and would have every one look upon it in the same light. -Not being able to sympathize with others as it ought, it hates and -envies them; is mad to think of its own insignificance in the general -system; cannot bear a rival or a superior; despises and tramples on -inferiors, and would crush and annihilate all pretensions but its own, -that it might be _all in all_. The worm puts on the monarch, or the god, -in thought and in secret; and it is only when it can do so in fact, and -in public, and be the tyrant or idol of its fellows, that it is at ease -or satisfied with itself. Fenelon was right in crying out (if it could -have done any good) for the crucifying of this importunate self, and -putting a better principle in its stead. - -Dr. Channing’s Essays on Milton and Bonaparte are both done upon the -same false principle, of making out a case _for_ or _against_. The one -is full of common-place eulogy, the other of common-place invective. -They are pulpit-criticisms. An orator who is confined to expound the -same texts and doctrines week after week, slides very naturally and -laudably into a habit of monotony and paraphrase; is not allowed to be -‘wise above what is written;’ is grave from respect to his subject, and -the authority attached to the truths he interprets; and if his style is -tedious or his arguments trite, he is in no danger of being interrupted -or taken to task by his audience. Such a person is unavoidably an -advocate for certain received principles; often a dull one. He carries -the professional license and character out of the pulpit into other -things, and still fancies that he speaks ‘with authority, and not as the -scribes.’ He may be prolix without suspecting it; may lay a solemn -stress on the merest trifles; repeat truisms, and apologize for them as -startling discoveries; may play the sophist, and conceive he is -performing a sacred duty; and give what turn or gloss he pleases to any -subject,—forgetting that the circumstances under which he declares -himself, and the audience which he addresses, are entirely changed. If, -as we readily allow, there are instances of preachers who have -emancipated themselves from these professional habits, we can hardly add -Dr. Channing to the number. - -His notice of Milton is elaborate and stately, but neither new nor -discriminating. One of the first and most prominent passages is a -defence of poetry:— - -‘Milton’s fame rests chiefly on his poetry; and to this we naturally -give our first attention. By those who are accustomed to speak of poetry -as light reading, Milton’s eminence in this sphere may be considered -only as giving him a high rank among the contributors to public -amusement. Not so thought Milton. Of all God’s gifts of intellect, he -esteemed poetical genius the most transcendent. He esteemed it in -himself as a kind of inspiration, and wrote his great works with -something of the conscious dignity of a prophet. We agree with Milton in -his estimate of poetry. It seems to us the divinest of all arts; for it -is the breathing or expression of that sentiment which is deepest and -sublimest in human nature; we mean, of that thirst or aspiration, to -which no mind is wholly a stranger, after something purer and lovelier, -something more powerful, lofty, and thrilling, than ordinary and real -life affords. No doctrine is more common among Christians than that of -man’s immortality; but it is not so generally understood, that the germs -or principles of his whole future being are _now_ wrapped up in his -soul, as the rudiments of the future plant in the seed. As a necessary -result of this constitution, the soul, possessed and moved by these -mighty though infant energies, is perpetually stretching beyond what is -present and visible, struggling against the bounds of its earthly -prison-house, and seeking relief and joy in imaginings of unseen and -ideal being. This view of our nature, which has never been fully -developed, and which goes farther towards explaining the contradictions -of human life than all others, carries us to the very foundation and -sources of poetry. He who cannot interpret by his own consciousness what -we have now said, wants the true key to works of genius. He has not -penetrated those sacred recesses of the soul, where poetry is born and -nourished, and inhales immortal vigour, and wings herself for her -heavenward flight. In an intellectual nature, framed for progress and -for higher modes of being, there must be creative energies, powers of -original and ever-growing thought; and poetry is the form in which these -energies are chiefly manifested. It is the glorious prerogative of this -art, that it “makes all things new” for the gratification of a divine -instinct. It indeed finds its elements in what it actually sees and -experiences, in the worlds of matter and mind; but it combines and -blends these into new forms and according to new affinities; breaks -down, if we may so say, the distinctions and bounds of nature; imparts -to material objects life, and sentiment, and emotion, and invests the -mind with the powers and splendours of the outward creation; describes -the surrounding universe in the colours which the passions throw over -it, and depicts the mind in those moods of repose or agitation, of -tenderness or sublime emotion, which manifest its thirst for a more -powerful and joyful existence. To a man of a literal and prosaic -character, the mind may seem lawless in these workings; but it observes -higher laws than it transgresses, the laws of the immortal intellect; it -is trying and developing its best faculties; and in the objects which it -describes, or in the emotions which it awakens, anticipates those states -of progressive power, splendour, beauty, and happiness, for which it was -created.’ - -There is much more to the same purpose: The whole, to speak freely, is a -laboured and somewhat tumid paraphrase on Lord Bacon’s definition of -poetry, (which has been often paraphrased before,) where he prefers it -to history, ‘as having something divine in it, and representing -characters and objects not as they are, but as they ought to be.’ This -is the general feature of our author’s writings; they cannot be called -mere common-place, but they may be fairly termed _ambitious_ -common-place: That is, he takes up the newest and most plausible opinion -at the turn of the tide, or just as it is getting into vogue, and would -fain arrogate both the singularity and the popularity of it to himself. -He hits the public between what they are tired of hearing, and what they -never heard before. He has here, however, put the seal of orthodoxy on -poetry, and we are not desirous to take it off. If he is inclined to -stand sponsor to the Muses, and confirm their offspring at the Fount, he -is welcome to do so. It is curious to see strict Professors for a long -time denouncing and excommunicating Poetry as a wanton, and then, when -they can no longer help it, clasping hands with her as the handmaid of -truth; and instead of making her the daughter of ‘the father of lies,’ -identifying her with the vital spirit of religion and our happiest -prospects. - -Dr. Channing is aware, however, that poetry is sometimes liable to -abuse, and has given a handle to the ungodly; and as a set-off and salvo -to this objection, has a fling at Lord Byron, as the demon who scatters -‘poison and death;’ while Sir Walter Scott is the beneficent genius of -poetry, unfolding and imparting new energies and the most delightful -impulses to the human breast. In pronouncing the latter sentence, he -bows to popular opinion; in the former he considers just as properly -what he owes to his profession. - -The bulk of the account of Milton, both as a poet and a prose-writer, -is, we are constrained to say, mere imitation or amplification of what -has been said by others. He observes, _ex cathedrâ_, and with due -gravity, that the _forte_ of Milton is sublimity—that the two first -books of _Paradise Lost_ are unrivalled examples of that quality. He -then proceeds to show, that he is not without tenderness or beauty, -though he has not the graphic minuteness of Cowper or of Crabbe; he next -praises his versification in opposition to the critics—dwells on the -freshness and innocence of the picture of Adam and Eve in -Paradise—maintains that our sympathy with Satan is nothing but the -admiration of moral strength of mind—acknowledges the harshness and -virulence of Milton’s controversial writings, but blames Dr. Johnson for -doing so. All this we have heard or said before. We are not edified at -all, nor are we greatly flattered by it. It is as if we should convey a -letter to a friend in America, and should find it transcribed and sent -back to us with a heavy postage. - -We do not, then, set much store by our author’s criticisms, because -they sometimes seem to be, in a great measure, borrowed from our own -lucubrations. We set still less store by his politics, for they are -borrowed from others. We have no objection to the most severe or -caustic probing of the character of the late ruler of France; but we -_do_ object, in the name both of history and philosophy, to -misrepresentations and falsehoods, as the groundwork of such remarks. -When England has exploded them, half in shame, and half in anger, the -harpy echo lingers in America. The ugly mask has been taken off; but -Dr. Channing chooses to lecture on the mask in preference to the head. -It would serve no useful purpose, however, to follow him in the -details of his _Analysis of the Character of Bonaparte_. But we shall -extract one of his most elaborate passages, in which he favours us -with his opinion of the victors at Waterloo and Trafalgar:— - -‘The conqueror of Napoleon, the hero of Waterloo, undoubtedly possesses -great military talents; but we have never heard of his eloquence in the -senate, or of his sagacity in the cabinet; and we venture to say, that -he will leave the world without adding one new thought on the great -themes, on which the genius of philosophy and legislature has meditated -for ages. We will not go down for illustration to such men as Nelson, a -man great on the deck, but debased by gross vices, and who never -pretended to enlargement of intellect. To institute a comparison, in -point of talent and genius, between such men and Milton, Bacon, and -Shakspeare, is almost an insult to these illustrious names. Who can -think of these truly great intelligences; of the range of their minds -through heaven and earth; of their deep intuition into the soul; of -their new and glowing combinations of thought; of the energy with which -they grasped and subjected to their main purpose the infinite materials -of illustration which nature and life afford; who can think of the forms -of transcendent beauty and grandeur which they created, or which were -rather emanations of their own minds; of the calm wisdom, and fervid, -impetuous imagination which they conjoined; of the dominion which they -have exercised over so many generations, and which time only extends and -makes sure; of the voice of power, in which, though dead, they still -speak to nations, and awaken intellect, sensibility, and genius, in both -hemispheres;—who can think of such men, and not feel the immense -inferiority of the most gifted warriors, whose elements of thought are -physical forces and physical obstructions, and whose employment is the -combination of the lowest class of objects on which a powerful mind can -be employed?’ - -We are here forcibly reminded of Fielding’s character of Mr. Abraham -Adams. ‘Indeed, if this good man had an enthusiasm, or what the vulgar -call a blind side, it was this: he thought a Schoolmaster the greatest -character in the world, and himself the greatest of all schoolmasters, -neither of which points he would have given up to Alexander the Great at -the head of his army.’ So Dr. Channing very gravely divides greatness -into different sorts, and places himself at the top among those who -_talk_ about things—commanders at the bottom among those who only _do_ -them. He finds fault with Bonaparte for not coming up to his standard of -greatness; but in order that he may not, raises this standard too high -for humanity. To put it in force would be to leave the ancient and -modern world as bare of great names as the wilds of North America. To -make common sense of it, any one great man must be all the others. Homer -only sung of battles, and it was honour enough for Alexander to place -his works in a golden cabinet. Dr. Channing allows Bonaparte’s supremacy -in war; but disputes it in policy. How many persons, from the beginning -of the world, have united the two in a greater degree, or wielded more -power in consequence? If Bonaparte had not gained a single battle, or -planned a single successful campaign; if he had not scattered Coalition -after Coalition, but invited the Allies to march to Paris; if he had not -quelled the factions, but left them to cut one another’s throats and his -own; if he had not ventured on the _Concordat_, or framed a Code of Laws -for France; if he had encouraged no art or science or man of genius; if -he had not humbled the pride of ‘ancient thrones,’ and risen from the -ground of the people to an equal height with the Gods of the -earth,—showing that the art and the right to reign is not confined to a -particular race; if he had been any thing but what he was, and had done -nothing, he would then have come up to Dr. Channing’s notions of -greatness, and to his boasted standard of a hero! We in Europe, whether -friends or foes, require something beyond this negative merit: we think -that Cæsar, Alexander, and Charlemagne, were ‘no babies;’ we think that -to move the great masses of power and bind opinions in a spell, is as -difficult as the turning a period or winding up a homily; and we are -surprised that stanch republicans, who complain that the world bow to -birth and rank alone, should turn with redoubled rage against intellect, -the instant it became a match for pride and prejudice, and was the only -thing that could be opposed to them with success, or could extort a -moment’s fear or awe for human genius or human nature. - -Dr. Channing’s style is good, though in general too laboured, formal, -and sustained. All is brought equally forward,—nothing is left to tell -for itself. In the attempt to be copious, he is tautological; in -striving to explain every thing, he overloads and obscures his meaning. -The fault is the uniform desire to produce an effect, and the -supposition that this is to be done by main force. - -In one sermon, Dr. Channing insists boldly and loudly on the necessity -that American preachers should assume a loftier style, and put forth -energies and pretensions to claim attention in proportion to the excited -tone of public feeling, and the advances of modern literature and -science. He reproaches them with their lukewarmness, and points out to -them, as models, the novels of Scott and the poetry of Byron. If Dr. -Channing expects a grave preacher in a pulpit to excite the same -interest as a tragedy hero on the stage, or a discourse on the meaning -of a text of Scripture to enchain the feelings like one of the Waverley -Novels, it will be a long time first. The mere proposal is _putting the -will for the deed_, and an instance of that republican assurance and -rejection of the idea of not being equal to any person or thing, which -convinces pretenders of this stamp that there is no reason why they -should not do all that others can, and a great deal more into the -bargain. - - - FLAXMAN’S LECTURES ON SCULPTURE - - VOL. I.] [_October 1829._ - -These Lectures were delivered at the Royal Academy in an annual Course, -instituted expressly for that purpose. They are not, on the whole, ill -calculated to promote the object for which they were originally -designed,—to guide the taste, and stimulate the enquiries of the -student; but we should doubt whether there is much in them that is -likely to interest the public. They may be characterised as the work of -a sculptor by profession—dry and hard; a meagre outline, without -colouring or adventitious ornament. The Editor states, that he has left -them scrupulously as he found them: there are, in consequence, some -faults of grammatical construction, of trifling consequence; and many of -the paragraphs are thrown into the form of notes, or loose memorandums, -and read like a table of contents. Nevertheless, there is a great and -evident knowledge of the questions treated of; and wherever there is -knowledge, there is power, and a certain degree of interest. It is only -a pen guided by inanity or affectation, that can strip such subjects of -instruction and amusement. Otherwise, the body of ancient or of modern -Art is like the loadstone, to which the soul vibrates, responsive, -however cold or repulsive the form in which it appears. We have, -however, a more serious fault to object to the present work, than the -mere defects of style, or mode of composition. It is with considerable -regret and reluctance, we confess, that though it may add to the -student’s knowledge of the art, it will contribute little to the -_understanding_ of it. It abounds in rules rather than principles. The -examples, authorities, precepts, are full, just, and well-selected. The -terms of art are unexceptionably applied; the different styles very -properly designated; the mean is distinguished from the lofty; due -praise is bestowed on the _graceful_, the _grand_, the _beautiful_, the -_ideal_; but the reader comprehends no more of the meaning of these -qualities at the end of the work than he did at the beginning. The tone -of the Lectures is dogmatical rather than philosophical. The judgment -for the most part is sound, though no new light is thrown on the grounds -on which it rests. Mr. Flaxman is contented to take up with traditional -maxims, with adjudged cases, with the acknowledged theory and practice -of art: and it is well that he does so; for when he departs from the -habitual bias of his mind, and attempts to enter into an explanation or -defence of first principles, the reasons which he advances are often -weak, warped, insufficient, or contradictory. His arguments are neither -solid nor ingenious: They are merely quaint and gratuitous. If we were -to hazard a general opinion, we should be disposed to say that a certain -setness and formality, a certain want of flexibility and power, ran -through the character of his whole mind. His compositions as a sculptor -are classical,—cast in an approved mould; but, generally speaking, they -are elegant outlines,—poetical abstractions converted into marble, yet -still retaining the essential character of words; and the Professor’s -opinions and views of art as here collected, exhibit barely the surface -and crust of commonly-received maxims, with little depth or originality. -The characteristics of his mind were precision, elegance, cool judgment, -industry, and a laudable and exclusive attachment to _the best_. He -wanted richness, variety, and force. But we shall not dwell farther on -these remarks here; as examples and illustrations of them will occur in -the course of this article. - -The first Lecture, on the history of early British Sculpture, will be -found to contain some novel and curious information. At its very -commencement, however, we find two instances of perverse or obscure -reasoning, which we cannot entirely pass over. In allusion to the -original institution and objects of the Royal Academy, the author -observes, that ‘as the study of Sculpture was at that time confined -within narrow limits, so the appointment of a Professorship in that art -was not required, until the increasing taste of the country had given -great popularity to the art itself, and native achievements had called -on the powers of native Sculpture to celebrate British heroes and -patriots.’ Does Mr. Flaxman mean by this to insinuate that Britain had -neither patriots nor heroes to boast of, till after the establishment of -the Royal Academy, and a little before that of the Professorship of -Sculpture? If so, we cannot agree with him. It would be going only a -single step farther to assert that the study of Astronomy had not been -much encouraged in this country, till the discovery of the _Georgium -Sidus_ was thought to call for it, and for the establishment of an -Observatory at Greenwich! In the next page, the Lecturer remarks, -‘Painting is honoured with precedence, because Design or Drawing is more -particularly and extensively employed in illustration of history. -Sculpture immediately follows in the enumeration, because the two arts -possess the same common principles, expressed by Painting in colour, and -by Sculpture in form.’ Surely, there is here some confusion, either in -the thoughts or in the language. First, Painting takes precedence of -Sculpture, because it illustrates history by design or form, which is -common to both; next, Sculpture comes after Painting, because it -illustrates by form, what Painting does not illustrate by form, but by -colour. We cannot make any sense of this. It is from repeated similar -specimens that we are induced to say, that when Mr. Flaxman reasons, he -reasons ill. But to proceed to something more grateful. The following is -a condensed and patriotic sketch of the rise and early progress of -Sculpture in our own country: - -‘The Saxons destroyed the works of Roman grandeur in Britain, burnt the -cities from sea to sea, and reduced the country to barbarism again; but -when these invaders were settled in their new possessions, they erected -poor and clumsy imitations of the Roman buildings themselves had ruined. -The Saxon Painting is rather preferable to their Sculpture, which, -whether intended to represent the human or brutal figure, is frequently -both horrible and burlesque. The buildings erected in England from the -settlement of the Saxons to the reign of Henry I., continued nearly the -same plain, heavy repetitions of columns and arches. So little was -Sculpture employed in them, that no sepulchral statue is known in -England before the time of William the Conqueror. - -‘Immediately after the Roman Conquest, figures of the deceased were -carved, in bas-relief, on their gravestones, examples of which may be -seen in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey, representing two abbots of -that church, and in Worcester Cathedral, those of St. Oswald and Bishop -Wulstan. The Crusaders returned from the Holy Land; eager to imitate the -arts and magnificence of other countries, they began to decorate the -architecture with rich foliage, and to introduce statues against the -columns; as we find in the west door of Rochester Cathedral, built in -the reign of Henry I. Architecture now improved; Sculpture also became -popular. The custom of carving a figure of the deceased in bas-relief on -the tomb, seems likely to have been brought from France, where it was -continued, in imitation of the Romans. Figures placed against columns -might also be copied from examples in that country, of which one -remarkable instance was a door in the church of St. Germain de Prez, in -Paris, containing several statues of the ancient kings of France, -projecting from columns; a work of the 10th century, of which there are -prints in Montfaucon’s _Antiquities_. - -‘Sculpture continued to be practised with such zeal and success, that in -the reign of Henry III. efforts were made deserving our respect and -attention at this day. Bishop Joceline rebuilt the Cathedral Church of -Wells from the pavement, which having lived to finish and dedicate, he -died in the year of our Lord 1242. The west front of this church equally -testifies the piety and comprehension of the Bishop’s mind; the -sculpture presents the noblest, most useful and interesting subjects -possible to be chosen. On the south side, above the west door, are -alto-relievos of the Creation in its different parts, the Deluge, and -important acts of the Patriarchs. Companions to these on the north side -are alto-relievos of the principal circumstances in the life of our -Saviour. Above these are two rows of statues larger than nature, in -niches, of kings, queens, and nobles, patrons of the church, saints, -bishops, and other religious, from its first foundation to the reign of -Henry III. Near the pediment is our Saviour come to judgment, attended -by angels and his twelve apostles. The upper arches on each side, along -the whole of the west front, and continued in the north and south ends, -are occupied by figures rising from their graves, strongly expressing -the hope, fear, astonishment, stupefaction, or despair, inspired by the -presence of the Lord and Judge of the world in that awful moment. In -speaking of the execution of such a work, due regard must be paid to the -circumstances under which it was produced, in comparison with those of -our own times. There were neither prints nor printed books to assist the -artist. The Sculptor could not be instructed in Anatomy, for there were -no Anatomists. Some knowledge of Optics, and a glimmering of -Perspective, were reserved for the researches of so sublime a genius as -Roger Bacon, some years afterwards. A small knowledge of Geometry and -Mechanics was exclusively confined to two or three learned monks in the -whole country; and the principles of those sciences, as applied to the -figure and motion of man and inferior animals, were known to none! -_Therefore_ this work is _necessarily ill drawn_, and deficient in -principle, and much of the sculpture is rude and severe; yet in parts -there is a beautiful simplicity, an irresistible sentiment, and -sometimes a grace, excelling more modern productions. - -‘It is very remarkable that Wells Cathedral was finished in 1242, two -years after the birth of Cimabue, the restorer of painting in Italy; and -the work was going on at the same time that Nicolo Pisano, the Italian -restorer of sculpture, exercised the art in his own country: it was also -finished forty-six years before the Cathedral of Amiens, and thirty-six -before the Cathedral of Orvieto was begun; and it seems to be the first -specimen of such magnificent and varied sculpture, united in a series of -sacred history, that is to be found in Western Europe. It is, therefore, -probable that the general idea of the work might be brought from the -East by some of the Crusaders. But there are two arguments strongly in -favour of the execution being English: the family name of the Bishop is -English, “Jocelyn Troteman”; and the style, both of sculpture and -architecture, is wholly different from the tombs of Edward the Confessor -and Henry III., which were by Italian artists. - -‘The reign of Edward I. produced a new species of monument. When Eleanor -the beloved wife of that monarch died, who had been his heroic and -affectionate companion in the Holy War, he raised some crosses of -magnificent architecture, adorned with statues of his departed queen, -wherever her corpse rested on the way to its interment in Westminster -Abbey. Three of these crosses still remain, at Northampton, Geddington, -and Waltham. The statues have considerable simplicity and delicacy; they -partake of the character and grace particularly cultivated in the school -of Pisano; and it is not unlikely, as the sepulchral statue and tomb of -Henry III. were executed by Italians, that these statues of Queen -Eleanor might be done by some of the numerous travelling scholars from -Pisano’s school. - -‘The long and prosperous reign of Edward III. was as favourable to -literature and liberal arts, as to the political and commercial -interests of the country. So generally were painting, sculpture, and -architecture encouraged and employed, that besides the buildings raised -in this reign, few sacred edifices existed, which did not receive -additions and decorations. The richness, novelty, and beauty of -architecture may be seen in York and Gloucester Cathedrals, and many of -our other churches: besides the extraordinary fancy displayed in various -intricate and diversified figures which form the mullions of windows, -they were occasionally enriched with a profusion of foliage and -historical sculpture, equally surprising for beauty and novelty. In the -chancel of Dorchester Church, near Oxford, are three windows of this -kind, one of which, besides rich foliage, is adorned with twenty-eight -small statues relating to the genealogy of our Saviour; and the other -two with alto-relievos from acts of his life.’ - -Mr. Flaxman then proceeds to trace the progress of Sculpture, and the -growing passion for it in this country, through the reign of Henry VII. -to the period when its prospects were blighted by the Reformation, and -many of its monuments defaced by the Iconoclastic fury of the Puritans -and zealots in the time of Charles I. The Lecturer seems to be of -opinion that the genius of sculpture in our island was arrested, in the -full career of excellence, and when it was approaching the goal of -perfection, by these two events; which drew aside the public attention, -and threw a stigma on the encouragement of sacred sculpture; whereas, it -would perhaps be just as fair to argue, that these events would never -have happened, had it not been for a certain indifference in the -national character to mere outward impressions, and a slowness to -appreciate, or form an enthusiastic attachment to objects that appeal -only to the imagination and the senses. We may be influenced by higher -and more solid principles,—reason and philosophy; but that makes nothing -to the question. Mr. Flaxman bestows great and deserved praise on the -monuments of Aylmer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, and Edmund Crouchback, -in Westminster Abbey, which are by English artists, whose names are -preserved; but speaks slightingly of the tomb of Henry VII. and his -wife, in Henry VII.’s Chapel, by Torregiano; from whom, on trivial and -insufficient grounds, he withholds the merit of the other sculptures and -ornaments of the chapel. This is prejudice, and not wisdom. We think the -tomb alone will be monument enough to that artist in the opinion of all -who have seen it. We have no objection to, but on the contrary applaud -the Lecturer’s zeal to repel the imputation of incapacity from British -art, and to detect the lurking traces and doubtful prognostics of it in -the records of our early history; but we are, at the same time, -convinced that tenaciousness on this point creates an unfavourable -presumption on the other side; and we make bold to submit, that whenever -the national capacity bursts forth in the same powerful and striking way -in the Fine Arts that it has done in so many others, we shall no longer -have occasion to praise ourselves for what we either have done, or what -we are to do:—the world will soon be loud in the acknowledgment of it. -Works of ornament and splendour must dazzle and claim attention at the -first sight, or they do not answer their end. They are not like the -deductions of an abstruse philosophy, or even improvements in practical -affairs, which may make their way slowly and under-ground. They are not -a light placed under a bushel, but like ‘a city set on a hill, that -cannot be hid.’ To _appear_ and to _be_, are with them the same thing. -Neither are we much better satisfied with the arguments of the learned -professor to show that the series of statuary in Wells Cathedral is of -native English workmanship. The difference of style from the tombs of -Edward the Confessor and Henry III. by Italians, can be of little weight -at a period when the principles of art were so unsettled, and each -person did the best he could, according to his own taste and knowledge; -and as to the second branch of the evidence, viz. that ‘the family name -of the Bishop is English, Jocelyn Troteman,’ it sounds too much like a -parody on the story of him who wanted to prove his descent from the -‘Admirable Crichton,’ by his having a family cup in his possession with -the initials A. C.! - -We dwell the longer and more willingly on the details and recollections -of the early works of which the author speaks so feelingly, as first -informed with life and sentiment, because all relating to that remote -period of architecture and sculpture, exercises a peculiar charm and -fascination over our minds. It is not art in its ‘high and palmy state,’ -with its boasted refinements about it, that we look at with envy and -wonder, so much as in its first rude attempts and conscious yearning -after excellence. They were, indeed, the favoured of the earth, into -whom genius first breathed the breath of life; who, born in a night of -ignorance, first beheld the sacred dawn of light—those Deucalions of -art, who, after the deluge of barbarism and violence had subsided, stood -alone in the world, and had to sow the seeds of countless generations of -knowledge. We can conceive of some village Michael Angelo, with a soul -too mighty for its tenement of clay, whose longing aspirations after -truth and good were palsied by the refusal of his hand to execute -them,—struggling to burst the trammels and trying to shake off the load -of discouragement that oppressed him: What must be his exultation to see -the speaking statue, the stately pile, rise up slowly before him,—the -idea in his mind embodied out of nothing, without model or precedent,—to -see a huge cathedral heave its ponderous weight above the earth, or the -solemn figure of an apostle point from one corner of it to the skies; -and to think that future ages would, perhaps, gaze at the work with the -same delight and wonder that his own did, and not suffer his name to -sink into the same oblivion as those who had gone before him, or as the -brutes that perish;—this was, indeed, to be admitted into the communion, -the ‘holiest of holies’ of genius, and to drink of the waters of life -freely! Art, as it springs from the source of genius, is like the act of -creation: it has the same obscurity and grandeur about it. Afterwards, -whatever perfection it attains, it becomes mechanical. Its strongest -impulse and inspiration is derived, not from what it has done, but from -what it has to do. It is not surprising that from this state of anxiety -and awe with which it regards its appointed task,—the unknown bourne -that lies before it, such startling revelations of the world of truth -and beauty are often struck out when one might least expect it, and that -Art has sometimes leaped at one vast bound from its cradle to its grave! -Mr. Flaxman, however, strongly inculcates the contrary theory, and is -for raising up Art to its most majestic height by the slow and -circuitous process of an accumulation of rules and machinery. He seems -to argue that its advance is on a gradually inclined plane, keeping pace -and co-extended with that of Science; ‘growing with its growth and -strengthening with its strength.’ It appears to us that this is not -rightly to weigh the essential differences either of Science or of Art; -and that it is flying in the face both of fact and argument. He says, it -took sculpture nine hundred or a thousand years to advance from its -first rude commencement to its perfection in Greece and Egypt: But we -must remember, that the greatest excellence of the Fine Arts, both in -Greece, Italy, and Holland, was concentrated into little more than a -century; and again, if Art and Science were synonymous, there can be no -doubt that the knowledge of anatomy and geometry is more advanced in -England in the present day than it was at Athens in the time of -Pericles; but is our sculpture therefore superior? The answer to this -is, ‘No; but it ought to be, and it will be.’ Spare us, good Mr. -Prophesier! Art cannot be transmitted by a receipt, or theorem, like -Science; and cannot therefore be improved _ad libitum_: It has -inseparably to do with individual nature and individual genius. - -The Second Lecture is on Egyptian Sculpture, and here Mr. Flaxman -displays the same accurate information and diligent research as before. -The Egyptian statues, the Sphinx, the Memnon, &c. were, as is well -known, principally distinguished for their size, and the immense labour -and expense bestowed upon them. The critic thus justly characterizes -their style and merits: - -‘The Egyptian statues stand equally poised on both legs, having one foot -advanced, the arms either hanging straight down on each side; or, if one -is raised, it is at a right angle across the body. Some of the statues -sit on seats, some on the ground, and some are kneeling; but the -position of the hands seldom varies from the above description; their -attitudes are of course simple, rectilinear, and without lateral -movement; the faces are rather flat, the brows, eyelids, and mouth -formed of simple curves, slightly but sharply marked, and with little -expression; the general proportions are something more than seven heads -high; the form of the body and limbs rather round and effeminate, with -only the most evident projections and hollows. Their tunics, or rather -draperies, are in many instances without folds. Winckelman has remarked, -that the Egyptians executed quadrupeds better than human figures; for -which he gives the two following reasons: first, that as professions in -that country were hereditary, genius must be wanting to represent the -human form in perfection; secondly, That superstitious reverence for the -works of their ancestors prevented improvements. This is an amusing, but -needless hypothesis: for there are statues in the Capitoline Museum with -as great a breadth, and choice of grand parts proper to the human form, -as ever they represented in their lions, or other inferior animals. In -addition to these observations on Egyptian statues, we may remark, the -forms of their hands and feet are gross; they have no anatomical detail -of parts, and are totally deficient in the grace of motion. This last -defect, in all probability, was not the consequence of a superstitious -determination to persist in the practice of their ancestors; it is -accounted for in another and better way. - -‘Pythagoras, after he had studied several years in Egypt, sacrificed a -hundred oxen in consequence of having discovered, that a square of the -longest side of a right-angled triangle is equal to the two squares of -the lesser sides of the same triangle; and thence it follows, that the -knowledge of the Egyptians could not have been very great at that time -in geometry. This will naturally account for that want of motion in -their statues and relievos, which can only be obtained by a careful -observation of nature, assisted by geometry.’ - -This is, we apprehend, one of the weak points of Mr. Flaxman’s -reasoning. That geometry may be of great use to fix and ascertain -certain general principles of the art, we are far from disputing; but -surely it was no more necessary for the Egyptian sculptor to wait for -the discovery of Pythagoras’s problem before he could venture to detach -the arms from the sides, than it was for the Egyptians themselves to -remain swathed and swaddled up like mummies, without the power of -locomotion, till Pythagoras came with his geometrical diagram to set -their limbs at liberty. If they could do this without a knowledge of -mechanics, the sculptor could not help seeing it, and imperfectly -copying it, if he had the use of his senses or his wits about him. The -greater probability is, that the sepulchral statues were done from, or -in imitation of the mummies; or that as the imitation of variety of -gesture or motion is always the most difficult, these stiff and -monotonous positions were adopted (and subsequently adhered to from -custom) as the safest and easiest. After briefly noticing the defects of -the Hindoo and other early sculpture, the author proceeds to account for -the improved practice of the Greeks on the same formal and mechanic -principles. - -‘We find,’ he says, ‘upon these authorities (Vitruvius and the elder -Pliny), that geometry and numbers were employed to ascertain the powers -of motion and proportions; optics and perspective (as known to the -ancients) to regulate projections, hollows, keeping, diminution, -curvatures, and general effects in figures, groups, insulated or in -relief, with accompaniments; and anatomy, to represent the bones, -muscles, tendons, and veins, _as they appear on the surface of the human -body and inferior animals_. - -‘In this enlightened age, when the circle of science is so generally and -well understood—when the connexion and relation of one branch with -another is demonstrated, and their principles applied from necessity and -conviction, wherever possibility allows, in the liberal and mechanical -arts, as well as all the other concerns of life—no one can be weak or -absurd enough to suppose it is within the ability and province of human -genius, without the principles of science previously acquired—by _slight -observation only_—to become possessed of the forms, characters, and -essences of objects, in such a manner as to represent them with truth, -force, and pathos at once! No; we are convinced by reason and -experience, that “life is short and art is long;” and the perfection of -all human productions depends on the indefatigable accumulation of -knowledge and labour through a succession of ages.’—P. 55. - -This paragraph, we cannot but think, proceeds altogether on a false -estimate: it is a misdirection to the student. In following up the -principles here laid down, the artist’s life would not only be short, -but misspent. Is there no medium, in our critic’s view of this matter, -between a ‘slight observation’ of nature, and scientific demonstration? -If so, we will say there can be no fine art at all: For mere abstract -and formal rules cannot produce truth, force, and pathos in individual -forms; and it is equally certain that ‘slight observation’ will not -answer the end, if all but learned pedantry is to be accounted casual -and superficial. This is to throw a slur on the pursuit, and an -impediment in the way of the art itself. Mr. Flaxman seems here to -suppose that our observation is profound and just, not according to the -delicacy, comprehensiveness, or steadiness of the attention we bestow -upon a given object: but depends on the discovery of some other object -which was before hid; or on the intervention of mechanical rules, which -supersede the exercise of our senses and judgments—as if the outward -appearance of things was concealed by a film of abstraction, which could -only be removed by the spectacles of books. Thus, anatomy is said to be -necessary ‘to represent the bones, muscles tendons, and veins, as they -appear on the surface of the human body;’ so that it is to be presumed, -that the anatomist, when he has with his knife and instruments laid bare -the internal structure of the body, sees at a glance what he did not -before see; but that the artist, after poring over them all his life, is -blind to the external appearance of veins, muscles, &c., till the seeing -what is concealed under the skin enables him for the first time to see -what appears through it. We do not deny that the knowledge of the -internal conformation helps to explain and to determine the _meaning_ of -the outward appearance; what we object to as unwarrantable and -pernicious doctrine, is substituting the one process for the other, and -speaking slightly of the study of nature in the comparison. It shows a -want of faith in the principles and purposes of the Art itself, and a -wish to confound and prop it up with the grave mysteries and formal -pretensions of Science; which is to take away its essence and its pride. -The student who sets to work under such an impression, may accumulate a -great deal of learned lumber, and envelope himself in diagrams, -demonstrations, and the whole circle of the sciences; but while he is -persuaded that the study of nature is but a ‘slight’ part of his task, -he will never be able to draw, colour, or _express_ a single object, -farther than this can be done by a rule and compasses. The crutches of -science will not lend wings to genius. Suppose a person were to tell us, -that if he pulled off his coat and laid bare his arm, this would give us -(with all the attention we could bestow upon it) no additional insight -into its form, colour, or the appearance of veins and muscles on the -surface, unless he at the same time suffered us to _flay it_; should we -not laugh in his face as wanting common sense, or conclude that he was -laughing at us? So the late Professor of Sculpture lays little stress in -accounting for the progress of Grecian art on the perfection which the -human form acquired, and the opportunities for studying its varieties -and movements in the Olympic exercises; but considers the whole miracle -as easily solved, when the anatomist came with his probe and ploughed up -the surface of the flesh, and the geometrician came with his line and -plummet, and demonstrated the centre of gravity. He sums up the question -in these words: ‘In the early times of Greece, Pausanias informs us the -twelve Gods were worshipped in Arcadia, under the forms of rude stones; -and before Dædalus the statues had eyes nearly shut, the arms attached -to their sides, and the legs close together! but _as geometry, -mechanics, arithmetic, and anatomy improved, painting and sculpture -acquired action, proportion and detailed parts_.’ As to the slight -account that is made in this reasoning of the immediate observation of -visible objects, the point may be settled by an obvious dilemma: Either -the eye sees the whole of any object before it; or it does not. If it -sees and comprehends the whole of it with all its parts and relations, -then it must retain and be able to give a faithful and satisfactory -resemblance, without calling in the aid of rules or science to prevent -or correct errors and defects; just as the human face or form is -perfectly represented in a looking-glass. But if the eye sees only a -small part of what any visible object contains in it,—has only a -glimmering of colour, proportion, expression &c., then this incipient -and imperfect knowledge may be improved to an almost infinite degree by -close attention, by study and practice, and by comparing a succession of -objects with one another; which is the proper and essential province of -the artist, independently of abstract rules or science. On further -observation we notice many details in a face which escaped us at the -first glance; by a study of faces and of mankind practically, we -perceive expressions which the generality do not perceive; but this is -not done by rule. The fallacy is in supposing that all that the first -naked or hasty observation does not give, is supplied by science and -general theories, and not by a closer and continued observation of the -thing itself, so that all that belongs to the latter department is -necessarily casual and slight. - -Mr. Flaxman enforces the same argument by quoting the rules laid down by -Vitruvius, for ascertaining the true principles of form and motion. This -writer says, ‘If a man lies on his back, his arms and legs may be so -extended, that a circle may be drawn round, touching the extremities of -his fingers and toes, the centre of which circle shall be his navel: -also, that, a man standing upright, the length of his arms when fully -extended is equal to his height; thus that the circle and the square -equally contain the general form and motion of the human figure.’ From -these hints, and the profound mathematical train of reasoning with which -Leonardo da Vinci has pursued the subject, the author adds, that a -complete system of the principles followed by the ancient Greek -sculptors may be drawn out: that is to say, that because all the -inflections of figure and motion of which the human body is susceptible, -are contained within the above-mentioned circle or square, the knowledge -of all this formal generality _includes_ a knowledge of all the -subordinate and implied particulars. The contortions of the Laocoon, the -agony of the Children, the look of the Dying Gladiator, the contours of -the Venus, the grace and spirit of the Apollo, are all, it seems, -contained within the limits of the circle or the square! Just as well -might it be contended, that having got a square or oval frame, of the -size of a picture by Titian or Vandyke, every one is qualified to paint -a face within it equal in force or beauty to Titian or Vandyke. - -In the same spirit of a determination to make art a handmaid attendant -upon Science, the author thus proceeds: ‘Pliny says, lib. xxxiv. c. 8, -Leontius, the contemporary of Phidias, first expressed tendons and -veins—_primus nervos et venas expressit_—which was immediately after the -anatomical researches and improvements of Hippocrates, Democritus, and -their disciples; and we shall find in the same manner all the -improvements in art followed improvements in science.’ Yet almost in the -next page, Mr. Flaxman himself acknowledges, that even in the best times -of Grecian sculpture, and the era of Phidias and Praxiteles, dissections -were rare, and anatomy very imperfectly understood, and cites ‘the -opinion of the learned Professor of Anatomy, that the ancients artists -owed much more to the study of living than dead bodies.’ Sir Anthony -Carlisle, aware of the deficiencies of former ages in this branch of -knowledge, and yet conscious that he himself would be greatly puzzled to -carve the Apollo or the Venus, very naturally and wisely concludes, that -the latter depends upon a course of study, and an acquaintance with -forms very different from any which he possesses. It is a smattering and -affectation of science that leads men to suppose that it is capable of -more than it really is, and of supplying the undefined and evanescent -creations of art with universal and infallible principles. There cannot -be an opinion more productive of presumption and sloth. - -The same turn of thought is insisted on in the Fourth Lecture, _On -Science_; and indeed nearly the whole of that Lecture is devoted to a -fuller developement and exemplification of what appears to us a servile -prejudice. It would be unjust, however, to Mr. Flaxman, to suppose, or -to insinuate, that he is without a better sense and better principles of -art, whenever he trusted to his own feelings and experience, instead of -being hoodwinked by an idle theory. Nothing can be more excellent than -the following observations which occur towards the conclusion of the -Lecture on _Composition_: - -‘What has been delivered comprises some of the rules for composing, and -observations on composition, the most obvious, and perhaps not the least -useful. They have been collected from the best works and the best -writings, examined and compared with their principles in nature. Such a -comprehensive view may be serviceable to the younger student, in -pointing his way, preventing error, and showing the needful materials; -_but after all, he must perform the work himself_! All rules, all -critical discourses, can but awaken the intelligence, and stimulate the -will, with advice and directions, for a beginning of that which is to be -done. They may be compared to the scaffolding for raising a magnificent -palace; it is neither the building nor the decoration, but it is the -workman’s indispensable help in erecting the walls which enclose the -apartments, and which may afterwards be enriched with the most splendid -ornaments. Every painter and sculptor feels a conviction that a -considerable portion of science is requisite to the productions of -liberal art; but he will be equally convinced, that whatever is produced -from principles and rules only, added to the most exquisite manual -labour, is no more than a mechanical work. Sentiment is the life and -soul of fine art; without which it is all a dead letter! Sentiment gives -a sterling value, an irresistible charm to the rudest imagery or most -unpractised scrawl. By this quality a firm alliance is formed with the -affections in all works of art. With an earnest watchfulness for their -preservation, we are made to perceive and feel the most sublime and -terrific subjects, following the course of sentiment, through the -current and mazes of intelligence and passion, to the most delicate and -tender ties and sympathies.’ - -From the account of Grecian sculpture, in the third Lecture, which is -done with care and judgment, we select the following descriptions of the -Minerva and Jupiter of Phidias:— - -‘Within the temple (at the Acropolis of Athens) stood the statue of -Minerva, thirty-nine feet high, made by Phidias, of ivory and gold, -holding a victory, six feet high, in her right hand, and a spear in her -left, her tunic reaching to her feet. She had her helmet on, and the -Medusa’s head on her ægis; her shield was adorned with the battle of the -gods and giants, the pedestal with the birth of Pandora. Plato tells us -that the eyes of this statue were precious stones. But the great work of -this chief of sculptors, the astonishment and praise of after ages, was -the Jupiter at Elis, sitting on his throne, his left hand holding a -sceptre, his right extending victory to the Olympian conquerors, his -head crowned with olive, and his pallium decorated with birds, beasts, -and flowers. The four corners of the throne were dancing victories, each -supported by a sphinx, tearing a Theban youth. At the back of the -throne, above his head, were the three horns, or seasons, on one side, -and on the other the three Graces. On the bar, between the legs of the -throne, and the panels, or spaces, between them, were represented many -stories—the destruction of Niobe’s children, the labours of Hercules, -the delivery of Prometheus, the garden of Hesperides, with the different -adventures of the heroic ages. On the base, the battle of Theseus with -the Amazons; on the pedestal, an assembly of the gods, the sun and moon -in their cars, and the birth of Venus. The height of the work was sixty -feet. The statue was ivory, enriched with the radiance of golden -ornaments and precious stones, and was justly esteemed one of the seven -wonders of the world. - -‘Several other statues of great excellence, in marble and in bronze, are -mentioned among the works of Phidias, particularly a Venus, placed by -the Romans in the forum of Octavia; two Minervas, one named -Callimorphus, from the beauty of its form; and it is likely that the -fine statue of this goddess in Mr. Hope’s gallery is a repetition in -marble of Phidias’s bronze, from its resemblance in attitude, drapery, -and helmet, to the reverse of an Athenian coin. Another statue by him -was an Amazon, called Eutnemon, from her beautiful legs. There is a -print of this in the _Museum Pium Clementinum_.’ - -With the name of Phidias, Mr. Flaxman couples that of Praxiteles, and -gives the following spirited sketch of him and his works:— - -‘Praxiteles excelled in the highest graces of youth and beauty. He is -said to have excelled not only other sculptors, but himself, by his -marble statues in the Ceramicus of Athens; but his Venus was preferable -to all others in the world, and many sailed to Cnidos for the purpose of -seeing it. This sculptor having made two statues of Venus, one with -drapery, the other without, the Coans preferred the clothed figure, on -account of its severe modesty, the same price being set upon each. The -citizens of Cnidos took the rejected statue, and afterwards refused it -to King Nicomedes, who would have forgiven them an immense debt in -return; but they were resolved to suffer any thing, so long as this -statue, by Praxiteles, ennobled Cnidos. The temple was entirely open in -which it was placed, because every view was equally admirable. This -Venus was still in Cnidos during the reign of the Emperor Arcadius, -about 400 years after Christ. Among the known works of Praxiteles are -his Satyr, Cupid, Apollo, the Lizard-killer, and Bacchus leaning on a -Faun.’ - -But we must stop short in this list of famous names and enchanting -works, or we should never have done. This seems to have been the -fabulous age of sculpture, when marble started into life as in a -luxurious dream, and men appeared to have no other employment than ‘to -make Gods in their own image.’ The Lecturer bestows due and eloquent -praise on the horses in the Elgin collection, which he supposes to have -been done under the superintendence, and probably from designs by -Phidias; but we are sorry he has not extended his eulogium to the figure -of the Theseus, which appears to us a world of grace and grandeur in -itself, and to say to the sculptor’s art, ‘_Hitherto shalt thou come, -and no farther!_’ What went before it was rude in the comparison; what -came after it was artificial. It is the perfection of _style_, and would -have afforded a much better exemplification of the force and meaning of -that term than the schoolboy definition adopted in the Lecture on this -subject; namely, that as poets and engravers used a _stylos_, or style, -to execute their works, the name of the instrument was metaphorically -applied to express the art itself. _Style_ properly means the mode of -representing nature; and this again arises from the various character of -men’s minds, and the infinite variety of views which may be taken of -nature. After seeing the Apollo, the Hercules, and other celebrated -works of antiquity, we seem to have exhausted our stock of admiration, -and to conceive that there is no higher perfection for sculpture to -attain, or to aspire to. But at the first sight of the Elgin Marbles, we -feel that we have been in a mistake, and the ancient objects of our -idolatry fall into an inferior class or style of art. They are -comparatively, and without disparagement of their vast and almost -superhuman merit, _stuck-up_ gods and goddesses. But a new principle is -at work in the others which we had not seen or felt the want of before -(not a studied trick, or curious refinement, but an obvious truth, -arising from a more intimate acquaintance with, and firmer reliance on, -nature;)—a principle of fusion, of motion, so that the marble flows like -a wave. The common _antiques_ represent the most perfect forms and -proportions, with each part perfectly understood and executed; every -thing is brought out; every thing is made as exquisite and imposing as -it can be in itself; but each part seems to be cut out of the marble, -and to answer to a model of itself in the artist’s mind. But in the -fragment of the Theseus, the whole is melted into one impression like -wax; there is all the flexibility, the malleableness of flesh; there is -the same alternate tension and relaxation; the same sway and yielding of -the parts; ‘the right hand knows what the left hand doeth’; and the -statue bends and plays under the framer’s mighty hand and eye, as if, -instead of being a block of marble, it was provided with an internal -machinery of nerves and muscles, and felt every the slightest pressure -or motion from one extremity to the other. This, then, is the greatest -grandeur of style, from the comprehensive idea of the whole, joined to -the greatest simplicity, from the entire union and subordination of the -parts. There is no ostentation, no stiffness, no overlaboured finishing. -Every thing is in its place and degree, and put to its proper use. The -greatest power is combined with the greatest ease: there is the -perfection of knowledge, with the total absence of a conscious display -of it. We find so little of an appearance of art or labour, that we -might be almost tempted to suppose that the whole of these groups were -done by means of _casts_ from fine nature; for it is to be observed, -that the commonest cast from nature has the same _style_ or character of -union and reaction of parts, being copied from that which has life and -motion in itself. What adds a passing gleam of probability to such a -suggestion is, that these statues were placed at a height where only the -general effect could be distinguished, and that the back and hinder -parts, which are just as scrupulously finished as the rest, and as true -to the mould of nature, were fixed against a wall where they could not -be seen at all; and where the labour (if we do not suppose it to be in a -great measure abridged mechanically) was wholly thrown away. However, we -do not lay much stress on this consideration; for we are aware that ‘the -labour we delight in physics pain,’ and we believe that the person who -_could_ do the statue of the Theseus, _would_ do it, under all -circumstances, and without fee or reward of any kind. We conceive that -the Elgin Marbles settle another disputed point of vital interest to the -arts. Sir Joshua Reynolds contends, among others, that grandeur of style -consists in giving only the _masses_, and leaving out the details. The -statues we are speaking of repudiate this doctrine, and at least -demonstrate the possibility of uniting the two things, which had been -idly represented to be incompatible, as if they were not obviously found -together in nature. A great number of parts may be collected into one -mass; as, on the other hand, a work may equally want minute details, or -large and imposing masses. Suppose all the light to be thrown on one -side of a face, and all the shadow on the other: the _chiaroscuro_ may -be worked up with the utmost delicacy and pains in the one, and every -vein or freckle distinctly marked on the other, without destroying the -general effect—that is, the two broad masses of light and shade. Mr. -Flaxman takes notice that there were two eras of Grecian art before the -time of Pericles and Phidias, when it was at its height. In the first -they gave only a gross or formal representation of the objects, so that -you could merely say, ‘This is a man, that is a horse.’ To this clumsy -concrete style succeeded the most elaborate finishing of parts, without -selection, grace or grandeur. ‘Elaborate finishing was soon afterwards’ -[after the time of Dædalus and his scholars] ‘carried to excess: -undulating locks and spiral knots of hair like shells, as well as the -drapery, were wrought with the most elaborate care and exactness; whilst -the tasteless and barbarous character of the face and limbs remained -much the same as in former times.’ This was the natural course of -things, to denote first the gross object; then to run into the opposite -extreme, and give none but the detached parts. The difficulty was to -unite the two in a noble and comprehensive idea of nature. - -We are chiefly indebted for the information or amusement we derive from -Mr. Flaxman’s work, to the historical details of his subject. We cannot -say that he has removed any of the doubts or stumbling-blocks in our -way, or extended the landmarks of taste or reasoning. We turned with -some interest to the Lecture on _Beauty_; for the artist has left -specimens of this quality in several of his works. We were a good deal -disappointed. It sets out in this manner: ‘That beauty is not merely an -imaginary quality, but a real essence, may be inferred from the harmony -of the universe; and the perfection of its wondrous parts we may -understand from all surrounding nature; and in this course of -observation we find, that man has more of beauty bestowed on him as he -rises higher in creation.’ The rest is of a piece with this -exordium,—containing a dissertation on the various gradations of being, -of which man is said to be at the top,—on the authority of Socrates, who -argues, ‘that the human form is the most perfect of all forms, because -it contains in it the principles and powers of all inferior forms.’ This -assertion is either a flat contradiction of the fact, or an _antique_ -riddle, which we do not pretend to solve. Indeed, we hold the ancients, -with all our veneration for them, to have been wholly destitute of -philosophy in this department; and Mr. Flaxman, who was taught when he -was young to look up to them for light and instruction in the philosophy -of art, has engrafted too much of it on his Lectures. He defines beauty -thus: ‘The most perfect human beauty is that _most free from deformity_, -either of body or mind, and may be therefore defined—The most perfect -soul is the most perfect body.’ - -In support of this truism, he strings a number of quotations together, -as if he were stringing pearls: - -‘In Plato’s dialogue concerning the beautiful, he shows the power and -influence of mental beauty on corporeal; and in his dialogue, entitled -“The greater Hippias,” Socrates observes in argument, “that as a -beautiful vase is inferior to a beautiful horse, and as a beautiful -horse is not to be compared to a beautiful virgin, in the same manner a -beautiful virgin is inferior in beauty to the immortal Gods; for,” says -he, “there is a beauty incorruptible, ever the same.” It is remarkable, -that, immediately after, he says, “Phidias is skilful in beauty.” -Aristotle, the Scholar of Plato, begins his Treatise on Morals -thus:—“Every art, every method and institution, every action and -council, seems to seek some good; therefore the ancients pronounced the -beautiful to be good.” Much, indeed, might be collected from this -philosopher’s treatises on morals, poetics, and physiognomy, of the -greatest importance to our subject; but for the present we shall produce -only two quotations from Xenophon’s _Memorabilia_, which contain the -immediate application of these principles to the arts of design. In the -dialogue between Socrates and the sculptor Clito, Socrates concludes, -that “Statuary must represent the emotions of the soul by form;” and in -the former part of the same dialogue, Parrhasius and Socrates agree -that, “the good and evil qualities of the soul may be represented in the -figure of man by painting.” In the applications from this dialogue to -our subject, we must remember, philosophy demonstrates that rationality -and intelligence, although connected with animal nature, rises above it, -and properly exists in a more exalted state. From such contemplations -and maxims, the ancient artists sublimated the sentiments of their -works, expressed in the choicest forms of nature; thus they produced -their divinities, heroes, patriots, and philosophers, adhering to the -principle of Plato, that “nothing is beautiful which is not good;” it -was this which, in ages of polytheism and idolatry, still continued to -enforce a popular impression of divine attributes and perfection.’ - -If the ancient sculptors had had nothing but such maxims and -contemplations as these to assist them in forming their statues, they -would have been greatly to seek indeed! Take these homilies on the -Beautiful and the Good, together with Euclid’s Elements, into any -country town in England, and see if you can make a modern Athens of it. -The Greek artists did not learn to put expression into their works, -because Socrates had said, that ‘statuary must represent the emotions of -the soul by form;’ but he said that they ought to do so, because he had -seen it done by Phidias and others. It was from the diligent study and -contemplation of the ‘choicest forms of nature,’ and from the natural -love of beauty and grandeur in the human breast, and not from ‘shreds -and patches,’ of philosophy, that they drew their conceptions of Gods -and men. Let us not, however, be thought hard on the metaphysics of the -ancients: they were the first to propose these questions, and to feel -the curiosity and the earnest desire to know what the _beautiful_ and -the _good_, meant. If the will was not tantamount to the deed, it was -scarcely their fault; and perhaps, instead of blaming their partial -success, we ought rather to take shame to ourselves for the little -progress we have made, and the dubious light that has been shed upon -such questions since. If the Professor of Sculpture had sought for the -principles of beauty in the antique statues, instead of the _scholia_ of -the commentators, he probably might have found it to resolve itself -(according, at least, to their peculiar and favourite view of it) into a -certain symmetry of form, answering in a great measure, to harmony of -colouring, or of musical sounds. We do not here affect to lay down a -metaphysical theory, but to criticise an historical fact. We are not -bold enough to say that beauty in general depends on a regular gradation -and correspondence of lines, but we may safely assert that Grecian -beauty does. If we take any beautiful Greek statue, we shall find that, -seen in profile, the forehead and nose form nearly a perpendicular -straight line; and that finely turned at that point, the lower part of -the face falls by gentle and almost equal curves to the chin. The cheek -is full and round, and the outline of the side of the face a general -sloping line. In front, the eyebrows are straight, or gently curved; the -eyelids full and round to match, answering to that of Belphœbe, in -Spenser— - - ‘Upon her eyebrows many Graces sat, - Under the shadow of her even brows:’ - -The space between the eyebrows is broad, and the two sides of the nose -straight, and nearly parallel; the nostrils form large and distinct -curves; the lips are full and even, the corners being large; the chin is -round, and rather short, forming, with the two sides of the face, a -regular oval. The opposite to this, the Grecian model of beauty, is to -be seen in the contour and features of the African face, where all the -lines, instead of corresponding to, or melting into, one another, in a -kind of _rhythmus_ of form, are sharp, angular, and at cross-purposes. -Where strength and majesty were to be expressed by the Greeks, they -adopted a greater squareness, but there was the same unity and -correspondence of outline. Greek grace is harmony of movement. The -_ideal_ may be regarded as a certain predominant quality or character -(this may be ugliness or deformity as well as beauty, as is seen in the -forms of fauns and satyrs) diffused over all the parts of an object, and -carried to the utmost pitch, that our acquaintance with visible models, -and our conception of the imaginary object, will warrant. It is -extending our impressions farther, raising them higher than usual, from -the _actual_ to the _possible_.[31] How far we can enlarge our -discoveries from the one of these to the other, is a point of some -nicety. In treating on this question, our author thus distinguishes the -Natural and the Ideal Styles: - -‘The Natural Style may be defined thus: a representation of the human -form, according to the distinction of sex and age, in action or repose, -expressing the affections of the soul. The same words may be used to -define the Ideal Style, but they must be followed by this -addition—_selected from such perfect examples as may excite in our minds -a conception of the preternatural_. By these definitions will be -understood that the Natural Style is peculiar to humanity, and the Ideal -to spirituality and divinity.’ - -We should be inclined to say, that the female divinities of the ancients -were Goddesses because they were _ideal_, rather than that they were -_ideal_ because they belonged to the class of Goddesses; ‘By their own -beauty were they deified.’ Of the difficulty of passing the line that -separates the actual from the imaginary world, some test may be formed -by the suggestion thrown out a little way back; _viz._ that the _ideal_ -is exemplified in systematizing and enhancing any idea whether of beauty -or deformity, as in the case of the fauns and satyrs of antiquity. The -expressing of depravity and grossness is produced here by approximating -the human face and figure to that of the brute; so that the mind runs -along this line from one to the other, and carries the wished-for -resemblance as far as it pleases. But here both the extremes are equally -well known, equally objects of sight and observation: insomuch that -there might be a literal substitution of the one for the other; but in -the other case, of elevating character and pourtraying Gods as men, one -of the extremes is missing; and the combining the two, is combining a -positive with an unknown abstraction. To represent a Jupiter or Apollo, -we take the best species, (as it seems to us,) and select the best of -that species: how we are to get beyond that _best_, without any given -form or visible image to refer to, it is not easy to determine. The -_ideal_, according to Mr. Flaxman, is ‘the scale by which to heaven we -do ascend;’ but it is a hazardous undertaking to soar above reality, by -embodying an abstraction. If the ancients could have seen the immortal -Gods, with their bodily sense, (as it was said that Jupiter had revealed -himself to Phidias,) they might have been enabled to give some -reflection or shadow of their countenances to their human likenesses of -them: otherwise, poetry and philosophy lent their light in vain. It is -true, we may magnify the human figure to any extent we please, for that -is a mechanical affair; but how we are to add to our ideas of grace or -grandeur, beyond any thing we have ever seen, merely by contemplating -grace and grandeur that we have never seen, is quite another matter. If -we venture beyond the highest point of excellence of which we have any -example, we quit our hold of the natural, without being sure that we -have laid our hands on what is truly divine; for that has no earthly -image or representative—nature is the only rule or ‘legislator.’ We may -combine existing qualities, but this must be consistently, that is, such -as are found combined in nature. Repose was given to the Olympian -Jupiter to express majesty; because the greatest power was found to -imply repose, and to produce its effects with the least effort. Minerva, -the Goddess of Wisdom, was represented young and beautiful; because -wisdom was discovered not to be confined to age or ugliness. Not only -the individual excellencies, but their bond of union, were sanctioned by -the testimony of observation and experience. Bacchus is represented with -full, exuberant features, with prominent lips, and a stern brow, as -expressing a character of plenitude and bounty, and the tamer of savages -and wild beasts. But this _ideal_ conception is carried to the brink; -the mould is full, and with a very little more straining, it would -overflow into caricature and distortion. Mercury has wings, which is -merely a grotesque and fanciful combination of known images. Apollo was -described by the poets (if not represented by the statuary) with a round -jocund face, and golden locks, in allusion to the appearance and rays of -the sun. This was an allegory, and would be soon turned to abuse in -sculpture or painting. Thus we see how circumscribed and uncertain the -province of the _ideal_ is, when once it advances from ‘the most perfect -nature to spirituality and divinity.’ We suspect the improved Deity -often fell short of the heroic original; and the Venus was only the most -beautiful woman of the time, with diminished charms and a finer name -added to her. With respect to _ideal_ expression, it is superior to -common _every-day_ expression, no doubt; that is, it must be raised to -correspond with lofty characters placed in striking situations; but it -is tame and feeble compared with what those characters would exhibit in -the supposed circumstances. The expressions in the _Incendio del Borgo_ -are striking and grand; but could we see the expression of terror in the -commonest face in real danger of being burnt to death, it would put all -imaginary expressions to shame and flight. - -Mr. Flaxman makes an attempt to vindicate the golden ornaments, and eyes -of precious stones, in the ancient statues, as calculated to add to the -awe of the beholder, and inspire a belief in their preternatural power. -In this point of view, or as a matter of religious faith, we are not -tenacious on the subject, any more than we object to the wonder-working -images and moving eyes of the patron saints in Popish churches. But the -question, as it regards the fine arts in general, is curious, and -treated at some length, and with considerable intricacy and learning, by -the Lecturer. - -‘We certainly know,’ he says, ‘that the arts of painting and sculpture -are different in their essential properties. Painting exists by colours -only, and form is the peculiarity of sculpture; but there is a principle -common to both, in which both are united, and without which neither can -exist—and this is drawing; and in the union of light, shadow, and -colour, sculpture may be seen more advantageously by the chill light of -a winter’s day, or the warmer tints of a midsummer’s sun, according to -the solemnity or cheerfulness of the subject. These positions will be -generally agreed to; but the question before us is, “How far was Phidias -successful in adding colours to the sculpture of the Athenian Minerva, -and the Olympian Jupiter?”—which examples were followed by succeeding -artists. - -‘We have all been struck by the resemblance of figures in coloured -wax-work to persons in fits, and therefore such a representation is -particularly proper for the similitude of persons in fits, or the -deceased: but the Olympian Jupiter and the Athenian Minerva were -intended to represent those who were superior to death and disease. They -were believed immortal, and therefore the stillness of these statues, -having the colouring of life, during the time the spectator viewed them, -would appear divinity in awful abstraction or repose. Their stupendous -size alone was preternatural; and the colouring of life without motion -increased the sublimity of the statue and the terror of the pious -beholder. The effect of the materials which composed these statues has -also been questioned. The statues themselves (according to the -information of Aristotle, in his book concerning the world) were made of -stone, covered with plates of ivory, so fitted together, that at the -distance requisite for seeing them, they appeared one mass of ivory, -which has much the tint of delicate flesh. The ornaments and garments -were enriched with gold, coloured metals, and precious stones. - -‘Gold ornaments on ivory are equally splendid and harmonious, and in -such colossal forms must have added a dazzling glory, like electric -fluid running over the surface: the figure, character, and splendour -must have had the appearance of an immortal vision in the eyes of the -votary. - -‘But let us attend to the judgment passed on these by the ancients: we -have already quoted Quintilian, who says, “they appear to have added -something to religion, the work was so worthy of the divinity.” Plato -says, “the eyes of Minerva were of precious stones,” and immediately -adds, “Phidias was skilful in beauty.” Aristotle calls him “the wise -sculptor.” An opinion prevailed that Jupiter had revealed himself to -Phidias; and the statue is said to have been touched by lightning in -approbation of the work. After these testimonies, there seems no doubt -remaining of the effect produced by these coloured statues; but the very -reasons that prove that colours in sculpture may have the effect of -supernatural vision, _fits_, or _death_, prove at the same time that -such practice is utterly improper for the general representation of the -human figure: _because, as the tints of carnation in nature are -consequences of circulation, wherever the colour of flesh is seen -without motion, it resembles only death, or a suspension of the vital -powers_. - -‘Let not this application of colours, however, in the instances of the -Jupiter and Minerva, be considered as a mere arbitrary decision of -choice or taste in the sculptor, to render his work agreeable in the -eyes of the beholder. It was produced by a much higher motive. It was -the desire of rendering these stupendous forms[32] living and -intelligent to the astonished gaze of the votary, and to confound the -sceptical by a flash of conviction, that something of divinity resided -in the statues themselves. - -‘The practice of painting sculpture seems to have been common to most -countries, particularly in the early and barbarous states of society. -But whether we look on the idols of the South Seas, the Etruscan painted -sculpture and _terra-cotta_ monuments, or the recumbent coloured statues -on tombs of the middle ages, we shall generally find the practice has -been employed to enforce superstition, or preserve an exact similitude -of the deceased. - -‘These, however, are in themselves perverted purposes. The real ends of -painting, sculpture, and all the other arts, are to elevate the mind to -the contemplation of truth, to give the judgment a rational -determination, and to represent such of our fellow-men as have been -benefactors to society, not in the deplorable and fallen state of a -lifeless and mouldering corpse, but in the full vigour of their -faculties when living, or in something corresponding to the state of the -good received among the just made perfect.’ - -All this may be very true and very fine; what the greater part of it has -to do with the colouring of statues, we are at a loss to comprehend. -Whenever Mr. Flaxman gives a reason, it usually makes against himself; -but his faith in his conclusion is proof against contradiction. He says, -that adding flesh-colour to statues gives an appearance of death to -them, _because the colour of life without motion argues a suspension of -the vital powers_. The same might be said of pictures which have colour -without motion; but who would contend, that because a chalk-drawing has -the tints of flesh (denoting circulation) superadded to it, this gives -it the appearance of a person in fits, or of death? On the contrary, Sir -Joshua Reynolds makes it an objection to coloured statues, that, as well -as wax-work, they were too much like life. This was always the scope and -‘but-end’ of his theories and rules on art, that it should avoid coming -in too close contact with nature. Still we are not sure that this is not -the true reason, _viz._ that the imitation ought not to amount to a -deception, nor be effected by gross or identical means. We certainly -hate all wax-work, of whatever description; and the idea of colouring a -statue gives us a nausea; but as is the case with most bigoted people, -the clearness of our reasoning does not keep pace with the strength of -our prejudices. It is easy to repeat that the object of painting is -colour and form, while the object of sculpture is form alone; and to -ring the changes on the purity, the severity, the abstract truth of -sculpture. The question returns as before; Why should sculpture be more -pure, more severe, more abstracted, than any thing else? The only clew -we can suggest is, that from the immense pains bestowed in sculpture on -mere form, or in giving solidity and permanence, this predominant -feeling becomes an exclusive and unsociable one, and the mind rejects -every addition of a more fleeting or superficial kind as an excrescence -and an impertinence. The form is hewn out of the solid rock; to tint and -daub it over with a flimsy, perishable substance, is a mockery and a -desecration, where the work itself is likely to last for ever. A statue -is the utmost possible developement of form; and that on which the whole -powers and faculties of the artist have been bent: It has a right then, -by the laws of intellectual creation, to stand alone in that simplicity -and unsullied nakedness in which it has been wrought. _Tangible form_ -(the primary idea) is blind, averse to colour. A statue, if it were -coloured at all, ought to be inlaid, that is, done in mosaic, where the -colour would be part of the solid materials. But this would be an -undertaking beyond human strength. Where art has performed all that it -can do, why require it to begin its task again? Or if the addition is to -be made carelessly and slightly, it is unworthy of the subject. Colour -is at best the mask of form: paint on a statue is like paint on a real -face,—it is not of a piece with the work, it does not belong to the -face, and justly obtains the epithet of _meretricious_. - -Mr. Flaxman, in comparing the progress of ancient and modern sculpture, -does not shrink from doing justice to the latter. He gives the -preference to scriptural over classical subjects; and, in one passage, -seems half inclined to turn short round on the Greek mythology and -morality, and to treat all those Heathen Gods and Goddesses as a set of -very improper people:—as to the Roman bas-reliefs, triumphs, and -processions, he dismisses them as no better than so many ‘vulgar, -military gazettes.’ He, with due doubt and deference, places Michael -Angelo almost above the ancients. His statues will not bear out this -claim; and we have no sufficient means of judging of their paintings. In -his separate groups and figures in the _Sistine Chapel_, there is, we -indeed think, a conscious vastness of purpose, a mighty movement, like -the breath of Creation upon the waters, that we see in no other works, -ancient or modern. The forms of his Prophets and Sibyls are like moulds -of _thought_. Mr. Flaxman is also strenuous in his praises of the _Last -Judgment_; but on that we shall be silent, as we are not converts to his -opinion. Michael Angelo’s David and Bacchus, done when he was young, are -clumsy and unmeaning; even the grandeur of his Moses is confined to the -horns and beard. The only works of his in sculpture which sustain Mr. -Flaxman’s praise, are those in the chapel of Lorenzo de Medici at -Florence; and these are of undoubted force and beauty. - -We shall conclude our extracts with a description of Pisa, the second -birth-place of art in modern times; and in speaking of which, the -learned Lecturer has indulged a vein of melancholy enthusiasm, which has -the more striking effect as it is rare with him. - -‘The Cathedral of Pisa, built by Buskettus, an architect from Dulichium, -was the second sacred edifice (St. Mark’s, in Venice, being the first) -raised after the destruction of the Roman power in Italy. It has -received the honour of being allowed by posterity to have taken the lead -in restoring art; and indeed the traveller, on entering the city gates, -is astonished by a scene of architectural magnificence and singularity -not to be equalled in the world. Four stupendous structures of white -marble in one group—the solemn Cathedral, in the general parallelogram -of its form, resembling an ancient temple, which unites and simplifies -the arched divisions of its exterior; the Baptistry, a circular -building, surrounded with arches and columns, crowned with niches, -statues, and pinnacles, rising to an apex in the centre, terminated by a -statue of the Baptist; the Falling Tower, which is thirteen feet out of -the perpendicular, a most elegant cylinder, raised by eight rows of -columns surmounting each other, and surrounding a staircase; the -Cemetery, a long square corridor, 400 by 200 feet, containing the -ingenious works of the improvers of painting down to the sixteenth -century. This extraordinary scene, in the evening of a summer’s day, -with a splendid red sun setting in a dark-blue sky, the full moon rising -in the opposite side, over a city nearly deserted, affects the -beholder’s mind with such a sensation of magnificence, solitude, and -wonder, that he scarcely knows whether he is in this world or not.’ - -After the glossiness, and splendour, and gorgeous perfection of Grecian -art, the whole seems to sink into littleness and insignificance, -compared with the interest we feel in the period of its restoration, and -in the rude, but mighty efforts, it made to reach to its former height -and grandeur;—with more anxious thoughts, and with a more fearful -experience to warn it—with the ruins of the old world crumbling around -it, and the new one emerging out of the gloom of Gothic barbarism and -ignorance—taught to look from the outspread map of time and change -beyond it—and if less critical in nearer objects, commanding a loftier -and more extended range, like the bursting the bands of death asunder, -or the first dawn of light and peace after darkness and the tempest! - - - WILSON’S LIFE AND TIMES OF DANIEL DEFOE - - VOL. L.] [_January 1830._ - -This is a very good book, but spun out to too great a length. Mr. Wilson -will not bate an inch of his right to be tediously minute on any of the -topics that pass in review before him, whether they relate to public or -private matters, the author’s life and writings, or the answers to them -by Tutchin and Ridpath. He is indeed so well furnished with materials, -and so full of his subject, that instead of studying to reduce the size -of his work, he very probably thinks he has shown forbearance in not -making it longer. We could not wish a more distinct or honest -chronicler. There is scarcely a sentence, or a sentiment in his work, -that we disapprove, unless we were to quarrel with what is said in -dispraise of the _Beggar’s Opera_. In general, his opinions are sound, -liberal, and enlightened, and as clear and intelligible in the -expression as the intention is upright and manly. The style is plain and -unaffected, as is usually the case where a writer thinks more of his -subject than of himself. Mr. Wilson appears as the zealous and -consistent friend of civil and religious liberty; and not only never -swerves from, or betrays his principles, but omits no opportunity of -avowing and enforcing them. He has ‘excellent iteration in him.’ If he -repeats the old story over again, that liberty is a blessing, and -slavery a curse,—if he depicts persecution and religious bigotry in the -same unvarying and odious colours, and never sees the phantom of _divine -right_ without proceeding to have a tilting-bout with it,—as honest -Hector Macintire could not be prevented by his uncle, Mr. Jonathan -Oldbuck, from encountering a _seal_ whenever he saw one,—we confess, -notwithstanding, that we like this pertinacity better than some people’s -indifference or tergiversation. The biographer of Defoe, like Defoe -himself, is a Whig, and of the true stamp; that is, he is a staunch and -incorruptible advocate of Whig principles, and of the great aims the -leaders of the Revolution had in view, as opposed to the absurd and -mischievous doctrines of their adversaries; though this does not bribe -his judgment, but rather makes him more anxious in pointing out and -lamenting the follies, weaknesses, and perversity of spirit, which -sometimes clogged their proceedings, defeated their professed objects, -and turned the cause of justice and freedom into a by-word, and the -instrument of a cabal. - -Mr. Wilson cannot be charged with going too copiously or -indiscriminately into the details of Defoe’s private life. The anecdotes -and references of this kind are ‘thinly scattered to make up a -show,’—_rari nantes in gurgite vasto_. Little was known before on this -head, and the author, with all his diligence and zeal, has redeemed -little from obscurity and oblivion. But he makes up for the deficiency -of personal matter, by a superabundance of literary and political -information. All that is to be gleaned of Defoe’s individual history -might be stated in a short compass. - -Daniel Defoe, or Foe, as the name was sometimes spelt, was born in -London in the year 1661, in the parish of St. Giles’s, Cripplegate. His -father, James Foe, was a butcher; and his grandfather, Daniel, the first -person among his ancestors of whom any thing is positively known, was a -substantial yeoman, who farmed his own estate at Elton, in -Northamptonshire. The old gentleman kept a pack of hounds, which -indicated both his wealth and his principles as a royalist; for the -Puritans did not allow of the sports of the field, though his grandson -(_contra bonos mores_) sometimes indulged in them. In alluding to this -circumstance, Defoe says, ‘I remember my grandfather had a huntsman, who -used the same familiarity (that of giving party names to animals) with -his dogs; and he had his Roundhead and his Cavalier, his Goring and his -Waller; and all the generals in both armies were hounds in his pack, -till, the times turning, the old gentleman was fain to scatter his pack, -and make them up of more dog-like sirnames.’ It was probably from this -relative that Defoe inherited a freehold estate, of which he was not a -little vain; and which seems to have influenced his opinions in his -theory of the right of popular election, and of the British -constitution. His father was a person of a different cast—a rigid -dissenter; and from him his son appears to have imbibed the grounds of -his opinions and practice. He was living at an advanced age in 1705. The -following curious memorandum, signed by him at this period, throws some -light on his character, as well as on that of the times:—‘Sarah Pierce -lived with us, about fifteen or sixteen years since, about two years, -and behaved herself so well, that we recommended her to Mr. Cave, that -godly minister, which we should not have done, had not her conversation -been according to the gospel. From my lodgings, at the Bell in Broad -Street, having lately left my house in Throgmorton Street, October 10, -1705. Witness my hand, JAMES FOE.’ - -Young Defoe was brought up for the ministry, and educated with this view -at the dissenting academy of Mr. Charles Morton, at Newington-Green, -where Mr. Samuel Wesley, the father of the celebrated John Wesley, and -who afterwards wrote against the dissenters, was brought up with him. -Whether from an unsettled inclination, or his father’s inability to -supply the necessary expenses, he never finished his education here. He -not long after joined in Monmouth’s rebellion in 1685, and narrowly -escaped being taken prisoner with the rest of the Duke’s followers. It -is supposed he owed his safety to his being a native of London, and his -person not being known in the west of England, where that movement -chiefly took place. He now applied himself to business, and became a -kind of hose-factor. He afterwards set up a Dutch tile-manufactory at -Tilbury, in Essex, and derived great profit from it; but his being -sentenced to the pillory for his _Shortest Way with the Dissenters_, -(one of the truest, ablest, and most seasonable pamphlets ever -published,) and the heavy fine and imprisonment that followed, involved -him in distress and difficulty ever after. He occasionally, indeed, -seemed to be emerging from obscurity, and to hold his head above water -for a time, (and at one period had built himself a handsome house at -Stoke-Newington, which is still to be seen there,) but this show of -prosperity was of short continuance; all of a sudden, we find him -immersed in poverty and law as deeply as ever; and it would appear that, -with all his ability and industry, however he might be formed to serve -his country or delight mankind, he was not one of those who are born to -make their fortunes,—either from a careless, improvident disposition, -that squanders away its advantages, or a sanguine and restless temper, -that constantly abandons a successful pursuit for some new and gilded -project. Defoe took an active and enthusiastic part in the Revolution of -1688, and was personally known to King William, of whom he was a sort of -idolater, and evinced a spirit of knight-errantry in defence of his -character and memory whenever it was attacked. He was released from -prison (after lying there two years) by the interference and friendship -of Harley, who introduced him to Queen Anne, by whom he was employed on -several confidential missions, and more particularly in effecting the -Union with Scotland. His personal obligations to Harley fettered his -politics during the four last years of Queen Anne, and threw a cloud -over his popularity in the following reign, but fixed no stain upon his -character, except in the insinuations and slanders of his enemies, -whether of his own or the opposite party. It was not till after he had -retired from the battle, covered with scars and bruises, but without a -single trophy or reward, in acknowledgment of his indefatigable and -undeniable services in defence of the cause he had all his life -espoused—when he was nearly sixty years of age, and struck down by a fit -of apoplexy—that he thought of commencing novel-writer, for his -amusement and subsistence. The most popular of his novels, _Robinson -Crusoe_, was published in the year 1719, and he poured others from his -pen, for the remaining ten or twelve years of his life, as fast, and -with as little apparent effort, as he had formerly done lampoons, -reviews, and pamphlets. - -We are in the number of those who, though we profess ourselves mightily -edified and interested by the researches of biography, are not always -equally gratified by the actual result. Few things, in an ordinary life, -can come up to the interest which every reader of sensibility must take -in the author of _Robinson Crusoe_. ‘Heaven lies about us in our -infancy;’ and it cannot be denied, that the first perusal of that work -makes a part of the illusion:—the roar of the waters is in our ears,—we -start at the print of the foot in the sand, and hear the parrot repeat -the well-known sounds of ‘Poor Robinson Crusoe! Who are you? Where do -you come from; and where are you going?’—till the tears gush, and in -recollection and feeling we become children again! One cannot understand -how the author of this world of abstraction should have had any thing to -do with the ordinary cares and business of life; or it almost seems that -he should have been fed, like Elijah, by the ravens. What boots it then -to know that he was a hose-factor, and the owner of a tile-kiln in -Essex—that he stood in the pillory, was over head and ears in debt, and -engaged in eternal literary and political squabbles? It is, however, -well to be assured that he was a man of worth as well as genius; and -that, though unfortunate, and having to contend all his life with -vexations and disappointments, with vulgar clamour and the hand of -power, yet he did nothing to leave a blot upon his name, or to make the -world ashamed of the interest they must always feel for him. If there is -nothing in a farther acquaintance with his writings to raise our -admiration higher, (which could hardly happen without a miracle,) there -is a great deal to enlarge the grounds of it, and to strengthen our -esteem and confidence in him. To say nothing of the incessant war he -waged with crying abuses, with priestcraft and tyranny, and the straight -line of consistency and principle which he followed from the beginning -to the end of his career,—he was a powerful though unpolished satirist -in verse, (as his _True-born Englishman_ sufficiently proves);—was -master of an admirable prose style;—in his _Review_, (a periodical paper -which was published three times a week for nine years together,) led the -way to that class of essay-writing, and those dramatic sketches of -common life and manners, which were afterwards so happily perfected by -Steele and Addison;—in his _Essays on Trade_, anticipated many of those -broad and liberal principles which are regarded as modern -discoveries;—in his Moral Essays, and some of his Novels, undoubtedly -set the example of that minute description and perplexing casuistry, of -which Richardson so successfully availed himself;—was among the first to -advocate the intellectual equality, and the necessity of improvements in -the education of women;—suggested the project of _Saving Banks_, and an -_Asylum for Idiots_;—among other notable services and claims to -attention, by his thoughts on the best mode of watching and lighting the -streets of the metropolis, might be considered as the author of the -modern system of police;—and even in party matters, and the heats and -rancorous differences of jarring sects, generally seized on that point -of view which displayed most moderation and good sense, and in his -favourite conclusions and arguments, was half a century before his -contemporaries, who, for that reason, made common cause against him. - -Defoe ‘was too fond of the right to pursue the expedient;’ and had much -too dry, hard, and concentrated an understanding of the truth, to allow -of any compromise with it from courtesy to the feelings or opinions of -others. This kept him in perpetual hot water. It was a virtue, but -carried to a repeated excess. It set the majority against him, and -turned his dearest friends into his bitterest foes. If you make no -concessions to the world, you must expect no favours from it. Our -author’s blindness and simplicity on this head, amount to the -_dramatic_. He went on censuring and contradicting all sects and -parties, setting them to rights, recommending peace to them, praying -each to give up its darling prejudice and absurdity; and then he wonders -that ‘a man of peace and reason,’ like himself, should be the butt of -universal contumely and hatred. If an individual differs from you in -common with others, you do not so much mind it—it is the act of a body, -and implies no particular assumption of superior wisdom or virtue; but -if he not only differs from you, but from his own _side_ too, you then -can endure the scandal no longer; but join to hunt him down as a prodigy -of unheard-of insolence and presumption, and to get rid of him and his -boasted honesty and independence together. While, therefore, the author -of the _True-born Englishman_, _The Shortest Way with the Dissenters_, -and the _Legion Petition_, thought he was deserving well of God and his -country, he was ‘heaping coals of fire on his own head.’ Nothing -produces such antipathy in others as a total seeming want of sympathy -with them. Defoe was urged on by a straight-forwardness and sturdiness -of feeling, which did not permit him to give up a single iota of his -convictions; but it was ‘stuff of the conscience’ with him; there was -nothing of spleen, malevolence, or the spirit of contradiction in his -nature. Still, we consider him rather as an acute, zealous, and -well-informed partisan, than as a general and dispassionate reasoner. He -was a distinguished polemic, rather than a philosopher. Though he -exercised his understanding powerfully and variously, yet it was always -under the guidance of a certain banner—in support of ‘a foregone -conclusion.’ He was too much in the heat of the battle—too constantly -occupied in attacking or defending one side or the other, to consider -fairly whether both might not be in the wrong. He asked himself, (as he -was obliged to do in his own vindication,)—‘Why am I in the right?’ and -gave admirable reasons for it, supposing it to be so; but he never -thought of asking himself the farther question,—‘Am I in the right or -no?’ This would have been entering on a new and unexplored tract, and -might have led to no very welcome results. As an example of what we -mean—Defoe, though a most strenuous and persevering advocate for the -rights of conscience and toleration to those dissenters who, in his -view, agreed with the church in the _essentials_ of Christianity, was, -notwithstanding, far from being disposed to extend the same indulgence -to Socinians, Anabaptists, or other heretical persons. Of course, he -would conceive that he, and those with whom he acted in concert, were -not criminal in excluding others from the privilege in question; but he -did not enlarge his views beyond this point, so as to change places with -those who entirely differed with him; and in this respect fell short of -the philosophical and liberal opinions of Locke, and even Toland, who -placed toleration on the broad ground of a general principle, whatever -exceptions might arise from particular circumstances, and urgent -political expediency. We should, therefore, hardly be warranted in -admitting Defoe into the class of perfectly free and unshackled -speculative thinkers; though we certainly may rank him among the -foremost of polemical writers for vigour, and ability of execution. - -It will be easily conceived, that in the variety of subjects of which -his author treated, and in the number and importance of the events in -which he took part, either in person, or with his pen, Mr. Wilson, whose -industry and patience seem to have increased with the field he had to -traverse, is at no loss for materials either for reflection or -illustration. The only fault is, that the life of Defoe is sometimes -lost in the history of the events of his time, like a petty current in -the ocean. Nevertheless, the writer has traced these events and their -causes so faithfully and clearly, and with such pertinent reflections, -that we readily pass over this fault, and can forgive the slowness of a -pencil that only _drags_ from the weight of truth and good intention. - -Mr. Wilson has extracted from Defoe’s _Review_ (7. p. 296,) his account -of the origin and application of the far-famed terms—Whig and Tory; and -it is so curiously circumstantial, that we shall lay it before our -readers, though some of them, no doubt, are already well acquainted with -it. - -‘The word Tory is Irish, and was first made use of there in the time of -Queen Elizabeth’s wars in Ireland. It signified a kind of robber, who -being listed in neither army, preyed in general upon the country, -without distinction of English or Spaniard. In the Irish massacre, anno -1641, you had them in great numbers, assisting in every thing that was -bloody and villainous; and particularly when humanity prevailed upon -some of the Papists to preserve Protestant relations. These were such as -chose to butcher brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, the dearest -friends and nearest relations; these were called _Tories_. In England, -about the year 1680, a party of men appeared among us, who, though -pretended Protestants, yet applied themselves to the ruin and -destruction of their country. They began with ridiculing the Popish -plot, and encouraging the Papists to revive it. They pursued their -designs, in banishing the Duke of Monmouth and calling home the Duke of -York; then in abhorring, petitioning, and opposing the bill of -exclusion; in giving up charters, and the liberties of their country, to -the arbitrary will of their prince; then in murdering patriots, -persecuting dissenters, and at last, in setting up a Popish prince, on -pretence of hereditary right, and tyranny on pretence of passive -obedience. These men, for their criminal preying upon their country, and -their cruel, bloody disposition, began to show themselves so like the -Irish thieves and murderers aforesaid, that they quickly got the name of -Tories. Their real god-father was Titus Oates, and the occasion of his -giving them the name as follows—the author of this happened to be -present: There was a meeting of some honest people in the city, upon the -occasion of the discovery of some attempt to stifle the evidence of the -witnesses [to the Popish plot], and tampering with Bedloe and Stephen -Dugdale. Among the discourse, Mr. Bedloe said, he had letters from -Ireland, that there were some Tories to be brought over hither, who were -privately to murder Dr. Oates and the said Bedloe. The Doctor, whose -zeal was very hot, could never after this hear any man talk against the -plot, or against the witnesses, but he thought he was one of these -Tories, and called almost every man a Tory that opposed him in -discourse; till at last the word Tory became popular, and it stuck so -close to the party in all their bloody proceedings, that they had no way -to get it off; so at last they owned it, just as they do now the name of -High-flyer. - -‘As to the word _Whig_, it is Scotch. The use of it began there when the -western men, called Cameronians, took arms frequently for their -religion. Whig was a word used in those parts for a kind of liquor the -Western Highlandmen used to drink, whose composition I do not -remember,[33] and so became common to the people who drank it. It -afterwards became a denomination of the poor harassed people of that -part of the country, who, being unmercifully persecuted by the -government, against all law and justice, thought they had a civil right -to their religious liberties, and therefore frequently resisted the -arbitrary power of their princes. These men, tired with innumerable -oppressions, ravishings, murders, and plunderings, took up arms about -1681, being the famous insurrection at Bothwell-bridge. The Duke of -Monmouth, then in favour here, was sent against them by King Charles, -and defeated them. At his return, instead of thanks for the good -service, he found himself ill-treated for using them too mercifully; and -Duke Lauderdale told King Charles with an oath, that the Duke had been -so civil to Whigs, because he was a Whig himself in his heart. This made -it a court-word; and in a little time, all the friends and followers of -the Duke began to be called Whigs; and they, as the other party did by -the word Tory, took it freely enough to themselves.’ - -The cruelties of this reign, and the sufferings of the people, for -conscience and religion, on this and so many other occasions, formed a -striking contrast to the voluptuous effeminacy and callous indifference -of the court; and this insolent and pampered want of sympathy, by adding -wanton insult to intolerable injury, undermined all respect for the -throne in the minds of a numerous class of the community, and took away -all pity for its fall in the succeeding reign. Charles, however, who -seemed to oppress his subjects only for his amusement, and played the -tyrant as an appendage to the character of the fine gentleman, did not -proceed to extremities, or throw off the mask, whatever his secret -wishes or designs might be, by openly attacking large masses of power -and opinion. James was a true monk,—a blind, narrow, gloomy bigot; and -did not stop short in his mad and obstinate career, till he drove the -country to rebellion, and himself into exile. As the French wit said of -him, seeing him coming out of a Popish chapel abroad, ‘There goes a very -honest gentleman, who gave up a kingdom for a mass.’ By great good luck -he succeeded, for it turned upon a nice point at last. On James’s -accession to the throne, addresses of loyalty and devotion poured in -from all quarters, notwithstanding his well-known principles and -designs. An address from the Middle Temple expressed the sentiments of -that body of scholars and gentlemen, in a strain of fulsome servility. -The University of Oxford promised to obey him ‘without limitations or -restrictions;’ and the king’s promise, in his speech from the throne, -(says Burnet,) passed for a thing so sacred, that those were looked upon -as ill-bred who put into their address, ‘our religion established by -law, excepted.’ The pulpits resounded with thanksgiving sermons, and the -doctrine of passive obedience and non-resistance; and the clergy were -forward in tendering the unconditional surrender of their rights and -liberties for themselves, their fellow-subjects, and their posterity. If -James did not before think himself _God’s vicegerent upon earth_, he -must have thought so now. But he no sooner took them at their word, and -proceeded to appoint papists to be heads of colleges, and to induct them -to protestant livings, and to send the bishops to the Tower for refusing -to set their seal to his arbitrary mandates; that is, he no sooner -alarmed the clergy for their authority spiritual, and their revenues -temporal,—so that judgment began, as Dr. Sherlock expressed it, in the -house of God,—than they turned round, and sent their loyalty and their -monarch a-packing together. Had it not been for this attack on the -Church of England, the People of England might have been left to -struggle with the hand of power and oppression how they could; and would -have received plenty of reproofs and taunts from orthodox pulpits, on -their refractory and unnatural behaviour in resisting lawful authority. -Mr. Wilson has quoted an eloquent passage from Defoe, in which he -admirably exposes the indifference of the nation, at this period, to -principles, and their short-sightedness as to consequences, till they -actually arrived. We give the passage, both for the sense and style. It -alludes to the favourers of the _Exclusion Bill_. - -‘How earnestly did those honest men, whose eyes God had opened to see -the danger, labour to prevent the mischiefs of a Popish tyranny? How did -they struggle in Parliament, and out of Parliament, to exclude a prince -that did not mock them, but really promised them in as plain language as -actions could speak, that he would be a tyrant; that he would erect -arbitrary power upon the foot of our liberties, as soon as he had the -reins in his hands? How were the opposers of this inundation oppressed -by power, and borne down in the stream of it? And when they were -massacred by that bloody generation, how did they warn us at their -deaths of the mischiefs that were coming? Yet all this while, deaf as -the adder to the voice of the charmer, stupid and hard as the nether -millstone, we would not believe, nor put our hand to our deliverance, -till that same Popery, that same tyranny, and that very party we -struggled with, were sent to be our instructors; and then we learnt the -lesson presently. Tyranny taught us the value of liberty; oppression, -how to prize the fence of laws; and Popery showed us the danger of the -Protestant religion. Then passive pulpits beat the ecclesiastical drum -of war; absolute subjection took up arms; and obedience for -conscience-sake resisted divine right. And who taught them this -heterodox lesson? Truly, the same schoolmaster they had hanged us for -telling them of, the same dispensing power they had enacted, and the -same tyranny they had murdered us for opposing.’ - -Defoe gives a very curious account of the insults offered to James II. -after his fall, and of which he was an eyewitness. - -‘The king (after the Prince of Orange had entered London) had proceeded -to the Kentish coast, and embarked on board a vessel with the intention -of going to France; but being detained by the wind, Sir Edward Hales, -one of his attendants, sent his footman to the post-office at Feversham, -where his livery was recognised. Being traced to the vessel, it was -immediately boarded by some people from the town, who, mistaking the -king for a popish priest, searched his person, and took from him four -hundred guineas, with some valuable seals and jewels. The rank of the -individual treated with so much indignity was not long undiscovered; -for, there being a constable present who happened to know him, he threw -himself at his feet, and, begging him to forgive the rudeness of the -mob, ordered restitution of what had been taken from him. The king, -receiving the jewels and seals, distributed the money amongst them. -After this, he was conducted to Feversham, where fresh insults were -heaped upon fallen majesty.’—‘While there, he found himself in the hands -of the rabble, who, upon the noise of the king’s being taken, thronged -from all parts of the country to Feversham, so that the king found -himself surrounded, as it were, with an army of furies; the whole -street, which is very wide and large, being filled, and thousands of the -noisy gentry got together. His majesty, who knew well enough the temper -of the people at that time, but not what they might be pushed on to do -at such a juncture, was very uneasy, and spoke to some of the gentlemen, -who came with more respect, and more like themselves, to the town on -that surprising occasion. The king told them he was in their hands, and -was content to be so, and they might do what they pleased with him; but -whatever they thought fit to do, he desired they would quiet the people, -and not let him be delivered up to the rabble, to be torn in pieces. The -gentlemen told his majesty they were sorry to see him used so ill, and -would do any thing in their power to protect him; but that it was not -possible to quell the tumult of the people. The king was distressed in -the highest degree; the people shouting and pressing in a frightful -manner to have the door opened. At length, his majesty observing a -forward gentleman among the crowd, who ran from one party to another, -hallooing and animating the people, the king sent to tell him he desired -to speak with him. The message was delivered with all possible civility, -and the little Masaniello was prevailed with to come up stairs. The king -received him with a courtesy rather equal to his present circumstances -than to his dignity; told him, what he was doing might have an event -worse than he intended; that he seemed to be heating the people up for -some mischief; and that as he had done him no personal wrong, why should -he attack him in this manner; that he was in their hands, and they might -do what they pleased; but he hoped they did not design to murder him. -The fellow stood, as it were, thunderstruck, and said not one word. The -king, proceeding, told him he found he had some influence with the -rabble, and desired he would pacify them; that messengers were gone to -the parliament at London, and that he desired only they would be quiet -till their return. What the fellow answered to the king I know not; but -as I immediately enquired, they told me he did not say much, but -this—“What can I do with them? and, what would you have me do?” But as -soon as the king had done speaking, he turned short, and made to the -door as fast as he could to go out of the room. As soon as he got fairly -to the stairhead, and saw his way open, he turns short about to the -gentlemen, to one of whom he had given the same churlish answer, and -raising his voice, so that the king, who was in the next room, should be -sure to hear him, he says, “_I have a bag of money as long as my arm, -halloo, boys, halloo!_” The king was so filled with contempt and just -indignation at the low-spirited insolence of the purse-proud wretch, -that it quite took off the horror of the rabble, and only smiling, he -sat down and said, “Let them alone, let them do their worst.”’ - -It seems the man was a retired grocer; and Defoe, in his _Complete -Tradesman_, (says his biographer,) relates the circumstance, to show, -that to be vain of mere wealth denotes a baseness of soul, and is often -accompanied by a conduct unworthy of a rational creature. - -In the midst of his distress, the King, it appears, had applied for -protection to a clergyman, who treated him with cool indifference. The -fact is thus noticed by Defoe: - -‘When the king was taken at Sheerness, and had fallen into the hands of -the rabble, he applied himself to a clergyman who was there, in words to -this effect: “Sir, it is men of your cloth who have reduced me to this -condition; I desire you will use your endeavours to still and quiet the -people, and disperse them, that I may be freed from this tumult.” The -gentleman’s answer was cold and insignificant; and going down to the -people, he returned no more to the king. Several of the gentry and -clergy thereabouts,’ adds our author, ‘who had formerly preached and -talked up this mad doctrine, (passive obedience,) never offered the king -their assistance in that distress, which, as a man, whether prince or -no, any one would have done: it therefore to me renders their integrity -suspected, when they pretended to an absolute submission, and only meant -that they expected it from their neighbours, whom they designed to -oppress, but resolved never to practise the least part of it themselves, -if ever it should look towards them.’ - -In another place, Defoe observes, - -‘I never was, I thank God for it, one of those that betrayed him, or any -one else. I was never one that flattered him in his arbitrary -proceedings, or made him believe I would bear oppression and injustice -with a tame Issachar-like temper; those who did so, and then flew in his -face, I believe, as much betrayed him as Judas did our Saviour; and -their crime, whatever the Protestant interest gained by it, is no way -lessened by the good that followed.’ - -The same spirit of integrity and candour, the same desire to see fair -play, and to do justice to all parties,—in a word, the same spirit of -common sense and common honesty which marks this passage, runs through -all Defoe’s writings; and as it raised him up a host of enemies among -the abettors and abusers of power, so it left him neither friends nor -shelter in his own party, to whose faults and errors he gave as little -quarter; thinking himself bound to condemn them as freely and frankly. -Hence he had a life of uneasiness,—an old age of pain. In reading the -above description of James’s situation, the hand is passed thoughtfully -over the brow, and we for a moment forget the crimes of the monarch in -the misfortunes of the man. It is laid down by Mr. Burke, that none but -mild, inoffensive princes, ever bring themselves to the condition of -being objects of insult or pity to their subjects; and that tyrants, who -deserve punishment, know well how to guard themselves against it, and -‘to keep their seats firm.’ Let us see how far this doctrine is made -good in the case of James; or how far his own misdeeds brought their -rare, but natural punishment upon his head. We will let Mr. Wilson speak -to this point:— - -‘The fate of James,’ he says, ‘would have been more entitled to pity, if -he had not stained his character by so many acts of wanton and -cold-blooded cruelty. That his merciless character was well known to the -nation, appears by the intrepid retort of Colonel Ayloffe, who had been -condemned to death, but was advised by James to make some disclosures, -it being in his power to pardon. “I know,” says he, “it is in your -power, but it is not in your nature, to pardon.” That compassion was a -total stranger to his breast, no one can doubt who reads the following -affecting narrative: Monsieur Roussel, a French protestant divine of -great learning and integrity, and minister of the Reformed Church at -Montpelier in France, having witnessed the demolition of his own place -of worship, soon after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, ventured, -at the desire of his people, to preach in the night-time upon its ruins, -and was attended by some thousands of his flock. For this offence he was -condemned, by the intendant of Languedoc, to be broke upon the wheel; -but, having withdrawn from the place, it was ordered that he should be -hanged in effigy. After encountering numerous hazards, he succeeded in -effecting his escape from France; and reaching Ireland, was chosen -pastor of the French church in Dublin. James, who, for the sake of -courting popularity, had formerly affected a charitable disposition -towards the French refugees, threw off the mask when he landed in that -country, and was surrounded by French counsellors. Being no longer under -any temptation to disguise his natural temper and his hatred to the -reformed religion, he committed one of those breaches of good faith -which must for ever consign his name to infamy. For, instead of -protecting a stranger who had been persecuted in his own country for a -conscientious discharge of his religious duties, and had sought an -asylum under the laws of another, where he had lived for some years in -peaceable exile, the base wretch delivered up this unoffending person to -the French ambassador, Count D’Avaux, who sent him in chains to France, -there to undergo the terrible punishment prepared for him by his inhuman -murderers.[34] Such an action requires no comment; nor can any term of -reproach be too strong to designate the monster who could lend himself -to its perpetration.’ - -Yet many people, seeing the poor and forlorn figure which the exiled -sovereign made with a few followers in the remote and silent court of -St. Germain’s, wanted to have him back; thinking that, to curtail him of -the power to repeat such acts as that just related, and to deluge a -country with blood, was the last degree of hardship, and a sad indignity -offered to a king! Defoe was not in the number of these sentimentalists; -and he had enough to do after his countrymen’s ‘courage had been screwed -to the sticking-place,’ to keep it there, and warn them against a -relapse into Popery and slavery. One of his first publications had been -an Address to the Dissenters, to caution them against accepting the -terms of a general Toleration, which, on his accession to the throne, -James II. had insidiously held out to all parties, and which was to -include Papists as well as Dissenters. This was not a bait for Defoe’s -keen jealousy and strong repugnance to the encroachments of power to be -taken in by. There was, however, some danger that the Dissenters, from -their timidity and love of ease, and their being habitually too much -engrossed by themselves and their own grievances, might be tempted to -purchase the proffered grace at the price of allowing the Papists the -same liberty; which was (at this period), under the barefaced pretence -of liberality, and a tenderness for scrupulous consciences, to throw -open the flood-gates of the most unbounded bigotry and intolerance. But -the hatred and dread of Popery was, at this time, the ruling passion, in -which the Dissenters shared in its utmost rancour and virulence; and -this old grudge and hereditary antipathy had the effect of counteracting -their natural coldness and phlegm, and a certain narrowness and -formality in their views. Some of the weakest among them were, -notwithstanding, for running into the snare, and did not easily forgive -Defoe for pointing it out to them. The Marquis of Halifax had written a -pamphlet on the same side of the question, called, ‘A Letter to a -Dissenter, upon occasion of his Majesty’s late Declaration of -Indulgence, 1687.’ The title of Defoe’s work is not now known. In -speaking of it himself, some years after, he says, - -‘The next time I differed with my friends was when King James was -wheedling the Dissenters to take off the penal laws and test, which I -could by no means come into. And as in the first I used to say, I had -rather the Popish House of Austria should ruin the Protestants in -Hungary than the infidel House of Ottoman should ruin both Protestant -and Papist by overrunning Germany; so, in the other, I told the -Dissenters I had rather the Church of England should pull our clothes -off by fines and forfeitures, than that the Papists should fall both -upon the Church and the Dissenters, and pull our skins off by fire and -faggot.’[35] - -The allusion in the foregoing passage is to an early Piece of Defoe’s, -(not reprinted among his tracts), in which he had drawn his sword (for -his weapon would be out) in defence of the Pope against the Turks. The -occasion was this: The Hungarian Reformers having been persecuted and -proscribed by the Austrian monarch, had risen in arms against him; and -the Turks, availing themselves of the opportunity, had marched to their -assistance, and laid siege to Vienna. Most of the English Protestants -(as men think the nearest danger greatest, and hate their old enemies -most,) were inclined to rejoice at this tumbling of a Popish despot, and -the success of their Hungarian brethren. But Defoe, who saw farther than -others, (and perhaps took a little pride in doing so,) viewed the matter -in a different light, and deprecated the possible triumph of the -Crescent over the Cross, and the subjugation of all Christendom, which -might be the consequence. Logically speaking, he was right; but -prudentially, he was perhaps wrong. The powers of Europe took the alarm -as well as he, and combined to rescue the Austrian monarch from the -gripe of the Mussulman. They succeeded; but could obtain no terms for -the Hungarian peasants. Had the Emperor been left to fight his own -battles against the Turks, he might have been frightened into measures -of moderation and justice towards his own subjects; and there was, in -the meantime, little probability of a Mahometan army overrunning Europe. - -Defoe’s first publication was a satirical pamphlet, called _Speculum -Crape-gownorum_; intended to ridicule the fopperies and affectation of -the younger clergy, as a set-off to some severe attacks on the mode of -preaching among the Dissenters. This performance bears the date of 1682, -when Defoe was only twenty-one, so that he commenced author very young. -From that period he hardly ever ceased writing for the rest of his life; -and a list of his works would alone fill a long article. The pasquinade -just mentioned is attributed, by Mr. Godwin, in his _Lives of the -Philipses_, to John Philips; but Mr. Wilson gives it to Defoe, on his -own authority; and certainly his report is to be trusted, for he was a -person of unchallengeable veracity. He was always a warm partisan of the -Dissenters, (among whom he was born and bred,) and was ever ready to -take up their quarrel either with wit or argument, for which he got -small thanks. He was not, however, to be put off by their dulness or -ingratitude. He was old enough to remember the times of their -persecution and ‘fiery ordeal;’ and it is at this source that the spirit -of liberty is tempered and steeled to its keenest edge. Defoe’s -political firmness may, in part, also be traced to this union between -the feelings of civil and religious liberty. An attachment to freedom, -for the advantages it holds out to society, may be sometimes overruled -by a calculation of prudence, or of the opposite advantages held out to -the individual; but a resistance to power for conscience-sake, and as a -dictate of religious duty, rests on a positive ground, which is not to -be shaken or tampered with, and has the seeds of permanence and -martyrdom in it. What Mr. Burke calls ‘the _Hortus Siccus_ of Dissent’ -is therefore the hotbed of resistance to the encroachments of ambition; -and when, by long-continued struggles, the disqualifications of -Dissenters are taken off, and the zeal which had been kept alive by hard -usage and penal laws subsides into indifference or scepticism, we doubt -whether there is any lever left, in mere public opinion, strong enough -to throw off the pressure of unjust and ruinous power. - -With these feelings, and, after the fears which he and all good men must -have entertained for the safety of their religion, and the freedom of -their country, it is not to be wondered at if Defoe hailed the arrival -of the Prince of Orange with the greatest joy. He kept the anniversary -of his landing, the 4th of November, all his life after. We find an -account of him as one of those who went in procession with their -Majesties to Guildhall, as a guard of honour, the year following. -Oldmixon, who gives the account, has mixed up with it some of his -unfounded prejudices against our author: - -‘Their Majesties,’ he says, ‘attended (Oct. 29, 1689,) by their royal -highnesses the Prince and Princesses of Denmark, and by a numerous train -of nobility and gentry, went first to a balcony, prepared for them at -the Angel in Cheapside, to see the show; which, for the great number of -livery-men, the full appearance of the militia and artillery company, -the rich adornments of the pageants, and the splendour and good order of -the whole proceeding, out-did all that had been seen before upon that -occasion; and what deserved to be particularly mentioned, says a -reverend historian, was a royal regiment of volunteer-horse, made up of -the chief citizens, who, being gallantly mounted and richly accoutred, -were led by the Earl of Monmouth, now Earl of Peterborough, and attended -their Majesties from Whitehall. Among these troopers, who were, for the -most part, Dissenters, was Daniel Defoe, at that time a hosier in -Freeman’s-yard, Cornhill; the same who afterwards was pilloried for -writing an ironical invective against the Church; and did after that -list in the service of Mr. Robert Harley, and those brethren of his who -broke the confederacy, and made a shameful and ruinous peace with -France.’[36] - -Oldmixon evidently singles out his brother author in this gallant -procession with an eye of envy rather than friendship; and the invidious -turn given to his politics only means, that all those were _black sheep_ -who did not go the absurd lengths of Oldmixon and his party in every -thing. - -The joy and exultation of Defoe on this great and glorious occasion was -not of long duration, but was soon turned to gall and bitterness. -‘Though that his joy was joy,’ yet both friends and foes laboured hard -to ‘throw such changes of vexation on it, that it might lose all -colour.’ His admiration of King William was the ruling passion of his -life. He was his hero, his deliverer, his friend: he was bound to him by -the ties of patriotism, of religion, and of personal obligation. But -this ruling passion was also the torment of his breast, because his -well-grounded enthusiasm was not seconded by the unanimous public voice, -and because the services of the great champion of liberty and of the -Protestant cause did not meet with that glow of gratitude and affection -in the minds of the people (when their immediate danger was blown over) -that they richly merited. Defoe had not only ridden in procession with -his Majesty, but he was afterwards closeted with him, and consulted by -him on more than one question: so that his self-importance, as well as -his sense of truth and justice, was implicated in the attacks which were -made on the person and character of his royal patron and benefactor. -Nothing can, in our opinion, exceed the good behaviour of William, nor -the ill return he received from those he had been sent for, to deliver -them from Popish bondage and darkness. Being no longer bowed to the -earth by a yoke that they could not lift, and having got a king of their -own choosing, they thought they could not exercise their new-acquired -liberty and independence better than by using him as ill as possible, -and reviling him for the very blessings which he had been the chief -means of bestowing on them, and which his presence was absolutely -necessary to continue to them. Having seen their hereditary, -_passive-obedience_ monarch, King James, quietly seated on the other -side of the Channel, and being no longer in bodily fear of being -executed as rebels, or burnt as heretics, the good people of England -began to find a flaw in the title of the new-made monarch, because he -was not, and did not pretend to be, absolute; and to sacrifice to the -_manes_ of divine right, by taking every opportunity, and resorting to -every artifice to insult his person, to revile his reputation, to wound -his feelings, and to cramp and thwart his measures for his own and their -common safety. The Tories and high-fliers lamented that the crown was -without its most precious jewel and ornament, _hereditary right_; and -though they acknowledged the necessity of the case upon which they -themselves had acted, yet they thought the time might come when this -necessity might cease, and for their lawful King to be brought back -again, ‘with conditions.’ Pulpits, long accustomed to unqualified -submission, now echoed the double-tongued distinction of a king _de -jure_ and a king _de facto_. This party, whose old habits were inimical -to the new order of things, but who made a virtue of necessity, tendered -their allegiance to the Prince of Orange reluctantly and ungraciously; -while the Non-jurors bearded him to his face. The Country Gentlemen, (at -that time a formidable party, ‘not pierceable by power of any -argument,’) only felt themselves at a loss from not having the -Dissenters and Nonconformists to hunt down as usual. William they -regarded as an interloper, who had no rights of his own, and who -hindered other people from exercising theirs, in molesting and -domineering over their neighbours. What made matters worse, was his -being a foreigner; his Dutch origin was one of the things constantly -thrown in his teeth, and that staggered the faith and loyalty of many of -his well-meaning subjects, who could not comprehend the relation in -which they stood to a sovereign of alien descent. The phrase, _True-born -Englishman_, became a watchword in the mouths of the malecontent party; -and at that name, (as often as it was repeated), the Whig and Protestant -interest grew pale. It was to meet, and finally quell this charge, that -Defoe penned his well-known poem of _The True-born Englishman_—a satire -which, if written in doggerel verse, and without the wit or pleasantry -of Butler’s Hudibras, is a masterpiece of good sense and just -reflection, and shows a thorough knowledge both of English history and -of the English character. It is indeed a complete and unanswerable -exposure of the pretence set up to a purer and loftier origin than all -the rest of the world, instead of our being a mixed race from all parts -of Europe, settling down into one common name and people. Defoe’s satire -was so just and true, that it drove the cant, to which it was meant to -be an antidote, out of fashion; and it was this piece of service that -procured the writer the good opinion and notice of King William. It did -not, however, equally recommend him to the public. If it silenced the -idle and ill-natured clamours of a party, by telling the plain -truth,—that truth was not the more welcome for being plain or effectual. -Though this handle was thus taken from malevolence and discontent, the -tide of unpopularity had set in too strong from the first arrival of the -king, not to continue and increase to the end of his reign; so that at -last worn out with rendering the noblest services, and being repaid with -the meanest ingratitude, he thought of retiring to Holland, and leaving -his English crown of thorns to any one who chose to claim it. - -The state of parties, at this period of our history, presents a riddle -that has not been solved. It has been referred to the gloom and -discontent of the English character; but other countries have of late -exhibited the same problem, with the same result. It may be resolved -into that propensity in human nature, through which, when it has got -what it wants, it requires something else which it cannot have. The -English people, at the period in question, wanted a contradiction,—that -is, to have James and William on the throne together; but this they -could not have, and so they were contented with neither. If they had -recalled James, they would have sent him back again. They wanted him -back again _with conditions_, and security for his future good -behaviour. They wanted his title to the throne without his abuse of -power; an absolute sovereign, with a reserve of the privileges of the -people; a Popish prince, with a Protestant church; a deliverance from -chains without a deliverer; and an escape from tyranny without the stain -of resistance to it. They wanted not out of two things one which they -could have, but a third, which was impossible; and as they could not -have all, they were determined to be pleased with nothing. This greatly -annoyed Defoe, who set his face against so absurd a manifestation of the -spirit of the times. It embittered his satisfaction in the virtues of -the sovereign, and the glories of his reign,—in his exploits abroad,—the -moderation and justice of his administration at home; nor was he -consoled for the malignity of his prince’s enemies or the indifference -of his friends, either by writing _Odes_ on his battles and victories, -or _Elegies_ and _Epitaphs_ on his death. - -He was still less fortunate in following up the dictates of what he -thought right, or in what he called ‘speaking a word in season,’ in the -subsequent reign. Queen Anne, who succeeded to the crown on the death of -King William, was placed in no very graceful or dutiful position, as -keeping her brother from the throne, which she occupied as the next -Protestant heir, but to which, in the opinion of many, and perhaps in -her own, he had a prior indefeasible right. She had been brought up with -bigoted notions of religion; and in proportion as she felt the political -ground infirm under her feet, she wished to stand well with the Church. -There was, through her whole reign, therefore, a strong increasing bias -to High-Church principles. The promise of toleration to the dissenters -soon sunk into an _indulgence_, and ended in the threat and the -intention of putting in force the severest laws against them, under -pretence that the Church was in danger. The Clergy sung the same song as -the Queen, adding a burden of their own to it;—breathing nothing in -their sermons but suspicion and hatred of the dissenters, reviving and -inflaming old animosities, and encouraging their parishioners to proceed -even to open violence against the frequenters of conventicles. Their -services in bringing about the Revolution were forgotten; and nothing -was insisted on but their share in the great Rebellion, and the -beheading of Charles I. A university preacher (Sacheverell) talked of -‘hoisting the bloody flag’ against the dissenters, and treated all those -of the Moderate Party and Low Church as false brethren, who did not -enlist under the banner. Another proposed shutting up not only the -dissenters’ Meeting-Houses, but their Academies, and thus taking from -them the education of their children. A third was for using gentle -violence with the Queen to urge her to severe and salutary measures -against Nonconformists; and considered her as under _duresse_ in not -being allowed to give full scope to the sentiments labouring in her -bosom in favour of the Church of England. Defoe marked all this with -quick and anxious eye; he saw the storm of persecution gathering, and -ready to burst with tenfold vengeance, from its having been so long -delayed; he thought it high time to warn his brethren of the impending -mischief, and to point out to the government, in a terrible and palpable -way, the dangerous and mad career to which the zealots of a party were -urging them headlong. ‘So should his anticipation prevent their -discovery.’ He collected all the poisoned missiles and combustible -materials he could lay his hands on, and putting them together in one -heap, brought out his _Shortest Way with the Dissenters_. If it startled -his adversaries and threw a blaze of light upon the subject, the -explosion chiefly hurt himself. What beyond contradiction proved the -truth of the satire was, that it was, at first, taken seriously by many -of the opposite side, who thought it a well-timed and spirited Manifesto -from a true son of the Church; and several young divines in the country, -on perusing it, sent for more copies of it, with high commendations, as -the triumph of their views and party. Their rage, when they found out -their mistake, was proportionable, and no treatment was bad enough for -so vile an incendiary. The book was forthwith prosecuted by authority, -as a malignant slander against the Church, and a seditious libel on the -government. The author, as before noticed, was sentenced to the pillory, -and to a heavy fine, with imprisonment during the queen’s pleasure; -which, as already mentioned, was the immediate and ultimate ruin of his -affairs and prospects in life. Defoe bore his disgrace and misfortunes -with the spirit of a man, and with a sort of grumbling patience peculiar -to himself. He wrote on the occasion a _Hymn to the Pillory_, which -contains some bad poetry and manly feeling; and indeed his apparent -indifference is easily accounted for from a consciousness of the -_flagrant_ rectitude of his case. Pope has made an ungenerous allusion -to the circumstances in the _Dunciad_:— - - ‘See where on high stands unabash’d Defoe!’ - -Pope’s imagination had too much effeminacy to stomach, under any -circumstances, this kind of petty, squalid martyrdom; nor had he -strength of public principle enough to form to himself the practical -antithesis of ‘dishonour honourable!’ The amiable in private life, the -exalted in rank and station, alone fixed his sympathy, and engrossed his -admiration. The exquisite compliments with which he has embalmed the -memory of some of his illustrious friends, who stand ‘condemned to -everlasting fame,’ are a discredit to his own. His apostrophe to Harley, -beginning, - - ‘Oh soul supreme, in each hard instance tried, - Above all pain, all passion, and all pride,’ - -contrasts strangely with the time-serving, vain, versatile, and -unprincipled character of that minister; and Mr. Wilson ought to have -written a good book, for he has spoiled the effect of some of the finest -lines in the English language. It was a bold step in Pope to put the -author of _Robinson Crusoe_ into the _Dunciad_ at all; Swift also has a -fling at him as ‘the fellow that was pilloried;’ and Gay is equally -sceptical and pedantic, as to his possessing more than ‘the superficial -parts of learning.’ We know of no excuse for the illiberality of the -literary junto with regard to a man like Defoe, but that he returned the -compliment to them; and in fact, if we were to take the character of men -of genius from their judgment of each other, we must sometimes come to a -very different conclusion from what the world have formed. - -That Defoe should have incurred the hatred, and been consigned to the -vengeance, of the High-Church party for thus honestly exposing their -designs against the Dissenters, is but natural; the wonderful part is, -that he equally excited the indignation and reproaches of the Dissenters -themselves; who disclaimed his work as a scandalous and inflammatory -performance, and called loudly (in concert with their bitterest foes,) -for the condign punishment of the author. They almost with one voice, -and as if seized with a contagion of folly, cried shame upon it, as an -underhand and designing attempt to make a premature breach between them -and the established church; to sow the seeds of groundless jealousy and -ill-will; and to make them indirectly participators in, and the -sufferers by, a scurrilous attack on the reverence due to religion and -authority. Defoe was made the scapegoat of this paltry and cowardly -policy, and was given up to the tender mercies of the opposite party -without succour or sympathy. This extreme blindness to their own -interests can only be explained by the consideration that the -Dissenters, as a body, were at this time in a constant state of -probation and suffering; they had enough to do with the evils they -actually endured, without ‘flying to others that they knew not of;’ they -stood in habitual awe and apprehension of their spiritual lords and -masters;—would not be brought to suspect their further designs lest it -should provoke them to realise their fears; and as they had not strength -nor spirit to avert the blow, did not wish to see till they felt it. The -alacrity and prowess of Defoe was a reproach to their backwardness; the -truth of his appeal implied a challenge to meet it; and they answered, -with the old excuse, ‘why troublest thou us before our time?’ The -Dissenters too, at this period, were men of a formal and limited scope -of mind, not much versed in the general march of human affairs; they -required literal and positive proof for every thing, as well as for the -points of faith on which they held out so manfully; and their obstinacy -in maintaining these, and suffering for them, was matched by their timid -circumspection and sluggish impracticability with respect to every thing -else. Their deserting Defoe, who marched on at the head of the -battle,—pushed forward by his keen foresight and natural impatience of -wrong,—is not out of character; though equally repugnant to sound policy -or true spirit. They fixed a stigma on him, therefore, as a breeder of -strife, a false prophet, and a dangerous member of the community; and, -what is certainly inexcusable, when, afterwards, his jest was turned to -melancholy earnest;—when every thing he had foretold was verified to the -very letter, when the whole force of the government was arrayed against -them, and Sacheverell in person unfurled ‘his bloody flag,’ and paraded -the streets with a mob at his heels, pulling down their meeting-houses, -burning their private dwellings, and making it unsafe for a Dissenter to -walk the streets,—they did not take off the stigma they had affixed to -the author of _The Shortest Way with the Dissenters_; did not allow that -he was right and they were wrong, but kept up their unjust and illiberal -prejudices, and even aggravated them in some instances, as if to prove -that they were well-founded. Bodies of men seldom retract or atone for -the injuries they have done to individuals. It will hardly seem credible -to the modern reader, that in pursuance of this old sectarian grudge, -and in conformity with the same narrow spirit, some years after this, -when Queen Anne, who, from the death of her son, Prince George, had no -hope of leaving an heir to the crown, turned her thoughts to the -restoration of the Pretender, and when Defoe, in the general alarm and -agitation which this uncertainty of the designs of the Court occasioned, -endeavoured to ridicule and defeat the project, by pointing out, in his -powerful and inimitable way, the incalculable benefits that would ensue -from setting aside the Hanoverian succession, and bringing in the right -line, one William Benson, (a Dissenter, a stanch friend to the House of -Hanover, and the same who had a monument erected to Milton,) in his -absurd prejudice against Defoe,—in his conviction that he was a renegado -and a Marplot, and in his utter incapacity to conceive the meaning of -irony,—actually set on foot a prosecution against the author as in -league with the Pretender; wanted to have him accused of high treason, -and obstinately persisted in, and returned to the charge; and that it -was only through the friendly zeal and interest of Harley, and his -representations to the queen, that he was pardoned and released from -Newgate, whither he had been committed on the judges’ warrant, for -writing something in defence of his pamphlet, after its presentation by -the Grand Jury, and his being compelled to give bail to appear for -trial! ‘The force of _dulness_ could no farther go.’ - -Defoe had before this given violent offence to the Dissenters, by -_dissenting_ from and ‘disobliging’ them on a number of technical and -doubtful points—a difference of which they seemed more tenacious than of -the greatest affronts or deadliest injuries. Among others, he had -opposed the principles of _occasional conformity_; that is, the liberty -practised by some Dissenters, of going to church during their -appointment to any public office, as they were prohibited from attending -their own places of worship in their official costume. Nothing could be -clearer, than that, if it was a point of conscience with these persons -not to conform to the service of the established church, their being -chosen mayor, sheriff, or alderman, did not give them a dispensation to -that purpose. But many of the demure and purse-proud citizens of London, -(among whom Mr. William Benson was a leader and a shining light,) -resented their not being supposed at liberty to appear at church in -their gold chains and robes of office, though contrary to their usual -principles of nonconformity;—as children think they have a right to -visit fine places in their new clothes on holidays. Their rage against -Defoe was at its height, when he had nothing to say against Harley’s -Tory administration, for bringing in _The Occasional Conformity Bill_, -to debar Dissenters of this puerile and contradictory privilege. It was -to the kindness and generosity of Harley, on this as well as on former -occasions, in affording our author pecuniary aid, of which he was in the -utmost need, (being without means, friends, and in prison,) and in -rescuing him from the grasp of his own party, that we owe his silence on -political and public questions during the last years of Queen Anne; and -a line of conduct that, in the present day, seems wavering and -equivocal. His gratitude for private benefits hardly condemned him to -withhold his opinions on public matters; but at that time, personal and -private ties bore greater sway over general and public duties than is -the case at present. We entirely acquit Defoe of dishonest or unworthy -motives. He might easily have gone quite over to the other side, if he -had been inclined to make a market of himself: but of this he never -betrayed the remotest intention, and merely refused to join in the hue -and cry against a man who had twice saved him from starving in a -dungeon. Be this as it may, Defoe never recovered from the slur thus -cast upon his political integrity, and was under a cloud, and -discountenanced during the following reign; though the establishment of -this very Protestant succession had been the object of the labours of -his whole life, and was the wish that lay nearest his heart to his -latest breath. - -Defoe had, in the former reign, been at various times employed at her -majesty’s desire, and in her service, particularly in accomplishing the -Union with Scotland in 1707. He displayed great activity and zeal in -accommodating the differences of all parties; and his _History_ of that -event has been pronounced by good judges to be a masterpiece. But as to -the numerous transactions in which he was concerned, and his various -publications and controversies, we must refer the reader to Mr. Wilson, -who has furnished ample details and instructive comments. For ourselves, -we must ‘hold our hands and check our pride,’ or we should never have -done. Of all Defoe’s multifarious effusions, the only one in which there -is a want of candour and good faith, or in which he has wilfully blunted -and deadened his _moral sense_, is his Defence, or (which is the same -thing) his Apology for the Massacre of Glencoe. But King William was his -idol, and he could no more see any faults in him than spots in the sun. -Our old friend Daniel also tries us hard, when he rails at the poor -servants, or ‘fine madams,’ as he calls them, who get a little better -clothes and higher wages when they come up to London, than they had in -the country; when he _runs a-muck_ at stage-plays, and the triumphs of -the mimic scene;—confounding ‘Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, with Lucifer, -Prince of Darkness.’ But these were the follies and prejudices of the -time, aided by a little tincture of vulgarity, and the sourness of -sectarian bigotry. - -We pass on to his Novels, and are sorry that we must hasten over them. -We owe them to the ill odour into which he had fallen as a politician. -His fate with his party reminds one a little of the reception which the -heroine of the _Heart of Mid-Lothian_ met with from her sister, because -she would not tell a lie for her; yet both were faithful and true to -their cause. Being laid aside by the Whigs, as a suspected person, and -not choosing to go over to the other side, he retired to -Stoke-Newington, where, as already mentioned, he had an attack of -apoplexy, which had nearly proved fatal to him. Recovering, however, and -his activity of mind not suffering him to be idle, he turned his -thoughts into a new channel, and, as if to change the scene entirely, -set about writing Romances. The first work that could come under this -title was _The Family Instructor_;—a sort of controversial narrative, in -which an argument is held through three volumes, and a feverish interest -is worked up to the most tragic height, on ‘the abomination’ (as it was -at that time thought by many people, and among others by Defoe) of -letting young people go to the play. The implied horror of dramatic -exhibitions, in connexion with the dramatic effect of the work itself, -leaves a curious impression. Defoe’s polemical talents are brought to -bear to very good purpose in this performance, which was in the form of -Letters; and it is curious to mark the eagerness with which his pen, -after having been taken up for so many years with dry debates and -doctrinal points, flies for relief to the details and incidents of -private life. His mind was equally tenacious of facts and arguments, and -fastened on each, in its turn, with the same strong and unremitting -grasp. _Robinson Crusoe_, published in 1719, was the first of his -performances in the acknowledged shape of a romance; and from this time -he brought out one or two every year to the end of his life. As it was -the first, it was decidedly the best; it gave full scope to his genius; -and the subject mastered his prevailing bias to religious controversy, -and the depravity of social life, by confining him to the -unsophisticated views of nature and the human heart. His other works of -fiction have not been read, (in comparison)—and one reason is, that many -of them, at least, are hardly fit to be read, whatever may be said to -the contrary. We shall go a little into the theory of this. - -We do not think a person brought up and trammelled all his life in the -strictest notions of religion and morality, and looking at the world, -and all that was ordinarily passing in it, as little better than a -contamination, is, _a priori_, the properest person to write novels: it -is going out of his way—it is ‘meddling with the unclean thing.’ -Extremes meet, and all extremes are bad. According to our author’s -overstrained Puritanical notions, there were but two choices, God or the -Devil—Sinners and Saints—the Methodist meeting or the Brothel—the school -of the press-yard of Newgate, or attendance on the refreshing ministry -of some learned and pious dissenting Divine. As the smallest falling off -from faith, or grace, or the most trifling peccadillo, was to be -reprobated and punished with the utmost severity, no wonder that the -worst turn was given to every thing; and that the imagination having -once overstepped the formidable line, gave a loose to its habitual -nervous dread, by indulging in the blackest and most frightful pictures -of the corruptions incident to human nature. It was as well (in the cant -phrase) ‘to be in for a sheep as a lamb,’ as it cost nothing more—the -sin might at least be startling and uncommon; and hence we find, in this -style of writing, nothing but an alternation of religious horrors and -raptures, (though these are generally rare, as being a less tempting -bait,) and the grossest scenes of vice and debauchery: we have either -saintly, spotless purity, or all is rotten to the core. How else can we -account for it, that all Defoe’s characters (with one or two exceptions -for form’s sake) are of the worst and lowest description—the refuse of -the prisons and the stews—thieves, prostitutes, vagabonds, and -pirates—as if he wanted to make himself amends for the restraint under -which he had laboured ‘all the fore-end of his time’ as a moral and -religious character, by acting over every excess of grossness and -profligacy by proxy! How else can we comprehend that he should really -think there was a salutary moral lesson couched under the history of -_Moll Flanders_; or that his romance of _Roxana, or the Fortunate -Mistress_, who rolls in wealth and pleasure from one end of the book to -the other, and is quit for a little death-bed repentance and a few -lip-deep professions of the vanity of worldly joys, showed, in a -striking point of view, the advantages of virtue, and the disadvantages -of vice? It cannot be said, however, that these works have an _immoral_ -tendency. The author has contrived to neutralise the question; and (as -far as in him lay) made vice and virtue equally contemptible or -revolting. In going through his pages, we are inclined to vary Mr. -Burke’s well-known paradox, that ‘vice, by losing all its grossness, -loses half its evil,’ and say that vice, by losing all its refinement, -loses all its attraction. We have in them only the pleasure of sinning, -and the dread of punishment here or hereafter;—gross sensuality, and -whining repentance. The morality is that of the inmates of a house of -correction; the piety, that of malefactors in the condemned hole. There -is no sentiment, no atmosphere of imagination, no ‘purple light’ thrown -round virtue or vice;—all is either the physical gratification on the -one hand, or a selfish calculation of consequences on the other. This is -the necessary effect of allowing nothing to the frailty of human -nature;—of never strewing the flowers of fancy in the path of pleasure, -but always looking that way with a sort of terror as to forbidden -ground: nothing is left of the common and mixed enjoyments and pursuits -of human life but the coarsest and criminal part; and we have either a -sour, cynical, sordid sell-denial, or (in the despair of attaining this) -a reckless and unqualified abandonment of all decency and character -alike:—it is hard to say which is the most repulsive. Defoe runs equally -into extremes in his male characters as in his heroines. _Captain -Singleton_ is a hardened, brutal desperado, without one redeeming trait, -or almost human feeling; and, in spite of what Mr. Lamb says of his -lonely musings and agonies of a conscience-stricken repentance, we find -nothing of this in the text: the captain is always merry and well if -there is any mischief going on; and his only qualm is, after he has -retired from his trade of plunder and murder on the high seas, and is -afraid of being assassinated for his ill-gotten wealth, and does not -know how to dispose of it. Defoe (whatever his intentions may be) is -led, by the force of truth and circumstances, to give the Devil his -due—he puts no gratuitous remorse into his adventurer’s mouth, nor -spoils the _keeping_ by expressing one relenting pang, any more than his -hero would have done in reality. This is, indeed, the excellence of -Defoe’s representations, that they are perfect _fac-similes_ of the -characters he chooses to pourtray; but then they are too often the worst -specimens he can collect out of the dregs and sink of human nature. -_Colonel Jack_ is another instance, with more pleasantry, and a common -vein of humanity; but still the author is flung into the same walk of -flagrant vice and immorality;—as if his mind was haunted by the entire -opposition between grace and nature—and as if, out of the sphere of -spiritual exercise and devout contemplation, the whole actual world was -a necessary tissue of what was worthless and detestable. - -We have, we hope, furnished a clue to this seeming contradiction between -the character of the author and his works; and must proceed to a -conclusion. Of these novels we may, nevertheless, add, for the -satisfaction of the inquisitive reader, that _Moll Flanders_ is utterly -vile and detestable: Mrs. Flanders was evidently born in sin. The best -parts are the account of her childhood, which is pretty and affecting; -the fluctuation of her feelings between remorse and hardened impenitence -in Newgate; and the incident of her leading off the horse from the inn -door, though she had no place to put it in after she had stolen it. This -was carrying the love of thieving to an _ideal_ pitch, and making it -perfectly disinterested and mechanical. _Roxana_ is better—soaring a -higher flight, instead of grovelling always in the mire of poverty and -distress; but she has neither refinement nor a heart; we are only -dazzled with the outward ostentation of jewels, finery, and wealth. The -scene where she dances in her Turkish dress before the king, and obtains -the name of Roxana, is of the true romantic cast. The best parts of -_Colonel Jack_ are the early scenes, where there is a spirit of mirth -and good fellowship thrown over the homely features of low and vicious -life;—as where the hero and his companion are sitting at the -three-halfpenny ordinary, and are delighted, even more than with their -savoury fare, to hear the waiter cry, ‘Coming, gentlemen, coming,’ when -they call for a cup of small-beer; and we rejoice when we are told as a -notable event, that ‘about this time the Colonel took upon him to wear a -shirt.’ The _Memoirs of a Cavalier_ are an agreeable mixture of the -style of history and fiction. These Memoirs, as is well known, imposed -upon Lord Chatham as a true history. In his _History of Apparitions_, -Defoe discovers a strong bias to a belief in the marvellous and -preternatural; nor is this extraordinary, for, to say nothing of the -general superstition of the times, his own impressions of whatever he -chose to conceive are so vivid and literal, as almost to confound the -distinction between reality and imagination. He could ‘call spirits from -the vasty deep,’ and they ‘would come when he did call for them.’ We -have not room for an enumeration of even half his works of fiction. We -give the bust, and must refer to Mr. Wilson for the whole length. After -_Robinson Crusoe_, his _History of the Plague_ is the finest of all his -works. It has an epic grandeur, as well as heart-breaking familiarity, -in its style and matter. - -Notwithstanding the number and success of his publications, Defoe, we -lament to add, had to struggle with pecuniary difficulties, heightened -by domestic afflictions. To the last, when on the brink of death, he was -on the verge of a jail; and the ingratitude and ill-behaviour of his son -in embezzling some property which Defoe had made over for the benefit of -his sisters and mother, completed his distress. He was supported in -these painful circumstances by the assistance and advice of Mr. Baker, -who had married his youngest daughter, Sophia. The subjoined letter -gives a melancholy but very striking picture of the state of his -feelings at this sad juncture:— - -‘DEAR MR. BAKER,—I have yo^r very kind and affecc’onate Letter of the -1st: But not come to my hand till y^e 10th; where it had been delay’d I -kno’ not. As your kind manner, and kinder Thought, from w^{ch} it flows, -(for I take all you say to be as I always believed you to be, sincere -and Nathaniel like, without Guile) was a particular satisfacc’on to me; -so the stop of a Letter, however it happened, deprived me of that -cordial too many days, considering how much I stood in need of it, to -support a mind sinking under the weight of an afflicc’on too heavy for -my strength, and looking on myself as abandoned of every Comfort, every -Friend, and every Relative, except such only as are able to give me no -assistance. - -‘I was sorry you should say at y^e beginning of your Letter, you were -debarred seeing me. Depend upon my sincerity for this, I am far from -debarring you. On y^e contrary, it would be a greater comfort to me than -any I now enjoy, that I could have yo^r agreeable visits w^{th} safety, -and could see both you and my dearest Sophia, could it be without giving -her y^e grief of seeing her father _in tenebris_, and under y^e load of -insupportable sorrows. I am sorry I must open my griefs so far as to -tell her, it is not y^e blow I rec^d from a wicked, perjur’d, and -contemptible enemy, that has broken in upon my spirit, w^{ch} as she -well knows, has carryed me on thro’ greater disasters than these. But it -has been the injustice, unkindness, and, I must say, inhuman dealing of -my own son, w^{ch} has both ruined my family, and, in a word, has broken -my heart; and as I am at this time under a weight of very heavy illness, -w^{ch} I think will be a fever, I take this occasion to vent my grief in -y^e breasts who I know will make a prudent use of it, and tell you, that -nothing but this has conquered, or could conquer me. _Et tu! Brute!_ I -depended upon him, I trusted him, I gave up my two dear unprovided -children into his hands; but he has no compassion, and suffers them and -their poor dying mother to beg their bread at his door, and to crave, as -if it were an alms, what he is bound under hand and seal, besides the -most sacred promises, to supply them with; himself, at y^e same time, -living in a profusion of plenty. It is too much for me. Excuse my -infirmity, I can say no more; my heart is too full. I only ask one thing -of you as a dying request. Stand by them when I am gone, and let them -not be wrong’d, while he is able to do them right. Stand by them as a -brother; and if you have any thing within you owing to my memory, who -have bestow’d on you the best gift I had to give, let y^m not be injured -and trampled on by false pretences, and unnatural reflections. I hope -they will want no help but that of comfort and council; but that they -will indeed want, being too easie to be manag’d by words and promises. - -‘It adds to my grief that it is so difficult to me to see you. I am at a -distance from Lond^n in Kent; nor have I a lodging in London, nor have I -been at that place in the Old Bailey, since I wrote you I was removed -from it. At present I am weak, having had some fits of a fever that have -left me low. But those things much more. - -‘I have not seen son or daughter, wife or child, many weeks, and kno’ -not which way to see them. They dare not come by water, and by land here -is no coach, and I kno’ not what to do. - -‘It is not possible for me to come to Enfield, unless you could find a -retired lodging for me, where I might not be known, and might have the -comfort of seeing you both now and then; upon such a circumstance, I -could gladly give the days to solitude, to have the comfort of half an -hour now and then, with you both, for two or three weeks. But just to -come and look at you, and retire immediately, tis a burden too heavy. -The parting will be a price beyond the enjoyment. - -‘I would say, (I hope) with comfort, that ’tis yet well. I am so near my -journey’s end, and am hastening to the place where y^e weary are at -rest, and where the wicked cease to trouble; be it that the passage is -rough, and the day stormy, by what way soever He please to bring me to -the end of it, I desire to finish life with this temper of soul in all -cases: _Te Deum Laudamus_. - -‘I congratulate you on y^e occasion of yo^r happy advance in y^r -employment. May all you do be prosperous, and all you meet with -pleasant, and may you both escape the tortures and troubles of uneasie -life. May you sail y^e dangerous voyage of life with _a forcing wind_, -and make the port of heaven _without a storm_. - -‘It adds to my grief that I must never see the pledge of your mutual -love, my little grandson. Give him my blessing, and may he be to you -both your joy in youth, and your comfort in age, and never add a sigh to -your sorrow. But, alas! that is not to be expected. Kiss my dear Sophy -once more for me; and if I must see her no more, tell her this is from a -father that loved her above all his comforts, to his last breath.—Yo^r -unhappy, D. F. - - ‘About two miles from Greenwich, Kent, - _Tuesday, August 12, 1730_.’ - -‘From this scene of sorrow,’ says Mr. Wilson, ‘we must now hasten to an -event, that dropped before it the dark curtain of time. Having received -a wound that was incurable, there is too much reason to fear that the -anguish arising from it sunk deep in his spirits, and hastened the -crisis that, in a few months, brought his troubles to a final close. The -time of his death has been variously stated; but it took place upon the -24th of April, 1731, when he was about seventy years of age, having been -born in the year 1661. Cibber and others state that he died at his house -at Islington; but this is incorrect. The parish of St. Giles, -Cripplegate, in which he drew his first breath, was also destined to -receive his last. This we learn from the parish register, which has been -searched for the purpose; and farther informs us, that he went off in a -lethargy. He was buried from thence, upon the 26th of April, in -Tindall’s Burying-ground, now most known by the name of Bunhill-Fields. -The entry in the register, written probably by some ignorant person, who -made a strange blunder of his name, is as follows: “1731, April 26. Mr. -Dubow. Cripplegate.” His wife did not long survive him.’ - - - MR. GODWIN - - VOL. LI.] [_April 1830._ - -We find little of the author of Caleb Williams in the present work, -except the name in the title-page. Either we are changed, or Mr. Godwin -is changed, since he wrote that masterly performance. We remember the -first time of reading it well, though now long ago. In addition to the -singularity and surprise occasioned by seeing a romance written by a -philosopher and politician, what a quickening of the pulse,—what an -interest in the progress of the story,—what an eager curiosity in -divining the future,—what an individuality and contrast in the -characters,—what an elevation and what a fall was that of Falkland;—how -we felt for his blighted hopes, his remorse, and despair, and took part -with Caleb Williams as his ordinary and unformed sentiments are brought -out, and rendered more and more acute by the force of circumstances, -till hurried on by an increasing and incontrollable impulse, he turns -upon his proud benefactor and unrelenting persecutor, and in a mortal -struggle, overthrows him on the vantage-ground of humanity and justice! -There is not a moment’s pause in the action or sentiments: the breath is -suspended, the faculties wound up to the highest pitch, as we read. Page -after page is greedily devoured. There is no laying down the book till -we come to the end; and even then the words still ring in our ears, nor -do the mental apparitions ever pass away from the eye of memory. Few -books have made a greater impression than Caleb Williams on its first -appearance. It was read, admired, parodied, dramatised. All parties -joined in its praise. Those (not a few) who at the time favoured Mr. -Godwin’s political principles, hailed it as a new triumph of his powers, -and as a proof that the stoicism of the doctrines he inculcated did not -arise from any defect of warmth or enthusiasm of feeling, and that his -abstract speculations were grounded in, and sanctioned by, an intimate -knowledge of, and rare felicity in, developing the actual vicissitudes -of human life. On the other hand, his enemies, or those who looked with -a mixture of dislike and fear at the system of ethics advanced in the -_Enquiry concerning Political Justice_, were disposed to forgive the -author’s paradoxes for the truth of imitation with which he had depicted -prevailing passions, and were glad to have something in which they could -sympathize with a man of no mean capacity or attainments. At any rate, -it was a new and startling event in literary history for a metaphysician -to write a popular romance. The thing took, as all displays of -unforeseen talent do with the public. Mr. Godwin was thought a man of -very powerful and versatile genius; and in him the understanding and the -imagination reflected a mutual and dazzling light upon each other. His -St. Leon did not lessen the wonder, nor the public admiration of him, or -rather ‘seemed like another morn risen on mid-noon.’ But from that time -he has done nothing of superlative merit. He has imitated himself, and -not well. He has changed the glittering spear, which always detected -truth or novelty, for a leaden foil. We cannot say of his last work -(Cloudesley),—‘Even in his ashes live his wonted fires.’ The story is -cast indeed something in the same moulds as Caleb Williams; but they are -not filled and running over with molten passion, or with scalding tears. -The situations and characters, though forced and extreme, are without -effect from the want of juxtaposition and collision. Cloudesley (the -elder) is like Caleb Williams, a person of low origin, and rebels -against his patron and employer; but he remains a characterless, -passive, inefficient agent to the last,—forming his plans and -resolutions at a distance,—not whirled from expedient to expedient, nor -driven from one sleepless hiding-place to another; and his lordly and -conscience-stricken accomplice (Danvers) keeps his state in like manner, -brooding over his guilt and remorse in solitude, with scarce an object -or effort to vary the round of his reflections,—a lengthened paraphrase -of grief. The only dramatic incidents in the course of the narrative -are, the sudden metamorphosis of the Florentine Count Camaldoli into the -robber St. Elmo, and the unexpected and opportune arrival of Lord -Danvers in person, with a coach and four and liveries, at Naples, just -in time to save his ill-treated nephew from a violent death. The rest is -a well-written essay, or theme, composed as an exercise to gain a -mastery of style and topics. - -There is, indeed, no falling off in point of style or command of -language in the work before us. Cloudesley is better written than Caleb -Williams. The expression is everywhere terse, vigorous, elegant:—a -polished mirror without a wrinkle. But the spirit of the execution is -lost in the inertness of the subject-matter. There is a dearth of -invention, a want of character and grouping. There are clouds of -reflections without any new occasion to call them forth;—an expanded -flow of words without a single pointed remark. A want of acuteness and -originality is not a fault that is generally chargeable upon our -author’s writings. Nor do we lay the blame upon him now, but upon -circumstances. Had Mr. Godwin been bred a monk, and lived in the good -old times, he would assuredly either have been burnt as a free-thinker, -or have been rewarded with a mitre, for a tenth part of the learning and -talent he has displayed. He might have reposed on a rich benefice, and -the reputation he had earned, enjoying the _otium cum dignitate_, or at -most relieving his official cares by revising successive editions of his -former productions, and enshrining them in cases of sandal-wood and -crimson velvet in some cloistered hall or princely library. He might -then have courted - - ——‘retired leisure, - That in trim gardens takes its pleasure,’— - -have seen his peaches ripen in the sun; and, smiling secure on fortune -and on fame, have repeated with complacency the motto—_Horas non numero -nisi serenas!_ But an author by profession knows nothing of all this. He -is only ‘the iron rod, the torturing hour.’ He lies ‘stretched upon the -rack of restless ecstasy:’ he runs the everlasting gauntlet of public -opinion. He must write on, and if he had the strength of Hercules and -the wit of Mercury, he must in the end write himself down: - - ‘And like a gallant horse, fallen in first rank, - Lies there for pavement to the abject rear, - O’er-run and trampled on.’ - -He cannot let well done alone. He cannot take his stand on what he has -already achieved, and say, Let it be a durable monument to me and mine, -and a covenant between me and the world for ever! He is called upon for -perpetual new exertions, and urged forward by ever-craving necessities. -The _wolf_ must be kept from the door: the _printer’s devil_ must not go -empty-handed away. He makes a second attempt, and though equal perhaps -to the first, because it does not excite the same surprise, it falls -tame and flat on the public mind. If he pursues the real bent of his -genius, he is thought to grow dull and monotonous; or if he varies his -style, and tries to cater for the capricious appetite of the town, he -either escapes by miracle or breaks down that way, amidst the shout of -the multitude and the condolence of friends, to see the idol of the -moment pushed from its pedestal, and reduced to its proper level. There -is only one living writer who can pass through this ordeal; and if he -had barely written half what he has done, his reputation would have been -none the less. His inexhaustible facility makes the willing world -believe there is not much in it. Still, there is no alternative. -Popularity, like one of the Danaides, imposes impossible tasks on her -votary,—to pour water into sieves, to reap the wind. If he does nothing, -he is forgotten; if he attempts more than he can perform, he gets -laughed at for his pains. He is impelled by circumstances to fresh -sacrifices of time, of labour, and of self-respect; parts with -well-earned fame for a newspaper puff, and sells his birth-right for a -mess of pottage. In the meanwhile, the public wonder why an author -writes so badly and so much. With all his efforts, he builds no house, -leaves no inheritance, lives from hand to mouth, and, though condemned -to daily drudgery for a precarious subsistence, is expected to produce -none but works of first-rate genius. No; learning unconsecrated, -unincorporated, unendowed, is no match for the importunate demands and -thoughtless ingratitude of the reading public. - - ——‘O, let not virtue seek - Remuneration for the thing it was! - To have done, is to hang, - Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail - In monumental mockery;— - That all, with one consent, praise new-born gaudes, - Though they are made and moulded of things past; - And give to dust, that is a little gilt, - More laud than gilt o’er-dusted.’ - -If we wished to please Mr. Godwin, we should say that his last work was -his best; but we cannot do this in justice to him or to ourselves. Its -greatest fault is, that (as Mr. Bayes would have declared) there is -nothing ‘to elevate and surprise’ in it. There is a story, to be sure, -but you know it all beforehand, just as well as after having read the -book. It is like those long straight roads that travellers complain of -on the Continent, where you see from one end of your day’s journey to -the other, and carry the same prospect with you, like a map in your -hand, the whole way. Mr. Godwin has laid no ambuscade for the unwary -reader—no picturesque group greets the eye as you pass on—no sudden turn -at an angle places you on the giddy verge of a precipice. Nevertheless, -our author’s courage never flags. Mr. Godwin is an eminent rhetorician; -and he shows it in this, that he expatiates, discusses, amplifies, with -equal fervour, and unabated ingenuity, on the merest accidents of the -way-side, or common-places of human life. Thus, for instance, if a youth -of eleven or twelve years of age is introduced upon the carpet, the -author sets himself to show, with a laudable candour and -communicativeness, what the peculiar features of that period of life -are, and ‘takes an inventory’ of all the particulars,—such as sparkling -eyes, roses in the cheeks, a smooth forehead, flaxen locks, elasticity -of limb, lively animal spirits, and all the flush of hope,—as if he were -describing a novelty, or some _terra incognita_, to the reader. In like -manner, when a young man of twenty is confined to a dungeon as belonging -to a gang of banditti, and going to be hanged, great pains are taken -through three or four pages to convince us, that at that period of life -this is no very agreeable prospect; that the feelings of youth are more -acute and sanguine than those of age; that, therefore, we are to take a -due and proportionate interest in the tender years and blighted hopes of -the younger Cloudesley; and that if any means could be found to rescue -him from his present perilous situation, it would be a great relief, not -only to him, but to all humane and compassionate persons. Every man’s -strength is his weakness, and turns in some way or other against -himself. Mr. Godwin has been so long accustomed to trust to his own -powers, and to draw upon his own resources, that he comes at length to -imagine that he can build a palace of words upon nothing. When he -lavished the colours of style, and the exuberant strength of his fancy, -on descriptions like those of the character of Margaret, the wife of St. -Leon, or of his musings in the dungeon of Bethlem Gabor, or of his -enthusiasm on discovering the philosopher’s stone, and being restored to -youth and the plenitude of joy by drinking the _Elixir Vitæ_;—or when he -recounts the long and lasting despair which succeeded that utter -separation from his kind, and that deep solitude which followed him into -crowds and cities,—deeper and more appalling than the dungeon of Bethlem -Gabor,—we were never weary of being borne along by the golden tide of -eloquence, supplied from the true sources of passion and feeling. But -when he bestows the same elaboration of phrases, and artificial -arrangement of sentences, to set off the most trite and obvious truisms, -we confess it has to us a striking effect of the _bathos_. Lest, -however, we should be thought to have overcharged or given a false turn -to this description, we will enable our readers to judge for themselves, -by giving the passage to which we have just alluded, as a specimen of -this overstrained and supererogatory style. - -—‘The condition in which he was now placed could not fail to have a -memorable effect on the mind of Julian. Shut up in a solitary dungeon, -without exercise or amusement, he had nothing upon which to occupy his -thoughts but the image of his own situation. He had hitherto lived, -particularly during the last twelve months, in a dream. He grieved most -bitterly, most persistingly, for the death of Cloudesley (the elder). He -had been instigated by his grief to seek the society of the companions -he had left in the Apennines. He did not desire any new connexions; he -would have shrunk from the encounter of new faces. - -‘All this was well. But the case was different, when he understood from -the language and manner of those who had him in custody, the only -persons he saw, that he would probably barely be taken out of prison to -be led to the scaffold. This was a kind of shock, greatly calculated to -awaken a man out of a dream. Julian was young, and had seen little of -the diversified scenes of human life. Existence is a thing that is -regarded in a very different light by the young and the old. The springs -of human nature are of a limited sort, and lie in a narrow compass; and -when we grow old, our desires are declining, our faculties have lost -their sharpness, and we are reasonably contented “to close our eyes and -shut out daylight.” But to the young it is a very different thing, -particularly perhaps at twenty years of age. We are just come into the -possession of all our faculties, and begin fully to be aware of our own -independence. Every thing is new to us; and the larger half at least of -what is new, is also agreeable. Pleasure spreads before us all its -allurements; knowledge unrolls its ample page. We have every thing to -learn, and every thing to enjoy. Ambition proffers its variegated -visions; and we are at a loss on which side to fix our choice. It is -easy to dally with death. The young man is like the coquette of the -other sex: She has little objection to trifling with a displeasing and -superannuated lover, so long as she is satisfied she is not within his -clutches. - -‘But all these considerations sink into nothing when contrasted with the -horrible death that was prepared for him. Julian had hitherto been a -stranger to adversity and pain. The path of his juvenile years had been -smoothed to him by the exemplary cares of Cloudesley and Eudocia. To his -own apprehension he was the favourite of fortune. All that he had read -of tragic and disastrous in the annals of mankind seemed like a drama, -prepared to make him wise by the sorrows of others, without costing him -a particle of the bitter price of experience. All that he had -encountered of displeasing was when he was the inmate of Borromeo; and -this, though felt by him as intolerable, he was aware had been planned -in a spirit of kindness. How terrible, therefore, was the reverse that -had now fallen upon him! That he, who had never contemplated the -slightest mischief to a human creature, whose life had been all -kindness, and beneficence, and good humour, should suddenly be treated -as the vilest of criminals, shut up in a dungeon, and destined to the -scaffold, was a thought that overturned all his previous conceptions of -human society and life. It filled him with wildness and horror; it drove -him to frenzy. From time to time he was ready to burst into paroxysm, -and dash out his desperate brains against the bars of his prison. To -exchange the most beautiful scene that Paradise ever exhibited, for -utter desolation and tremendous hurricane, that should tear up rocks -from their foundations, and overwhelm the produce of the earth with -rushing and uncontrollable waves, would feebly express the revolution -that took place in his mind. He repented that he had ever again sought -the society of these alluring but pernicious friends.’—Vol. III. p. 288. - -Was so much circumlocution necessary to prove that it is a disagreeable -thing to be shut up in a prison, and led out to the gallows? This is the -style of the _orator_, where the whole object is to turn a plain moral -adage in as many different ways as possible, and not that of the -romance-writer, who has, or ought to have, too many rare and surprising -adventures on his hands, to stoop to this trifling, snail-paced method. -According to the foregoing studied description, it should seem, that for -a man to feel shocked at being immured in a gaol, or broke on the wheel, -is ‘a pass of wit.’ When the author has conjured up all the aggravations -of the particular case, and compared it to the nicest shade of -difference with his former or his future possible history, he then feels -satisfied that his hero would like it little better than he does, and -inflicts a tardy horror and repentance on him. With submission, this may -be the scholastic or rational process for exciting pity and terror; -nature takes a shorter _cut_, and jumps at a conclusion without all this -formality and cool calculation of grains and scruples in the scale of -misfortune. - -We have a graver charge yet to bring against Mr. Godwin on the score of -style, than that it leads him into useless amplification: from his -desire to load and give effect to his descriptions, he runs different -characters and feelings into one another. By not stopping short of -excess and hyperbole, he loses the line of distinction, and ‘o’ersteps -the modesty of nature.’ All his characters are patterns of vice or -virtue. They are carried to extremes,—they are abstractions of woe, -miracles of wit and gaiety,—gifted with every grace and accomplishment -that can be enumerated in the same page; and they are not only prodigies -in themselves, but destined to immortal renown, though we have never -heard of their names before. This is not like a veteran in the art, but -like the raptures of some boarding-school girl in love with every new -face or dress she sees. It is difficult to say which is the most -extraordinary genius,—the improvisatori Bernardino Perfetti, or his -nephew, Francesco, or young Julian. Mr. Godwin still sees with ‘eyes of -youth.’ Irene is a Greek, the model of beauty and of conjugal faith. -Eudocia, her maid, who marries the elder Cloudesley, is a Greek too, and -nearly as handsome and as exemplary in her conduct. Again, on the same -principle, the account of Irene’s devotion to her father and her -husband, is by no means clearly discriminated. The spiritual feeling is -exaggerated till it is confounded with the passionate; and the -passionate is spiritualized in the same incontinence of tropes and -figures, till it loses its distinctive character. Each sentiment, by -being overdone, is neutralized into a sort of platonics. It is obvious -to remark, that the novel of Cloudesley has no hero, no principal -figure. The attention is divided, and wavers between Meadows, who is a -candidate for the reader’s sympathy through the first half volume, and -whose affairs and love adventures at St. Petersburg are huddled up in -haste, and broke off in the middle; Lord Danvers, who is the guilty -sufferer; Cloudesley, his sullen, dilatory Mentor; and Julian, (the -supposed offspring of Cloudesley, but real son of Lord Alton, and nephew -of Lord Danvers,) who turns out the fortunate youth of the piece. The -story is awkwardly told. Meadows begins it with an account of himself, -and a topographical description of the Russian empire, which has nothing -to do with the subject; and nearly through the remainder of the work, -listens to a speech of Lord Danvers, recounting his own history and that -of Julian, which lasts for six hundred pages without interruption or -stop. It is the longest parenthesis in a narrative that ever was known. -Meadows then emerges from his _incognito_ once more, as if he had been -hid behind a curtain, and gives the _coup-de-grace_ to his own -auto-biography, and the lingering sufferings of his patron. The plot is -borrowed from a real event that took place concerning a disputed -succession in the middle of the last century, and which gave birth not -long after to a novel with the title of _Annesley_. We should like to -meet with a copy of this work, in order to see how a writer of less -genius would get to the end of his task, and carry the reader along with -him without the aid of those subtle researches and lofty declamations -with which Mr. Godwin has supplied the place of facts and circumstances. -The published trial, we will hazard a conjecture, has more ‘mark and -likelihood’ in it. This is the beauty of Sir Walter Scott: he takes a -legend or an actual character as he finds it, while other writers think -they have not performed their engagements and acquitted themselves with -applause, till they have slobbered over the plain face of nature with -paint and varnish of their own. They conceive that truth is a -plagiarism, and _the thing as it happened_ a forgery and imposition on -the public. They stand right before their subject, and say, ‘Nay, but -hear me first!’ We know no other merit in the Author of Waverley than -that he is never this opaque, obtrusive body, getting in the way and -eclipsing the sun of truth and nature, which shines with broad universal -light through his different works. If we were to describe the secret of -this author’s success in three words, we should say, that it consists in -the _absence of egotism_. - -Mr. Godwin, in his preface, remarks, that as Caleb Williams was intended -as a paraphrase of ‘Blue Beard,’ the present work may be regarded as a -paraphrase of the story of the ‘Children in the Wood.’ _Multeum abludit -imago._ He has at least contrived to take the sting of simplicity out of -it. It is a very adult, self-conscious set of substitutes he has given -us for the two children, wandering hand-in-hand, the robin-redbreast, -and their leafy bed. The grand eloquence, the epic march of Cloudesley, -is beyond the ballad-style. In a word, the fault of this and some other -of the author’s productions is, that the critical and didactic part -overlays the narrative and dramatic part; as we see in some editions of -the poets, where there are two lines of original text, and the rest of -the page is heavy with the lumber and pedantry of the commentators. The -writer does not call characters from the dead, or conjure them from the -regions of fancy, to paint their peculiar physiognomy, or tell us their -story, so much as (like the anatomist) to dissect and demonstrate on the -insertion of the bones, the springs of the muscles, and those understood -principles of life and motion which are common to the species. Now, in a -novel, we want the individual, and not the _genus_. The tale of -Cloudesley is a dissertation on remorse. Besides, this truth of science -is often a different thing from the truth of nature, which is modified -by a thousand accidents, ‘subject to all the skyey influences;’—not a -mechanical principle, brooding over and working every thing out of -itself. Nothing, therefore, gives so little appearance of a resemblance -to reality as this abstract identity and violent continuity of purpose. -Not to say that this cutting up and probing of the internal feelings and -motives, without a reference to external objects, tends, like the -operations of the anatomist, to give a morbid and unwholesome taint to -the surrounding atmosphere. - -Mr. Godwin’s mind is, we conceive, essentially active, and therefore may -naturally be expected to wear itself out sooner than those that are -passive to external impressions, and receive continual new accessions to -their stock of knowledge and acquirement:— - - ——‘A fiery soul that working out its way, - Fretted the pigmy body to decay, - And o’er-inform’d its tenement of clay.’ - -That some of this author’s latter works are (in our judgment) -comparatively feeble, is, therefore, no matter of surprise to us, and -still less is it matter of reproach or triumph. We look upon it as a -consequence incident to that constitution of mind and operation of the -faculties. To quarrel with the author on this account, is to reject all -that class of excellence of which he is the representative, and perhaps -stands at the head. A writer who gives us _himself_, cannot do this -twenty times following. He gives us the best and most prominent part of -himself first; and afterwards ‘but the lees and dregs remain.’ If a -writer takes patterns and _fac-similes_ of external objects, he may give -us twenty different works, each better than the other, though this is -not likely to happen. Such a one makes use of the universe as his -_common-place-book_; and there is no end of the quantity or variety. The -other sort of genius is his own microcosm, deriving almost all from -within; and as this is different from every thing else, and is to be had -at no other source, so it soon degenerates into a repetition of itself, -and is confined within circumscribed limits. We do not rank ourselves in -the number of ‘those base plebeians,’ as Don Quixote expresses it, ‘who -cry, _Long life to the conqueror!_’ And, so far, the author is better -off than the warrior, that, ‘after a thousand victories once foiled,’ he -does not remain in the hands of his enemies, - - ‘And all the rest forgot, for which he toil’d.’ - -He is not judged of by his last performance, but his best,—that which is -seen farthest off, and stands out with time and distance; and in this -respect, Mr. Godwin may point to more than one monument of his powers of -no mean height and durability. As we do not look upon books as fashions, -and think that ‘a great man’s memory may last more than half a year,’ we -still look at our author’s talents with the same respect as ever—on his -industry and perseverance under some discouragements with more; and we -shall try to explain as briefly and as impartially as we can, in what -the peculiarity of his genius consists, and on what his claim to -distinction is founded. - -Mr. Godwin, we suspect, regards his _Political Justice_ as his great -work—his passport to immortality; or perhaps he balances between this -and _Caleb Williams_. Now, it is something for a man to have two works -of so opposite a kind about which he and his admirers can be at a loss -to say, in which he has done best. We never heard his title to -originality in either of these performances called in question: yet they -are as distinct as to style and subject-matter, as if two different -persons wrote them. No one in reading the philosophical treatise would -suspect the embryo romance: those who personally know Mr. Godwin would -as little anticipate either. The man differs from the author, at least -as much as the author in this case apparently did from himself. It is as -if a magician had produced some mighty feat of his art without warning. -He is not deeply learned; nor is he much beholden to a knowledge of the -world. He has no passion but a love of fame; or we may add to this -another, the love of truth; for he has never betrayed his cause, or -swerved from his principles, to gratify a little temporary vanity. His -senses are not acute: but it cannot be denied that he is a man of great -capacity, and of uncommon genius. How is this seeming contradiction to -be reconciled? Mr. Godwin is by way of distinction and emphasis an -author; he is so not only by habit, but by nature, and by the whole turn -of his mind. To make a book is with him the prime end and use of -creation. His is the _scholastic_ character handed down in its integrity -to the present day. If he had cultivated a more extensive intercourse -with the world, with nature, or even with books, he would not have been -what he is—he could not have done what he has done. Mr. Godwin in -society is nothing; but shut him up by himself, set him down to write a -book,—it is then that the electric spark begins to unfold itself,—to -expand, to kindle, to illumine, to melt, or shatter all in its way. With -little knowledge of the subject, with little interest in it at first, he -turns it slowly in his mind,—one suggestion gives rise to another,—he -calls home, arranges, scrutinizes his thoughts; he bends his whole -strength to his task; he seizes on some one view more striking than the -rest, he holds it with a convulsive grasp,—he will not let it go; and -this is the clew that conducts him triumphantly through the labyrinth of -doubt and obscurity. Some leading truth, some master-passion, is the -secret of his daring and his success, which he winds and turns at his -pleasure, like Perseus his winged steed. An idea having once taken root -in his mind, grows there like a germ: ‘at first no bigger than a -mustard-seed, then a great tree overshadowing the whole earth.’ The -progress of his reflections resembles the circles that spread from a -centre when a stone is thrown into the water. Everything is enlarged, -heightened, refined. The blow is repeated, and each impression is made -more intense than the last. Whatever strengthens the favourite -conception is summoned to its aid: whatever weakens or interrupts it is -scornfully discarded. All is the effect, not of feeling, not of fancy, -not of intuition, but of one sole purpose, and of a determined will -operating on a clear and consecutive understanding. His _Caleb Williams_ -is the illustration of a single passion; his _Political Justice_ is the -insisting on a single proposition or view of a subject. In both, there -is the same pertinacity and unity of design, the same agglomeration of -objects round a centre, the same aggrandizement of some one thing at the -expense of every other, the same sagacity in discovering what makes for -its purpose, and blindness to every thing but that. His genius is not -dramatic; but it has something of an heroic cast: he gains new trophies -in intellect, as the conqueror overruns new provinces and kingdoms, by -patience and boldness; and he is great because he wills to be so. - -We have said that Mr. Godwin has shown great versatility of talent in -his different works. The works themselves have considerable monotony; -and this must be the case, since they are all bottomed on nearly the -same principle of an uniform _keeping_ and strict totality of -impression. We do not hold with the doctrines or philosophy of the -_Enquiry concerning Political Justice_; but we should be dishonest to -deny that it is an ingenious and splendid—and we may also add, useful -piece of sophistical declamation. If Mr. Godwin is not right, he has -shown what is wrong in the view of morality he advocates, by carrying it -to the utmost extent with unflinching spirit and ability. - -Mr. Godwin was the first _whole-length_ broacher of the doctrine of -_Utility_. He took the whole duty of man—all other passions, affections, -rules, weaknesses, oaths, gratitude, promises, friendship, natural -piety, patriotism,—infused them in the glowing cauldron of universal -benevolence, and ground them into powder under the unsparing weight of -the convictions of the individual understanding. The entire and -complicated mass and texture of human society and feeling was to pass -through the furnace of this new philosophy, and to come out renovated -and changed without a trace of its former Gothic ornaments, fantastic -disproportions, embossing, or relief. It was as if an angel had -descended from another sphere to promulgate a new code of morality; and -who, clad in a panoply of light and truth, unconscious alike of the -artificial strength and inherent weakness of man’s nature,—supposing him -to have nothing to do with the flesh, the world, or the Devil,—should -lay down a set of laws and principles of action for him, as if he were a -pure spirit. But such a mere abstracted intelligence would not require -any rules or forms to guide his conduct or prompt his volitions. And -this is the effect of Mr. Godwin’s book—to absolve a rational and -voluntary agent from all ties, but a conformity to the independent -dictates and strict obligations of the understanding:— - - ‘Within his bosom reigns another lord, - _Reason_, sole judge and umpire of itself.’ - -We own that if man were this pure, abstracted essence,—if he had not -senses, passions, prejudices,—if custom, will, imagination, example, -opinion, were nothing, and reason were _all in all_;—if the author, in a -word, could establish as the foundation, what he assumes as the result -of his system, namely, the omnipotence of mind over matter, and the -triumph of truth over every warped and partial bias of the heart—then we -see no objection to his scheme taking place, and no possibility of any -other having ever been substituted for it. But this would imply that the -mind’s eye can see an object equally well whether it is near or a -thousand miles off,—that we can take an interest in the people in the -moon, or in ages yet unborn, as if they were our own flesh and -blood,—that we can sympathize with a perfect stranger, as with our -dearest friend, at a moment’s notice,—that habit is not an ingredient in -the growth of affection,—that no check need be provided against the -strong bias of self-love,—that we can achieve any art or accomplishment -by a volition, master all knowledge with a thought; and that in this -well-disciplined intuition and faultless transparency of soul, we can -take cognizance (without presumption and without mistake) of all causes -and consequences, an equal and impartial interest in the chain of -created beings,—discard all petty feelings and minor claims,—throw down -the obstructions and stumbling-blocks in the way of these grand -cosmopolite views of disinterested philanthropy, and hold the balance -even between ourselves and the universe. It were ‘a consummation -devoutly to be wished;’ and Mr. Godwin is not to be taxed with blame for -having boldly and ardently aspired to it. We meet him on the ground, not -of the desirable, but the practicable. It were better that a man were an -angel or a god than what he is; but he can neither be one nor the other. -Enclosed in the shell of self, he sees a little way beyond himself, and -feels what concerns others still more slowly. To require him to attain -the highest point of perfection, is to fling him back to grovel in the -mire of sensuality and selfishness. He must get on by the use and -management of the faculties which God has given him, and not by striking -more than one half of these with the dead palsy. To refuse to avail -ourselves of mixed motives and imperfect obligations, in a creature like -man, whose ‘very name is frailty,’ and who is a compound of -contradictions, is to lose the substance in catching at the shadow. It -is as if a man would be enabled to fly by cutting off his legs. If we -are not allowed to love our neighbour better than a stranger, that is, -if habit and sympathy are to make no part of our affections, the -consequence will be, not that we shall love a stranger more, but that we -shall love our neighbour less, and care about nobody but ourselves. -These partial and personal attachments are ‘the scale by which we -ascend’ to sentiments of general philanthropy. Are we to act upon pure -speculation, without knowing the circumstances of the case, or even the -parties?—for it would come to that. If we act from a knowledge of these, -and bend all our thoughts and efforts to alleviate some immediate -distress, are we to take no more interest in it than in a case of merely -possible and contingent suffering? This is to put the known upon a level -with the unknown, the real with the imaginary. It is to say that habit, -sense, sympathy, are nonentities. It is a contradiction in terms. But if -man were such a being as Mr. Godwin supposes, that is, a perfect -intelligence, there would be no contradiction in it; for then he would -have the same knowledge of whatever was possible, as of his gross and -actual experience, and would feel the same interest in it, and act with -the same energy and certainty upon a sheer hypothesis, as now upon a -_matter-of-fact_. We can look at the clouds, but we cannot stand upon -them. Mr. Godwin takes one element of the human mind, the -_understanding_, and makes it the whole; and hence he falls into -solecisms and extravagances, the more striking and fatal in proportion -to his own acuteness of reasoning, and honesty of intention. He has, -however, the merit of having been the first to show up the abstract, or -_Utilitarian_, system of morality in its fullest extent, whatever may -have been pretended to the contrary; and those who wish to study the -question, and not to take it for granted, cannot do better than refer to -the _first_ edition of the _Enquiry concerning Political Justice_; for -afterwards Mr. Godwin, out of complaisance to the public, qualified, and -in some degree neutralized, his own doctrines. - -Our author, not contented with his ethical honours, (for no work of the -kind could produce a stronger sensation, or gain more converts than this -did at the time,) determined to enter upon a new career, and fling him -into the _arena_ once more; thus challenging public opinion with -singular magnanimity and confidence in himself. He did not stand -‘shivering on the brink’ of his just-acquired reputation, and fear to -tempt the perilous stream of popular favour again. The success of Caleb -Williams justified the experiment. There was the same hardihood and -gallantry of appeal in both. In the former case, the author had screwed -himself up to the most rigid logic; in the latter, he gave unbounded -scope to the suggestions of fancy. It cannot be denied that Mr. Godwin -is, in the pugilistic phrase, an _out-and-outer_. He does not stop till -he ‘reaches the verge of all we hate:’ is it to be wondered if he -sometimes falls over? He certainly did not do this in Caleb Williams or -St. Leon. Both were eminently successful; and both, as we conceive, -treated of subjects congenial to Mr. Godwin’s mind. The one, in the -character of Falkland, embodies that love of fame and passionate respect -for intellectual excellence, which is a cherished inmate of the author’s -bosom; (the desire of undying renown breathes through every page and -line of the story, and sheds its lurid light over the close, as it has -been said that the genius of war blazes through the Iliad;)—in the hero -of the other, St. Leon, Mr. Godwin has depicted, as well he might, the -feelings and habits of a solitary recluse, placed in new and imaginary -situations: but from the philosophical to the romantic visionary, there -was perhaps but one step. We give the decided preference to Caleb -Williams over St. Leon; but if it is more original and interesting, the -other is more imposing and eloquent. In the suffering and dying -Falkland, we feel the heart-strings of our human being break; in the -other work, we are transported to a state of fabulous existence, but -unfolded with ample and gorgeous circumstances. The palm-tree waves over -the untrodden path of luxuriant fiction; we tread with tiptoe elevation -and throbbing heart the high hill-tops of boundless existence; and the -dawn of hope and renovated life makes strange music in our breast, like -the strings of Memnon’s harp, touched by the morning’s sun. After these -two works, he fell off; he could not sustain himself at that height by -the force of genius alone, and Mr. Godwin has unfortunately no resources -but his genius. He has no Edie Ochiltree at his elbow. His _New Man of -Feeling_ we forget; though we well remember the old one by our Scottish -Addison, Mackenzie. Mandeville, which followed, is morbid and -disagreeable; it is a description of a man and his ill-humour, carried -to a degree of derangement. The reader is left far behind. Mr. Godwin -has attempted two plays, neither of which has succeeded, nor could -succeed. If a tragedy consisted of a series of soliloquies, nobody could -write it better than our author. But the essence of the drama depends on -the alternation and conflict of different passions, and Mr. Godwin’s -_forte_ is harping on the same string. He is a reformist, both as it -regards the world and himself. If he is told of a fault, he amends it if -he can. His _Life of Chaucer_ was objected to as too romantic and -dashing; and in his late _History of the Commonwealth_, he has gone into -an excess the other way. His style creeps, and hitches in dates and -authorities. We must not omit his _Lives of Edward and John Phillips_, -the nephews of Milton—an interesting contribution to literary history; -and his _Observations on Judge Eyre’s Charge to the Jury in 1794_,—one -of the most acute and seasonable political pamphlets that ever appeared. -He some years ago wrote an _Essay on Sepulchres_, which contained an -idle project enough, but was enriched with some beautiful reflections on -old and new countries, and on the memorials of posthumous fame. It is a -singular circumstance that our author should maintain for twenty years, -that Mr. Malthus’s theory (in opposition to his own) was unanswerable, -and then write an answer to it, which did not much mend the matter. It -is worth knowing (in order to trace the history and progress of the -intellectual character) that the author of _Political Justice_ and -_Caleb Williams_ commenced his career as a dissenting clergyman; and the -bookstalls sometimes present a volume of _Sermons_ by him, and we -believe, an _English Grammar_. - -We cannot tell whether Mr. Godwin will have reason to be pleased with -our opinion of him; at least, he may depend on our sincerity, and will -know what it is. - - - - - NOTES - CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE EDINBURGH REVIEW - - -Hazlitt was a regular, though not a frequent contributor to _The -Edinburgh Review_ from 1814 until 1830, the year of his death. How he -came to be introduced so early to Jeffrey’s notice is not known. -Possibly the introduction came through Longman & Co., who had published -Hazlitt’s _Reply to Malthus_ (1807), and who had been the London -publishers of the _Review_ since its foundation in 1802. Hazlitt at any -rate was proud of the connection, and had a high regard for Jeffrey, -whom he called ‘the prince of critics and the king of men.’ See vol. -II., _Liber Amoris_, p. 314 and note, and cf. also vol. IV. _The Spirit -of the Age_, pp. 310–318. In _The Atlas_ for June 21, 1829, there is a -short article, ‘Mr. Jeffrey’s Resignation of the Editorship of _The -Edinburgh Review_,’ which is not unlike Hazlitt, but cannot be -confidently attributed to him. - -In the text of the present volume are printed all Hazlitt’s -contributions to _The Edinburgh Review_ as to the authorship of which -there is no reasonable doubt. In the following notes two articles are -included, Hazlitt’s authorship of which, though probable, cannot be -regarded as certain. In addition to these, the following have been -attributed to him: (1) Wat Tyler and Mr. Southey (1817, vol. XXVIII. p. -151); (2) The History of Painting in Italy (1819, vol. XXXII. p. 320); -(3) Byron’s _Sardanapalus_ (1822, vol. XXXVI. p. 413); and (4) an -article or articles on the Scotch Novels. See Ireland’s _List of the -Writings of William Hazlitt and Leigh Hunt_, p. 75, a letter from Mr. -Ireland in _Notes and Queries_, 5th Series, XI. 165, and Mr. W. C. -Hazlitt’s ‘Chronological Catalogue’ of Hazlitt’s writings published in -the _Memoirs of William Hazlitt_, vol. I. pp. xxiv-xxx. It is almost -certain that Hazlitt wrote none of these reviews, and they have -therefore been excluded from the present edition. The first (Wat Tyler -and Mr. Southey) is included in Lord Cockburn’s list of Jeffrey’s -contributions to the _Edinburgh_ (_Life of Francis Jeffrey_, 1874 ed. p. -407). This list, it must be admitted, is not thoroughly trustworthy, but -the internal evidence against Hazlitt’s authorship is very strong. It is -incredible that Hazlitt could have written a long article like this on -such a subject (cf. _Political Essays_, vol. III. pp. 192 _et seq._) -without betraying his identity by a single phrase. The second of these -articles, a review of Stendhal’s _History of Painting in Italy_, Mr. -Ireland attributes to Hazlitt on merely internal evidence. Mr. W. C. -Hazlitt does not include it in his Catalogue. That Hazlitt was -acquainted with Stendhal and was fond of writing on Art are reasons why -he might have _wished_ to review the book, but they tell strongly -against his having written this particular article, which is very dull -indeed, and shows not a single trace of Hazlitt’s manner from beginning -to end. The review of Byron’s _Sardanapalus_ has been attributed to -Hazlitt on the strength, no doubt, of a letter which he himself wrote to -P. G. Patmore on March 30, 1822. In this letter he says, ‘My -Sardanapalus is to be in [_i.e._ in the _Edinburgh_]. In my judgment -Myrrha is most like S. W. [Sarah Walker], only I am not like -Sardanapalus.’ See Mr. Le Gallienne’s edition of _Liber Amoris_ (1894) -p. 212. Whatever the explanation may be, the review of _Sardanapalus_ -which _did_ appear in the _Edinburgh_ was written by Jeffrey himself and -is included in his _Contributions to the Edinburgh Review_ (1844), vol. -II. p. 333. There is no evidence that Hazlitt wrote any of the numerous -reviews of the Scotch Novels. According to Patmore (_My Friends and -Acquaintance_, III. 155–157), Hazlitt was anxious to review Bulwer in -_The Edinburgh Review_, and proposed the matter, first to Jeffrey, and, -on his retirement, to Napier, personally in London. The subject, -however, was, in Patmore’s phrase, ‘interdicted.’ - - - DUNLOP’S HISTORY OF FICTION - - PAGE - - 5. _Dunlop’s History of Fiction._ John Colin Dunlop’s (d. 1842) _The - History of Fiction: being a Critical Account of the most - celebrated Prose Fictions, from the earliest Greek Romances to - the novels of the Present Age_, was published in 3 vols., 1814. - - 7. Νείατον ἐς κενεῶνα. _Iliad_, V. 857. - - ‘_Romulus_,’ _etc._ Horace, _Epistles_, II. i. 5–6. - - 8. _Bossu._ René Le Bossu (1631–1680), author of a _Traité du poème - épique_ (1675), referred to in _Tristram Shandy_, III. 12. - Dryden calls him ‘the best of modern critics’ (Preface to - _Troilus and Cressida_). - - 9. _Bandello._ Matteo Bandello (1480–1562), whose _Tales_ appeared in - four volumes, 1554–1573. - - _Ariosto._ Ludovico Ariosto (1474–1533), whose _Orlando Furioso_ - (from which the ‘contrivance’ referred to by Hazlitt was - borrowed) was published in 1516–1532. - - 11. _Middleton._ Conyers Middleton (1683–1750). See his _Letter from - Rome_, 1729. - - _Bayes_. See the Duke of Buckingham’s _The Rehearsal_, Act I. Sc. - 1. - - 13. _Quidlibet audendi, etc._ Horace, _Ars Poetica_, 10. - - 15. _Bell of Antermony._ John Bell (1691–1780), whose _Travels from - St. Petersburg in Russia to various parts of Asia_ was published - in 1763. - - 16. _Mr. Cumberland’s novels._ Richard Cumberland (1732–1811), author - of _The West Indian_ (1771), published two novels, _Arundel_ - (1789) and _Henry_ (1795). - - _Marianne_. By Claude Prosper Jolyot de Marivaux (1688–1763), - published between 1731 and 1741. - - 18. _Warburton._ Warburton’s argument is summarised by Dunlop (chap. - ii.) from _The Divine Legation of Moses_. - - 19. _Bayes’s most expeditious recipe, etc._ _The Rehearsal_, Act I. - Sc. 1. - - 20. _Mr. Southey’s translation._ Southey’s translation of _Amadis of - Gaul_ was published in four vols. 1803. - - _M. de St. Palaye._ Jean-Baptiste de la Curne de Sainte-Palaye - (1697–1781), author of _Mémoires sur l’Ancienne Chevalerie_, - 1759–1781. - - 24. _Mr. Ellis._ Scott’s friend, George Ellis (1753–1815) published - his _Specimens of early English Metrical Romances_ in three - vols. in 1805. - - _D’Urfé._ Thomas D’Urfey (1653–1723), the dramatist and - song-writer. - - _Betsy Thoughtless._ Eliza Haywood’s (1693?–1756) _The History of - Miss Betsy Thoughtless_, published in 1751. See Dunlop’s - _History of Fiction_, chap. xiv. - - - STANDARD NOVELS AND ROMANCES - -This is ostensibly a review of Madame D’Arblay’s _The Wanderer_, -published in 1814. Nearly the whole of it was incorporated by Hazlitt in -his Lecture on the English Novelists. Cf. vol. VIII. pp. 106 _et seq._ -and notes. In his Essay ‘A Farewell to Essay-Writing,’ Hazlitt says that -this review was the result of a discussion at Lamb’s, ‘sharply seasoned -and well sustained till midnight.’ Though the review cannot be -considered as harsh towards Madame D’Arblay, it led to Hazlitt being -dropped out of Admiral Burney’s whist parties. See Crabb Robinson’s -_Diary_, chap. xiii. This fact perhaps partly accounts for Hazlitt’s -contemptuous reference to the Burneys in his Essay ‘On the Aristocracy -of Letters,’ where, after praising Madame D’Arblay, he says, ‘The rest -have done nothing, that I know of, but keep up the name.’ See vol. VI. -(_Table Talk_), p. 209. - - PAGE - - 25. _Crebillon._ Claude Prosper Jolyot de Crébillon (1707–1777), son - of the dramatist. - - _The celebrated French philosopher._ Hazlitt was perhaps thinking - of Diderot’s well-known eulogy of Richardson (_Œuvres_, V. - 212–227). - - 39. _The Story of Le Febre._ See _Tristram Shandy_, Book VI. chap. vi. - _et seq._ - - - SISMONDI’S LITERATURE OF THE SOUTH. - -Jean Charles Léonard Simonde de Sismondi (1773–1842) published his -_Histoire des Républiques Italiennes du Moyen-Age_ in 16 vols, between -1807 and 1818; his _Littérature du midi de l’Europe_ (here reviewed and -afterwards—in 1823—translated by Thomas Roscoe) in 4 vols. in 1813; and -his _Histoire des Français_ in 31 vols., 1821–1844. Roscoe’s translation -forms two volumes of Bohn’s Standard Library. The translations in the -present review are presumably by Hazlitt himself. - - PAGE - - 45. _Metastasio._ Pietro Antonio Bonaventura Trapassi (1698–1782), - poet and librettist. - - _Alfieri._ Vittorio, Count Alfieri (1749–1803), the dramatist and - poet. - - _Goldoni._ Carlo Goldoni (1707–1793), the comic dramatist. - - 46. _Professor Boutterwek._ Friedrich Bouterwek (1765–1828), author of - _Geschichte der neuern Poesie und Beredsamkeit_ (1801–1819). - - _Millot’s History of the Troubadours._ _Histoire Littéraire des - Troubadours_ (1774), by Claude François Xavier Millot - (1726–1785). - - _Tiraboschi._ Girolamo Tiraboschi (1731–1794), author of _Storia - della Letteratura Italiana_ (1772–1782). - - _Velasquez._ Louis Joseph Velasquez de Velasco (1722–1772), author - of several works on Spanish poetry and antiquities. - - ‘_Rose like an exhalation._’ _Paradise Lost_, I. 711. - - 56. _Preserved by Cervantes, etc._ _Don Quixote_, Part I., Book I., - chap. vi. - - 61. _Dante._ Cf. _Lectures on the English Poets_, vol. V. pp. 17, 18, - and notes. - - 62. _That withering inscription._ At the beginning of Canto III. of - the _Inferno_. - - _The Story of Geneura._ It is clear from the note that Hazlitt is - referring to the story of Francesca of Rimini in Canto V. of the - _Inferno_. Paolo and Francesca read together the story of - Lancelot and Guinevere. - - Note. ‘_And all that day we read no more!_’ _Inferno_, Canto V. - - 63. ‘_Because on earth_,’ _etc._ Hazlitt is fond of quoting these - lines, which, however, do not appear to be Dante’s. Possibly the - explanation is to be found in a letter from Lamb to Bernard - Barton (Feb. 17, 1823), where he says: ‘I once quoted two lines - from a translation of Dante, which Hazlitt very greatly admired, - and quoted in a book, as proof of the stupendous power of that - poet; but no such lines are to be found in the translation, - which has been searched for the purpose. I must have dreamed - them, for I am quite certain I did not forge them knowingly. - What a misfortune to have a lying memory!’ - - ‘_I am the tomb_,’ _etc._ _Inferno_, Canto XI. - - _As when Satan is compared, etc._ Hazlitt seems to be confusing - Dante with Milton. See _Paradise Lost_, IV. 196. - - ‘_Instinct with life._’ Cf. ‘Instinct with spirit.’ _Paradise - Lost_, vi. 752. - - _Count Ugolino._ _Inferno_, Canto XXXIII. Lamb shared Hazlitt’s - dislike of Reynolds’s picture. See _Works_ (ed. E. V. Lucas), I. - 75 and 149. Patmore (_My Friends and Acquaintance_, II. 252) - compares Hazlitt with Ugolino. - - ‘_By the sole strength_,’ _etc._ See _Paradiso_, Canto I. - - 65. _The Sonnet of Petrarch._ No. CCLI. See _Sismondi_, chap. X. - - 68. _The story of the two holiday lovers._ _The Decameron_, 4th Day, - Novel VII. - - 69. _Pulci._ Luigi Pulci (1432–?1484), author of _Il Morgante - Maggiore_ (1481). - - _Boyardo._ Matteo Maria Boiardo (1434–1494), whose _Orlando - Innamorato_ was published in 1486. Francesco Berni’s - (1490?–1536) version appeared in 1541. - - 71. ‘_Giace l’alta Cartago._’ _Jerusalem Delivered_, Canto XV. St. 20. - - _The speech of Satan._ _Ibid._ Canto IV. - - 72. ‘_I rather envied_,’ _etc._ Montaigne, _Essays_, Book II., chap. - xii. - - 73. ‘_Like the swift Alpine torrent_,’ _etc._ From the final chorus of - _Il Torrismondo_. - - 74. _Chaucer and Spenser._ Much of what follows was repeated by - Hazlitt in his lecture on Chaucer and Spenser. See vol. V., pp. - 19–44, and notes. - - 75. _Rousseau’s description of the Elisée._ _La Nouvelle Héloïse_, - Partie IV., Lettre XI. - - 76. _In looking back, etc._ These two concluding paragraphs were - lifted into Hazlitt’s lecture on Shakspeare and Milton. See vol. - V. pp. 44–46, and notes. - - - SCHLEGEL ON THE DRAMA. - -August Wilhelm von Schlegel’s (1767–1845) ‘Lectures on Dramatic Art and -Literature’ were delivered in Vienna in 1808. Hazlitt reviews the -English translation, published in 1815, by John Black (1783–1855), who -afterwards became editor of _The Morning Chronicle_. - - PAGE - - 79. _The admirable translator._ Schlegel had translated Shakespeare (9 - vols. 1797–1810), and Calderon (_Spanish Theatre_, 2 vols., - 1803–1809). - - _Madame de Staël._ Schlegel lived for many years at Madame de - Staël’s house at Coppet. - - 81. _Florimel._ _The Faerie Queene_, Book III., Canto VII. - - 82. ‘_There was magic in the web._’ _Othello_, Act III. Sc. 4. - - _Schlegel somewhere compares, etc._ Lectures XXV. - - ‘_So withered_,’ _etc._ _Macbeth_, Act I. Sc. 3. - - ‘_Metaphysical aid._’ _Ibid._, Act I. Sc. 5. - - 83. ‘_That she moved with grace_,’ _etc._ Possibly Hazlitt was - thinking of the scene in the _Iliad_ (III. 150, _et seq._), - where at the Scaean Gate the Trojan elders see Helen for the - first time. - - ‘_Upon her eyelids_,’ _etc._ _The Faerie Queene_, Book II., Canto - III., St. 25. - - ‘_All plumed_,’ _etc._ _Henry IV._, Part I., Act IV. Sc. 1. - - ‘_For they are old_,’ _etc._ _King Lear_, Act II. Sc. 4. - - 85. ‘_Antres vast_,’ _etc._ Othello, Act I. Sc. 3. - - _Orlando’s enchanted sword, etc._ In Ariosto’s _Orlando Furioso_. - - 86. ‘_New-lighted_,’ _etc._ _Hamlet_, Act III. Sc. 4. - - ‘_The evidence of things seen._’ _Hebrews_, xi. 1. - - 86. ‘_Broods_,’ _etc._ _Paradise Lost_, I. 21–22. - - ‘_The ignorant present time._’ _Macbeth_, Act. I. Sc. 5. - - 88. _Jones._ Sir William Jones (1746–1794), the Orientalist. - - 98. ‘_Tu y seras, ma fille._’ Racine, _Iphigénie_, Act II. Sc. 3. - - ‘_The dry chips_,’ _etc._ Cowley, Ode, _Of Wit_. - - 100. ‘_Tries conclusions infinite._’ - - Cf. ‘She hath pursued conclusions infinite - Of easy ways to die.’ - _Antony and Cleopatra_, Act V. Sc. 2. - - 106. _The infant Joaz._ _Athalie_, Act II. Sc. 9. - - _The speech of Phædra._ _Phèdre_, Act IV. Sc. 6. - - 107. _Mr. Schlegel speaks highly, etc._ See Lecture XXI. For Hazlitt on - Molière cf. vol. VIII. pp. 28–9 (_English Comic Writers_), where - much of this passage is repeated. - - 108. _Extremes meet, etc._ Hazlitt quoted this paragraph in _The Round - Table_ (vol. I. pp. 97–8). - - 111. ‘_Not a jot_,’ _etc._ _Othello_, Act III. Sc. 3. - - ‘_Light thickens._’ _Macbeth_, Act III. Sc. 2. - - ‘_Why stands Macbeth_,’ _etc._ _Ibid._, Act IV. Sc. 1. - - 116. ‘_Ethereal mould_,’ _etc._ Cf. _Paradise Lost_, II. 139 and V. - 285. - - ‘_Stronger Shakespear_,’ _etc._ Collins, _Epistle to Sir Thomas - Hanmer_, 64. - - 117. _The scene between Surly and Sir Epicure Mammon._ _The Alchemist_, - Act II. Sc. 1. - - 118. ‘_A man walking upon stilts_,’ _etc._ Lecture XXVIII. - - 119. ‘_By a singular vicissitude_,’ _etc._ Madame de Staël’s _De l’ - Allemagne_, chap. xxii. - - - _LEIGH HUNT’S ‘RIMINI’_ - -The _Edinburgh Review_ for June, 1816 (vol. XXVI. pp. 476–491) contained -a notice of Leigh Hunt’s _The Story of Rimini_. Lord Cockburn includes -this review in his List of Lord Jeffrey’s articles in the _Edinburgh_ -(see _Life of Francis Jeffrey_); Mr. W. C. Hazlitt (_Memoirs_, I. pp. -xxv. and 225) attributes it to Hazlitt; and Mr. Ireland, in his -Bibliography of Hazlitt and Leigh Hunt, marks it as doubtful. The -Blackwood set regarded or professed to regard Hazlitt as the author, as -appears from a passage in Lockhart’s attack on Hunt in the first number -(October 1817) of _Blackwood’s Magazine_: ‘The very culpable manner in -which his [Hunt’s] chief poem was reviewed in the _Edinburgh Review_ (we -believe it is no secret, at his own impatient and feverish request, by -his partner in the _Round Table_), was matter of concern to more readers -than ourselves.... Mr. Jeffrey does ill when he delegates his important -functions into such hands as those of Mr. Hazlitt.’ Lockhart, however, -knew nothing about Hunt or Hazlitt, and his ‘no secret’ (which afforded -an opportunity for a hit at Jeffrey) does not throw any light on the -question. Hunt denied the insinuation. See _Memoirs of William Hazlitt_, -I. 225. The review does not read like Hazlitt, but, from a letter which -he afterwards addressed to Leigh Hunt, it would seem that at the least -he had some hand in it. The letter is dated April 21, 1821 (see _Four -Generations of a Literary Family_, I. 133), and contains an account of -Hazlitt’s grievances against Leigh Hunt. In course of it, he says: ‘For -instance, I praised you in the _Edinburgh Review_.’ There does not seem -to be any praise of Hunt to which this passage can refer except this -review, which is possibly the result of some rather free handling of -Hazlitt’s MS. by Jeffrey. - -The review is given below. The long extracts from the poem are roughly -indicated by the first and last line, though in a few cases some of the -intermediate lines are omitted in the review. - - _The Story of Rimini, a Poem._ By LEIGH HUNT. pp. 111. London, - Murray, 1816. - -‘There is a great deal of genuine poetry in this little volume; and -poetry, too, of a very peculiar and original character. It reminds us, -in many respects, of that pure and glorious style that prevailed among -us before French models and French rules of criticism were known in this -country, and to which we are delighted to see there is now so general a -disposition to recur. Yet its more immediate prototypes, perhaps, are to -be looked for rather in Italy than in England: at least, if it be copied -from any thing English, it is from something much older than -Shakespeare; and it unquestionably bears a still stronger resemblance to -Chaucer than to his immediate followers in Italy. The same fresh, lively -and artless pictures of external objects,—the same profusion of gorgeous -but redundant and needless description,—the same familiarity and even -homeliness of diction,—and, above all, the same simplicity and -directness in representing actions and passions in colours true to -nature, but without any apparent attention to their effect, or any -ostentation, or even visible impression as to their moral operation or -tendency. The great distinction between the modern poets and their -predecessors, is, that the latter painted more from the eye and less -from the mind than the former. They described things and actions as they -saw them, without expressing, or at any rate without dwelling on the -deep-seated emotions from which the objects derived their interest, or -the actions their character. The moderns, on the contrary, have brought -these most prominently forward, and explained and enlarged upon them -perhaps at excessive length. Mr. Hunt, in the piece before us, has -followed the antient school; and though he has necessarily gone -something beyond the naked notices that would have suited the age of -Chaucer, he has kept himself far more to the delineation of visible, -physical realities, than any other modern poet on such a subject. - -‘Though he has chosen, however, to write in this style, and has done so -very successfully, we are not by any means of opinion, that he either -writes or appears to write it as naturally as those by whom it was first -adopted; on the contrary, we think there is a good deal of affectation -in his homeliness, directness, and rambling descriptions. He visibly -gives himself airs of familiarity, and mixes up flippant, and even cant -phrases, with passages that bear, upon the whole, the marks of -considerable labour and study. In general, however, he is very -successful in his attempts at facility, and has unquestionably produced -a little poem of great grace and spirit, and, in many passages and many -particulars, of infinite beauty and delicacy. - -‘In the subject he has selected, he has ventured indeed upon sacred -ground; but he has not profaned it. The passage in Dante, on which the -story of Rimini is founded, remains unimpaired by the English version, -and has even received a new interest from it. The undertaking must be -allowed to have been one of great nicety. An imitation of the manner of -Dante was an impossibility. That extraordinary author collects all his -force into a single blow: His sentiments derive an obscure grandeur from -their being only half expressed; and therefore, a detailed narrative of -this kind, a description of particular circumstances done upon this -ponderous principle, an enumeration of incidents leading to a -catastrophe, with all the pith and conclusiveness of the catastrophe -itself, would be intolerable. Mr. Hunt has arrived at his end by varying -his means; and the effect of his poem coincides with that of the -original passage, mainly, because the spirit in which it is written is -quite different. With the personages in Dante, all is over before the -reader is introduced to them; their doom is fixed;—and his style is as -peremptory and irrevocable as their fate. But the lovers, whose memory -the muse of the Italian poet had consecrated in the other world, are -here restored to earth, with the graces and the sentiments that became -them in their lifetime. Mr. Hunt, in accompanying them to its fatal -close, has mingled every tint of many-coloured life in the tissue of -their story—blending tears with smiles, the dancing of the spirits with -sad forebodings, the intoxication of hope with bitter disappointment, -youth with age, life and death together. He has united something of the -voluptuous pathos of Boccacio with Ariosto’s laughing graces. His court -dresses, and gala processions he has borrowed from Watteau. His sunshine -and his flowers are his own! He himself has explained the design of his -poem in the Preface. [_A long passage from the Preface is quoted._] - -‘The poem opens with the following passage of superb description:— - - [“The sun is up, and ’tis a morn of May,” to - “And pilgrims, chanting in the morning sun.”] - -‘Such is the manner in which the business of the day is ushered in. The -rest of the first canto is taken up in describing the preparations for -receiving the bridegroom, the processions of knights that precede his -expected arrival; the dresses, &c.—There is something in all this part -of the poem which gives back the sensation of the scene and the -occasion;—a glancing eye, a busy ear, great bustle and gaiety, and, -where it is required, great grace of description. Perhaps the subject is -too long dwelt upon; and there is, occasionally, a repetition of nearly -the same images and expressions. The reader may take the following as -fair specimens: - - [“And hark! the approaching trumpets, with a start,” to - “The shift, the tossing, and the fiery tramping.”] - -‘After all, the future husband does not appear, but his younger brother, -Paulo, who comes as his proxy to take the bride to Rimini; and it is to -the mistaken impression thus made on her mind that all the subsequent -distress is owing. His person, his dress, the gallantry of Paulo’s -demeanour, are very vividly described, and the effect of his appearance -on the surrounding multitude. - - [“And on a milk-white courser, like the air,” to - “These catch the extrinsic and the common eye.”] - -‘The Second Canto gives an account of the bride’s journey to Rimini, in -the company of her husband’s brother, which abounds in picturesque -descriptions. Mr. Hunt has here taken occasion to enter somewhat -learnedly into the geography of his subject; and describes the road -between Ravenna and Rimini, with the accuracy of a topographer, and the -liveliness of a poet. There is, however, no impertinent minuteness of -detail; but only those circumstances are dwelt upon, which fall in with -the general interest of the story, and would be likely to strike -forcibly upon the imagination in such an interval of anxiety and -suspense. We have only room for the concluding lines. - - [“Various the trees and passing foliage here,” to - “Night and a maiden silence wrap the plains.”] - -‘We have detained our readers longer than we intended, from that which -forms the most interesting part of the poem, the Third Canto, of which -the subject is the fatal passion between Paulo and Francesca. We shall -be ample in our extracts from this part of the poem, because we have no -other way of giving an idea of its characteristic qualities. Mr. Hunt, -as we have already intimated, does not belong to any of the modern -schools of poetry; and therefore we cannot convey our idea of his manner -of writing, by reference to any of the more conspicuous models. His -poetry is not like Mr. Wordsworth’s, which is metaphysical; nor like Mr. -Coleridge’s, which is fantastical; nor like Mr. Southey’s, which is -monastical. But it is something which we have already endeavoured to -sketch by its general features, and shall now enable the reader to study -in detail in the following extracts. - -‘The first disappointment of the warm-hearted bride, and the portraits -of the rival brothers, are sketched with equal skill and delicacy. - - [“Enough of this. Yet how shall I disclose,” to - “And like a morning beam, wake to him every morrow.”] - -‘Paulo’s growing passion for Francesca is described with equal delicacy -and insight into the sophistry of the human heart. He is represented as -first concealing his attachment from himself; then struggling with it; -then yielding to it. - - [“Till ’twas the food and habit day by day,” to - “’Twas but the taste of what was natural.”] - -‘But we hasten on to the principal event and the catastrophe of the -poem. The scene of the fatal meeting between the lovers is laid in the -gardens of the palace, which are here described with the utmost elegance -and beauty. - - [“So now you walked beside an odorous bed,” to - “A summer-house so fine in such a nest of green.”] - -‘Such is the landscape:—now for the figures. - - [“All the green garden, flower-bed, shade and plot,” to - “To ask the good King Arthur for assistance.”] - -‘We cannot give the whole extract of the story,—only she becomes more -deeply engaged as she comes to the love scenes.—What follows, we think -is very exquisitely written. - - [“Ready she sat with one hand to turn o’er,” to - “Desperate the joy.—That day they read no more.”] - -‘We do not think the execution of the fourth and last Canto quite equal -to that of the third: Yet there are passages in it of the greatest -beauty; and an air of melancholy breathes from the whole with -irresistible softness and effect. - -‘The feelings of Francesca, arising from the consciousness of her -melancholy situation and broken vows, are thus finely represented. - - [“And oh, the morrow, how it used to rise!” to - “That Heaven would take her, if it pleased, away.”] - -‘From the distress and agitation of her mind, she afterwards betrays the -secret of her infidelity to her husband in her sleep. This leads to a -rencounter between the two brothers, which is fatal to Paulo, who runs -voluntarily upon his brother’s sword; and partly from the shock of the -news, partly from previous grief preying on her mind and body, Francesca -dies the same day. Her death is profoundly affecting, and leaves an -impression on the imagination, icy, cold, and monumental. The squire of -Paulo is admitted to the side of her sad couch, to tell the dismal -story—and repeats, in the Prince’s own words, how he had been forced to -fight with his brother— - - [“——And that although,” to - “The gentle sufferer was at peace in death.”] - -‘The bodies of the two lovers are sent back, by order of the husband, to -Ravenna, to be buried in one tomb. We shall close our extracts with the -account of the arrival of this mournful procession, so different in -every respect from the former one. - - [“The days were then at close of autumn—still,” to - “Young hearts betrothed used to go there to pray.”] - -‘We have given these extracts at length, that our readers might judge of -the story of Rimini, less on our authority, than its own merits; and we -have few remarks to add to those which we ventured to make at the -beginning. The diction of this little poem is among its chief -beauties—and yet its greatest blemishes are faults in diction.—It is -very English throughout—but often very affectedly negligent, and so -extremely familiar as to be absolutely low and vulgar. What, for -example, can be said for such lines as - - “She had stout notions on the marrying score,” or - “He kept no reckoning with his sweets and sours;—” or - “And better still—in my idea at least,” or - “The two divinest things this world has got.” - -‘We see no sort of beauty either in such absurd and unusual phrases as -“a clipsome waist,”—“a scattery light,” or “flings of sunshine,”—nor any -charm in such comparatives as “martialler,” or “tastefuller,” or -“franklier,” or in such words as “whisks,” and “swaling,” and “freaks -and snatches,” and an hundred others in the same taste. We think the -author rather heretical too on the subject of versification—though we -have much less objection to his theory than to his practice. But we -cannot spare him a line more on the present occasion—and must put off -the rest of our admonitions till we meet him again.’ - - - _COLERIDGE’S ‘CHRISTABEL’_ - -In the _Edinburgh Review_ for September, 1816 (vol. XXVII. pp. 58–67), -appeared a review of Coleridge’s _Christabel_, as to the authorship of -which there has been a good deal of discussion. Coleridge himself -believed that it was written by Hazlitt. (See _post_, note to p. 155.) -Hazlitt never acknowledged the authorship, and there is indeed no -external evidence upon the subject. Mr. Dykes Campbell (_Samuel Taylor -Coleridge_, p. 225, note 1) regards the ascription of the review to -Hazlitt as being ‘probably, though not certainly, correct.’ Neither Mr. -Ireland nor Mr. W. C. Hazlitt ascribes it to Hazlitt. Quite recently the -question of Hazlitt’s authorship, determined one way or the other by a -consideration of the internal evidence, has been the subject of a -controversy in _Notes and Queries_ (9th Series, A. 388, 429: XI. 170, -269), to which reference should be made. Mr. Andrew Lang in his _Life of -J. G. Lockhart_ (vol. I. pp. 139–142) refers to the review at some -length as a kind of set-off against Lockhart’s early indiscretions in -_Blackwood_. Without discussing the authorship of the review, he is -indignant with Jeffrey for having admitted it into the _Edinburgh_. The -present editors are disposed to think that the review is substantially -the work of Hazlitt, though, as in the case of the review of _Rimini_, -it may be conjectured that Jeffrey used his editorial pen pretty freely. -Since absolute certainty is not at present attainable, the review, -instead of being printed in the text, is given below. - - _Christabel: Kubla Khan, a Vision. The Pains of Sleep._ By S. T. - COLERIDGE, Esq. London. Murray, 1816. - -‘The advertisement by which this work was announced to the publick, -carried in its front a recommendation from Lord Byron,—who, it seems, -has somewhere praised Christabel, “as a wild and singularly original and -beautiful poem.” Great as the noble bard’s merits undoubtedly are in -poetry, some of his latest _publications_ dispose us to distrust his -authority, where the question is what ought to meet the public eye; and -the works before us afford an additional proof, that his judgment on -such matters is not absolutely to be relied on. Moreover, we are a -little inclined to doubt the value of the praise which one poet lends -another. It seems now-a-days to be the practice of that once irritable -race to laud each other without bounds; and one can hardly avoid -suspecting, that what is thus lavishly advanced may be laid out with a -view to being repaid with interest. Mr. Coleridge, however, must be -judged by his own merits. - -‘It is remarked, by the writers upon the Bathos, that the true -_profound_ is surely known by one quality—its being wholly bottomless; -insomuch, that when you think you have attained its utmost depth in the -work of some of its great masters, another, or peradventure the same, -astonishes you, immediately after, by a plunge so much more vigorous, as -to outdo all his former outdoings. So it seems to be with the new -school, or, as they may be termed, the wild or lawless poets. After we -had been admiring their extravagance for many years, and marvelling at -the ease and rapidity with which one exceeded another in the unmeaning -or infantine, until not an idea was left in the rhyme—or in the insane, -until we had reached something that seemed the untamed effusion of an -author whose thoughts were rather more free than his actions—forth steps -Mr. Coleridge, like a giant refreshed with sleep, and as if to redeem -his character after so long a silence, (“his poetic powers having been, -he says, from 1808 till very lately, in a state of suspended animation,” -p. v.) and breaks out in these precise words— - - “’Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, - And the owls have awaken’d the crowing cock; - Tu—whit!——Tu—whoo! - And hark, again! the crowing cock, - How drowsily it crew. - Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, - Hath a toothless mastiff bitch; - From her kennel beneath the rock - She makes answer to the clock, - Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; - Ever and aye, moonshine or shower, - Sixteen short howls, not over loud: - Some say she sees my lady’s shroud. - Is the night chilly and dark? - The night is chilly, but not dark.” Pp. 3,4. - -‘It is probable that Lord Byron may have had this passage in his eye, -when he called the poem “wild” and “original”: but how he discovered it -to be “beautiful,” is not quite so easy for us to imagine. - -‘Much of the art of the wild writers consists in sudden -transitions—opening eagerly upon some topic, and then flying from it -immediately. This indeed is known to the medical men, who not -unfrequently have the care of them, as an unerring symptom. Accordingly, -here we take leave of the Mastiff Bitch, and lose sight of her entirely, -upon the entrance of another personage of a higher degree, - - “The lovely Lady Christabel, - Whom her father loves so well”— - -And who, it seems, has been rambling about all night, having, the night -before, had dreams about her lover, which “made her moan and _leap_.” -While kneeling, in the course of her rambles, at an old oak, she hears a -noise on the other side of the stump, and going round, finds, to her -great surprize, another fair damsel in white silk, but with her dress -and hair in some disorder; at the mention of whom, the poet takes -fright, not, as might be imagined, because of her disorder, but on -account of her beauty and her fair attire— - - “I guess, ’twas frightful there to see - A lady so richly clad as she— - Beautiful exceedingly!” - -Christabel naturally asks who she is, and is answered, at some length, -that her name is Geraldine; that she was, on the morning before, seized -by five warriors, who tied her on a white horse, and drove her on, they -themselves following, also on white horses; and that they had rode all -night. Her narrative now gets to be a little contradictory, which gives -rise to unpleasant suspicions. She protests vehemently, and with oaths, -that she has no idea who the men were; only that one of them, the -tallest of the five, took her and placed her under the tree, and that -they all went away, she knew not whither; but how long she had remained -there she cannot tell— - - “Nor do I know how long it is, - For I have lain in fits, I _wis_;” - -—although she had previously kept a pretty exact account of the time. -The two ladies then go home together, after this satisfactory -explanation, which appears to have conveyed to the intelligent mind of -Lady C. every requisite information. They arrive at the castle, and pass -the night in the same bed-room; not to disturb Sir Leoline, who, it -seems, was poorly at the time, and, of course, must have been called up -to speak to the chambermaids, and have the sheets aired, if Lady G. had -had a room to herself. They do not get to their bed, however, in the -poem, quite so easily as we have carried them. They first cross the -moat, and Lady C. “took the key that fitted well,” and opened a little -door, “all in the middle of the gate.” Lady G. then sinks down “belike -through pain”; but it should seem more probably from laziness; for her -fair companion having lifted her up, and carried her a little way, she -then walks on “as she were not in pain.” Then they cross the court—but -we must give this in the poet’s words, for he seems so pleased with -them, that he inserts them twice over in the space of ten lines— - - “So free from danger, free from fear, - They crossed the court—right glad they were.” - -‘Lady C. is desirous of a little conversation on the way, but Lady G. -will not indulge her Ladyship, saying, she is too much tired to speak. -We now meet our old friend, the mastiff bitch, who is much too important -a person to be slightly passed by— - - “Outside her kennel, the mastiff old - Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. - The mastiff old did not awake, - Yet she an angry moan did make! - And what can ail the mastiff bitch? - Never till now she uttered yell - Beneath the eye of Christabel. - Perhaps it is the owlet’s scritch: - For what can ail the mastiff bitch?” - -‘Whatever it may be that ails the bitch, the ladies pass forward, and -take off their shoes, and tread softly all the way up stairs, as -Christabel observes that her father is a bad sleeper. At last, however, -they do arrive at the bed-room, and comfort themselves with a dram of -some home-made liquor, which proves to be very old; for it was made by -Lady C.’s mother; and when her new friend asks if she thinks the old -lady will take her part, she answers, that this is out of the question, -in as much as she happened to die in childbed of her. The mention of the -old lady, however, gives occasion to the following pathetic -couplet.—Christabel says, - - “O mother dear, that thou wert here! - I would, said Geraldine, she were!” - -‘A very mysterious conversation next takes place between Lady Geraldine -and the old gentlewoman’s ghost, which proving extremely fatiguing to -her, she again has recourse to the bottle—and with excellent effect, as -appears by these lines. - - “Again the wild-flower wine she drank; - Her fair large eyes ’gan glitter bright, - And from the floor whereon she sank, - The lofty Lady stood upright: - She was most beautiful to see, - Like a Lady of a far countrée.” - -—From which, we may gather among other points, the exceeding great -beauty of all women who live in a distant place, no matter where. The -effects of the cordial speedily begin to appear; as no one, we imagine, -will doubt, that to its influence must be ascribed the following speech— - - “And thus the lofty lady spake— - All they, who live in the upper sky, - Do love you, holy Christabel! - And you love them—and for their sake - And for the good which me befel, - Even I in my degree will try, - Fair maiden, to requite you well.” - -‘Before going to bed, Lady G. kneels to pray, and desires her friend to -undress, and lie down; which she does “in her loveliness”; but being -curious, she leans “on her elbow,” and looks towards the fair -devotee,—where she sees something which the poet does not think fit to -tell us very explicitly. - - “Her silken robe, and inner vest, - Dropt to her feet, and full in view, - Behold! her bosom and half her side—— - A sight to dream of, not to tell! - And she is to sleep by Christabel.” - -‘She soon rises, however, from her knees; and as it was not a -double-bedded room, she turns in to Lady Christabel, taking only “two -paces and a stride.” She then clasps her tight in her arms, and mutters -a very dark spell, which we apprehend the poet manufactured by shaking -words together at random; for it is impossible to fancy that he can -annex any meaning whatever to it. This is the end of it. - - “But vainly thou warrest, - For this is alone in - Thy power to declare, - That in the dim forest - Thou heard’st a low moaning, - And found’st a bright lady, surpassingly fair: - And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity, - To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.” - -‘The consequence of this incantation is, that Lady Christabel has a -strange dream—and when she awakes, her first exclamation is, “Sure I -have sinn’d”—“Now heaven be praised if all be well!” Being still -perplexed with the remembrance of her “too lively” dream—she then -dresses herself, and modestly prays to be forgiven for “her sins -unknown.” The two companions now go to the Baron’s parlour, and -Geraldine tells her story to him. This, however, the poet judiciously -leaves out, and only signifies that the Baron recognized in her the -daughter of his old friend Sir Roland, with whom he had had a deadly -quarrel. Now, however, he despatches his tame poet, or laureate, -called Bard Bracy, to invite him and his family over, promising to -forgive every thing, and even make an apology for what had passed. To -understand what follows, we own, surpasses our comprehension. Mr. -Bracy, the poet, recounts a strange dream he has just had, of a dove -being almost strangled by a snake; whereupon the Lady Geraldine falls -a hissing, and her eyes grow small, like a serpent’s,—or at least so -they seem to her friend; who begs her father to “send away that -woman.” Upon this the Baron falls into a passion, as if he had -discovered that his daughter had been seduced; at least, we can -understand him in no other sense, though no hint of such a kind is -given; but, on the contrary, she is painted to the last moment as full -of innocence and purity.—Nevertheless, - - “His heart was cleft with pain and rage, - His cheeks they quiver’d, his eyes were wild, - Dishonour’d thus in his old age; - Dishonour’d by his only child; - And all his hospitality - To th’ insulted daughter of his friend - By more than woman’s jealousy, - Brought thus to a disgraceful end——” - -‘Nothing further is said to explain the mystery; but there follows -incontinently, what is termed “_The conclusion of Part the Second_.” And -as we are pretty confident that Mr. Coleridge holds this passage in the -highest estimation; that he prizes it more than any other part of “that -wild, and singularly original and beautiful poem Christabel,” excepting -always the two passages touching the “toothless mastiff Bitch;” we shall -extract it for the amazement of our readers—premising our own frank -avowal that we are wholly unable to divine the meaning of any portion of -it. - - “A little child, a limber elf, - Singing, dancing to itself, - A fairy thing with red round cheeks, - That always finds and never seeks; - Makes such a vision to the sight - As fills a father’s eyes with light; - And pleasures flow in so thick and fast - Upon his heart, that he at last - Must needs express his love’s excess - With words of unmeant bitterness. - Perhaps ’tis pretty to force together - Thoughts so all unlike each other; - To mutter and mock a broken charm, - To dally with wrong that does no harm. - Perhaps ’tis tender too, and pretty, - At each wild word to feel within - A sweet recoil of love and pity. - And what if in a world of sin - (O sorrow and shame should this be true!) - Such giddiness of heart and brain - Comes seldom save from rage and pain, - So talks as it’s most used to do.” - -‘Here endeth the Second Part, and, in truth, the “singular” poem itself; -for the author has not yet written, or, as he phrases it, “embodied in -verse,” the “three parts yet to come;”—though he trusts he shall be able -to do so “in the course of the present year.” - -‘One word as to the metre of Christabel, or, as Mr. Coleridge terms it, -“_the_ Christabel”—happily enough; for indeed we doubt if the peculiar -force of the definite article was ever more strongly exemplified. He -says, that though the reader may fancy there prevails a great -_irregularity_ in the metre, some lines being of four, others of twelve -syllables, yet in reality it is quite regular; only that it is “founded -on a new principle, namely, that of counting in each line the accents, -not the syllables.” We say nothing of the monstrous assurance of any man -coming forward coolly at this time of day, and telling the readers of -English poetry, whose ear has been tuned to the lays of Spenser, Milton, -Dryden, and Pope, that he makes his metre “on a new principle!” but we -utterly deny the truth of the assertion, and defy him to show us _any_ -principle upon which his lines can be conceived to tally. We give two or -three specimens, to confound at once this miserable piece of coxcombry -and shuffling. Let our “wild, and singularly original and beautiful” -author, show us how these lines agree either in number of accents or of -feet. - - “Ah wel-a-day!”— - “For this is alone in”— - “And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity”— - “I pray you drink this cordial wine”— - “Sir Leoline”— - “And found a bright lady surpassingly fair”— - “Tu—whit!——Tu—whoo!” - -‘_Kubla Khan_ is given to the public, it seems, “at the request of a -poet of great and deserved celebrity;”—but whether Lord Byron the -praiser of “the Christabel,” or the Laureate, the praiser of Princes, we -are not informed. As far as Mr. Coleridge’s “own opinions are -concerned,” it is published, “not upon the ground of any _poetic_ -merits,” but “as a PSYCHOLOGICAL CURIOSITY!” In these opinions of the -candid author, we entirely concur; but for this reason we hardly think -it was necessary to give the minute detail which the Preface contains, -of the circumstances attending its composition. Had the question -regarded “_Paradise Lost_,” or “_Dryden’s Ode_” we could not have had a -more particular account of the circumstances in which it was composed. -It was in the year 1797, and the summer season. Mr. Coleridge was in bad -health;—the particular disease is not given; but the careful reader will -form his own conjectures. He had retired very prudently to a lonely -farm-house; and whoever would see the place which gave birth to the -“psychological curiosity,” may find his way thither without a guide; for -it is situated on the confines of Somerset and Devonshire, and on the -Exmoor part of the boundary; and it is, moreover, between Porlock and -Linton. In that farm-house, he had a slight indisposition, and had taken -an anodyne, which threw him into a deep sleep in his chair, (whether -after dinner or not he omits to state), “at the moment that he was -reading a sentence in Purchas’s Pilgrims,” relative to a palace of Kubla -Khan. The effects of the anodyne, and the sentence together, were -prodigious: They produced the “curiosity” now before us; for, during his -three-hours sleep, Mr. Coleridge “has the most vivid confidence that he -could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines.” On -awaking, he “instantly and eagerly” wrote down the verses here -published; when he was (he says “_unfortunately_”) called out by a -“person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour;” -and when he returned, the vision was gone. The lines here given smell -strongly, it must be owned, of the anodyne; and, but that an under dose -of a sedative produces contrary effects, we should inevitably have been -lulled by them into forgetfulness of all things. Perhaps a dozen more -such lines as the following would reduce the most irritable of critics -to a state of inaction. - - “A damsel with a dulcimer - In a vision once I saw: - It was an Abyssinian maid - And on her dulcimer she play’d, - Singing of Mount Abora. - Could I revive within me - Her symphony and song, - To such a deep delight ’twould win - That with music loud and long, - I would build that dome in air, - That sunny dome! those caves of ice! - And all who heard should see them there, - And all should cry, Beware! Beware! - His flashing eyes, his floating hair! - Weave a circle round him thrice, - And close your eyes with holy dread: - For he on honey-dew hath fed.” &c. &c. - -‘There is a good deal more altogether as exquisite—and in particular a -fine description of a wood, “ancient as the hills;” and “folding sunny -spots of _greenery_!” But we suppose this specimen will be sufficient. - -‘Persons in this poet’s unhappy condition, generally feel the want of -sleep as the worst of their evils; but there are instances, too, in the -history of the disease, of sleep being attended with new agony, as if -the waking thoughts, how wild and turbulent soever, had still been under -some slight restraint, which sleep instantly removed. Mr. Coleridge -appears to have experienced this symptom, if we may judge from the title -of his third poem, “_The Pains of Sleep_;” and, in truth, from its -composition—which is mere raving, without any thing more affecting than -a number of incoherent words, expressive of extravagance and -incongruity.—We need give no specimen of it. - -‘Upon the whole, we look upon this publication as one of the most -notable pieces of impertinence of which the press has lately been -guilty; and one of the boldest experiments that has yet been made on the -patience or understanding of the public. It is impossible, however, to -dismiss it, without a remark or two. The other productions of the Lake -School have generally exhibited talents thrown away upon subjects so -mean, that no power of genius could ennoble them; or perverted and -rendered useless by a false theory of poetical composition. But even in -the worst of them, if we except the White Doe of Mr. Wordsworth and some -of the laureate odes, there were always some gleams of feeling or of -fancy. But the thing now before us, is utterly destitute of value. It -exhibits from beginning to end not a ray of genius; and we defy any man -to point out a passage of poetical merit in any of the three pieces -which it contains, except, perhaps, the following lines in p. 32, and -even these are not very brilliant; nor is the leading thought original— - - “Alas! they had been friends in youth; - But whispering tongues can poison truth; - And constancy lives in realms above; - And life is thorny; and youth is vain; - And to be wroth with one we love, - Doth work like madness in the brain.” - -‘With this one exception, there is literally not one couplet in the -publication before us which would be reckoned poetry, or even sense, -were it found in the corner of a newspaper or upon the window of an inn. -Must we then be doomed to hear such a mixture of raving and driv’ling, -extolled as the work of a “_wild and original_” genius, simply because -Mr. Coleridge has now and then written fine verses, and a brother poet -chooses, in his milder mood, to laud him from courtesy or from interest? -And are such panegyrics to be echoed by the mean tools of a political -faction, because they relate to one whose daily prose is understood to -be dedicated to the support of all that courtiers think should be -supported? If it be true that the author has thus earned the patronage -of those liberal dispensers of bounty, we can have no objection that -they should give him proper proofs of their gratitude; but we cannot -help wishing, for his sake, as well as our own, that they would pay in -solid pudding instead of empty praise; and adhere, at least in this -instance, to the good old system of rewarding their champions with -places and pensions, instead of puffing their bad poetry, and -endeavouring to cram their nonsense down the throats of all the loyal -and well affected.’ - - - COLERIDGE’S LAY SERMON - -The authorship of this review has also been the subject of controversy. -See the authorities cited on p. 411. Mr. Dykes Campbell, in the note -there quoted, says that, as in the case of _Christabel_, the ascription -of the review to Hazlitt is ‘probably, though not certainly correct.’ -The editors regarded the internal evidence of Hazlitt’s authorship as so -overwhelmingly strong, especially after a comparison of the article with -Hazlitt’s review of the same work in _The Examiner_ (see _Political -Essays_, III. 143–152), that they decided to include it in the text. It -has not been thought necessary to give references to all Hazlitt’s -quotations from the _Lay Sermon_. References, when they are given, are -to the edition in Bohn’s Standard Library. - - PAGE - - 120. ‘_Fancies and Good-nights._’ _Henry IV._, Part II., Act III. Sc. - 2. - - _Odd ends of verse, etc._ _Hudibras_, I. iii. 1011–2. - - ‘_Chase his fancy’s rolling speed._’ Cf. _On a Distant Prospect of - Eton College_, 29. - - 121. ‘_Babbles of green fields._’ _Henry V._, Act II. Sc. 3. - - ‘_Alarmists by trade._’ _A Lay Sermon_, p. 309. - - ‘_A gentle Husher_,’ _etc._ _The Faerie Queene_, Book I. Canto IV. - Stanza 13. - - _Joanna Southcote._ Joanna Southcott (1750–1814), the fanatic and - impostor, whose prophesies had recently caused a good deal of - excitement. - - 122. ‘_Thick-coming fancies._’ _Macbeth_, Act V. Sc. 3. - - 123. _The ‘Friend.’_ Published in numbers at irregular intervals - between June 1809 and March 1810. Coleridge published a - recast—‘a complete Rifacimento’—of _The Friend_ in 1818. - - ‘_Like the swan’s down feather_,’ _etc._ _Antony and Cleopatra_, - Act III. Sc. 2. - - 124. ‘_They are not sought for_,’ _etc._ These words are quoted by - Coleridge from _Ecclesiasticus_, xxxviii. 33–34. See _A Lay - Sermon_, 308–309. - - 126. ‘_Twice ten degrees_,’ _etc._ _Paradise Lost_, X. 669–670. - - ‘_With jealous leer malign._’ _Ibid._, IV. 503. - - 127. ‘_Fraught with potential infidelity._’ _A Lay Sermon_, p. 329. - - 131. _The Watchman._ _The Watchman_ ran from March to May, 1796. - Coleridge gives an account of his tour to procure subscribers. - See _Biographia Literaria_, Chap. X. The _Conciones ad Populum_, - originally published in 1795, were reprinted in _Essays on his - own Times_ (1850). - - _One of Goldsmith’s Essays._ See _A Lay Sermon_, p. 319 note. - - _As Gulliver did, etc._ See _A Voyage to Brobdingnag_, Chap. V. - - 132. ‘_As Alps o’er Alps arise._’ Pope, _An Essay on Criticism_, II. - 232. - - 134. ‘_High enthroned_,’ _etc._ _Paradise Lost_, III. 58. - - 135. ‘_It is by means_,’ _etc._ See Hobbes, _Leviathan_, Part I. Chap. - IV. 5, 15. - - - COLERIDGE’S LITERARY LIFE - -This review, though claimed for Jeffrey by Lord Cockburn, and marked -doubtful by Mr. Ireland, is certainly Hazlitt’s. Nearly the whole of the -long passage on Burke (pp. 150–154 of the present volume), after doing -duty in _The Champion_ (Oct. 5, 1817), was published by Hazlitt in -_Political Essays_ as the first of two ‘Characters of Mr. Burke’ which -appeared in that volume. See vol. III. pp. 250–253. - - PAGE - - 135. ‘_It will be found_,’ _etc._ Chap. I. - - ‘_At school_,’ _etc._ _Ibid._ - - 138. _Bowles’s Sonnets._ William Lisle Bowles’s (1762–1850) famous - _Fourteen Sonnets written chiefly on Picturesque Spots during a - Journey_ appeared anonymously in 1789. More sonnets were added - in later editions. The sonnets of Thomas Warton (1728–1790) are - frequently quoted by Hazlitt, and were eulogised by him in his - _Lectures on the English Poets_ (see vol. V. pp. 120–1). See - Chap. I. of _Biographia Literaria_ for Coleridge’s praise of - Bowles. - - 138. _Jacob Behmen._ Jakob Boehme (1575–1624), the mystic. - - The _Morning Post._ Coleridge’s contributions to _The Morning - Post_ (chiefly during 1800) were reprinted in _Essays on his own - Times_ (1850). - - 139. ‘_It is not, however_,’ _etc._ Note at the end of Chap. III. - - _The Cannings, the Giffords, and the Freres._ William Gifford - (1756–1826) was the editor of the _Anti-Jacobin_ (1797–8), and - George Canning (1770–1827) and _John Hookham Frere_ (1769–1846) - were the chief contributors. See an article in _The Athenæum_ - for May 31, 1890, on ‘Coleridge and _The Anti-Jacobin_.’ - - 140. ‘_Publicly_,’ _etc._ _Biographia Literaria_, Chap. III. - - 142. ‘_Full of wise saws_,’ _etc._ _As You Like It_, Act II. Sc. 7. - - ‘_It has been hinted_,’ _etc._ _Biographia Literaria_, Chap. IV. - - 143. _Mr. C. thinks fit, etc._ Chap. V. - - 144. _A series of citations._ Hazlitt probably refers to an article in - _The Examiner_ for March 31, 1816, which consists to a large - extent of quotations from Hobbes’s _Leviathan_, and which is - referred to in a later volume of the present edition; but he was - never tired of proclaiming the greatness and originality of - Hobbes. Cf. the essay or lecture ‘On the writings of Hobbes,’ - published in _Literary Remains_. - - 145. ‘_Sound book-learnedness._’ _A Lay Sermon_ (Bohn), p. 327. - - ‘_Wander down_,’ _etc._ _Paradise Lost_, XI. 282–284. - - ‘_Towards the close_,’ _etc._ Chap. X. - - 150. ‘_As our very sign-boards_,’ _etc._ _Ibid._ - - ‘_Let the scholar_,’ _etc._ _Ibid._ - - _It is not without reluctance, etc._ The greater part of this - character of Burke, down to the foot of p. 154, was repeated in - _Political Essays_. See vol. III. pp. 250 _et seq._, and notes. - - 155. _Any account of it at all._ At this point in The Edinburgh Review - a long note, signed F. J., is appended, in which Jeffrey replies - to what he describes as ‘averments of a personal and injurious - nature’ against the _Edinburgh Review_. A great part of the note - relates to Coleridge’s attack on Jeffrey in Chap. III. of the - _Biographia Literaria_ (see Bohn’s edition, p. 25 note), but - part of it concerns Hazlitt. Coleridge had said (Chap. xxiv.): - ‘In the _Edinburgh Review_ it [_Christabel_] was assailed with a - malignity and a personal hatred that ought to have injured only - the work in which such a tirade was suffered to appear: and this - review was generally attributed (whether rightly or no I know - not) to a man, who both in my presence and in my absence has - repeatedly pronounced it the finest poem in the language.’ - Jeffrey refers to this passage, and states that when he visited - Coleridge at Keswick, there was some talk about the poem. ‘We - spoke,’ he says, ‘of _Christabel_, and I advised him to publish - it; but I did not say it was either the finest poem of the kind, - or a fine poem at all; and I am sure of this, for the best of - all reasons, that at this time, and indeed till after it was - published, I never saw or heard more than four or five lines of - it, which my friend Mr. Scott once repeated to me. That eminent - person, indeed, spoke favourably of it; and I rather think I - told Mr. C. that I had heard him say, that it was to it he was - indebted for the first idea of that romantic narrative in - irregular verse, which he afterwards exemplified in his _Lay of - the Last Minstrel_, and other works. In these circumstances, I - felt a natural curiosity to see this great original; and I can - sincerely say, that no admirer of Mr. C. could be more - disappointed or astonished than I was, when it did make its - appearance. I did not review it.’ With regard to _A Lay Sermon_, - Coleridge had said (_Biographia Literaria_, chap. xxiv.): ‘A - long delay occurred between its first annunciation and its - appearance; it was reviewed, therefore, by anticipation with a - malignity so avowedly and exclusively personal as is, I believe, - unprecedented even in the present contempt of all common - humanity that disgraces and endangers the liberty of the press. - After its appearance, the author of this lampoon was chosen to - review it in the _Edinburgh Review_: and under the single - condition, that he should have written what he himself really - thought, and have criticised the work as he would have done had - its author been indifferent to him, I should have chosen that - man myself, both from the vigour and the originality of his - mind, and from his particular acuteness in speculative - reasoning, before all others. I remembered Catullus’s lines - [lxxiii.]: - - “Desine de quoquam quicquam bene velle mereri, - Aut aliquem fieri posse putare pium. - Omnia sunt ingrata: nihil fecisse benigne est: - Immo, etiam taedet, taedet obestque magis. - Ut mihi, quem nemo gravius nec acerbius urget - Quam modo qui me unum atque unicum amicum habuit.” - - But I can truly say, that the grief with which I read this - rhapsody of predetermined insult had the rhapsodist himself for - its whole and sole object: and that the indignant contempt which - it excited in me, was as exclusively confined to his employer - and suborner.’ Coleridge here refers to the first of the two - reviews of _A Lay Sermon_, contributed by Hazlitt to _The - Examiner_ in 1816. See _Political Essays_, vol. III. pp. - 138–142. Jeffrey’s reply is as follows: ‘As to the review of the - _Lay Sermon_, I have only to say, in one word, that I never - employed or suborned any body to abuse or extol it or any other - publication. I do not so much as know or conjecture what Mr. C. - alludes to as a malignant lampoon or review by anticipation, - which he says had previously appeared somewhere else. I never - saw nor heard of any such publication. Nay, I was not even aware - of the existence of the _Lay Sermon_ itself, when a review of it - was offered me by a gentleman in whose judgment and talents I - had great confidence, but whom I certainly never suspected, and - do not suspect at this moment, of having any personal or partial - feelings of any kind towards its author. I therefore accepted - his offer, and printed his review, with some retrenchments and - verbal alterations, just as I was setting off, in a great hurry, - for London, on professional business, in January last.’ - - 156. ‘_The dew of Castalie._’ Cf. ‘With verses, dipt in deaw of - Castalie.’ Spenser, _The Ruines of Time_, l. 431. - - ‘_Sky-tinctured._’ _Paradise Lost_, V. 285. - - ‘_Thoughts that voluntary move_,’ _etc._ _Ibid._, III. 37–38. - - 157. ‘_The golden cadences of poesy._’ _Love’s Labour’s Lost_, Act IV. - Sc. 2. - - ‘_Poets_ [lovers and madmen] _have such seething brains_.’ _A - Midsummer Night’s Dream_, Act V. Sc. 1. - - _With Plato._ _The Republic_, Book X. - - 158. ‘_Pleasurable poetic fervour._’ Hazlitt probably had in his mind - chap. xviii. of the _Biographia Literaria_. The words suggest - that conception of poetry which was expressed by Wordsworth in - his _Preface to the Lyrical Ballads_ (especially in the extended - 1802 form), and which was frequently repeated by Coleridge. See, - in addition to the _Biographia Literaria_, _Lectures on - Shakespere, etc._ (Bohn’s ed.), p. 49. - - 158. Note.—Maturin’s _Bertram_ was attacked in _The Courier_, ‘the pen - being either wielded or guided by Coleridge,’ but the attack in - _Biographia Literaria_ was a different one. See Dykes Campbell’s - _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_, 223 note 1. - - - LETTERS OF HORACE WALPOLE - -A review of _Letters from the Hon. Horace Walpole to George Montagu, -Esq. From the year 1736 to 1770_, published in 1818. This and other -volumes of Walpole’s correspondence were reprinted in Peter Cunningham’s -collected edition of _Walpole’s Letters_ (9 vols., 1857–1859), where the -passages quoted by Hazlitt may be found. - - PAGE - - 159. _Princess Amelia._ George II.’s daughter. See Walpole’s _Letters_, - _passim_. - - _George Selwyn._ George Augustus Selwyn (1719–1791), the wit, - Walpole’s ‘oldest acquaintance and friend.’ - - _Mr. Chute._ John Chute (1703–1776), a great friend of Walpole’s. - See especially a letter to Sir Horace Mann, 27 May, 1776. - - 160. ‘_Of outward show_,’ _etc._ _Paradise Lost_, VIII. 539. - - _Pam._ The Knave of Clubs, and the best trump at one form of Loo. - - 161. _Balmerino._ Arthur Elphinstone, sixth Lord Balmerino (1688–1746), - beheaded for participation in the Rebellion of 1745. - - ‘_Are kept in ponderous vases._’ Pope, _The Rape of the Lock_, V. - 115. - - 163. ‘_Have got the start_,’ _etc._ _Julius Cæsar_, Act I. Sc. 2. - - _Poor Bentley._ Richard Bentley (1708–1782), son of the scholar. - - ‘_High fantastical._’ _Twelfth Night_, Act I. Sc. 1. - - 164. _Müntz._ John Henry Müntz, a Swiss, who painted and copied - paintings for Walpole. - - ‘_That which he esteemed_,’ _etc._ _Macbeth_, Act I. Sc. 7. - - _Mr. Mason._ William Mason (1724–1797), the poet and friend of - Gray. - - 165. _The Mysterious Mother._ Walpole’s tragedy (1768). - - 166. ‘_Himself and the universe._’ Hazlitt elsewhere says of Wordsworth - (vol. I. p. 113), ‘it is as if there were nothing but himself - and the universe.’ - - ‘_Admit no discourse_,’ _etc._ _Hamlet_, Act III. Sc. 1. - - 168. _Lord Ferrers._ Laurence Shirley (1720–1760), fourth Earl Ferrers, - was hanged for the murder of his steward, John Johnson. - - 169. ‘_Sleep no more_,’ _etc._ _Macbeth_, Act II. Sc. 2. - - 172. _Smithson._ Sir Hugh Smithson (1715–1786), married in 1740 the - heiress of the Percy estates, succeeded to the title of Earl of - Northumberland in 1750, and was created Duke in 1766. - - _Pope._ Hazlitt refers presumably to ‘Song, by a Person of - Quality,’ beginning, ‘Flutt’ring spread thy purple pinions.’ - - ‘_Very chargeable._’ _A New Way to Pay Old Debts_, Act III. Sc. 2. - - - LIFE OF SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS - -Joseph Farington’s (1747–1821) _Memoirs of the Life of Sir Joshua -Reynolds_ was published in 1819. This review was republished in -_Criticisms on Art_ (1843–4), and in _Essays on the Fine Arts_ (1873). - - PAGE - - 172. _Dispute between their late President, etc._ Relating to the - election of Joseph Bonomi as professor of perspective. Reynolds - resigned his membership of the Academy in Feb. 1790, but - afterwards withdrew his resignation. Edmond Malone (1741–1812) - published a Memoir of Reynolds in 1797. - - 173. ‘_Pleased with a rattle_,’ _etc._ Pope, _Essay on Man_, II. 276. - - 174. _Richardson._ Jonathan Richardson (1665–1745), author of _A Theory - of Painting_ (1715). - - _Hudson._ Thomas Hudson (1701–1779), portrait-painter. - - 177. _The French materialists._ See Helvétius, _De l’Esprit_, Discourse - III. - - 178. ‘_A greater general capacity_,’ _etc._ See Johnson’s _Life of - Cowley._ - - 180. _Hayman._ See VOL. I. (_The Round Table_) note to p. 149. - - _Highmore._ _Ibid._ - - ‘_Darted contagious fire._’ _Paradise Lost_, IX. 1036. - - 181. _Gandy._ See vol VI. (_Table Talk_), note to p. 21. - - 184. _In the days of Montesquieu._ See his _De l’ Esprit des Lois_. - - 185. ‘_Like flowers_,’ _etc._ Macbeth, Act IV. Sc. 3. - - 186. _Says Schlegel._ _Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature_, I. - - ‘_Like the forced pace_,’ _etc._ _Henry IV._, Part I. Act III. Sc. - 1. - - ‘_With coy, reluctant_,’ _etc._ ‘And sweet, reluctant, amorous - delay.’ _Paradise Lost_, IV. 311. - - _Terrae filii._ Cf. Persius, _Satires_, VI. 59. - - ‘_The crown which Ariadne_,’ _etc._ Cf. _The Faerie Queene_, Book - VI. Canto X. St. 13. - - ‘_Their affections_,’ _etc._ _Hamlet_, Act III. Sc. 1. - - 187. _In that part of the country._ Winterslow presumably. - - ‘_Returning with a choral song_,’ _etc._ Wordsworth, _Ruth_, - 53–54. - - ‘_We also are not Arcadians!_’ Hazlitt frequently quoted the old - saying, attributed to Schidoni, ‘Et ego in Arcadia vixi.’ See, - _e.g._ _Table Talk_, vol. VI. p. 168. - - 188. ‘_The unbought grace of life._’ Burke, _Reflections on the - Revolution in France_ (_Select Works_, ed. Payne, II. 89). - - 190. _Leo._ Leo X. (1475–1521), son of Lorenzo de’ Medici. - - _Piranesi’s drawings._ Giambattista Piranesi (1720–1778), engraver - of architecture and ancient ruins. - - _Winckelman._ Johann Joachim Winckelmann (1717–1768), author of - _Geschichte der Kunst des Alterthums_ (1764). - - 191. ‘_All eyes_’ _etc._ Cf. _Isaiah_, xlv. 22–23, and _Romans_, xiv. - 11. - - ‘_Amazing brightness_,’ _etc._ Otway, _Venice Preserved_, Act I. - Sc. 1. - - ‘_A present deity_,’ _etc._ Dryden, _Alexander’s Feast_, 35–36. - - _The Madona of Foligno._ Raphael’s, in the Vatican. - - _The ceiling at Parma._ Painted by Girolamo Mazzola, a pupil of - Correggio. - - 192. _Leonardo’s Last Supper._ This famous fresco, now almost entirely - destroyed, was at the convent of S. Maria delle Grazie at Milan. - - _The institution of Academies, etc._ Cf. vol I. _The Round Table_, - p. 160 and note, and vol. IX. p. 311 _et seq._ - - 195. ‘_The cat and canary-bird_,’ _etc._ See _ante_, p. 193. - - ‘_Leaving the thing_,’ _etc._ _Philippians_, iii. 13. - - 196. _The Catalogue Raisonnée._ Cf. vol. I., _The Round Table_, pp. 140 - _et seq._ - - ‘_With jealous leer malign._’ _Paradise Lost_, IV. 503. - - 197. _Grampound._ The borough was disfranchised for corrupt practices - in 1821. - - ‘_That is true history._’ This was said by Fuseli. See vol. VI. - (_Mr. Northcote’s Conversations_), p. 340. - - 199. _Mr. West’s pictures._ Benjamin West (1738–1820), president of the - Royal Academy from 1792. Cf. vol. IX. pp. 318 _et seq._ - - _Barry._ James Barry (1741–1806). Hazlitt refers to one of the - pictures Barry painted for the Society of Arts in John Street, - Adelphi. - - 200. ‘_The bodiless creations_,’ _etc._ Cf. _Hamlet_, Act III. Sc. 4, - ll. 136–137. - - ‘_Like the baseless fabric_,’ _etc._ _The Tempest_, Act IV. Sc. 1. - - _Mr. Haydon._ Benjamin Robert Haydon (1786–1846). Mr. W. C. - Hazlitt has given an account of his relations with Hazlitt. See - _Memoirs_, I. 209–213, and _Four Generations of a Literary - Family_, I. 234–236. At his house Hazlitt met Keats. - - ‘_So from the root_,’ _etc._ _Paradise Lost_, V. 479–481. - - 201. _His own Penitent Girl._ Hazlitt seems to refer to a figure in the - _Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem_. - - _His Christ._ Haydon’s picture, _Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem_, - was first exhibited in 1820. At the private view, Haydon says - (Tom Taylor’s _Life_, I. 371), ‘the room was full, Keats and - Hazlitt were up in a corner, really rejoicing.’ Hazlitt is - introduced into the picture ‘looking at the Saviour as an - investigator.’ The picture is now in America. For Mrs. Siddons’s - opinion of the picture see _Life_, I. 372. - - _Mr. Haydon is a devoted, etc._ See his letter in _The Examiner_, - March 17, 1816. - - - THE PERIODICAL PRESS - -This essay is referred to by Brougham, who, on August 18, 1837, wrote to -Macvey Napier (then editor of the _Edinburgh Review_): ‘I wish the -_Newspaper Press_ had not been flattered so much; at any rate its -glaring faults should have been pointed out. This was done, and very ill -done, in 1823, when it had hardly any sins to answer for.’ (_Selections -from the Correspondence of Macvey Napier_, p. 199). - - PAGE - - 204. ‘_We are_ [I am] _nothing, if not critical_. _Othello_, Act II. - Sc. 1. The words were used by Hazlitt as the motto to _A View of - the English Stage_. - - _Terra plena, etc._ _Æneid_, I. 460. - - ‘_Large discourse_,’ _etc._ _Hamlet_, Act IV. Sc. 4. - - 205. ‘_The pomp of elder days._’ Thomas Warton’s Sonnet, ‘Written in a - blank leaf of Dugdale’s _Monasticon_.’ - - 206. ‘_Cabin’d_,’ _etc._ _Macbeth_, Act III. Sc. 4. - - 207. _The Children of the Mist._ In _The Legend of Montrose_. - - ‘_A chemist_,’ _etc._ _Absalom and Achitophel_, I. 550. - - 208. _Sir Thomas Lawrence._ President of the Royal Academy from 1820 - till his death in 1830. - - ‘_Though he should have_,’ _etc._ Adapted from _1 Corinthians_, - xiii. 1. - - ‘_The toe of the scholar_,’ _etc._ Varied from _Hamlet_, Act V. - Sc. 1. - - 209. ‘_Take the good_,’ _etc._ Dryden, _Alexander’s Feast_, 106. - - 210. ‘_Make the age to come her own._’ Cowley, _The Motto_, l. 2. - - _Mille ornatus habet, etc._ ‘Mille habet ornatus, mille decenter - habet.’ From the first of the Sulpicia poems which are in Book - IV. of the _Elegies of Tibullus_, but the authorship of which is - not certainly known. - - ‘_Now this_,’ _etc._ Spenser, _Muiopotmos_, St. 22. - - ‘_To beguile the time_,’ _etc._ _Macbeth_, Act I. Sc. 5. - - 211. ‘_Squeak and gibber._’ _Hamlet_, Act I. Sc. 1. - - _The St. James’s Chronicle._ Started in 1760 as a tri-weekly, - independent Whig evening paper. It was for a time edited by - James Mill. - - 212 note. Mrs. Radcliffe, the novelist, was married in 1787 to - William Radcliffe, an Oxford graduate and a student of law, - described by Sir Walter Scott (_Lives of the Novelists_) as - ‘afterwards proprietor and editor of the _English Chronicle_.’ - - 213. _The Morning Chronicle._ Founded June 28, 1769. The early notable - editors were William Woodfall (1746–1803), James Perry - (1756–1821), who was editor from 1789 to 1817, and John Black - (1783–1855). For Perry cf. vol. VI. _Table Talk_, p. 292. - - _Porson._ Richard Porson (1759–1808) was Perry’s brother-in-law. - - _Jekyll._ Joseph Jekyll (d. 1837) contributed many of his jokes to - _The Morning Chronicle_. - - 214. _The Marquis Marialva._ _Gil Blas_, Livre VII. chap x. - - 215. _Lord Nugent._ Presumably Robert, Earl Nugent (1702–1788), who - retired from parliamentary life in 1784. It is odd that Hazlitt - should refer to so well-known a man as a Lord Nugent. - - _The Times Newspaper._ John Walter (1739–1812) in 1785 started - _The Daily Universal Register_, the name of which was changed on - Jan. 1, 1788 to _The Times or Daily Universal Register_, and on - March 18, 1788 to _The Times_. - - _A steam-engine._ See vol. III. _Political Essays_, p. 158. - - 216. ‘_Ever strong_,’ _etc._ _King John_, Act III. Sc. 1. - - ‘_Whiff and wind._’ _Hamlet_, Act II. Sc. 2. - - ‘_Aggravate its voice_,’ _etc._ _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_, Act - I. Sc. 2. - - 217. _Mr. Walter._ John Walter the Second (1776–1847). - - _A writer in his employ._ Hazlitt’s brother-in-law, Dr. - (afterwards Sir John) Stoddart, who left _The Times_ in 1817 and - started _The Day and New Times_, called from 1818 onwards _The - New Times_. Hazlitt frequently attacks him. - - ‘_Champion’s Legitimacy_,’ _etc._ Cf. _Macbeth_, Act III. Sc. 1. - - 219. _The late queen._ Queen Caroline, George IV.’s wife, who died in - 1821, shortly after her trial. - - _The Courier._ An evening paper bought in 1799 by Coleridge’s - friend Daniel Stuart (1766–1846), under whose management it - quickly gained a large circulation. - - ‘_The force of dulness_,’ _etc._ Cf. ‘The force of nature could no - farther go.’ Dryden, _Lines printed under the engraved portrait - of Milton_. - - _The ingenious editor._ William Mudford (1782–1848) was editor for - some years before 1828. - - 220. _The Sun._ An evening paper started in 1792 by Pitt’s friend, - George Rose. - - _The Traveller._ Started about 1803 by Edward Quin (d. 1823). It - was amalgamated with _The Globe_ in 1823. - - _The Morning Post._ Founded in 1772. - - _Cobbett._ William Cobbett (1762–1835) who started _The Weekly - Political Register_ in 1802. - - _We once tried, etc._ Jeffrey attacked Cobbett in the _Edinburgh_ - (July 1807, vol. X. p. 386). - - _The Examiner._ Founded by John and Leigh Hunt in 1808. Hazlitt - had of course been intimately associated with the paper. - - _The News._ A Sunday paper started in 1805. - - _The Observer._ Another Sunday paper first made successful by - William Innell Clement (d. 1852), who afterwards bought _The - Morning Chronicle_. - - 221. _The Weekly Literary Journals, Gazettes._ Of which _The Literary - Gazette_, founded in 1817 and edited for a long time by William - Jerdan (1782–1869), was the chief. Others were _The Literary - Journal_ (founded by James Mill in 1803) and _The Literary - Chronicle_. - - ‘_Coming Reviews_,’ _etc._ Cf. ‘And coming events cast their - shadows before.’ Campbell, _Lochiel’s Warnings_, l. 56. - - _The Scotsman._ Started in 1817 by Charles Maclaren (1782–1866), - who was editor from 1820 to 1845. - - _The Gentleman’s Magazine._ Founded in 1731 by Johnson’s first - employer, Edward Cave (1691–1754). - - _Mr. Blackwood’s._ Founded in April 1817 by William Blackwood - (1776–1834) as _The Edinburgh Monthly Magazine_. With the - seventh number (Oct. 1, 1817) the title was changed to - ‘Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine.’ The thousandth number appeared - in February, 1899. - - _The European._ Founded by James Perry in 1782. - - _The Lady’s._ _The Lady’s Magazine; or entertaining Companion for - the fair sex_, 1717–1818. A new series began in 1820. - - _The London._ _The London Magazine_ was started in January 1820, - with John Scott (1723–1821) as editor, and for some years - maintained a very high level of excellence. See Talfourd’s - _Final Memorials of Charles Lamb_ (II. 1–9), and Mr. Bertram - Dobell’s _Sidelights on Charles Lamb_. Hazlitt was a regular - contributor. - - _The Monthly._ _The Monthly Magazine_ founded in 1796 by Richard - (afterwards Sir Richard) Phillips (1767–1840). - - _The New Monthly._ _The New Monthly Magazine_ was started by Henry - Colburn (d. 1855) in 1814, in opposition to Phillips’s magazine. - A new series, edited by Thomas Campbell, began in 1821. Many of - Hazlitt’s best-known essays were contributed to it. The working - editor was Cyrus Redding (1785–1870). - - _The head of Memnon._ Hazlitt might have seen a plate of this in - _The London Magazine_ for February, 1821. - - _Dr. Johnson’s dispute, etc._ See Boswell’s _Life of Johnson_ (ed. - G. B. Hill), I. 154. - - 222. _Elia._ Lamb wrote many of his _Elia_ essays in _The London - Magazine_, chiefly between 1820 and 1823. - - _The author of Table Talk._ Hazlitt himself. - - _The Confessions of an Opium-Eater._ Published in _The London - Magazine_ for September and October, 1821. - - _Tales of Traditional Literature._ A series of tales by Allan - Cunningham (1784–1842), republished in 1822 as ‘Traditional - Tales of the English and Scottish Peasantry.’ - - _Mr. Geoffrey Crayon._ Washington Irving (1783–1859), whose - _Sketch Book_, to which Hazlitt probably refers, appeared in New - York, 1819–1820. - - ‘_With a blush_,’ _etc._ _Troilus and Cressida_, Act I. Sc. 3. - - 223. _The Editor, we are afraid, etc._ Talfourd, in his _Final - Memorials of Charles Lamb_, gives a lively account of Campbell’s - fastidious editorship of the _New Monthly_. - - ‘_Lively_’ [waking], _etc._ _Coriolanus_, Act IV. Sc. 5. - - ‘_The sin_,’ _etc._ _Hebrews_, xii. 1. - - 225. _The Anti-Jacobin._ Cf. _ante_, p. 139 and note. - - ‘_The manna_,’ _etc._ Pulci’s _Morgante Maggiore_. See _ante_, p. - 69. - - ‘_The pelting_,’ _etc._ _King Lear_, Act III. Sc. 4. - - 227. _A well-known paper._ _John Bull_, Oct. 27, 1822. On the previous - Tuesday (Oct. 22) young Las Cases ‘applied a horsewhip to the - shoulders’ of Sir Hudson Lowe, with a view, as he said, to - provoke a duel. Lowe obtained a warrant for the apprehension of - Las Cases, who, however, retired to France. The radical papers - made great fun of the incident. See _The Examiner_, Nov. 3, - 1822. - - _A man of classical taste, etc._ Hazlitt refers to Leigh Hunt and - _The Story of Rimini_. See vol. I. (_A Letter to William - Gifford_), pp. 376–378 and notes. - - 228. _A young poet._ On Keats and his Critics see vol. VI. (_Table - Talk_), p. 98 and note, and vol. IV. (_The Spirit of the Age_), - pp. 302–307 and notes. - - _Author of the Baviad, etc._ William Gifford. - - 229. _Such a paper was detected, etc._ This was _John Bull_, Theodore - Hook’s weekly paper, which on August 18, 1822, accused Mr. Fyshe - Palmer, member for Reading, of having said that ‘he should have - a dinner at the Crown on the occasion, with a haunch of venison, - and turtle, and _lots of punch_.’ The detection was quoted from - _The Times_ in _John Bull_, Sep. 15, 1822. - - - LANDOR’S IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS - -Hazlitt here reviews the first two volumes of Walter Savage Landor’s -(1775–1864) _Imaginary Conversations_, published in 1824. A second -edition, ‘corrected and enlarged,’ appeared in 1826, and vol. III. -completing the ‘first series,’ in 1828. Vols. IV. and V. constituting -the ‘second series,’ were published in 1829. For an account of Hazlitt’s -visit to Landor at Florence in 1825 see Forster’s _Walter Savage Landor, -a Biography_, II. 201–211, where a subsequent letter from Hazlitt to -Landor is quoted, in which he says: ‘I am much gratified that you are -pleased with the _Spirit of the Age_. Somebody ought to like it, for I -am sure there will be plenty to cry out against it. I hope you did not -find any sad blunders in the second volume; but you can hardly suppose -the depression of body and mind under which I wrote some of those -articles.’ This review of the _Imaginary Conversations_ seems to have -been cut about a good deal by Jeffrey. - - PAGE - - 231. ‘_Great wits_,’ _etc._ _Absalom and Achitophel_, I. 163. - - 233. ‘_It travels in a road_’ [strait], _etc._ _Troilus and Cressida_, - Act III. Sc. 3. - - 235. _Dashed and brewed._ Dryden, _Absalom and Achitophel_, I. 114. - - ‘_To every good word_,’ _etc._ _Epistle to Titus_, I. 16. - - 238. ‘_All in conscience_,’ _etc._ Chaucer, _Prologue_, 150. - - Note. _Tâtar._ Cf., _e.g._, - - ‘Persian and Copt and Tatar, in one bond - Of erring faith conjoin’d.’ - _Roderick, the Last of the Goths_, I. 18–19. - - See also _Notes and Queries_, tenth Series, I. 11, 12. - - 242. ‘_The fairest princess under sky._’ _The Faerie Queene_, - Introductory Stanzas, IV. - - ‘_Paint the lily_,’ _etc._ _King John_, Act IV. Sc. 2. - - 243. ‘_Famous poets’ verse._’ Spenser, _The Faerie Queene_, I. XI. 27, - and III. IV. 1. - - ‘_The spur_,’ _etc._ _Lycidas_, 70. - - _Belvidera’s sorrows._ In Otway’s _Venice Preserved_. - - 245. _Occasion and Furor._ _The Faerie Queene_, Book II. Canto IV. - - ‘_Cymocles_,’ _etc._ _Ibid._, Book II. Canto VI. - - _The philosopher of Malmesbury._ Hobbes. - - 250. _Horace’s ‘nine years.’_ ‘Nonumque prematur in annum.’ _Ars - Poetica_, 388. - - ‘_Que, si sous Adam_,’ _etc._ A line in Boileau’s tenth satire. - See the Conversation between the Abbé Delille and Walter Landor. - - _General Mina._ The second volume of _Imaginary Conversations_ was - dedicated to General Espoz y Mina (1784–1835), the Spanish - patriot who opposed Napoleon, and, later, the tyranny of the - restored Bourbons. - - _Balasteros._ Francisco Ballasteros (1770–1832), the Spanish - general, who had capitulated to the French invaders in 1823, and - been banished for life. - - 251. _Caviare to the multitude_ [general]. _Hamlet_, Act II. Sc. 2. - - 254. _Articles in The Friend._ See _The Friend_, February 8, 1810. - Coleridge referred to this essay, and quoted passages from it in - one of the articles he wrote in _The Courier_ in 1811. See - _Essays on his own Times_, III. 829 _et seq._ These articles are - probably alluded to by Hazlitt when he speaks of ‘strong - allusions ... in a celebrated journal.’ - - 255. ‘_Final hope_,’ _etc._ _Paradise Lost_, II. 143. - - ‘_To shut_,’ _etc._ Cf. ‘She opened; but to shut excelled her - power.’ _Paradise Lost_, II. 883–884. - - _Bolivar._ Simon Bolivar (1783–1830), ‘the Liberator’ of South - America. Landor dedicated to him the third volume of his - _Imaginary Conversations_. - - _Gebir._ Published anonymously in 1798. ‘Many parts of it,’ says - Landor (Preface to 1831 edition), ‘were first composed in Latin; - and I doubted in which language to complete it.’ - - ‘_Pleased they remember_,’ _etc._ Cf. _Gebir_, I. 168–169. - - _Count Julian._ Published anonymously in 1812. - - - SHELLEY’S POSTHUMOUS POEMS - -The volume here reviewed was published in 1824 by John and Henry L. -Hunt. Hazlitt had little sympathy with Shelley either as a man or a -poet. The grounds of his distrust of him as a man are given more than -once, most fully, perhaps, in the essay ‘On Paradox and Common-Place’ -(_Table Talk_, VI. 148–150), which led to the quarrel between Hazlitt -and Leigh Hunt in 1821. See _Memoirs of William Hazlitt_, I. 304–315, -and _Four Generations of a Literary Family_, I. 130–135. As for -Shelley’s poetry, P. G. Patmore suggests that Hazlitt knew little or -nothing of it. ‘Though I have often,’ he says (_My Friends and -Acquaintance_, III. 136), ‘heard him speak disparagingly of Shelley as a -poet, I never heard him refer to a single line or passage of his -published writings.’ Hazlitt met Shelley at Leigh Hunt’s, and the two -discussed Monarchy and Republicanism until three in the morning.’ See -Mary Shelley’s journal of 1817, quoted in Professor Dowden’s _Life_, II. -103. - - PAGE - - 256. ‘_Too fiery_,’ _etc._ Cf. ‘You know the fiery quality of the - duke.’ _King Lear_, Act II. Sc. 4. - - ‘_Beyond the visible_,’ _etc._ Cf. _Paradise Lost_, VII. 22. - - ‘_All air._’ Cf. ‘He is pure air and fire.’ _Henry V._, Act III. - Sc. 7. - - 257. ‘_So divinely wrought_,’ _etc._ Cf. John Donne, _An Anatomy of the - World, Second Anniversary_, 245–246. - - ‘_And dallies_,’ _etc._ _Richard III._, Act I. Sc. 3. - - ‘_More subtle web_,’ _etc._ _The Faerie Queene_, Book II. Canto - XII. St. 77. - - 259. ‘_There the antics sit._’ _Richard II._, Act. III. Sc. 2. - - ‘_Palsied eld._’ _Measure for Measure_, Act III. Sc. 1. - - 260. _Mr. Shelley died, etc._ When Shelley’s body was cast ashore near - Via Reggio (July 18, 1822), a volume of Keats’s poems was found - in one pocket, and a volume of Sophocles in the other. - - _Two out of four poets, patriots, and friends._ The four poets - were presumably Shelley, Keats, Byron and Leigh Hunt. - - _Keats died young, etc._ Cf. vol. VI. (_Table Talk_) p. 99. - - _A third has since been added, etc._ Byron died at Mesolonghi, - April 19, 1824. - - 261. _Mrs. Shelley._ Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin (1797–1851) married to - Shelley, Dec. 30, 1816. - - _Alastor._ Originally published in 1816. - - _Translation of the May-day Night._ Published in _The Liberal_. - - _Julian and Maddalo._ This poem, first published in _Posthumous - Poems_, had been sent to Leigh Hunt in 1819 for publication by - Ollier. - - 264. ‘_Made as flax._’ Cf. _Judges_, XV. 14. - - 267. _The Letter to a Friend in London._ The _Letter to Maria Gisborne_ - presumably. - - ‘_Toys of feathered cupid._’ _Othello_, Act I. Sc. 3. - - 269. ‘_The sun is warm_,’ _etc._ _Stanzas written in dejection near - Naples._ - - 270. _Mr. Keats’s sounding lines._ _Endymion_, Book I. 232 _et seq._ - - ‘_Weakness and melancholy._’ Cf. _Hamlet_, Act II. Sc. 2. - - 271. ‘_To elevate and surprise._’ The Duke of Buckingham’s _Rehearsal_, - Act I. Sc. 1. - - ‘_Overstep the modesty._’ Hamlet, Act III., Sc. 2. - - ‘_Good set terms._’ _As You Like It_, Act II. Sc. 7. - - _Lord Leveson Gower._ Lord Francis Leveson Gower (1800–1857), son - of the second Marquis of Stafford, inherited a large property - from his uncle, Francis Henry Egerton, Earl of Bridgewater, - assumed the name of Egerton, and in 1846 was created Earl of - Ellesmere. His translation of _Faust_ appeared in 1823. - - 275. Note. See vol. V. pp. 202–203, and notes. - - - LADY MORGAN’S LIFE OF SALVATOR - -This _Life_ appeared in 1823. Sydney Owenson (1783?–1859), author of -_The Wild Irish Girl_ in (1806), and many other less known books, was -the daughter of Robert Owenson, the actor, and in 1812 married Sir -Thomas Charles Morgan, the physician and philosopher. Cf. _The Spirit of -the Age_ (vol. IV.), p. 308, and _The Plain Speaker_ (vol. VII.), p. -220. This review was republished in _Criticisms on Art_ (1843–4) and in -_Essays on the Fine Arts_ (1873). - - PAGE - - 278. _The miracle in Virgil._ _Æneid_, III. 37–40. - - 279. ‘_Housing with wild men_,’ _etc._ Coleridge, _Zapolya_, Act II. - Sc. 1. - - 280. ‘_Their mind_,’ _etc._ Sir Edward Dyer’s poem, beginning ‘My mind - to me a kingdom is.’ - - ‘_In measureless content._’ _Macbeth_, Act II. Sc. 1. - - ‘_Unjust tribunals_,’ _etc._ _Samson Agonistes_, 695. - - 282. ‘_Pride, pomp_,’ _etc._ _Othello_, Act III. Sc. 3. - - 283. _The celebrated Lanfranco._ Giovanni Lanfranco (1581–1647), the - painter. - - ‘_Skins and films_,’ _etc._ Cf. _Hamlet_, Act III. Sc. 4. - - 287. ‘_Another moon_,’ _etc._ _Paradise Lost_, V. 311. - - 291. ‘_According to Lord Bacon_,’ _etc._ _Advancement of Learning_, Bk. - II. iv. p. 2. - - ‘_Burke, in a like manner_,’ _etc._ See _A Letter to a Member of - the National Assembly_, 1791 (_Works_, Bohn, II. p. 535, _et - seq._) - - 292. ‘_Moralizes_,’ _etc._ _As You Like It_, Act II. Sc. 1. - - _Bernini._ Giovanni Lorenzo Bernini (1598–1680), the sculptor. - - 296. _Passeri._ Giovanni Battista Passeri (1610?–1679), author of _Vite - de’Pittori, Scultori, e Architetri_, _etc._ (1772). - - _Mrs. Radcliffe’s Italian._ Ann Radcliffe’s _The Italian_, 1797. - - _Thaddeus of Warsaw._ By Jane Porter (1776–1850), published in - 1803. - - 298. ‘_Like a wounded snake_,’ _etc._ Pope, _An Essay on Criticism_ - (II.), 357. - - 300. ‘_Where universal Pan_,’ _etc._ _Paradise Lost_, IV. 266–268. - - 301. _Massaniello._ Tommaso Aniello—called Masaniello—(1623–1647), the - fisherman leader of the Neapolitan revolt against the Spanish - viceroy in 1647. - - - AMERICAN LITERATURE—DR. CHANNING - -This review is stated to be Hazlitt’s in the volume of _Selections from -the Correspondence of the late Macvey Napier_, p. 70 note. Jeffrey -writes to Napier, Nov. 23, 1829 (_Ibid._ pp. 69–70): ‘Your American -reviewer is not a first-rate man, a clever writer enough, but not deep -or judicious, or even very fair. I have no notion who he is. If he is -young he may come to good, but he should be trained to a more modest -opinion of himself, and to take a little more pains, and go more -patiently and thoroughly into his subject.’ Carlyle, on the other hand, -writes, Jan. 27. 1830 (_Ibid._ p. 78): ‘I liked the last [number] very -well; the review of Channing seemed to me especially good.’ It is very -strange that Jeffrey should not have recognised Hazlitt’s manner. -Procter (_An Autobiographical Fragment_, p. 261) quotes a letter from -Jeffrey of May 12, 1826, in which he says, ‘Can you tell me anything of -our ancient ally Hazlitt?’ - - PAGE - - 310. _Mr. Brown._ Charles Brockden Brown (1771–1810), one of the - earliest of American writers, author of _Wieland_ (1798), - _Ormond_ (1799), _Arthur Mervyn_ (1800), _Edgar Huntley_ (1801), - _Clara Howard_ (1801), and _Jane Talbot_ (1804). The first four - of these are mentioned by Peacock as amongst the books ‘which - took the deepest root in Shelley’s mind, and had the strongest - influence on the formation of his character.’ - - 310. _Mr. Cooper._ James Fenimore Cooper (1789–1851), whose most famous - novel, _The Last of the Mohicans_, had appeared in 1826. - - 311. _An ample tribute of respect._ See reviews in the _Edinburgh_ of - _The Sketch Book_ (Aug. 1820), and _Bracebridge Hall_ (Nov. - 1822). Both were written by Jeffrey. - - _Frankenstein._ Mrs. Shelley’s novel (1818). - - ‘_Of Brownies_,’ _etc._ ‘Of Brownies and of bogillis full this - buke.’ Gawin Douglas, _Aeneis_, VI. Prol. 18. - - _They hoot the Beggar’s Opera, etc._ Cf. vol. VIII. (_Dramatic - Essays_), p. 473 and note. - - 312. _Our own unrivalled novelist._ Sir Walter Scott. - - 313. _The historiographer of Brother Jonathan._ Hazlitt refers to John - Neal’s _Brother Jonathan: or the New Englanders_. 3 vols. - Edinburgh, 1825. - - _His Pilot._ 1823. - - ‘_To suffer_,’ _etc._ _The Tempest_, Act I. Sc. 2. - - 314. ‘_Line upon line_,’ _etc._ _Isaiah_, xxviii. 10. - - _Franklin._ Benjamin Franklin (1706–1790). - - _Poor Robin._ _Poor Richard’s Almanac_, begun by Franklin in 1732, - and continued with great success for twenty-five years. - - _1754._ This apparently should be 1764. - - ‘_Metre-ballad-mongering._’ Cf. _Henry IV._, Part I. Act III. Sc. - 1. - - 315. _Jonathan Edwards._ Jonathan Edwards (1703–1758), whose _Freedom - of the Will_ appeared in 1754. Cf. Hazlitt’s philosophical - lectures in vol. XI. - - ‘_An honest method._’ _Hamlet_, Act II. Sc. 2. - - 316. _Dr. Channing._ William Ellery Channing (1780–1842), minister of a - Congregational church in Boston from 1803. He had visited - England in 1822. Hazlitt is here reviewing _Sermons and Tracts_: - including _Remarks on the Character and Writings of Milton, and - of Fenelon; and an analysis of the Character of Napoleon - Bonaparte_, 1829. - - 320. _In answer to Fenelon._ Channing’s ‘Remarks’ were upon a volume of - Selections from Fénelon, published in Boston, 1829. - - 323. _Bishop Butler’s Sermons._ 1726. - - 325. ‘_Wise above what is written._’ Cf. _1 Corinthians_, iv. 6. - - ‘_With authority_,’ _etc._ _S. Matthew_, vii. 29. - - 326. ‘_As having something_,’ _etc._ _The Advancement of Learning_, - Book II. iv. 2. - - 327. ‘_The father of lies._’ Cf. Burton, _The Anatomy of Melancholy_, - Partition I. Sec. IV. Member i. Subsection 4. - - 328. _Fielding’s character of Mr. Abraham Adams._ _Joseph Andrews_, - Book III. chap. 5. - - 329. ‘_No babies._’ ‘I am no baby.’ _Titus Andronicus_, Act V. Sc. 3. - - - FLAXMAN’S LECTURES ON SCULPTURE - -A review of John Flaxman’s (1755–1826) _Lectures on Sculpture_ (1829). -The review was republished in _Criticisms on Art_ (1843–4) and in -_Essays on the Fine Arts_ (1873). Flaxman had been professor of -sculpture at the Royal Academy from 1810. In his _Memoirs of William -Hazlitt_ (II. 269) Mr. W. C. Hazlitt gives a number of marginal notes -made by Hazlitt upon his copy of Flaxman’s Lectures probably with a view -to this article. - - PAGE - - 335. _Torregiano._ Pietro Torrigiano (c. 1470–1522), the Florentine - sculptor who broke Michael Angelo’s nose. He came to England in - 1509. - - ‘_A city_,’ _etc._ _S. Matthew_, V. 14. - - 336. ‘_High and palmy._’ _Hamlet_, Act I. Sc. 1. - - ‘_Growing with its growth._’ Pope, _Essay on Man_, II. 136. - - 341. _Sir Anthony Carlisle._ Sir Anthony Carlisle (1768–1840), the - surgeon, studied for a time at the Royal Academy, and wrote an - essay ‘On the Connection between Anatomy and the Fine Arts,’ to - which Hazlitt probably refers. - - 344. ‘_To make Gods_,’ _etc._ Cf. _Genesis_, i. 26. - - ‘_Hitherto_,’ _etc._ _Job_, xxxviii. 11. - - 345. ‘_The labour_,’ _etc._ _Macbeth_, Act II. Sc. 3. - - 348. ‘_Shreds and patches._’ _Hamlet_, Act III. Sc. 4. - - ‘_Upon her eyebrows_,’ _etc._ _The Faerie Queene_, Book II. Canto - III. St. 25. - - 349. ‘_By their own beauty_,’ _etc._ Cf. ‘By our own spirits are we - deified.’ Wordsworth, _Resolution and Independence_, 47. - - 350. ‘_The scale_,’ _etc._ Cf. _Paradise Lost_, VIII. 591–592. - - 351. _Incendio del Borgo._ Raphael’s fresco in the Vatican. - - - WILSON’S LIFE AND TIMES OF DANIEL DEFOE - -Walter Wilson’s (1781–1847) _Memoirs of the Life and Times of Daniel -Defoe_ was published in 3 vols. in 1830. - - PAGE - - 355. _Tutchin and Ridpath._ John Tutchin (1661?–1707) and George - Ridpath (d. 1726), two Whig contemporaries of Defoe, successive - editors of _The Observator_. - - _Dispraise of the Beggars’ Opera._ See Wilson’s _Memoirs, etc., of - Defoe_, III. 595–596. - - 356. ‘_Excellent iteration in him._’ Cf. _Henry IV._, Part I. Act I. - Sc. 2. - - _As honest Hector Macintyre, etc._ See _The Antiquary_, chap. XX. - - ‘_Thinly scattered_,’ _etc._ _Romeo and Juliet_, Act V. Sc. 1. - - _Rari nantes, etc._ _Æneid_, I. 118. - - 356. ‘_I remember my grandfather_,’ _etc._ Wilson’s _Memoirs, etc., of - Defoe_, I. 6, and Defoe’s _Review_, vii. Pref. - - 357. _Mr. Samuel Wesley._ Samuel Wesley the elder (1662–1735), whose - attack on the education of the Dissenters (1703) engaged him in - a controversy. - - _Shortest Way with the Dissenters._, 1702. - - 358. _Harley._ Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford (1661–1724). - - ‘_Heaven lies about us_,’ _etc._ Wordsworth, Ode, _Intimations of - Immortality_, 66. - - ‘_Poor Robinson Crusoe_,’ _etc._ _Robinson Crusoe_, Section XV. - - 358. _True-born Englishman._ 1701. - - _Review._ 1704–1713. - - _Essays on Trade._ Defoe wrote several tracts on the subject of - trade. - - 360. _Legion Petition._ ‘Legion’s Memorial’ to the House of Commons in - reference to the Kentish Petition of 1701. A second Memorial - appeared in the following year. - - ‘_Heaping coals of fire_,’ _etc._ _Romans_, xii. 20. - - ‘_Stuff of the conscience._’ _Othello_, Act I. Sc. 2. - - ‘_A foregone conclusion._’ _Othello_, Act III. Sc. 3. - - 361. _Toland._ John Toland (1670–1722), the deist. - - 362. Note. See Wilson’s _Memoirs, etc., of Defoe_, I. 73 note. - - 363. ‘_There goes a very honest gentleman_,’ _etc._ According to Madame - de La Fayette (_Mémoires de la Cour de France_), it was Louvois’ - brother, the Archbishop of Rheims, who, on seeing James come - from Mass, said: ‘Voilà un fort bon homme, il a quitté trois - royaumes pour une messe.’ - - _Dr. Sherlock._ William Sherlock (1641?–1707), one of the - non-jurors for a short time after the Revolution. - - 364. _An eloquent passage._ See Wilson’s _Memoirs, etc., of Defoe_, I. - 76–77 and Defoe’s _Review_, IV. 643–644. - - _The Exclusion Bill._ Passed by the House of Commons and rejected - by the House of Lords, 1680. - - _A very curious account._ Wilson’s _Memoirs, etc., of Defoe_, I. - 156 _et seq._ - - 366. _His Complete Tradesman._ _The Complete English Tradesman_, 1727. - - 367. ‘_To keep their seats firm._’ _Reflections on the Revolution in - France_ (_Select Works_, ed. Payne, II. 97). - - ‘_The fate of James_,’ _etc._ Wilson’s _Memoirs, etc., of Defoe_, - I. 162–163. - - 368. ‘_Courage had been screwed_,’ _etc._ Cf. _Macbeth_, Act I. Sc. 7. - - _An Address to the Dissenters._ This pamphlet (1687) seems to have - been Bishop Burnet’s. See Lee’s _Life of Defoe_ and _Notes and - Queries_, 4th Ser. IV. 253, 307. - - _The Marquis of Halifax._ George Savile, Marquis of Halifax - (1633–1695). The pamphlet referred to by Hazlitt appeared in - 1686. - - 369. _An early Piece._ Lee (_Life of Defoe_, I. 15) regards this piece - (1683) and _Speculum Crape-gownorum_ (1682) as spurious. - - _Lives of the Philipses._ William Godwin’s _Lives of Edward and - John Philips_, 1815. - - Note. _An Appeal to Honour and Justice._ 1715. - - 370. ‘_The Hortus Siccus of Dissent._’ _Reflections on the Revolution - in France_ (_Select Works_, ed. Payne, II. 14). - - _Oldmixon._ John Oldmixon (1673–1742), whose _History of England - during the Reign of the Royal House of Stuart_ was published in - 3 vols. 1729–1739. - - 371. ‘_Though that his joy_,’ _etc._ _Othello_, Act I. Sc. 1. - - 372. ‘_Not pierceable_‘, _etc._ Cf. ‘Not perceable with power of any - starr.’ _The Faerie Queene_, Book I. Canto I. St. 7. - - 373. ‘_Speaking a word_,’ _etc._ Cf. _Proverbs_, XV. 23. - - 374. _Sacheverell._ Henry Sacheverell (1674–1724). The sermon referred - to was preached before the University of Oxford on June 2, 1702. - See Wilson’s _Memoirs, etc. of Defoe_, II. 27–28. - - ‘_So should his anticipation_,’ _etc._ _Hamlet_, Act II. Sc. 2. - - 375. _A Hymn to the Pillory._ 1703. - - ‘_See where on high_,’ _etc._ ‘Earless on high stood unabash’d De - Foe.’ _The Dunciad_, II. 147. - - ‘_Dishonour, honourable._’ Cf. ‘Honour dishonourable.’ _Paradise - Lost_, IV. 314. - - ‘_Condemned to everlasting fame._’ ‘Damned to everlasting fame.’ - Pope, _Essay on Man_, IV. 284. - - ‘_Oh soul supreme_,’ _etc._ Pope, _Moral Essays_, Epistle V. - 23–24. - - ‘_The fellow that was pilloried._’ See Swift’s _A Letter from a - Member of the House of Commons in Ireland, to a Member of the - House of Commons in England, concerning the Sacramental Test_ - (1709). - - ‘_The superficial part of learning._’ Gay, in his _Present State - of Wit_ (1711), spoke of Defoe as a ‘fellow, who had excellent - natural parts, but wanted a small foundation of learning.’ - - 376. ‘_Flying to others_,’ _etc._ Hamlet, Act III. Sc. 1. - - 376. ‘_Why troublest thou_,’ _etc._ Cf. ‘Art thou come hither to - torment us before the time?’ _S. Matthew_, viii, 29. - - 377. _William Benson._ William Benson (1682–1754). Defoe was prosecuted - and imprisoned for his anti-Jacobite tracts of 1713, _Reasons - against the Succession of the House of Hanover, etc._ - - ‘_The force of dulness_,’ _etc._ Cf. Dryden, _Lines printed under - the Engraved Portrait of Milton_, 5. - - 378. _His History of that event._ _History of the Union of Great - Britain_, 1709. - - _Apology for the Massacre of Glencoe._ In Defoe’s _History of the - Union_, 4to. edition, pp. 68–73. - - ‘_Hamlet, Prince of Denmark_,’ _etc._ See Wilson’s _Memoirs, etc., - of Defoe_, II. 457. - - 379. _His novels._ Those referred to by Hazlitt are _Moll Flanders_, - 1721; _Roxana_, 1724; _Captain Singleton_, 1720; _Colonel Jack_, - 1722; and _Memoirs of a Cavalier_, 1720. - - _The Family Instructor._ 1715–1718. - - ‘_Meddling with the unclean thing._’ Cf. _2 Corinthians_, VI. 17. - - 380. ‘_All the fore-end of his time._’ _Cymbeline_, Act III. Sc. 3. - - ‘_Vice, by losing_,’ _etc._ Burke, _Reflections on the Revolution - in France_ (_Select Works_, ed. Payne, II. 89). - - ‘_Purple light._’ Cf. ‘The bloom of young Desire and purple light - of Love.’ Gray, _The Progress of Poesy_, 41. - - 381. _What Mr. Lamb says, etc._ See Lamb’s ‘Estimate of De Foe’s - Secondary Novels,’ written for Wilson’s _Life of Defoe_ (III. - 636). The paper is reprinted in _The Works of Charles and Mary - Lamb_, ed. E. V. Lucas, I. 325–327. - - 382. _Imposed upon Lord Chatham._ See Wilson’s _Memoirs, etc., of - Defoe_, III. 509. - - _History of Apparitions._ _An Essay on the History and Reality of - Apparitions_, 1727. - - ‘_Call spirits_,’ _etc._ _Henry IV._, Part I., Act III. Sc. 1. - - _History of the Plague._ _Journal of the Plague Year_, 1722. - - - MR. GODWIN - -This was ostensibly a review of _Cloudesley_, published in 1830. Some -years previously Sir James Mackintosh had suggested that Hazlitt should -be asked to review Godwin’s novels. Towards the end of 1823 he wrote to -Godwin: ‘I see your novels advertised to-day. Could you ask Mr. Hazlitt -to review them in the _Edinburgh Review_. He is a very original thinker, -and notwithstanding some singularities which appear to me faults, a very -powerful writer. I say this, though I know he is no panegyrist of mine. -His critique might serve all our purposes, and would, I doubt not, -promote the interests of literature also.’ (C. Kegan Paul, _William -Godwin: His Friends and Contemporaries_, II. 289.) The _Edinburgh_ had -reviewed Godwin’s _Fleetwood_ (vol. VI. p. 182), and had praised _Caleb -Williams_ very highly in a review of the _Lives of Edward and John -Philips_ (XXV. p. 485). Cf. Hazlitt’s sketch of Godwin in _The Spirit of -the Age_, vol. IV. pp. 200 _et seq._, and notes. - - PAGE - - 385. _Dramatised._ _Caleb Williams_ was dramatised by George Colman the - younger as _The Iron Chest_. See vol. VIII. (_A View of the - English Stage_), p. 342. - - 386. ‘_Seemed like another morn_,’ _etc._ _Paradise Lost_, V. 310–311. - - ‘_Even in his ashes_,’ _etc._ Cf. Gray, _Elegy written in a - Country Church-Yard_, 92. - - 387. _Otium cum dignitate._ Cicero, _Pro Sestio_, XLV. 98. - - ‘_Retired leisure_,’ _etc._ _Il Penseroso_, 49–50. - - 387. _Horas non numero, etc._ The motto of a sun-dial near Venice. See - Hazlitt’s essay ‘On a Sun-Dial.’ - - ‘_The iron rod_,’ _etc._ Vaguely quoted from _Paradise Lost_, II. - 90–92. - - ‘_Stretched upon the rack_,’ _etc._ Cf. _Macbeth_, Act III. Sc. 2. - - ‘_And like a gallant horse_,’ _etc._ _Troilus and Cressida_, Act - III. Sc. 3. - - _There is only one living writer._ Scott, no doubt. - - 388. ‘_O let not virtue_,’ _etc._ Loosely quoted from _Troilus and - Cressida_, Act III. Sc. 3. - - ‘_To elevate and surprise._’ The Duke of Buckingham’s _The - Rehearsal_, Act I. Sc. 1. - - ‘_Takes an inventory._’ Ben Jonson, _The Alchemist_, Act III. Sc. - 2. - - 391. ‘_A pass of wit._’ Cf. ‘Wit shall not go unrewarded while I am - king of this country. “Steal by line and level” is an excellent - pass of pate.’ _The Tempest_, Act IV. Sc. 1. - - ‘_O’ersteps_,’ _etc._ _Hamlet_, Act III. Sc. 2. - - 392. _Annesley._ Hazlitt refers to the well-known case of James - Annesley (1715–1760), who claimed to be the legitimate son and - heir of Lord Altham. The story will be found in Howell’s _State - Trials_ (vols. XVI. and XVII.), and has been used by other - novelists besides Godwin. See _Peregrine Pickle_ (chap. 98) - and Charles Reade’s _The Wandering Heir_. Godwin, in the - advertisement to _Cloudesley_, says: ‘It is but just that the - reader should be informed that a novel has been already written - on this theme, and printed in the year 1743, under the title of - “Memoirs of an unfortunate young Nobleman, Returned from a - Thirteen Years’ Slavery in America.”’ This is presumably the - work referred to by Hazlitt as ‘a novel with the title of - _Annesley_.’ In 1756 appeared _The Case of the Honourable J. A., - humbly offered to all lovers of truth and justice_. - - ‘_Mark and likelihood._’ _Henry IV._, Part I., Act III. Sc. 2. - - 393. _Multum abludit imago._ Horace, _Satires_, II. 3, 320. - - ‘_Subject_ [servile] _to all_,’ _etc._ _Measure for Measure_, Act - III. Sc. 1. - - ‘_A fiery soul_,’ _etc._ Dryden, _Absalom and Achitophel_, I. - 156–158. - - 394. ‘_But the lees_,’ _etc._ Loosely quoted from _Macbeth_, Act II. - Sc. 3. - - ‘_After a thousand victories_,’ _etc._ Shakespeare, Sonnet XXV. - - ‘_A great man’s memory_,’ _etc._ Cf. _Hamlet_, Act III. Sc. 2. - - 395. ‘_At first no bigger_,’ _etc._ Cf. _S. Matthew_, xiii. 31. - - 397. ‘_A consummation_,’ _etc._ _Hamlet_, Act III. Sc. 1. - - ‘_The scale by which we ascend._’ Cf. _Paradise Lost_, VIII. - 591–592. - - 398. ‘_Reaches the verge_,’ _etc._ Cf. Pope, _Moral Essays_, II. 52. - - 399. _His New Man of Feeling._ _Fleetwood; or, The New Man of Feeling_, - 1805. - - _Mandeville._ 1817. - - _Life of Chaucer._ 1803. - - _Essay on Sepulchres._ 1809. - - _Mr. Malthus’s theory._ See vol. IV. (_The Spirit of the Age_), p. - 296. - - 400. _Sermons._ _Sketches of History, in Six Sermons_, 1784. - - _An English Grammar._ The grammar was written by Hazlitt himself - and published by Mrs. Godwin at the Skinner Street house. See - vol IV., Bibliographical Note on p. 388. It contained a letter - written by Godwin under the pseudonym of Edward Baldwin. - - - Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty - at the Edinburgh University Press - ------ - -Footnote 1: - - We have not forgotten Defoe as one of our own writers. The author of - Robinson Crusoe was an Englishman; and one of those Englishmen who - make us proud of the name. - -Footnote 2: - - See, among a thousand instances, the conclusion of the story of - Geneura.—‘And all that day we read no more!’ - -Footnote 3: - - The late Mr. Burke was a writer of a very splendid imagination, and - great command of words. This was, with many persons, a sufficient - ground for concluding that he was a mere rhetorician, without depth of - thought or solidity of judgment. - -Footnote 4: - - ‘Gli occhi di ch’io parlai si caldamente - E le braccia, e le mani, e i piedi, e ‘l viso - Che m’ havean si da me stesso diviso, - E fatto singular fra l’ altra gente; - Le crispe chiome d’ or puro lucente, - E ‘l lampeggiar de l’ angelico riso, - Che solean far in terra un paradiso, - Poco pulvere son che nulla sente! - Ed io pur vivo! onde mi doglio e sdegno. - Rimaso senza ‘l lume, ch’ amai tanto, - In gran fortuna, e ‘n disarmato legno. - Or sia qui fine al mio amoroso canto. - Secca e la vena de l’ usato ingegno - E la cetera mia rivolta in pianto.’ - - Literally as follows. ‘Those eyes of which I spoke so warmly, and the - arms, and the hands, and the feet, and the face, which have robbed me - of myself, and made me different from others; those crisped locks of - pure shining gold, and the lightning of that angelical smile, which - used to make a heaven upon earth, are now a little dust which feels - nothing!—And I still remain! whence I lament and disdain myself, left - without the light which I loved so much, in a troubled sea, and with - dismantled bark. Here then must end all my amorous songs. Dry is the - vein of my exhausted genius, and my lyre answers only in - lamentations!’ - -Footnote 5: - - The universality of Shakespear’s genius has, perhaps, been a - disadvantage to his single works: the variety of his resources has - prevented him from giving that intense concentration of interest to - some of them which they might have had. He is in earnest only in Lear - and Timon. He combined the powers of Æschylus and Aristophanes, of - Dante and Rabelais, in his own mind. If he had been only half what he - was, he might have seemed greater. - -Footnote 6: - - Do not publications generally find their way there, without a - _direction_? R. - -Footnote 7: - - Why to Great Britain alone? R. - -Footnote 8: - - ‘Multiscience (or a variety and quantity of acquired knowledge) does - not teach intelligence. But the Sibyll with wild enthusiastic mouth - shrilling forth unmirthful, inornate, and unperfumed truths, reaches - to a thousand years with her voice through the power of God.’ - -Footnote 9: - - With all proper allowances for the effects of the Mundungus, we must - say that this answer appears to us very curiously characteristic of - the exaggerated and canting tone of this poet and his associates. A - man may or may not think time misemployed in reading newspapers:—but - we believe no man, out of the Pantisocratic or Lake school, ever - dreamed of denouncing it as unchristian and impious—even if he had not - himself begun and ended his career as an Editor of newspapers. The - same absurd exaggeration is visible in his magnificent eulogium on the - conversational talents of his Birmingham Unitarians. - -Footnote 10: - - See his criticisms on Bertram, vol. II., reprinted from the Courier. - -Footnote 11: - - We are aware that time conquers even nature, and that the characters - of nations change with a total change of circumstances. The modern - Italians are a very different race of people from the ancient Romans. - This gives us some chance. In the decomposition and degeneracy of the - sturdy old English character, which seems fast approaching, the mind - and muscles of the country may be sufficiently relaxed and softened to - imbibe a taste for all the refinements of luxury and show; and a - century of slavery may yield us a crop of the Fine Arts, to be soon - buried in sloth and barbarism again. - -Footnote 12: - - This name, for some reason or other, does not once occur in these - Memoirs. - -Footnote 13: - - The Editor of the Englishman for many years was a Mr. Radcliffe. He - had been formerly attached to some of our embassies into Italy, where - his lady accompanied him; and here she imbibed that taste for - picturesque scenery, and the obscure and wild superstitions of - mouldering castles, of which she has made so beautiful a use in her - Romances. The fair authoress kept herself almost as much _incognito_ - as the Author of Waverley; nothing was known of her but her name in - the title-page. She never appeared in public, nor mingled in private - society, but kept herself apart, like the sweet bird that sings its - solitary notes, shrowded and unseen. - -Footnote 14: - - Many of these articles (particularly the Theatrical Criticism) are - unavoidably written over night, just as the paper is going to the - press, without correction or previous preparation. Yet they will often - stand a comparison with more laboured compositions. It is curious, - that what is done at so short a notice should bear so few marks of - haste. In fact, there is a kind of _extempore_ writing, as well as - _extempore_ speaking. Both are the effect of necessity and habit. If a - man has but words and ideas in his head, he can express himself in a - longer or a shorter time (with a little practice), just as he has a - motive for doing it. Where there is the necessary stimulus for making - the effort, what is given from a first impression, what is struck off - at a blow, is in many respects better than what is produced on - reflection, and at several heats. - -Footnote 15: - - One of Mr. Landor’s refinements in spelling. - -Footnote 16: - - ‘Calculating the prices of provisions, and the increase of taxes, the - poet-laureate, in the time of Elizabeth, had about four times as much - as at present: so that Cecil spoke reasonably, Elizabeth - royally.’—_Note by the Author._ - - We were unwilling to suppress this hint for the increase of the - laureate’s salary, considering how worthily the situation is filled at - present; and Mr. Landor’s recommendation must be peremptory at court. - We observe that our author’s spelling of the word ‘laureate’ is the - same as Mr. Southey’s. Is the latter indebted to the same source for - the learned Orientalism of _Tâtar_ for Tartar? What a significant age - we live in! How many extravagant conclusions and false assumptions - lurk under that one orthoepy! He who innovates in things where custom - alone is concerned, must be proof against its suggestions in all other - cases; and when reason and fancy come into play, must indeed be a law - to himself. - -Footnote 17: - - We do not see this question in the same point of view as our author. - By his leave (as a mere general and speculative question), the - conquerors become amalgamated with the conquered: barbarism becomes - civilized. The claim of tyrants to rule over slaves is the only - principle that is eternal. These are the only two races, whose - interests are never reconciled. - -Footnote 18: - - ‘Ææa, the island of Circe.’ - -Footnote 19: - - ‘The viper was the armorial device of the Visconti, tyrants of Milan.’ - -Footnote 20: - - Lectures on the Dramatic Literature of the Age of Elizabeth. - -Footnote 21: - - ‘The pavilions of the Caliphs of Bagdad were not so deliciously - placed, nor so sumptuously raised, as this retreat of the self-denying - brotherhood of the Certosa. It was founded in the fourteenth century - by Charles, son of Robert of Arragon, King of Naples.’ - -Footnote 22: - - Evelyn, who visited Naples about this time, observes that ‘the country - people are so jovial and so addicted to music, that the very - husbandmen almost universally play on the guitar, singing and - accompanying songs in praise of their sweethearts, and will commonly - go to the field with their fiddle. They are merry, witty, and genial, - all of which I attribute to their ayre.’—_Memoirs_, vol. I. - -Footnote 23: - - ‘Among the women were the Signorine Leonora and Caterina, who were - never heard but with rapture’ (says Della Valle, a contemporary of - Salvator, in speaking of the female musicians of this time) - ‘particularly the elder who accompanied herself on the arch lute. I - remember their mother in her youth, when she sailed in her felucca - near the grotto of Pausilippo, with her golden harp in her hand; but - in our times these shores were inhabited by syrens, not only beautiful - and tuneful, but virtuous and beneficent.’ - -Footnote 24: - - Burney’s History of Music. Dr. Burney purchased an old music book of - Salvator’s compositions, of his granddaughter, in 1773, and brought it - over with him to England. - -Footnote 25: - - He was thrown into gaol and executed, for his concern in some - desperate enterprise. - -Footnote 26: - - Why so? Was it not said just before, that this painter was deep in the - Neapolitan school? But Lady Morgan will have it so, and we cannot - contradict her. - -Footnote 27: - - We might refer to the back-ground of the St. Peter Martyr. Claude, - Gaspar, and Salvator could not have painted this one back-ground among - them! but we have already remarked, that _comparisons are odious_. - -Footnote 28: - - The Cardinal Sforza Pallavicini, having been present by his own - request at the recitation of one of these pieces, and being asked his - opinion, declared, that ‘Salvator’s poetry was full of splendid - passages, but that, as a whole, it was unequal.’ - -Footnote 29: - - Lady Morgan is always quarrelling with Passeri’s style, because it is - not that of a modern Blue-stocking. - -Footnote 30: - - Hector St. John. - -Footnote 31: - - Verse and poetry has its source in this principle: it is the harmony - of the soul imparted from the strong impulse of pleasure to language - and to indifferent things; as a person hearing music walks in a - sustained and measured step over uneven ground. - -Footnote 32: - - It does not appear that the general form was coloured, as Mr. Flaxman - seems to argue. - -Footnote 33: - - ‘It was the refuse, or what was called the _whig_, of the milk; and - was applied,’ says a Tory writer, ‘to what was still more sour, a - Scotch Presbyterian.’ - -Footnote 34: - - Oldmixon’s History of England. - -Footnote 35: - - Defoe’s ‘Appeal to Honour and Honesty.’ - -Footnote 36: - - Oldmixon’s History of England, vol. III. p. 36. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in - spelling. - 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. - 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. - 4. Denoted superscripts by a caret before a single superscript - character or a series of superscripted characters enclosed in - curly braces, e.g. M^r. or M^{ister}. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COLLECTED WORKS OF WILLIAM -HAZLITT, VOL. 10 (OF 12) *** - -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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} - .ol_1 li {font-size: .9em; } - .x-ebookmaker .ol_1 li {padding-left: 1em; text-indent: 0em; } - body {font-family: Georgia, serif; text-align: justify; } - table {font-size: .9em; padding: 1.5em .5em 1em; page-break-inside: avoid; - clear: both; } - div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; - page-break-after: always; } - div.titlepage p {text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; - line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 3em; } - .ph1 { text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; font-size: xx-large; - margin: .67em auto; page-break-before: always; } - .ph2 { text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; - page-break-before: always; } - .x-ebookmaker p.dropcap:first-letter { float: left; } - </style> - </head> - <body> - -<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Collected Works of William Hazlitt, Vol. 10 (of 12), by William Hazlitt</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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 <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: The Collected Works of William Hazlitt, Vol. 10 (of 12)</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: William Hazlitt</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Editor: A. R. Waller and Arnold Glover</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: November 14, 2021 [eBook #66734]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COLLECTED WORKS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT, VOL. 10 (OF 12) ***</div> - -<div class='tnotes covernote'> - -<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber’s Note:</strong></p> - -<p class='c000'>The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.</p> - -</div> - -<div class='chapter ph1'> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div>THE</div> - <div>COLLECTED WORKS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT</div> - <div>IN TWELVE VOLUMES</div> - <div class='c002'>VOLUME TEN</div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div><span class='small'><em>All rights reserved</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/i_006.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -<div class='ic001'> -<p><em>Margaret Hazlitt.</em><br />(<em>1771–1844</em>)<br /><br /><em>From an oil painting by John Hazlitt.</em></p> -</div> -</div> - -<div class='titlepage'> - -<div> - <h1 class='c003'><span class='xlarge'>THE COLLECTED WORKS OF</span><br /> WILLIAM HAZLITT</h1> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='large'>EDITED BY A. R. WALLER</span></div> - <div><span class='large'>AND ARNOLD GLOVER</span></div> - <div class='c004'><span class='small'>WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY</span></div> - <div class='c004'>W. E. HENLEY</div> - <div class='c004'>❦</div> - <div class='c004'>Contributions to the Edinburgh Review</div> - <div class='c004'>❦</div> - <div class='c002'>1904</div> - <div>LONDON: J. M. DENT & CO.</div> - <div>McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.: NEW YORK</div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div><span class='small'>Edinburgh: T. and A. <span class='sc'>Constable</span>, Printers to His Majesty</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<table class='table0' summary='CONTENTS'> - <tr> - <th class='c006'></th> - <th class='c007'><span class='small'>PAGE</span></th> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE EDINBURGH REVIEW</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_1'>1</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>NOTES</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_403'>403</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE EDINBURGH REVIEW</h2> -</div> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span> - <h3 class='c008'>CONTENTS</h3> -</div> - -<table class='table1' summary='CONTENTS'> - <tr> - <th class='c006'></th> - <th class='c007'><span class='small'>PAGE</span></th> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>Dunlop’s History of Fiction</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_5'>5</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>Standard Novels and Romances</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_25'>25</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>Sismondi’s Literature of the South</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_44'>44</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>Schlegel on the Drama</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_78'>78</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>Coleridge’s Lay Sermon</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_120'>120</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>Coleridge’s Literary Life</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_135'>135</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>Letters of Horace Walpole</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_159'>159</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>Life of Sir Joshua Reynolds</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_172'>172</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>The Periodical Press</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_202'>202</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>Landor’s Imaginary Conversations</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_231'>231</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>Shelley’s Posthumous Poems</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_256'>256</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>Lady Morgan’s Life of Salvator</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_276'>276</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>American Literature—Dr. Channing</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_310'>310</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>Flaxman’s Letters on Sculpture</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_330'>330</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>Wilson’s Life and Times of Daniel Defoe</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_355'>355</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>Mr. Godwin</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_385'>385</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>Notes</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_403'>403</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>    Hunt’s Story of Rimini</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_407'>407</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'> </td> - <td class='c007'> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>    Coleridge’s Christabel</td> - <td class='c007'><a href='#Page_411'>411</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<div class='chapter ph2'> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div>CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE EDINBURGH REVIEW</div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span> - <h3 class='c009'>DUNLOP’S HISTORY OF FICTION</h3> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Vol. xxiv.</span>]      [<em>November 1814.</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>We are very much of Mr. Dunlop’s opinion,—that ‘life has few -things better, than sitting at the chimney-corner in a winter evening, -after a well-spent day, and reading an interesting romance or novel.’ -In fact, of all the pleasures of the imagination those are by far the -most captivating which are excited by the representation of our -fellow-creatures struggling with great difficulties, and stimulated by -high expectations or formidable alarms. And if the reader or -spectator have no personal interest in the subject, his emotions are -but slightly, if at all, affected by his judgment concerning its -authenticity. On the contrary, the fictions of genius may be -rendered far more engaging than the greater part of real history.</p> - -<p class='c010'>But the invention of interesting narratives is by no means an easy -exercise; and we apprehend that tales entirely and professedly -fictitious are exclusively the production of a civilized age; and are -never introduced into any nation till long after the genuine exploits -of its own heroes have been sung by its bards (who are the first -historians), for the entertainment and information of ruder times. -These journalists may indeed be expected to exaggerate the truth; -and, on very slender evidence, or merely from the warmth of their -imagination, to represent the powers of the invisible world as interposing -their mighty influence in the shape most agreeable to the -prevalent superstitions. But in relating events which passed within -the memory of their hearers, these exaggerations would generally -be kept within such bounds as not to shock the credulity, and -consequently be less gratifying to the national curiosity, and even -to the national vanity of their audience: and hence sagacious -historians are able to extract a probable narrative from the songs of -contemporary bards.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>Long however before the period of sober and scrutinizing history, -the more ancient of these songs would gradually receive additions -and embellishments from the patriotic fancies of the persons who -successively transmitted them to posterity; of the extent of which -some idea may be formed from the amplifications with which the -account of any surprising event is adorned, even during a short time -after its first promulgation, as it passes from house to house, and from -village to village. A bard also of one generation, gathering information -from those of another, and from the traditionary anecdotes of the -aged with whom he conversed, would be apt to compose a narrative -in which a greater latitude would be assumed for adjusting it to his -own views or to the taste of his countrymen, according to the remoteness -of the time to which it referred, and his security from the -examination of critical inquirers. And we may well suppose that his -audience would receive indulgently, or rather would indispensably -require a high colouring of the marvellous in the accounts of their -favourite heroes.</p> - -<p class='c010'>In ruder times, therefore, the fiction would chiefly consist, not so -much in the troublesome task of inventing incidents, as in exaggeration: -And the tendency to exaggerate would act in two ways: it -would on the one hand enlarge the scale and heighten the colours of -the natural objects and real events which were understood to have -existed; and on the other hand it would multiply as well as magnify, -and would render distinctly visible the supernatural interpositions -which were suggested by the popular creed. When Achilles in a -pet retired with his myrmidons, it is probable enough that Diomed -was roused to exert himself to the utmost in the common cause, and -performed wonders in the first engagements after the secession of his -great rival. On such an occasion it would not be unnatural for his -brave companions, and still less for enraptured parasitical bards, to -have expressed their admiration by saying, that they beheld him as if -shining with a light from heaven in the battle; that Minerva was his -friend and protector; that under her guidance he not only slew many -of the Trojan chiefs, but completely routed and made an incredible -havock among the throng of the less noble combatants, who furiously -assailed him, led on by the God of war in all his terrors;—in short, -that Diomed was a match for Mars himself. But the heroes of the -Trojan expedition were seen as visions by Homer and his cotemporaries: -And, according to the representation in the fifth book of -the Iliad, Minerva adorns the warrior with a real star-like flame -beaming from the crest of his helmet; she obtains Jupiter’s permission -to assist the Greeks; rouses Diomed’s courage who had been compelled -to retreat; with her own divine hand, she pulls down the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>charioteer, mounts into his seat, and drives to where Mars was -combating in propriâ personâ, but who is soon wounded by Diomed -in the small guts, <span lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">νείατον ἐς κενεῶνα</span>, and sent roaring as loud as -nine or ten thousand men to his father Jupiter on the top of Olympus. -Thus the surprising events which were but moderately hyperbolized -at the time, in the relation of the eyewitnesses, and ascribed to the -secret influences of the supernatural powers, rather than to the -agency of their daylight apparitions, are wonderfully changed in -the representation, at no great distance of time. The real hero -slays his tens; the hero of the men-singers and women-singers slays -his thousands and his tens of thousands: The real hero is large of -bone and strong of muscle; the hero of the poet is a Hercules; and -if not a giant, he is much more—like Tom Thumb he is the -conqueror of giants: Those superior Beings, with whom the popular -religion or superstition has peopled heaven and earth and hell, mingle -openly in the fray: they are seen and recognized as distinctly as any -others of the Dramatis Personæ, and act and converse very sensibly, -sometimes very foolishly, not only with each other, but with their -mortal associates. These superior Beings themselves, indeed, frequently -owe their supernatural character, and in some cases, their very existence, -to exaggeration. The heroes in process of time become demi-gods; -and at last are invested with the full honours and emoluments of -Deities acknowledged and established by law;</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘<span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Romulus et Liber pater, et cum Castore Pollux;</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Post ingentia facta Deorum in templa recepti.</span>’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>The unknown causes which actuate the material world,—the passions -which agitate the human breast,—and even several of those shadows -of entity, the allegorical characters, have been distinctly personified, -and many of them admitted to seats of greater or less dignity in the -sacred college of Divinities.</p> - -<p class='c010'>But in general the most enormous exaggeration would disfigure -those events which were the most ancient in the national traditions;—those -events which bordered upon utter darkness and appeared to -be coeval with the birth of Time. In a period of such dim antiquity, -it appears that a certain Crown Prince of Crete, very enterprising and -very unprincipled, rebelled successfully against his father, seemingly -still more unprincipled than his son, and carried every thing before -him. This worthy young gentleman, after being worshipped by the -Cretans during his life, very much, we suppose, as other successful -tyrants are worshipped, had the astonishing good fortune, in the -course of a few centuries after his death, to be acknowledged as the -King of Gods and men throughout all Greece, and afterwards -<span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>through the whole extent of the Roman empire. The abortive -insurrection of his kinsmen in Thessaly was in due time represented -as the enterprise of stupendous giants, who heaped mountain upon -mountain to attack the Thunderer in his Olympian Palace. And as -nobody could tell any thing about the parents of these great men, -it was concluded, with a degree of probability amounting to what in -the language of philosophers is with much propriety called moral -certainty, that they had risen out of the ground like mushrooms. -The events prior to his establishment on the throne, appear dimly in -the back-ground of the sacred mythology—involved in all the awful -obscurity of mysteries, not to be profaned by the scrutiny of impious -mortals. We are told that there was a war in heaven of the Titans -against Saturn the chief of the Gods, for not having devoured his son -Jupiter. For it would appear that this good king, in whose reign, -according to the poets, all the world, except the royal family, were -virtuous and happy, had cajoled his elder brother Prince Titan out of -his inheritance, under the express condition of destroying, or, according -to the more elegant mystical account, of eating his male children as -soon as they were born. The chief of the gods was at first defeated -and imprisoned by the Titans, but was soon rescued and restored by -Jupiter, the hopeful Crown Prince, who afterwards expelled his -father, and reigned in his stead.</p> - -<p class='c010'>In some such manner real events are represented by the bards of -future generations; with a strange fantastic jumble of hyperbole and -allegory, converted partly or entirely from a figurative to a literal -meaning, the marvels of superstition, childish fancies, and the brilliant -conceptions of poetical genius; while during the whole time there is -but little invention of incident, and far less of any thing like that -artificial fabrication of a continued fiction, which critics like Bossu -have ascribed to Homer so gratuitously, and indeed in such contradiction -to all that is known from experience concerning the progress of -the human mind in any of the arts.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Fictitious incidents would generally be at first introduced by a much -easier method than invention into the narratives of the bards. The -gentlemen of this ancient, itinerant corporation would naturally, in the -course of their peregrinations, become acquainted with many tales, -both foreign and domestic, not generally known to the rest of their -countrymen; and would be tempted to steal the most striking of the -incidents, whether true or false, and transfer them to the characters -in their own histories. Various instances of such pilfering are every -day detected in the story-tellers of society, as well as in authors both -ancient and modern; and hence it sometimes happens that the same -transaction appears in several different associations. Thus, much use -<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>has been made, in various books, of the transaction so well known to -the readers of plays and romances,—the conspiracy for ruining a lady’s -reputation by carrying her friends to a hiding-place from whence they -could spy the improper behaviour of a person who was dressed so as -to resemble her. This clumsy contrivance seems to have been stolen -by Bandello from Ariosto,—and has been employed both by Shakespeare -and Spenser. And when authors endowed with so fertile -inventions condescend to borrow incidents so ill-contrived, (and -indeed they sometimes stoop to still poorer thefts), we cannot doubt -that similar plagiarisms must have been frequent among the inferior -practitioners in the trade of story-making.</p> - -<p class='c010'>In fact, the piracy of incidents may be traced from the most -remote antiquity down to modern times, in the histories both of -supernatural agents and of mortal men. There are strong presumptions -that the Grecian archives of Hercules, and of Jupiter himself, -have been enlarged by plunder both from Egypt and Asia. The -Jewish visionaries superadded to the truths of the sacred Scriptures -many curious anecdotes relating to the celestial principalities,—which -they learned from the authentic records of their Chaldean conquerors. -The Romances of chivalry have been enriched by contributions from -various quarters; from the songs of the Scalds, the bards of the -Northern tribes that overran so many provinces of the Roman empire; -from the tales of Arabia, Persia, and other eastern nations; and -also from the fables transmitted by the classics of Greece and Rome. -Mr. Dunlop very properly rejects any theory which would ascribe -the beauties of romantic fiction to any one of these sources exclusively, -and we shall quote his general account of the subject, as a fair specimen -of his style and sagacity.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘From a view of the character of Arabian and Gothic fiction, it -appears that neither is exclusively entitled to the credit of having -given birth to the wonders of romance. The early framers of the -tales of chivalry may be indebted to the northern bards for those -wild and terrible images congenial to a frozen region, and owe to -Arabian invention that magnificence and splendour, those glowing -descriptions and luxuriant ornaments, suggested by the enchanting -scenery of an eastern climate,</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“And wonders wild of Arabesque combine</div> - <div class='line'>With Gothic imagery of darker shade.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘It cannot be denied, and indeed has been acknowledged by Mr. -Warton, that the fictions of the Arabians and Scalds are totally -different. The fables and superstitions of the Northern bards are of -a darker shade and more savage complexion than those of the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>Arabians. There is something in their fictions that chills the -imagination. The formidable objects of nature with which they -were familiarized in their northern solitudes, their precipices and -frozen mountains and gloomy forests, acted on their fancy, and gave -a tincture of horror to their imagery. Spirits who send storms over -the deep, who rejoice in the shriek of the drowning mariner, or -diffuse irresistible pestilence; spells which preserve from poison, -blunt the weapons of an enemy, or call up the dead from their tombs—these -are the ornaments of northern poetry. The Arabian fictions -are of a more splendid nature; they are less terrible indeed, but -possess more variety and magnificence; they lead us through delightful -forests, and raise up palaces glittering with gold and diamonds.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘It may also be observed, that, allowing the early Scaldic odes to -be genuine, we find in them no dragons, giants, magic rings, or -enchanted castles. These are only to be met with in the compositions -of the bards who flourished after the native vein of Runic fabling had -been enriched by the tales of the Arabians. But if we look in vain -to the early Gothic poetry for many of those fables which adorn the -works of the romancers, we shall easily find them in the ample field -of oriental fiction. Thus the Asiatic romances and chemical works -of the Arabians are full of enchantments similar to those described in -the Spanish, and even in the French, tales of chivalry. Magical -rings were an important part of the eastern philosophy, and seem to -have given rise to those which are of so much service to the Italian -poets. In the Eastern peris, we may trace the origin of the European -fairies in their qualities, and perhaps in their name. The griffin or -hippogriff of the Italian writers, seems to be the famous Simurgh of -the Persians, which makes such a figure in the epic poems of Sadii -and Ferdusii.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘A great number of these romantic wonders were collected in the -East by that idle and lying horde of pilgrims and palmers who visited -the Holy Land through curiosity, restlessness, or devotion, and who, -returning from so great a distance, imposed every fiction on a believing -audience. They were subsequently introduced into Europe by the -Fablers of France, who took up arms and followed their barons to -the conquest of Jerusalem. At their return, they imported into -Europe the wonders they had heard, and enriched romance with an -infinite variety of Oriental fictions.</p> - -<hr class='c013' /> - -<p class='c010'>‘A fourth hypothesis has been suggested, which represents the -machinery and colouring of fiction, the stories of enchanted gardens, -monsters, and winged steeds, which have been introduced into -romance, as derived from the classical and mythological authors; and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>as being merely the ancient stories of Greece, grafted on modern -manners, and modified by the customs of the age. The classical -authors, it is true, were in the middle ages scarcely known; but the -superstitions they inculcated had been prevalent for too long a period, -and had taken too firm a hold on the mind, to be easily obliterated. -The mythological ideas which still lingered behind were diffused in -a multitude of popular works. In the travels of Sir John Mandeville, -there are many allusions to ancient fable; and, as Middleton has -shown that a great number of the Popish rites were derived from -Pagan ceremonies, it is scarcely to be doubted, that many classical -were converted into romantic fictions. This at least is certain, that -the classical system presents the most numerous and least exceptionable -prototypes of the fables of romance.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In many of the tales of chivalry, there is a knight detained from -his guest, by the enticements of a sorceress; and who is nothing more -than the Calypso or Circe of Homer. The story of Andromeda -might give rise to the fable of damsels being rescued by their favourite -knight, when on the point of being devoured by a sea monster. The -heroes of the Iliad and Æneid were both furnished with enchanted -armour; and in the story of Polyphemus, a giant and his cave are -exhibited. Herodotus, in his history, speaks of a race of Cyclops -who inhabited the North, and waged perpetual war with the tribe of -Griffons, which was in possession of mines of gold. The expedition -of Jason in search of the golden fleece; the apples of the Hesperides, -watched by a dragon; the king’s daughter who is an enchantress, -who falls in love with and saves the knight,—are akin to the marvels -of romantic fiction—especially of that sort supposed to have been -introduced by the Arabians. Some of the less familiar fables of -classical mythology, as the image in the Theogony of Hesiod, of the -murky prisons in which the Titans were pent up by Jupiter, under -the custody of strong armed giants, bear a striking resemblance to the -more wild sublimity of the Gothic fictions.’ (Vol. 1. p. 135.)</p> - -<p class='c010'>Thus Bayes is not the only poet whose invention is indebted to his -memory or common-place book; and the art of fictitious narrative, -like every other art, seems to have arisen gradually from very humble -beginnings; and to have consisted, at first, not in the invention of -incidents, but in the exaggeration, natural even to eyewitnesses, in -relating any interesting or surprising event; and afterwards, in -borrowing incidents, true or false, from every quarter, whenever such -a license had the chance of escaping detection, or of being favourably -received.</p> - -<p class='c010'>But the licence, whether of exaggerating, of borrowing, or of -inventing incidents, would be more freely assumed by the bard, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>more indulgently admitted by his audience; and indeed the reports -of travellers, who have always enjoyed a peculiar privilege, would -provide the materials of fiction in greater variety, and of a more -wonderful kind, when the scene of the hero’s adventures happened to -be in distant and unknown regions, inhabited by other races of men, -enclosed by other mountains and other seas, subject to the influence -of other skies, and governed by other gods and another order of -Nature.—The Odyssey is a curious example.—If we except the -usual interposition of the usual deities, the history of what passes in -Ithaca and Greece seems to contain little which may not be more -easily conceived to have actually happened, than to have been invented -by the poet. But when we accompany Ulysses to Italy, Sicily and -Ogygia, countries so little known in those early times to the inhabitants -of Ionia or Greece, we find ourselves in another world. We -meet with the enchantments of Circe, the mother of a large family of -enchantresses; and the songs of Sirens—whose fascinating progeny -has multiplied still more extensively both in verse and in prose. We -meet with Giants who devoured human flesh, and are manifestly near -of kin to the raw-boned gentlemen against whom not only the knights-errant -of after-times, but also our dearly beloved school-fellow Jack -the Giant-killer exerted his prowess and sagacity—though we have -some pleasure in remarking that the more modern giants are of a finer -breed, and farther removed from the savage state, as they look through -two eyes instead of one, and live in castles instead of caves. What -is more wonderful, we meet with the road to hell; not indeed the -broad way through the wide gate, so well known and so much frequented -by men of all ranks in every age of the world; but the -secret path which it requires mystic rites to open, and by which a -hero, a saint, or a poet, with a proper guide and good interest at -court, may not only descend with all his flesh and blood about him to -gratify his curiosity, but also return safe and sound, to entertain his -friends above ground with the sights he saw below.</p> - -<p class='c010'>It appears, then, in what manner the bards, prompted by patriotism, -and the desire of exciting the wonder of their auditors, might be -enabled, without any great trouble of invention, to adorn with fiction -the songs which recorded the exploits of their own countrymen; and -their freedom in this respect would be the greater, according to the -distance of time or place. But all restraint would be removed, when -the hero of the tale was a foreigner. The historical truth would in -this case be indifferent to the audience, and the narrative would be -more acceptable, according as it was more extraordinary, affecting, -and miraculous. Now it is obvious, that as the bards were indebted -to their powers of amusing company for their estimation in society, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>and even for their livelihood, they would be prompted, by vanity and -interest, as well as by their genius and habits, to provide an ample -store and variety of tales; and not to confine themselves to transactions -where they must have been fettered by the national records or traditions, -but to adopt also those other subjects, where they could employ -without control all the materials which were furnished by their -experience, memory or fancy. It is obvious, too, that recourse to -foreign subjects would become the more frequent, according as the -nation advanced in knowledge and refinement, and ceased to depend -on their poets for the preservation of their history. And when the -professions of the poets and historians were completely separated, the -former would be fully and for ever invested with the privilege of -fiction, the <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">quidlibet audendi potestas</span></i>, in all their narratives, whether of -foreign or domestic transactions—subject only to the remonstrances -of the critics, not for telling lies, but for telling ill-contrived or -uninteresting lies.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We have dwelt the longer on the origin of fictitious narrative, not -only because the subject has been strangely misrepresented by the -critics, but also because it is entirely overlooked in our author’s -history. And this oversight seems to have produced another very -material defect, the limitation of his plan to fictions <em>in prose</em>.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The earliest fictions are obviously entitled to the greatest attention, -on account of the information which may be extracted from them -with regard to the history, manners, and opinions of the nation and -age to which they belong. They are also connected with many of -the succeeding fictions; so that, by a mutual comparison, they are all -rendered more intelligible and agreeable, more valuable both to the -antiquary, the philosopher, and the innocents who read for amusement. -But all the early fictions are composed in verse; and after -fiction became less connected with history, many of the finest -specimens of poetry are also the finest specimens of fictitious narrative. -In fact, if we except a very few Italian tales, and some of the first-rate -French and English novels, by far the best fictitious narratives in -existence are poems. And a history of Mathematics which should -exclude Archimedes and Newton, would not be more extraordinary, -than a history of Fiction which excludes Homer, Hesiod, Virgil, -Lucan, Ariosto, Tasso, Chaucer, Spenser, Milton, Scott, Campbell -and Byron.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The reason alleged for this exclusion appears to us, we will confess, -altogether unsatisfactory.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The history of Fiction,’ says our author in his Introduction, -‘becomes in a considerable degree interesting to the philosopher, and -occupies an important place in the history of the progress of society. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>By contemplating the fables of a people, we have a successive -delineation of their prevalent modes of thinking, a picture of their -feelings and tastes and habits. In this respect prose fiction appears -to possess advantages considerably superior either to history or poetry. -In history there is too little individuality; in poetry too much effort, -to permit the poet and historian to pourtray the manners living as -they rise. History treats of man, as it were, in the mass; and the -individuals whom it paints, are regarded merely or principally in a -public light, without taking into consideration their private feelings, -tastes, or habits. Poetry is in general capable of too little detail, -while its paintings at the same time are usually too much forced and -exaggerated. But in Fiction we can discriminate without impropriety, -and enter into detail without meanness. Hence it has been remarked, -that it is chiefly in the fictions of an age that we can discover the -modes of living, dress and manners of the period.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>In the two last sentences it is plain that the author means prose -fictions, and not fictions in general. But we hope he will consider -this matter a little more deliberately. Even though we should -grant all that he has here stated, it would not afford a sufficient -reason for excluding fictitious narratives in verse from the History -of Fiction. But we apprehend that verse is by no means incompatible -with accurate and minute description; for which we may -appeal to the finest poems that have ever yet been published, as -well as to the ruder lays of the bards in the North and West of -Europe, which are of such importance both in the history of Fiction, -and in the history of Society. Of the manners and characters of -the Greek in the heroic ages, we find a distinct and even minute -account in the poems of Homer: but it would not be adviseable to -form our ideas of the Greek Shepherds and Shepherdesses in any -age, from a certain prose romance to which our Author has condescended -to afford a conspicuous place in his history—Longus’s -pastoral tale of Daphnis and Chloe. We doubt much if the manners -of chivalry are as correctly represented in the prose of Amadis de -Gaul, and the long train of prose romances to which it gave rise, -and which occupy so great a portion of the present work; as in the -Orlando Furioso and Gerusalemme liberata, under all the fetters of -the ottava rima. The voluminous histories of Astrea and Cleopatra, -the accomplished Sir Philip Sydney’s Arcadia, and various other -celebrated romances, which are admitted into our author’s history on -account of their prose, and which are chiefly deserving of attention, -from the difficulty of discovering how any body could ever have -been at the trouble to read them, describe a state of society which -never existed any where but in the fantastic imaginations of those -<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>writers, who may <span lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">κατ’ ἐξοχήν</span>—be denominated Prosers. On the -other hand, the Lady of the Lake, Gertrude of Wyoming, the -Bride of Abydos and the Corsair, present in the most harmonious -versification and highest colouring of poetry, many details of national -manners which are not surpassed in accuracy by the plain prose of -that most honest of all travellers, Bell of Antermony. We are far -however from wishing to insinuate that any of the prose romances -which we have mentioned should be excluded from the History of -Fiction. On the contrary we are extremely obliged to Mr. Dunlop -for his judicious and elegant accounts of them. But we regret that -the mere circumstance of versification should have excluded so many -capital or curious works which are essentially connected with a -philosophical and critical delineation of the origin and progress of -Fiction in general, and particularly in the West of Europe.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The present publication, however, although it ought only to be -entitled Sketches of the History of Fiction, is still interesting and -amusing, and in general is respectably executed. But we have only -to look at the first chapter, in order to be sensible of the imperfection -of the plan. This chapter gives a view of the Greek romances in -prose, and begins with a work of Antonius Diogenes in the time of -Alexander the Great, entitled Accounts of the incredible things in -Thule, <span lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">τῶν ὑπὲρ Θουλην ἀπιστῶν λόγοι</span>. It is now, we believe, -extant only in the Epitome of Photius; and is a farrago of absurd -and extravagant stories, which its author acknowledges to have been -collected from former writers. We mention it only to apprise the -reader at how recent a period Mr. Dunlop’s history begins. At this -period, the art of composition, both in prose and verse, had attained -a high degree of excellence; the departments of history and fiction -were completely separated,—though some irregular practices have -existed, down to our own days, of borrowing the ornaments of the latter -department to decorate the former; fiction had been long cultivated -on its own account; the tales which delighted the Milesians, and -which probably borrowed many of their incidents from the neighbouring -and civilised nations of Persia, were then in circulation; and -the intercourse which Alexander’s expedition had opened with the -more easterly nations, must have afforded a copious supply of materials -for the story-tellers of Greece. Thus our author’s history opens, not -in the beginning, but in the midst, of things; an arrangement which, -however commendable in an Epic poem, does not appear so well -adapted to sober history,—not even to a history of Fiction. Nor -does our author, like the Epic poets, fall upon any device for carrying -us back in due time to the commencement of the subject; from -which indeed he is precluded by the artificial limits of his plan.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>Of the Greek Romances in prose, now extant, of any considerable -length (if we except the Cyropœdia, which is a fiction of a very -particular kind, and not intended for popular amusement), the oldest -is not earlier than the end of the fourth century. It is the history of -Theagenes and Chariclea, written by Heliodorus, Bishop of Tricca -in Thessaly, but before his promotion to the episcopal dignity. It is -deserving of notice chiefly on account of the hints which it has -furnished to succeeding writers of eminence, particularly to Tasso and -Guarini; but we mention it here, chiefly for the purpose of recommending -to our author a revisal of the principles of criticism which -he has laid down in his remarks on this Romance. To us it appears -that a story may possess novelty, probability, and variety in its -incidents; that the incidents may be arranged by the narrator, so as -to keep us ignorant of the final issue till the last; that it may possess -all the ornaments which our author has enumerated—a good style, -characters well defined and interesting in themselves, sentiments as -sublime as any in Epictetus, and descriptions as fine as in the -Romance of the Forest, or as correct as in Bell’s Travels; nay, to -crown all, we can even conceive that the story shall be written in -prose;—and yet, that with all these merits, which are all that our -author requires, it shall be a string of events so unimportant or unimpassioned, -that a second perusal would be quite insufferable. Have -we not seen Mr. Cumberland’s novels?</p> - -<p class='c010'>Waiting to be better instructed, we would merely hint at present, -that the proper merit of a Romance consists in Interest and Pathos, -including in Pathos the ludicrous as well as the serious emotions. A -romance is nothing, if it does not preserve alive our anxiety for the -fate of the principal characters, with a constant, though varied, -agitation of the passions. For this purpose, we must be made to -conceive the whole action as passing before us—to hear the conversations -of the different persons—to see their demeanours and looks—to -enter into their thoughts—and to have each of them as distinctly -and individually present to our mind, as the several characters in the -Iliad, in Marianne, in Tom Jones, or in Cecilia. When the -characters are striking, either by their virtues, vices, or follies—and -when our imagination is thus occupied by a succession of scenes in -which these qualities are rendered conspicuous, and in which our -sympathies and aversions, our admiration and laughter, our joy and -sorrow, our hopes and fears, are kept in continual play—we can -forgive many improbabilities and even impossibilities in the story,—as -is well known to the readers of Homer, Ariosto, and Shakespeare: -still less are we displeased with borrowed incidents,—as almost all -our dramatic authors can testify. In fact, there is generally but little -<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>merit in the adoption, or even invention of the simple incident, -compared to the genius of the poet, the actor, or the painter, who -bestows upon it life and passion. Chariclea was appointed by the -priest of Apollo to present to Theagenes the lighted torch for -kindling the sacrifice in the temple of Delphi. They first saw -each other upon this occasion, and became mutually and deeply -enamoured. But how feeble is the impression produced by this dry -narrative, compared to what we feel at Raphael’s glowing picture of -the scene, or compared to what we would have felt if Rousseau had -described the looks and thoughts of the enraptured lovers!—When -they were flying from Delphi to Sicily, their ship was captured by -the pirate Charinus, whom Chariclea implored in vain not to separate -her from Theagenes. We hear without emotion the general account -of the event; but how affecting is it to contemplate, in the picture -drawn by the same great master, the attitude and countenance of -Chariclea as she is kneeling at the Pirate’s feet! And how could -Otway have wrung the heart by the dramatic representation of such -an interview!</p> - -<p class='c010'>It is amusing to observe, at the end of this chapter, how the author -endeavours to persuade himself that his history opens with the origin -of fictitious narrative in Greece. After some general remarks on the -romances he had been reviewing, he adds, ‘In short, these <em>early</em> -fictions are such as might have been expected at the <em>first</em> effort’—as -if the romances produced several centuries after the Christian era, -or even in the time of Alexander the Great, were the first attempts -at fiction in the country of Homer and Hesiod.</p> - -<p class='c010'>In the second chapter, where the author proposes to review the -Latin romances, the principal article is the Ass of Apuleius, which, -from its great popularity, has been called the Golden Ass. It is -an improvement of Lucian’s whimsical tale, entitled Lucius; and -relates the adventures of the author Apuleius during his transformation -into an ass. This misfortune befel him at the house of a female -magician in Thessaly with whom he lodged, and whose maidservant -at his request had stolen a box of ointment from her mistress, by -rubbing himself with which Apuleius expected to be changed into a -bird; but as his friend the damsel had by mistake given him a wrong -box, he found himself compelled to bray and walk on all fours, -instead of whistling and flying in the air. He is informed by -her, that the eating of rose leaves is necessary for his restoration to -the human form. One should imagine that roses might be found as -easily in Thessaly as in this country, where an ass of ordinary -observation and address might contrive, without much difficulty, to -regale himself with one, if he liked it as well as a thistle—and much -<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>more, if it were an object of as great importance to him as to -Apuleius. This poor beast, however, went through many adventures, -some to be sure agreeable enough, but in general very unpleasant, -before he had it in his power to taste a rose leaf. At last, -having one evening escaped from his master, he found unexpectedly -the termination of his misfortunes. We shall quote Mr. Dunlop’s -account of this happy catastrophe.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘He fled unperceived to the fields; and having galloped for three -leagues, he came to a retired place on the shore of the sea. The -moon which was in full splendour, and the awful silence of the night, -inspired him with sentiments of devotion. He purified himself in -the manner prescribed by Pythagoras, and addressed a long prayer -to the great goddess Isis. In the course of the night she appeared -to him in a dream; and after giving a strange account of herself, -announced to him the end of his misfortunes; but demanded in return -the consecration of his whole life to her service. On awakening, he -feels himself confirmed in his resolution of aspiring to a life of virtue. -On this change of disposition and conquest over his passions, the -author finely represents all nature as assuming a new face of cheerfulness -and gaiety. “Tanta hilaritate, praeter peculiarem meam, gestire -mihi cuncta videbantur, ut pecua etiam cujuscemodi, et totas domos, -et ipsam diem serena facie gaudere sentirem.”</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘While in this frame of mind, Apuleius perceived an innumerable -multitude approaching the shore to celebrate the festival of Isis. -Amid the crowd of priests, he remarked the sovereign pontiff, with -a crown of roses on his head; and approached to pluck them. The -pontiff, yielding to a secret inspiration, held forth the garland. Apuleius -resumed his former figure, and the promise of the Goddess was -fulfilled. He was then initiated into her rites—returned to Rome, -and devoted himself to her service.... He was finally invited to -a more mystic and solemn initiation by the Goddess herself, who -rewarded him for his accumulated piety, by an abundance of temporal -blessings.’—<span class='sc'>Vol. i.</span> p. 114.</p> - -<p class='c010'>This romance has acquired great celebrity, from having been -pressed by Warburton into the service of Christianity, in his curious -argument for the Divine Legation of Moses—which we trust is -defensible upon other grounds. We cannot go so far as the learned -prelate; though we think it extremely probable that Apuleius had in -view the general idea of representing, on the one hand, by his metamorphosis, -the degradation of human nature in consequence of a -voluptuous life; and on the other hand, the dignity and happiness -of virtue, by his restoration and admission to the mysteries of Isis. -The Golden Ass, however, is not calculated to make converts from -<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>pleasure; and is chiefly valuable as a book of amusement, written -very agreeably, but not without affectation, and containing some -beautiful tales and many diverting incidents.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Of the ancient Latin romances very few are extant; and it is -probable that the production of these luxuries was checked in Italy -before the end of the fourth century, though the Greek writers continued -for nine or ten centuries afterwards to compose tales of various -kinds both in prose and verse. But, while the idle people of Constantinople -were amusing themselves with their novels, the western -provinces of the Roman empire were laid waste by barbarous invaders; -and a period of extreme misery was at length succeeded by -a new state of society, a new state of government, manners and -opinions, very different from that which had been subverted in the -west, or from that which subsisted in the refined and effeminate provinces -of the east, but far better adapted to rouse the ardour of a -poetical imagination. Hence arose a new and remarkable class of -fictions,—the fictions of Chivalry, which have so long delighted -Britain and France, and Spain and Italy. They are the subject of -the third and three following chapters of our Author’s history.</p> - -<p class='c010'>It is in this portion of his work, particularly, that we have to -lament the unhappy limitation of his plan. The prose romances of -Chivalry were produced for the most part by Bayes’s most expeditious -recipe for original composition, namely, by turning verse into prose,—being -extremely diffuse and languid compilations from the early -metrical tales; and they are in general of little value to the antiquary, -as neither their authors nor their dates can be ascertained. Amadis -de Gaul is one of the most celebrated; and yet it remains undetermined -whether the work now extant under that title has not been -greatly altered from the original; nor can any one tell either who -composed the original, or who manufactured the present work, or -at what time either the one or the other was written. The early -metrical tales are far more deserving of attention as connected with -real history; and if we consider the romances of chivalry merely as -amusements to the imagination, the subject appears better adapted for -verse than for prose. The stately and formal manners of those -ages soon grow wearisome in ordinary narrative, and require to be -enlivened by the rapidity and brilliancy of poetical description: And -who does not feel that the marvellous exploits and supernatural events -with which they abound, deserve rather to be sung to the sound of -the harp, tabret, cymbal, and all manner of musical instruments, than -to be detailed in the sober language of truth, which is absurdly -affected by the prose romancers, who generally announce themselves -as authentic historians, and rail at the falsehood of their -<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>metrical predecessors? Accordingly it is among the poets that we -are to look for the finest specimens of the fictions which we are now -considering; and while the romances of Ariosto, and Tasso and -Scott, are read again and again by persons of all descriptions, even -Mr. Southey’s translation of the great Amadis de Gaul, though it is -ably executed, and has much improved its original by abridging it, -was never popular, and is now almost forgotten.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Our author deviates from his plan so far as to give us a slight -notice of a few of the metrical romances which were preserved in -the library of M. de St. Palaye, the learned writer of the Memoirs -on Chivalry. But with this exception, he gratifies his readers with -an account of the prose romances only; of which the most ancient, -and perhaps the most curious, are those which relate to the fabulous -history of England. Amidst the devastation of the Roman empire in -the west, this island suffered far more than its share of the general -calamity. The Christian religion, which had been elsewhere not -only spared but embraced by the conquerors, was exterminated by -the idolatrous and unlettered Saxons who subdued the British province; -and if any of the Britons were suffered to exist within its -bounds, they were only poor despised stragglers of the lower orders; -while the remnant of its chiefs, clergy and bards—its traditions, its -records, its literature, its very language—were swept into the mountains -of Wales, or beyond the sea into Britany. In these circumstances, -it is not surprising that the history of England should be lost -in fable, from the time that the Saxons got a footing in it, about the -middle of the fifth century, till the year 600, in which they began to -be converted, and civilized, and instructed in letters, by Augustine -and the other missionaries of Pope Gregory the Great. This dark -period of 150 years, between the entrance of the Saxons under -Hengist, and their conversion to Christianity, was the age of the -famous King Arthur, his friend Merlin the Enchanter, and the -Knights of his illustrious order of the Round Table, who are the -great heroes in the older romances of chivalry. Not that these good -people, although they fought stoutly against the invaders, knew any -thing about the etiquette and parade of chivalry, which was not -instituted as an order till long afterwards: but the romancers of the -eleventh and twelfth centuries chose to dress in the fashion of their -own times, the characters whom they found in the stories of Wales -and Britany, or in the chronicle of Geoffry of Monmouth, who -reduced these stories into the form of a regular authentic history, -ascending to Brutus the Trojan, generally denominated Le Brut by -the French, and Brute by the English poets, who was the great-grandson -of Æneas, and the undoubted founder of the British -<span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>kingdom;—a fact which is abundantly confirmed, if it needed confirmation, -by the name Britain, quasi Brutain, evidently derived -from Brutus.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The earliest of the prose romances relating to Arthur, is the -history of Merlin the Enchanter, who was the son of a demon and -an innocent young lady, and favourite minister of Uter Pendragon, -the British king. It was this monarch who instituted at Carduel -(Carlisle), the order of the Round Table; at which were seated 50 -or 60 of the first nobles of the country, with an empty place always -left for the Sangreal. The Sangreal, our readers must know, was -the most precious of all the Christian relics: it was the blood which -flowed from our Saviour’s wounds, preserved in the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">hanap</span></i> or cup in -which he drank with his apostles the night when he was betrayed. -This relic was first in the possession of Joseph of Arimathea, by -whom it was brought to Britain, and afterwards fell into the hands of -king Pecheur, who, by a beautiful ambiguity of the French language, -might have received this name either from being a great fisher or a -great sinner, or both. His nephew, the redoubted knight Percival, -succeeded to his uncle’s kingdom and to the possession of the Sangreal; -which, at the moment of Percival’s death, was in the presence -of his attendants carried up into heaven, and has never since been -seen or heard of. But to return to the romance of Merlin, which is -a favourable specimen of the class to which it belongs—we shall -extract the following account from our author’s history.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Soon after this institution (of the Round Table), the king invited -all his barons to the celebration of a great festival, which he proposed -holding annually at Carduel.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘As the knights had obtained permission from his majesty to bring -their ladies along with them, the beautiful Yguerne accompanied her -husband, the Duke of Tintadiel, to one of these anniversaries. The -king became deeply enamoured of the dutchess, and revealed his -passion to Ulsius, one of his counsellors. Yguerne withstood all the -inducements which Ulsius held forth to prepossess her in favour of -his master; and ultimately disclosed to her husband the attachment -and solicitations of the king. On hearing this, the duke instantly -withdrew from court with Yguerne, and without taking leave of -Uter. The king complained of this want of duty to his council, -who decided, that the duke should be summoned to court, and if -refractory, should be treated as a rebel. As he refused to obey the -citation, the king carried war into the estates of his vassal, and -besieged him in the strong castle of Tintadiel, in which he had shut -himself up. Yguerne was confined in a fortress at some distance, -which was still more secure. During the siege, Ulsius informed his -<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>master that he had been accosted by an old man, who promised to -conduct the king to Yguerne, and had offered to meet him for that -purpose on the following morning. Uter proceeded with Ulsius to -the rendezvous. In an old blind man whom they found at the -appointed place, they recognized the enchanter Merlin, who had -assumed that appearance. He bestowed on the king the form of the -Duke of Tintadiel, while he endowed himself and Ulsius with the -figures of his grace’s two squires. Fortified by this triple metamorphosis, -they proceeded to the residence of Yguerne, who, unconscious -of the deceit, received the king as her husband.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The fraud of Merlin was not detected, and the war continued to -be prosecuted by Uter with the utmost vigour. At length the Duke -was killed in battle, and the King, by the advice of Merlin, espoused -Yguerne. Soon after the marriage she gave birth to Arthur, whom -she believed to be the son of her former husband, as Uter had never -communicated to her the story of his assumed appearance.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘After the death of Uter, there was an interregnum in England, -as it was not known that Arthur was his son. This Prince, however, -was at length chosen King, in consequence of having unfixed -from a miraculous stone, a sword which two hundred and one of the -most valiant barons in the realm had been singly unable to extract. -At the beginning of his reign, Arthur was engaged in a civil war; -as the mode of his election, however judicious, was disapproved -by some of the Barons, and when he had at length overcome his -domestic enemies, he had long wars to sustain against the Gauls and -Saxons.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In all these contests, the art of Merlin was of great service to -Arthur, as he changed himself into a dwarf, a harp player, or a stag, -as the interest of his master required; or at least threw on the bystanders -a spell to fascinate their eyes, and cause them to see the thing -that was not. On one occasion he made an expedition to Rome, -entered the King’s palace in the shape of an enormous stag, and in -this character delivered a formal harangue, to the utter amazement of -one called Julius Cæsar; not the Julius whom the Knight Mars -killed in his pavilion, but him whom Gauvaine slew, because he defied -King Arthur.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘At length this renowned magician disappeared entirely from -England. His voice alone was heard in a forest, where he was -enclosed in a bush of hawthorn: he had been entrapped in this -awkward residence by means of a charm he had communicated to -his mistress Viviane, who not believing in the spell, had tried it on -her lover. The lady was sorry for the accident; but there was -no extracting her admirer from his thorny coverture.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>‘The earliest edition of this romance was printed at Paris, in three -volumes folio, 1498.... Though seldom to be met with, the Roman -de Merlin is one of the most curious romances of the class to which -it belongs. It comprehends all the events connected with the life of -the enchanter, from his supernatural birth to his magical disappearance, -and embraces a longer period of interesting fabulous history than most -of the works of chivalry.... The language, which is very old -French, is remarkable for its beauty and simplicity. Indeed the -work bears everywhere the marks of very high antiquity—though it -is impossible to fix the date of its composition: It has been attributed -to Robert de Borron, to whom many other works of this nature have -been assigned; but it is not known at what time this author existed; -and indeed he is believed by many, and particularly by Mr. Ritson, -to be entirely a fictitious personage’ (<span class='sc'>Vol. i.</span> p. 178).</p> - -<p class='c010'>Our author has given an amusing enough account, not only of the -various prose romances relating to chivalry, but also of those circumstances -in the state of the western nations which gave rise to the -singular institutions and manners of that proud order, and consequently -to this particular species of fiction; and we are moreover instructed -in the origin of the marvels with which these fictions abound. The -subject has been treated so ably, and in such detail, by former -writers, that little new is to be expected; but we have already had -occasion to commend our author’s judgment,—who has not confined -himself to any one of the theories which have been ingeniously -and learnedly maintained on the topic last mentioned, but has -shown that they are all founded on truth, and consistent with each -other.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We shall now refer the reader to the work itself, of which we -have produced abundant specimens. Its multifarious nature is indicated -by the title-page; and it contains much curious information, -both with regard to the particular romances which are reviewed, -and also with regard to the transition of stories from age to age, -and from the novelist to the dramatic poet. But we cannot dismiss -the subject, without stating briefly one or two additional remarks, -which we submit to our author’s consideration in the view of another -edition.</p> - -<p class='c010'>It is a material defect that his Reviews are so general, and so -uniform in their style, that although we are amused with their -pleasantry, they enable us to form but a very imperfect idea of the -original compositions. The abridgments of some of the narratives -are extremely jejune; and although he has inserted in the Appendix -to the first volume some curious passages from the old French -romances, and has even been so obliging as to furnish a specimen of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>John Bunyan’s style in the Pilgrim’s Progress, and of Mrs. Radcliffe’s -in the Romance of the Forest, these favoured writers are almost the -only ones whom he allows to address us in their own persons. Now -it is obvious, that even the detail of all the incidents in a romance -would be a very insufficient ground for judging of its merit. If the -narrative is not animated, interesting, and impassioned, it is deficient -in the essential requisites. But it is Mr. Dunlop who tells all the -stories; and he tells them in his own way. He tells them indeed -agreeably, and in many cases, we believe, more agreeably than the -authors. This, however, is not precisely the entertainment to which -we understood ourselves to have been invited. At another time we -shall be happy to listen to Mr. Dunlop’s uninterrupted lecture; but -on this occasion we expected that he was to introduce us to a great -company of literati,—that he was to show them off and draw them -out: Yet though they are all eager to talk,—being indeed all of -them professed story-tellers, he talks the whole talk himself, and -allows very few of the poor gentlemen to put in a word. It is true -that he is doing the honours, and consequently we expect that he -should prepare us in every case for what we are to hear; but still he -should have let the good people speak a little for themselves, and -then we might have formed some guess of their mettle. Mr. Ellis -has managed this matter better in his specimens of the early metrical -romances.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We must likewise observe, that our author is not always sufficiently -attentive to make his criticisms intelligible to those who are -not acquainted with the original works. Thus, after giving us an -outline of the Greek story of Clitophon and Leucippe, he remarks -(<span class='sc'>Vol. i.</span> p. 38) that a number of the incidents are original (how does -he know that?) and well imagined; ‘such as the beautiful incident -of the Bee, which has been adopted by Tasso and D’Urfé:’ of -which mysterious bee we do not hear another syllable either before or -afterwards.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The state of Fiction in modern times is by far the finest and most -interesting part of the whole subject; but our author’s account of it -is extremely imperfect indeed, and seems to have been got up in very -great haste, that the contents of his chapters might have some correspondence -with his title-page. In fact, it is so inferior to what he has -shown himself capable of accomplishing, that it would not be fair to -advert to it more particularly.—There is however one incidental -circumstance which we cannot omit. Miss Burney is mentioned, -only to suggest that both the general incidents and the leading characters -in Evelina have been derived from Mrs. Heywood’s stupid -history of Betsy Thoughtless. This is really too much in the style -<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>of the schoolboy critics,—who make a prodigious noise about originality -and invention, without attending to what constitutes the real -value of works addressed to the imagination. Does it derogate -from Shakespeare’s genius, that his fables are not his own? Or -does any person now suppose that Homer invented, or would it -have been much to his credit if he had invented, the story of the -Trojan war, or even the principal events in his immortal poems? -We will not however resume this topic, which we had already -occasion to consider; but only observe, that from whatever quarter -the author of Evelina may have derived the hints of her stories and -characters, there are but few novelists who deserve to be compared -to her in the capital merit of a powerful dramatic effect.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We shall conclude with merely suggesting that our author’s history -would be greatly improved if he were careful to trace the connexion -between the variations in the popular fictions of the western nations of -Europe, and the variations in the political, moral, religious and literary -state of those nations since the first establishment of the feudal governments. -There are not wanting materials and helps for such an -investigation; and as Mr. Dunlop is a man of erudition and research, -we have no doubt that he would find it an interesting amusement for -his leisure hours.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Upon the whole, though we wish to see the History of Fiction -executed on a very different plan, and with a greater spirit of philosophical -inquiry and critical acuteness, we recommend the present -publication as an agreeable and curious Miscellany, which discovers -uncommon information and learning.</p> - -<h3 class='c008'>STANDARD NOVELS AND ROMANCES</h3> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Vol. xxiv.</span>]      [<em>February 1815.</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>There is an exclamation in one of Gray’s letters—‘Be mine to read -eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon!’ If we did not -utter a similar aspiration at the conclusion of the Wanderer, it was -not from any want of affection for the class of writing to which it -belongs; for, without going quite so far as the celebrated French -philosopher, who thought that more was to be learnt from good -novels and romances, than from the gravest treatises on history and -morality, we must confess, that there are few works to which we -oftener turn for profit or delight, than to the standard productions in -this species of composition. With the exception of the violently -satirical, and the violently sentimental specimens of the art, we find -<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>there the closest imitation of men and manners; and are admitted to -examine the very web and texture of society, as it really exists, and -as we meet with it when we come into the world. If the style of -poetry has ‘something more divine in it,’ this savours more of -humanity. We are brought acquainted with an infinite variety -of characters—all a little more amusing, and, for the greater part, -more true to general nature than those which we meet with in -actual life—and have our moral impressions far more frequently -called out, and our moral judgments exercised, than in the busiest -career of existence. As a record of past manners and opinions, too, -such writings afford both more minute and more abundant information -than any other. To give one example only:—We should really be -at a loss where to find, in any authentic documents of the same -period, so satisfactory an account of the general state of society, -and of moral, political and religious feeling, in the reign of George <span class='fss'>II.</span> -as we meet with in the Adventures of Joseph Andrews and his friend -Mr. Abraham Adams. This work, indeed, we take to be a perfect -piece of statistics in its kind; and do not know from what other -quarter we could have acquired the solid information it contains, -even as to this comparatively recent period. What a thing it would -be to have such a work of the age of Pericles or Alexander! and -how much more would it teach us as to the true character and -condition of the people among whom it was produced, than all the -tragedies and histories, and odes and orations, that have been -preserved of their manufacture! In looking into such grave and -ostentatious performances, we see little but the rigid skeleton of -public transactions—exaggerations of party zeal, and vestiges of -literary ambition; and if we wish really to know what was the -state of manners and of morals, and in what way, and into what -forms, principles and institutions were actually moulded in practice, -we cannot do better than refer to the works of those writers, who, -having no other object than to imitate nature, could only hope for -success from the fidelity of their pictures; and were bound (in their -own defence) to reduce the boasts of vague theorists, and the exaggerations -of angry disputants, to the mortifying standard of reality.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We will here confess however, that we are a little prejudiced on -the point in question; and that the effect of many fine speculations -has been lost upon us, from an early familiarity with the most -striking passages in the little work to which we have just alluded. -Thus, nothing can be more captivating than the description somewhere -given by Mr. Burke, of the indissoluble connexion between -learning and nobility; and of the respect universally paid by wealth -to piety and morals. But the effect of this splendid representation -<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>has always been spoiled to us, by our recollection of Parson Adams -sitting over his cup of ale in Sir Thomas Booby’s kitchen. Echard -‘On the Contempt of the Clergy,’ in like manner, is certainly a very -good book, and its general doctrine more just and reasonable; but -an unlucky impression of the reality of Parson Trulliber always -checks, in us, the respectful emotions to which it should give rise: -while the lecture which Lady Booby reads to Lawyer Scout on the -expulsion of Joseph and Fanny from the parish, casts an unhappy -shade over the splendid pictures of practical jurisprudence that are to -be found in the works of Blackstone or De Lolme. The most -moral writers, after all, are those who do not pretend to inculcate -any moral: The professed moralist almost unavoidably degenerates -into the partisan of a system; and the philosopher warps the evidence -to his own purpose. But the painter of manners gives the facts of -human nature, and leaves us to draw the inference: If we are not -able to do this, or do it ill, at least it is our own fault.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The first-rate writers in this class are of course few; but those -few we may reckon, without scruple, among the greatest ornaments -and the best benefactors of our kind. There is a certain set of them, -who, as it were, take their rank by the side of reality, and are -appealed to as evidence on all questions concerning human nature. -The principal of these are Cervantes and Le Sage; and, among -ourselves, Fielding, Richardson, Smollett, and Sterne.<a id='r1' /><a href='#f1' class='c014'><sup>[1]</sup></a> As this is a -department of criticism which deserves more attention than we -have ever yet bestowed on it, we shall venture to treat it a little -in detail; and endeavour to contribute something towards settling -the standard of excellence, both as to degree and kind, in these -several writers.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We shall begin with the renowned history of Don Quixote; who -always presents something more stately, more romantic, and at the -same time more real to our imagination, than any other hero upon -record. His lineaments, his accoutrements, his pasteboard visor, are -familiar to us, as the recollections of our early home. The spare -and upright figure of the hero paces distinctly before our eyes; and -Mambrino’s helmet still glitters in the sun! We not only feel the -greatest love and veneration for the knight himself, but a certain -respect for all those connected with him—the Curate, and Master -Nicolas the barber—Sancho and Dapple—and even for Rosinante’s -leanness and his errors! Perhaps there is no work which combines -so much originality with such an air of truth. Its popularity is -<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>almost unexampled; and yet its real merits have not been sufficiently -understood. The story is the least part of them; though the -blunders of Sancho, and the unlucky adventures of his master, are -what naturally catch the attention of ordinary readers. The pathos -and dignity of the sentiments are often disguised under the ludicrousness -of the subject; and provoke laughter when they might well -draw tears. The character of Don Quixote itself is one of the -most perfect disinterestedness. He is an enthusiast of the most -amiable kind—of a nature equally open, gentle and generous; a -lover of truth and justice, and one who had brooded over the fine -dreams of chivalry and romance, till the dazzling visions cheated -his brain into a belief of their reality. There cannot, in our opinion, -be a greater mistake than to consider Don Quixote as a merely -satirical work, or an attempt to explode, by coarse raillery, ‘the -long forgotten order of chivalry.’ There could be no need to -explode what no longer existed. Besides, Cervantes himself was -a man of the most sanguine and enthusiastic temperament; and even -through the crazed and battered figure of the knight, the spirit of -chivalry shines out with undiminished lustre; and one might almost -imagine that the author had half-designed to revive the example of -past ages, and once more ‘witch the world with noble horsemanship’; -and had veiled the design, in scorn of the degenerate age to which it -was addressed, under this fantastic and imperfect disguise of romantic -and ludicrous exaggeration. However that may be, the spirit which -the book breathes, to those who relish and understand it best, is -unquestionably the spirit of chivalry: nor perhaps is it too much to -say, that, if ever the flame of Spanish liberty is destined to break -forth, wrapping the tyrant and the tyranny in one consuming blaze, it -is owing to Cervantes and his knight of La Mancha, that the spark -of generous sentiment and romantic enterprise from which it must be -kindled, has not been quite extinguished.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The character of Sancho is not more admirable in the execution, -than in the conception, as a relief to that of the knight. The -contrast is as picturesque and striking as that between the figures of -Rosinante and Dapple. Never was there so complete a <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">partie -quarrée</span></i>;—they answer to one another at all points. Nothing can -surpass the truth of physiognomy in the description of the master -and man, both as to body and mind;—the one lean and tall, the -other round and short;—the one heroical and courteous, the other -selfish and servile;—the one full of high-flown fancies, the other a -bag of proverbs;—the one always starting some romantic scheme, -the other always keeping to the safe side of tradition and custom. -The gradual ascendancy, too, obtained by Don Quixote over Sancho, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>is as finely managed as it is characteristic. Credulity, and a love of -the marvellous, are as natural to ignorance as selfishness and cunning. -Sancho by degrees becomes a kind of lay-brother of the order; -acquires a taste for adventures in his own way, and is made all but an -entire convert, by the discovery of the hundred crowns in one of his -most comfortless journeys. Towards the end, his regret at being -forced to give up the pursuit of knight-errantry, almost equals his -master’s; and he seizes the proposal of Don Quixote to turn -shepherds, with the greatest avidity,—still applying it, however, in -his own fashion; for while the Don is ingeniously torturing the names -of his humble acquaintance into classical terminations, and contriving -scenes of gallantry and song, Sancho exclaims, ‘Oh, what delicate -wooden spoons shall I carve! what crumbs and cream shall I devour!’—forgetting, -in his milk and fruits, the pullets and geese at Camacho’s -wedding.</p> - -<p class='c010'>This intuitive perception of the hidden analogies of things, or, as -it may be called, this <em>instinct of imagination</em>, is what stamps the -character of genius on the productions of art, more than any other -circumstance: for it works unconsciously, like nature, and receives its -impressions from a kind of inspiration. There is more of this unconscious -power in Cervantes, than in any other author, except Shakespeare. -Something of the same kind extends itself to all the subordinate parts -and characters of the work. Thus we find the curate confidentially -informing Don Quixote, that if he could get the ear of the government, -he has something of considerable importance to propose for the -good of the state; and the knight afterwards meets with a young -gentleman, who is a candidate for poetical honours, with a mad lover, -a forsaken damsel, &c.—all delineated with the same inimitable -force, freedom, and fancy. The whole work breathes that air of -romance,—that aspiration after imaginary good,—that longing after -something more than we possess, that in all places, and in all -conditions of life,</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>——‘still prompts the eternal sigh,</div> - <div class='line'>For which we wish to live, or dare to die!’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>The characters in Don Quixote are strictly individuals; that is, -they do not belong to, but form a class of themselves. In other -words, the actions and manners of the chief <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">dramatis personæ</span></i> do not -arise out of the actions and manners of those around them, or the -condition of life in which they are placed, but out of the peculiar -dispositions of the persons themselves, operated upon by certain -impulses of imagination and accident: Yet these impulses are so true -to nature, and their operation so truly described, that we not only -<span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>recognize the fidelity of the representation, but recognize it with -all the advantages of novelty superadded. They are unlike any -thing we have actually seen—may be said to be purely ideal—and -yet familiarize themselves more readily with our imagination, -and are retained more strongly in memory, than perhaps any others:—they -are never lost in the crowd. One test of the truth of -this ideal painting, is the number of allusions which Don Quixote -has furnished to the whole of civilized Europe—that is to say of -appropriate cases, and striking illustrations of the universal principles -of our nature. The common incidents and descriptions of human -life are, however, quite familiar and natural; and we have nearly the -same insight given us here, into the characters of inn-keepers, bar-maids, -ostlers, and puppet-show men, as in Fielding himself. There -is a much greater mixture, however, of sentiment with <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">naïveté</span></i>, of the -pathetic with the quaint and humorous, than there ever is in Fielding. -We might instance the story of the country man, whom Don Quixote -and Sancho met in their search after Dulcinea, driving his mules to -plough at break of day, and ‘singing the ancient ballad of Roncesvalles!’ -The episodes which are introduced, are excellent; but -have, upon the whole, been overrated. Compared with the serious -tales in Boccacio, they are trifling. That of Marcella, the fair -shepherdess, is the best. We will only add, that Don Quixote is an -entirely original work in its kind, and that the author has the highest -honour which can belong to one, that of being the founder of a new -style of writing.</p> - -<p class='c010'>There is another Spanish novel, Gusman d’Alfarache, nearly of -the same age as Don Quixote, and of great genius, though it can -hardly be ranked as a novel, or a work of imagination. It is a series -of strange adventures, rather drily told, but accompanied by the -most severe and sarcastic commentary. The satire, the wit, the -eloquence, and reasoning, are of the most powerful kind; but they -are didactic, rather than dramatic. They would suit a sermon or a -pasquinade better than a romance. Still there are in this extraordinary -book, occasional sketches of character, and humorous descriptions, -to which it would be difficult to produce any thing superior. This -work, which is hardly known in this country except by name, has -the credit, without any reason, of being the original of Gil Blas. -There is only one incident the same, that of the supper at the inn. -In all other respects, these two works are the very reverse of each -other, both in their excellencies and defects.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Gil Blas is, next to Don Quixote, more generally read and -admired than any other novel—and, in one sense, deservedly so: for -it is at the head of its class, though that class is very different from, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>and inferior to the other. There is very little individual character in -Gil Blas. The author is a describer of manners, and not of character. -He does not take the elements of human nature, and work them up -into new combinations, (which is the excellence of Don Quixote); -nor trace the peculiar and striking combinations of folly and knavery -as they are to be found in real life, (like Fielding); but he takes off, -as it were, the general, habitual impression, which circumstances -make on certain conditions of life, and moulds all his characters -accordingly. All the persons whom he introduces, carry about with -them the badge of their profession; and you see little more of them -than their costume. He describes men as belonging to certain classes -in society—the highest, generally, and the lowest, and such as are -found in great cities—not as they are in themselves, or with the -individual differences which are always to be found in nature. His -hero, in particular, has no character but that of the accidental -circumstances in which he is placed. His priests are only described -as priests: his valets, his players, his women, his courtiers and his -sharpers, are all the same. Nothing can well exceed the monotony -of the work in this respect;—at the same time that nothing can -exceed the truth and precision with which the general manners of -these different characters are preserved, nor the felicity of the -particular traits by which their leading foibles are brought out to -notice. Thus, the Archbishop of Grenada will remain an everlasting -memento of the weakness of human vanity; and the account of -Gil Blas’s legacy, of the uncertainty of human expectations. This -novel is as deficient in the fable as in the characters. It is not -a regularly constructed story; but a series of adventures told with -equal gaiety and good sense, and in the most graceful style possible.</p> - -<p class='c010'>It has been usual to class our great novelists as imitators of one or -other of these two writers. Fielding, no doubt, is more like Don -Quixote than Gil Blas; Smollett is more like Gil Blas than Don -Quixote: but there is not much resemblance in either case. Sterne’s -Tristram Shandy is a more direct instance of imitation. Richardson -can scarcely be called an imitator of any one; or, if he is, it is of the -sentimental refinement of Marivaux, or the verbose gallantry of the -writers of the seventeenth century.</p> - -<p class='c010'>There is very little to warrant the common idea, that Fielding was -an imitator of Cervantes,—except his own declaration of such an -intention, in the title-page of Joseph Andrews,—the romantic turn of -the character of Parson Adams (the only romantic character in his -works),—and the proverbial humour of Partridge, which is kept up -only for a few pages. Fielding’s novels are, in general, thoroughly -his own; and they are thoroughly English. What they are most -<span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>remarkable for, is neither sentiment, nor imagination, nor wit, nor -humour, though there is a great deal of this last quality; but profound -knowledge of human nature—at least of English nature—and -masterly pictures of the characters of men as he saw them existing. -This quality distinguishes all his works, and is shown almost equally -in all of them. As a painter of real life, he was equal to Hogarth: -As a mere observer of human nature, he was little inferior to -Shakespeare, though without any of the genius and poetical qualities -of his mind.—His humour is less rich and laughable than Smollett’s; -his wit as often misses as hits;—he has none of the fine pathos of -Richardson or Sterne:—But he has brought together a greater -variety of characters in common life,—marked with more distinct -peculiarities, and without an atom of caricature, than any other novel -writer whatever. The extreme subtility of observation on the -springs of human conduct in ordinary characters, is only equalled by -the ingenuity of contrivance in bringing those springs into play in -such a manner as to lay open their smallest irregularity. The -detection is always complete—and made with the certainty and skill -of a philosophical experiment, and the ease and simplicity of a casual -observation. The truth of the imitation is indeed so great, that it has -been argued that Fielding must have had his materials ready-made to -his hands, and was merely a transcriber of local manners and -individual habits. For this conjecture, however, there seems to be no -foundation. His representations, it is true, are local and individual; -but they are not the less profound and natural. The feeling of the -general principles of human nature operating in particular circumstances, -is always intense, and uppermost in his mind: and he makes -use of incident and situation, only to bring out character.</p> - -<p class='c010'>It is perhaps scarcely necessary to give any illustration of these -remarks. Tom Jones is full of them. The moral of this book has -been objected to, and not altogether without reason—but a more -serious objection has been made to the want of refinement and -elegance in the two principal characters. We never feel this -objection, indeed, while we are reading the book: but at other times, -we have something like a lurking suspicion that Jones was but an -awkward fellow, and Sophia a pretty simpleton. We do not know -how to account for this effect, unless it is that Fielding’s constantly -assuring us of the beauty of his hero, and the good sense of his -heroine, at last produces a distrust of both. The story of Tom Jones -is allowed to be unrivalled: and it is this circumstance, together with -the vast variety of characters, that has given the history of a Foundling -so decided a preference over Fielding’s other novels. The -characters themselves, both in Amelia and Joseph Andrews, are quite -<span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>equal to any of those in Tom Jones. The account of Miss Mathews -and Ensign Hibbert—the way in which that lady reconciles herself -to the death of her father—the inflexible Colonel Bath, the insipid -Mrs. James, the complaisant Colonel Trent—the demure, sly, -intriguing, equivocal Mrs. Bennet—the lord who is her seducer, and -who attempts afterwards to seduce Amelia by the same mechanical -process of a concert-ticket, a book, and the disguise of a great-coat—his -little fat short-nosed, red-faced, good-humoured accomplice the -keeper of the lodging-house, who having no pretensions to gallantry -herself, has a disinterested delight in forwarding the intrigues and -pleasures of others, (to say nothing of honest Atkinson, the story of -the miniature-picture of Amelia, and the hashed mutton, which are in -a different style), are masterpieces of description. The whole scene -at the lodging-house, the masquerade, &c. in Amelia, is equal in interest -to the parallel scenes in Tom Jones, and even more refined in the -knowledge of character. For instance, Mrs. Bennet is superior to Mrs. -Fitzpatrick in her own way. The uncertainty in which the event of -her interview with her former seducer is left, is admirable. Fielding -was a master of what may be called the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">double entendre</span></i> of character, -and surprises you no less by what he leaves in the dark, (hardly -known to the persons themselves), than by the unexpected discoveries -he makes of the real traits and circumstances in a character with -which, till then, you find you were unacquainted. There is nothing -at all heroic, however, in the style of any of his delineations. He -never draws lofty characters or strong passions;—all his persons are -of the ordinary stature as to intellect; and none of them trespass on -the angelic nature, by elevation of fancy, or energy of purpose. -Perhaps, after all, Parson Adams is his finest character. It is equally -true to nature, and more ideal than any of the others. Its unsuspecting -simplicity makes it not only more amiable, but doubly amusing, by -gratifying the sense of superior sagacity in the reader. Our laughing -at him does not once lessen our respect for him. His declaring that -he would willingly walk ten miles to fetch his sermon on vanity, -merely to convince Wilson of his thorough contempt of this vice, and -his consoling himself for the loss of his Æschylus, by suddenly -recollecting that he could not read it if he had it, because it is dark, -are among the finest touches of <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">naïveté</span></i>. The night-adventures at -Lady Booby’s with Beau Didapper, and the amiable Slipslop, are the -most ludicrous; and that with the huntsman, who draws off the -hounds from the poor Parson, because they would be spoiled by -following <em>vermin</em>, the most profound. Fielding did not often repeat -himself: but Dr. Harrison, in Amelia, may be considered as a -variation of the character of Adams: so also is Goldsmith’s Vicar of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>Wakefield; and the latter part of that work, which sets out so -delightfully, an almost entire plagiarism from Wilson’s account of -himself, and Adams’s domestic history.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Smollett’s first novel, Roderick Random, which is also his best, -appeared about the same time as Fielding’s Tom Jones; and yet it -has a much more modern air with it: But this may be accounted -for, from the circumstance that Smollett was quite a young man at the -time, whereas Fielding’s manner must have been formed long before. -The style of Roderick Random, though more scholastic and elaborate, -is stronger and more pointed than that of Tom Jones; the incidents -follow one another more rapidly, (though it must be confessed they -never come in such a throng, or are brought out with the same -dramatic facility); the humour is broader, and as effectual; and -there is very nearly, if not quite, an equal interest excited by the -story. What then is it that gives the superiority to Fielding? It is -the superior insight into the springs of human character, and the -constant development of that character through every change of -circumstance. Smollett’s humour often arises from the situation of -the persons, or the peculiarity of their external appearance, as, from -Roderick Random’s carrotty locks, which hung down over his -shoulders like a pound of candles, or Strap’s ignorance of London, -and the blunders that follow from it. There is a tone of vulgarity -about all his productions. The incidents frequently resemble -detached anecdotes taken from a newspaper or magazine; and, like -those in Gil Blas, might happen to a hundred other characters. He -exhibits only the external accidents and reverses to which human life -is liable—not ‘the stuff’ of which it is composed. He seldom -probes to the quick, or penetrates beyond the surface of his characters: -and therefore he leaves no stings in the minds of his readers, and in -this respect is far less interesting than Fielding. His novels always -enliven, and never tire us: we take them up with pleasure, and lay -them down without any strong feeling of regret. We look on and -laugh, as spectators of an amusing though inelegant scene, without -closing in with the combatants, or being made parties in the event. -We read Roderick Random as an entertaining story; for the -particular accidents and modes of life which it describes, have ceased -to exist: but we regard Tom Jones as a real history; because the -author never stops short of those essential principles which lie at the -bottom of all our actions, and in which we feel an immediate interest;—<i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">intus -et in cute</span></i>.—Smollett excels most as the lively caricaturist: -Fielding as the exact painter and profound metaphysician. We are -far from maintaining, that this account applies uniformly to the productions -of these two writers; but we think that, as far as they -<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>essentially differ, what we have stated is the general distinction -between them. Roderick Random is the purest of Smollett’s -novels; we mean in point of style and description. Most of the -incidents and characters are supposed to have been taken from the -events of his own life; and are therefore truer to nature. There is -a rude conception of generosity in some of his characters, of which -Fielding seems to have been incapable; his amiable persons being -merely good-natured. It is owing to this, we think, that Strap is -superior to Partridge; and there is a heartiness and warmth of feeling -in some of the scenes between Lieutenant Bowling and his nephew, -which is beyond Fielding’s power of impassioned writing. The -whole of the scene on ship-board is a most admirable and -striking picture, and, we imagine, very little, if at all exaggerated, -though the interest it excites is of a very unpleasant kind. The -picture of the little profligate French friar, who was Roderick’s -travelling companion, and of whom he always kept to the windward, -is one of Smollett’s most masterly sketches. Peregrine Pickle is no -great favourite of ours, and Launcelot Greaves was not worthy of -the genius of the author.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Humphry Clinker and Count Fathom are both equally admirable -in their way. Perhaps the former is the most pleasant gossipping -novel that ever was written—that which gives the most pleasure with -the least effort to the reader. It is quite as amusing as going the -journey could have been, and we have just as good an idea of what -happened on the road, as if we had been of the party. Humphry -Clinker himself is exquisite; and his sweetheart, Winifred Jenkins, -nearly as good. Matthew Bramble, though not altogether original, is -excellently supported, and seems to have been the prototype of Sir -Anthony Absolute in the Rivals. But Lismahago is the flower of -the flock. His tenaciousness in argument is not so delightful as -the relaxation of his logical severity, when he finds his fortune mellowing -with the wintry smiles of Mrs. Tabitha Bramble. This is the -best preserved, and most original of all Smollett’s characters. The -resemblance of Don Quixote is only just enough to make it interesting -to the critical reader, without giving offence to any body else. -The indecency and filth in this novel, are what must be allowed to -all Smollett’s writings. The subject and characters in Count Fathom -are, in general, exceedingly disgusting: the story is also spun out to -a degree of tediousness in the serious and sentimental parts; but there -is more power of writing occasionally shown in it than in any of his -works. We need only refer to the fine and bitter irony of the -Count’s address to the country of his ancestors on landing in England; -to the robber-scene in the forest, which has never been surpassed; to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>the Parisian swindler, who personates a raw English country squire, -(Western is tame in the comparison); and to the story of the -seduction in the west of England. We should have some difficulty -to point out, in any author, passages written with more force and -nature than these.</p> - -<p class='c010'>It is not, in our opinion, a very difficult attempt to class Fielding -or Smollett;—the one as an observer of the characters of human life, -the other as a describer of its various eccentricities: But it is by no -means so easy to dispose of Richardson, who was neither an observer -of the one, nor a describer of the other; but who seemed to spin his -materials entirely out of his own brain, as if there had been nothing -existing in the world beyond the little shop in which he sat writing. -There is an artificial reality about his works, which is nowhere to be -met with. They have the romantic air of a pure fiction, with the -literal minuteness of a common diary. The author had the strangest -matter-of-fact imagination that ever existed, and wrote the oddest -mixture of poetry and prose. He does not appear to have taken -advantage of any thing in actual nature, from one end of his works to -the other: and yet, throughout all his works (voluminous as they -are—and this, to be sure, is one reason why they are so), he sets -about describing every object and transaction, as if the whole had -been given in on evidence by an eyewitness. This kind of high -finishing from imagination is an anomaly in the history of human -genius; and certainly nothing so fine was ever produced by the same -accumulation of minute parts. There is not the least distraction, the -least forgetfulness of the end: every circumstance is made to tell. -We cannot agree that this exactness of detail produces heaviness; on -the contrary, it gives an appearance of truth, and a positive interest to -the story; and we listen with the same attention as we should to the -particulars of a confidential communication. We at one time used to -think some parts of Sir Charles Grandison rather trifling and tedious, -especially the long description of Miss Harriet Byron’s wedding -clothes, till we met with two young ladies who had severally copied -out the whole of that very description for their own private gratification. -After this, we could not blame the author.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The effect of reading this work, is like an increase of kindred: -you find yourself all of a sudden introduced into the midst of a large -family, with aunts and cousins to the third and fourth generation, and -grandmothers both by the father’s and mother’s side,—and a very -odd set of people too, but people whose real existence and personal -identity you can no more dispute than your own senses,—for you see -and hear all that they do or say. What is still more extraordinary, -all this extreme elaborateness in working out the story, seems to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>have cost the author nothing: for it is said, that the published works -are mere abridgments. We have heard (though this, we suppose, -must be a pleasant exaggeration), that Sir Charles Grandison was -originally written in eight and twenty volumes.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Pamela is the first of his productions, and the very child of his -brain. Taking the general idea of the character of a modest and -beautiful country girl, and of the situation in which she is placed, he -makes out all the rest, even to the smallest circumstance, by the mere -force of a reasoning imagination. It would seem as if a step lost -would be as fatal here as in a mathematical demonstration. The -development of the character is the most simple, and comes the -nearest to nature that it can do, without being the same thing. The -interest of the story increases with the dawn of understanding and -reflection in the heroine. Her sentiments gradually expand themselves, -like opening flowers. She writes better every time, and -acquires a confidence in herself, just as a girl would do, writing such -letters in such circumstances; and yet it is certain <em>that no girl would -write such letters in such circumstances</em>. What we mean is this. -Richardson’s nature is always the nature of sentiment and reflection, -not of impulse or situation. He furnishes his characters, on every -occasion, with the presence of mind of the author. He makes them -act, not as they would from the impulse of the moment, but as they -might upon reflection, and upon a careful review of every motive and -circumstance in their situation. They regularly sit down to write -letters: and if the business of life consisted in letter-writing, and was -carried on by the post (like a Spanish game at chess), human nature -would be what Richardson represents it. All actual objects and -feelings are blunted and deadened by being presented through a -medium which may be true to reason, but is false in nature. He -confounds his own point of view with that of the immediate actors in -the scene; and hence presents you with a conventional and factitious -nature, instead of that which is real. Dr. Johnson seems to have -preferred this truth of reflection to the truth of nature, when he said -that there was more knowledge of the human heart in a page of -Richardson than in all Fielding. Fielding, however, saw more of -the practical results, and understood the principles as well; but he -had not the same power of speculating upon their possible results, and -combining them in certain ideal forms of passion and imagination, -which was Richardson’s real excellence.</p> - -<p class='c010'>It must be observed, however, that it is this mutual good understanding, -and comparing of notes between the author and the persons -he describes; his infinite circumspection, his exact process of ratiocination -and calculation, which gives such an appearance of coldness -<span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>and formality to most of his characters,—which makes prudes of his -women, and coxcombs of his men. Every thing is too conscious in -his works. Every thing is distinctly brought home to the mind of -the actors in the scene, which is a fault undoubtedly: but then, it -must be confessed, every thing is brought home in its full force to the -mind of the reader also; and we feel the same interest in the story -as if it were our own. Can any thing be more beautiful or affecting -than Pamela’s reproaches to her ‘lumpish heart’ when she is sent -away from her master’s at her own request—its lightness, when she -is sent for back—the joy which the conviction of the sincerity of his -love diffuses in her heart, like the coming-on of spring—the artifice -of the stuff gown—the meeting with lady Davers after her marriage—and -the trial scene with her husband? Who ever remained -insensible to the passion of Lady Clementina, except Sir Charles -Grandison himself, who was the object of it? Clarissa is, however, -his masterpiece, if we except Lovelace. If she is fine in herself, she -is still finer in his account of her. With that foil, her purity is -dazzling indeed: and she who could triumph by her virtue, and the -force of her love, over the regality of Lovelace’s mind, his wit, his -person, his accomplishments and his spirit, conquers all hearts. We -should suppose that never sympathy more deep or sincere was excited -than by the heroine of Richardson’s romance, except by the calamities -of real life. The links in this wonderful chain of interest are not -more finely wrought, than their whole weight is overwhelming and -irresistible. Who can forget the exquisite gradations of her long -dying scene, or the closing of the coffin-lid, when Miss Howe comes -to take her last leave of her friend; or the heart-breaking reflection -that Clarissa makes on what was to have been her wedding-day? -Well does a modern writer exclaim—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Books are a real world, both pure and good,</div> - <div class='line'>Round which, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,</div> - <div class='line'>Our pastime and our happiness may grow!’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Richardson’s wit was unlike that of any other writer;—his -humour was so too. Both were the effect of intense activity of -mind;—laboured, and yet completely effectual. We might refer to -Lovelace’s reception and description of Hickman, when he calls out -Death in his ear, as the name of the person with whom Clarissa had -fallen in love; and to the scene at the glove shop. What can be -more magnificent than his enumeration of his companions—‘Belton -so pert and so pimply—Tourville so fair and so foppish,’ etc.? In -casuistry, he is quite at home; and, with a boldness greater even -than his puritanical severity, has exhausted every topic on virtue and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>vice. There is another peculiarity in Richardson, not perhaps so -uncommon, which is, his systematically preferring his most insipid -characters to his finest, though both were equally his own invention, -and he must be supposed to have understood something of their qualities. -Thus he preferred the little, selfish, affected, insignificant Miss Byron, -to the divine Clementina; and again, Sir Charles Grandison, to the -nobler Lovelace. We have nothing to say in favour of Lovelace’s -morality; but Sir Charles is the prince of coxcombs,—whose eye was -never once taken from his own person, and his own virtues; and there -is nothing which excites so little sympathy as his excessive egotism.</p> - -<p class='c010'>It remains to speak of Sterne;—and we shall do it in few words. -There is more of <em>mannerism</em> and affectation in him, and a more -immediate reference to preceding authors;—but his excellencies, -where he is excellent, are of the first order. His characters are -intellectual and inventive, like Richardson’s—but totally opposite in -the execution. The one are made out by continuity, and patient -repetition of touches; the others, by rapid and masterly strokes, and -graceful apposition. His style is equally different from Richardson’s:—it -is at times the most rapid,—the most happy,—the most -idiomatic of any of our novel writers. It is the pure essence of -English conversational style. His works consist only of <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">morceaux</span></i>,—of -brilliant passages. His wit is poignant, though artificial;—and his -characters (though the groundwork has been laid before), have yet -invaluable original differences;—and the spirit of the execution, the -master-strokes constantly thrown into them, are not to be surpassed. -It is sufficient to name them—Yorick, Dr. Slop, Mr. Shandy, my -Uncle Toby, Trim, Susanna, and the Widow Wadman: and in -these he has contrived to oppose, with equal felicity and originality, -two characters,—one of pure intellect, and the other of pure good -nature, in my Father and my Uncle Toby. There appears to have -been in Sterne a vein of dry, sarcastic humour, and of extreme tenderness -of feeling;—the latter sometimes carried to affectation, as in the -tale of Maria, and the apostrophe to the recording angel;—but at -other times pure, and without blemish. The story of Le Febre is -perhaps the finest in the English language. My Father’s restlessness, -both of body and mind, is inimitable. It is the model from -which all those despicable performances against modern philosophy -ought to have been copied, if their authors had known any thing of -the subject they were writing about. My Uncle Toby is one of -the finest compliments ever paid to human nature. He is the most -unoffending of God’s creatures; or, as the French express it—<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">un -tel petit bon homme!</span></i> Of his bowling-green,—his sieges,—and his -amours, who would say or think any thing amiss?</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>It is remarkable that our four best novel writers belong nearly to -the same age. We also owe to the same period, (the reign of -George <span class='fss'>II.</span>), the inimitable Hogarth, and some of our best writers of -the middle style of comedy. If we were called upon to account for -this coincidence, we should wave the consideration of more general -causes, (as, that imagination naturally descends with the progress of -civilization), and ascribe it at once to the establishment of the Protestant -ascendancy, and the succession of the House of Hanover. -These great events appear to have given a more popular turn to our -literature and genius, as well as to our Government. It was found -high time that the people should be represented in books as well as -in parliament. They wished to see some account of themselves in -what they read, and not to be confined always to the vices, the -miseries and frivolities of the great. Our domestic tragedy, and our -earliest periodical works, appeared a little before the same period. -In despotic countries, human nature is not of sufficient importance to -be studied or described. The <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">canaille</span></i> are objects rather of disgust -than curiosity; and there are no middle classes. The works of -Racine and Moliere are little else than imitations of the verbiage of -the court, before which they were represented; or fanciful caricatures -of the manners of the lowest of the people. But in the period -of our history in question, a security of person and property, and a -freedom of opinion had been established, which made every man feel -of some consequence to himself, and appear an object of some curiosity -to his neighbours; our manners became more domesticated; there -was a general spirit of sturdiness and independence, which made the -English character more truly English than perhaps at any other -period—that is, more tenacious of its own opinions and purposes. -The whole surface of society appeared cut out into square enclosures -and sharp angles, which extended to the dresses of the time, their -gravel walks, and clipped hedges. Each individual had a certain -ground-plot of his own to cultivate his particular humours in, and let -them shoot out at pleasure; and a most plentiful crop they have produced -accordingly.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The reign of George <span class='fss'>II.</span> was, in a word, in an eminent degree, -<em>the age of hobby-horses</em>. But since that period, things have taken a -different turn. His present Majesty, during almost the whole of -his reign, has been constantly mounted on a great War-horse; and -has fairly driven all competitors out of the field. Instead of minding -our own affairs, or laughing at each other, the eyes of all his faithful -subjects have been fixed on the career of the Sovereign, and all -hearts anxious for the safety of his person and government. Our -pens and our swords have been drawn alike in their defence; and the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>returns of killed and wounded, the manufacture of newspapers and -parliamentary speeches, have exceeded all former example. If we -have had little of the blessings of peace, we have had enough of the -glories and calamities of war. His Majesty has indeed contrived to -keep alive the greatest public interest ever known, by his determined -manner of riding his hobby for half a century together, with the -aristocracy—the democracy—the clergy—the landed and monied -interest—and the rabble, in full cry after him! and at the end of his -career, most happily and unexpectedly succeeded—amidst empires -lost and won—kingdoms overturned and created—and the destruction -of an incredible number of lives—in restoring <em>the divine right of -Kings</em>,—and thus preventing any further abuse of the example which -seated his family on the throne!</p> - -<p class='c010'>It is not to be wondered, if, amidst the tumult of events crowded -into this period, our literature has partaken of the disorder of the -time; if our prose has run mad, and our poetry grown childish. -Among those few persons who ‘have kept the even tenor of their -way,’ the author of Evelina, Cecilia, and Camilla, holds a distinguished -place. Mrs. Radcliffe’s ‘enchantments drear’ and mouldering -castles, derived a part of their interest, we suppose, from the -supposed tottering state of all old structures at the time; and Mrs. -Inchbald’s ‘Nature and Art’ would not have had the same popularity, -but that it fell in (in its two main characters) with the prevailing -prejudice of the moment, that judges and bishops were not pure -abstractions of justice and piety. Miss Edgeworth’s tales, again, are -a kind of essence of common sense, which seemed to be called for by -the prevailing epidemics of audacious paradox and insane philosophy. -The author of the present novel is, however, quite of the old school, -a mere common observer of manners,—and also a very woman. It -is this last circumstance which forms the peculiarity of her writings, -and distinguishes them from those masterpieces which we have before -mentioned. She is unquestionably a quick, lively, and accurate -observer of persons and things; but she always looks at them with a -consciousness of her sex, and in that point of view in which it is the -particular business and interest of women to observe them. We thus -get a kind of supplement and gloss to our original text, which we -could not otherwise have obtained. There is little in her works of -passion or character, or even manners, in the most extended sense of -the word, as implying the sum-total of our habits and pursuits; her -<em>forte</em> is in describing the absurdities and affectations of external -behaviour, or <em>the manners of people in company</em>. Her characters, -which are all caricatures, are no doubt distinctly marked, and perfectly -kept up; but they are somewhat superficial, and exceedingly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>uniform. Her heroes and heroines, almost all of them, depend on -the stock of a single phrase or sentiment; or at least have certain -mottoes or devices by which they may always be known. They are -such characters as people might be supposed to assume for a night at -a masquerade. She presents not the whole length figure, nor even the -face, but some prominent feature. In the present novel, for example, -a lady appears regularly every ten pages, to get a lesson in music for -nothing. She never appears for any other purpose; this is all you -know of her; and in this the whole wit and humour of the character -consists. Meadows is the same, who has always the same cue of -being tired, without any other idea, etc. It has been said of Shakespeare, -that you may always assign his speeches to the proper characters:—and -you may infallibly do the same thing with Madame -D’Arblay’s; for they always say the same thing. The Branghtons -are the best. Mr. Smith is an exquisite city portrait.—Evelina is -also her best novel, because it is shortest; that is, it has all the -liveliness in the sketches of character, and exquisiteness of comic -dialogue and repartee, without the tediousness of the story, and endless -affectation of the sentiments.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Women, in general, have a quicker perception of any oddity or -singularity of character than men, and are more alive to every -absurdity which arises from a violation of the rules of society, or a -deviation from established custom. This partly arises from the -restraints on their own behaviour, which turn their attention constantly -on the subject, and partly from other causes. The surface of -their minds, like that of their bodies, seems of a finer texture than -ours; more soft, and susceptible of immediate impression. They -have less muscular power,—less power of continued voluntary attention,—of -reason—passion and imagination: But they are more easily -impressed with whatever appeals to their senses or habitual prejudices. -The intuitive perception of their minds is less disturbed by any -general reasonings on causes or consequences. They learn the idiom -of character and manner, as they acquire that of language, by rote -merely, without troubling themselves about the principles. Their -observation is not the less accurate on that account, as far as it goes; -for it has been well said, that ‘there is nothing so true as habit.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>There is little other power in Miss Burney’s novels, than that of -immediate observation: her characters, whether of refinement or -vulgarity, are equally superficial and confined. The whole is a -question of form, whether that form is adhered to, or violated. It is -this circumstance which takes away dignity and interest from her -story and sentiments, and makes the one so teazing and tedious, and -the other so insipid. The difficulties in which she involves her -<span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>heroines are indeed ‘Female Difficulties;’—they are difficulties -created out of nothing. The author appears to have no other idea of -refinement than that it is the reverse of vulgarity; but the reverse of -vulgarity is fastidiousness and affectation. There is a true, and a -false delicacy. Because a vulgar country Miss would answer ‘yes’ -to a proposal of marriage in the first page, Mad. d’Arblay makes it a -proof of an excess of refinement, and an indispensable point of -etiquette in her young ladies, to postpone the answer to the end of -five volumes, without the smallest reason for their doing so, and with -every reason to the contrary. The reader is led every moment to -expect a denouement, and is as constantly disappointed on some -trifling pretext. The whole artifice of her fable consists in coming -to no conclusion. Her ladies stand so upon the order of their going, -that they do not go at all. They will not abate an ace of their -punctilio in any circumstances, or on any emergency. They would -consider it as quite indecorous to run down stairs though the house -were in flames, or to move off the pavement though a scaffolding was -falling. She has formed to herself an abstract idea of perfection in -common behaviour, which is quite as romantic and impracticable as -any other idea of the sort: and the consequence has naturally been, -that she makes her heroines commit the greatest improprieties and -absurdities in order to avoid the smallest. In contradiction to a -maxim in philosophy, they constantly act from the weakest motive, -or rather from pure affectation.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Thus L. S.—otherwise <em>Ellis</em>, in the present novel, actually gives -herself up to the power of a man who has just offered violence to her -person, rather than return to the asylum of a farm-house, at which -she has left some friends, because, as she is turning her steps that -way, ‘she hears the sounds of rustic festivity and vulgar merriment -proceed from it.’ That is, in order that her exquisite sensibility may -not be shocked by the behaviour of a number of honest country-people -making merry at a dance, this model of female delicacy -exposes herself to every species of insult and outrage from a man -whom she hates. In like manner, she runs from her honourable -lover into the power of a ruffian and an assassin, who claims a right -over her person by a forced marriage. The whole tissue of the fable -is, in short, more wild and chimerical than any thing in Don Quixote, -without having any thing of poetical truth or elevation. Madame -D’Arblay has woven a web of difficulties for her heroine, something -like the green silken threads in which the shepherdess entangled the -steed of Cervantes’s hero, who swore, in his fine enthusiastic way, -that he would sooner cut his passage to another world than disturb -the least of those beautiful meshes. The Wanderer raises obstacles, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>lighter than ‘the gossamer that idles in the wanton summer air,’ into -insurmountable barriers; and trifles with those that arise out of -common sense, reason, and necessity. Her conduct never arises -directly out of the circumstances in which she is placed, but out of -some factitious and misplaced refinement on them. It is a perpetual -game at cross-purposes. There being a plain and strong motive why -she should pursue any course of action, is a sufficient reason for her -to avoid it; and the perversity of her conduct is in proportion to its -levity—as the lightness of the feather baffles the force of the impulse -that is given to it, and the slightest breath of air turns it back on the -hand from which it is launched. We can hardly consider this as an -accurate description of the perfection of the female character!</p> - -<p class='c010'>We are sorry to be compelled to speak so disadvantageously of the -work of an excellent and favourite writer; and the more so, as we -perceive no decay of talent, but a perversion of it. There is the -same admirable spirit in the dialogues, and particularly in the -characters of Mrs. Ireton, Sir Jasper Herrington, and Mr. Giles -Arbe, as in her former novels. But these do not fill a hundred -pages of the work; and there is nothing else good in it. In the -story, which here occupies the attention of the reader almost -exclusively, Madame D’Arblay never excelled.</p> - -<h3 class='c008'>SISMONDI’S LITERATURE OF THE SOUTH</h3> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='sc'>Vol. xxv.</span>]      [<em>June 1815.</em></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>This is another great work from the pen of the celebrated historian -of the Italian Republics: though we think it written, on the whole, -with less force and spirit than that admirable history. The excellent -author has visibly less enthusiasm as a critic than as a politician; and -therefore he interests us less in that character, and at the same time -inspires us rather with less than greater confidence in the accuracy of -his opinions; for there can be no real love of liberty, or admiration -of genius, where there is no enthusiasm—and no one who does not -love them, will ever submit to the labour of a full and fair investigation -of their history and concerns. A cold, calculating indifference -in matters of taste, is generally the effect of want of feeling; as -affected moderation in politics is (nine times out of ten) a cloak for -want of principle. Notwithstanding the very great pleasure we have -received from the work before us, we should have been still more -gratified, therefore, if the author had himself appeared more delighted -with his task, and consequently imparted to it a more decided and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>original character. In his Republics, he describes events and -characters in the history of modern Italy with the genuine feelings of -an enlightened reasoner, indignant at the wrongs, the vices, and -the degradation of the country of his ancestors: In judging of its -literature, he too often borrows French rules and German systems of -criticism. His practical taste and speculative principles do not, -therefore, always coincide; and, regarding this work on Literature -as an appendage to his History, it is impossible not to observe, that -he is glad, upon all occasions, to slide into his old and favourite -subject; to pass from the professor’s chair into the rostrum; and to -connect, in glowing terms, the rise or fall of letters with the political -independence or debasement of the states in which they flourished or -decayed.</p> - -<p class='c010'>If we were to hazard any other preliminary remark of a general -character, it should be, that the author appears to have a more -intimate acquaintance with, and a great predilection for, the more -modern and immediately popular writers of Italy, than for those who -appear to us objects of greater curiosity and admiration. Thus, he -dismisses Dante, Petrarca and Boccacio, in fewer pages than he -devotes to Metastasio alone—an author whose chief merit he himself -defines to be, the happy adaptation of his pieces to the musical -recitative of the opera, and which, therefore, in a literary point of -view, must be comparatively uninteresting. Again, Ariosto makes, in -his hands, a very slender appearance by the side of Tasso—an -appearance by no means proportioned to the size of the men, or to -the interest which is felt in them, or to the scope for criticism in their -different works. The account of the two modern Italian dramatists, -Alfieri and Goldoni, though given much at length, is not certainly -liable to the same kind of objection, as the information with respect -to them is valuable from its novelty.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The present volumes contain a general view of the literature of -the South of Modern Europe,—of Italy, Spain, Portugal, and the -Provençal. The author proposes, in another work, to examine that -of the North, particularly of England and Germany. The publication -now before us was (we are informed in the preface) originally -composed to be delivered to a class of young persons at Geneva: -and this circumstance, while it has added to its value and comprehensiveness -as a book of reference, has made it less entertaining to -the general reader. A body of criticism, like a body of divinity, -must contain a great deal of matter less pleasant than profitable in the -perusal. In our account of it, we shall direct the reader’s attention -to what most forcibly arrested our own—premising merely, that -among the writers to whom M. Sismondi is forward to acknowledge -<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>his obligations, are, Professor Boutterwek on modern literature in -general, Millot’s history of the Troubadours, Tiraboschi and M. -Guiguené on the Italian literature, Velasquez on the Spanish and -Portuguese, and William Schlegel for the dramatic literature of all -these nations. It is to this last author that he seems to be indebted -for a great part of his theoretical reasoning and conjectural criticism -on the general principles of taste and the progress of human genius.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The first volume commences with an account of the Provençal -poetry, which is by no means the least interesting or curious part of -this extensive and elaborate work. We shall endeavour to give some -general idea of it to our readers. The language which prevailed in -all the South of Europe, after the destruction of the Roman empire, -was a barbarous mixture of Latin with the different languages of the -Northern invaders. It was in the south of France that this language -first took a consistent form, and became the vehicle of a gay and -original poetry. The causes which contributed to invest it with this -distinction, were, according to M. Sismondi, 1. The comparative -exemption of the Francs from perpetual successive inroads of -barbarous conquerors; and, 2. The collateral influence of the -Moorish or Arabian literature, through the connection between the -kingdoms of Spain and Provence. The description given by the -author of the Arabian literature, which ‘rose like an exhalation,’ and -disappeared almost as soon, is splendid in the extreme. In a hundred -and fifty years, human genius is said to have produced more prodigies -in that prolific region, than it has done in the history of ages in all -the world besides. Arts and sciences had their birth, maturity and -perfection;—almost all the great modern discoveries (as they have -been considered) were anticipated, and again forgotten,—paper, -printing, the mariner’s compass, glass, gunpowder, &c. In the -exercise of fancy and invention, they infinitely surpassed all former -or succeeding ages. As an instance of the prodigious scale on which -these matters were conducted in the East, and of the colossal size to -which their literature had swelled in all its branches, it is stated that -the Thousand and One Stories forming the Arabian Nights’ Entertainment, -constitute only a six-and-thirtieth part of the original -collection. We suspect that there is some exaggeration in all this; -though the brilliant theories of our author have, no doubt, very considerable -foundation in fact. We hope there is none for the eloquent, -but melancholy, reflections he makes on the sudden disappearance of -so much intellectual magnificence from the face of the earth.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Such,’ he says, ‘was the lustre with which literature and sciences -shone forth from the ninth to the fourteenth century of our era, in -the vast regions which were subjected to Mahometism. The most -<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>melancholy reflections are attached to the long enumeration of names -unknown to us, and which were nevertheless illustrious,—of works -buried in manuscript in some dusty repositories—which yet for a time -had a powerful influence on the culture of the human mind. What -remains then of so much glory? Five or six persons only can visit -the treasures of Arabian manuscripts shut up in the library of the -Escurial; and some few hundreds besides, scattered over all Europe, -have qualified themselves, by obstinate labour, to dig in the mines -of the East—but these persons can only obtain, with the utmost -difficulty, some rare and obscure manuscripts, and cannot raise themselves -high enough to form a judgment on the whole of a literature -of which they never attain but a part. Meantime, the extended -regions where Mahometism reigned, and still reigns, are dead to all -the sciences. Those rich plains of Fez and Morocco, illumined five -centuries ago by so many academies, so many universities, and so -many libraries, are now nothing but deserts of burning sand, for -which tyrants dispute with tigers. All the gay and fertile shore of -Mauritania, where commerce, the arts, and agriculture had been -raised to the highest prosperity, are now the nests of pirates, who -spread terror on the seas, and who relax from their labour in shameful -debaucheries, till the plague, which returns yearly, comes to mark -out its victims, and to avenge offended humanity. Egypt is nearly -swallowed in the sands, which it once fertilized—Syria and Palestine -are desolated by wandering Bedouins, less formidable, however, than -the Pasha who oppresses them. Bagdad, formerly the abode of -luxury, of power, and of knowledge, is ruined; the once celebrated -universities of Cufa and Bassora are shut,—those of Samarcande and -of Balch are also destroyed. In this immense extent of country, -twice or three times as large as our Europe—nothing is found but -ignorance, slavery, terror and death. Few of the inhabitants can -read any of the writings of their illustrious forefathers;—few could -comprehend them—none could procure them. The immense literary -riches of the Arabs, of which we have given some glimpses, exist no -more in any of the countries which the Arabs and Mussulmen rule.—It -is not there that we must now seek either the renown of their -great men or their writings. What has been saved of them, is -entirely in the hands of their enemies—in the convents of the monks, -or in the libraries of the Kings of Europe. And yet these countries -have not been conquered. It is not the foreigner who has despoiled -them of their wealth, wasted their population, destroyed their laws, -their morals, and their national spirit. The poison was within them—it -developed itself, and has annihilated all things.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Who knows if, some centuries hence, this same Europe, where -<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>the reign of literature and sciences is now transported—which shines -with such lustre—which judges so well of times past—which compares -so well the successive influence of antient literature and morals, -may not be deserted, and wild as the hills of Mauritania, the sands -of Egypt, and the vallies of Anatolia? Who knows whether, in a -country entirely new, perhaps in the high lands where the Oronoko -and the Amazon collect their streams, perhaps in the now impenetrable -enclosure of the mountains of New Holland, there may not be -formed nations with other morals, other languages, other thoughts, -other religions,—nations who shall again renew the human kind, -who shall study like ourselves the times past, and who, seeing with -surprise that we have been, and have known what they shall know—that -we have believed like them in durability and glory, shall pity -our impotent efforts, and shall recal the names of Newton, of Racine, -of Tasso, as examples of the vain struggles of man to attain an -immortality of renown which fate denies him?’</p> - -<p class='c010'>The more immediate causes which gave birth to the poetry of the -Provençals, and by consequence to all our modern literature, are -afterwards detailed in the following passage, which is interesting both -in point of fact, and as matter of speculation.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In Italy, at the time of the renovation of its language, each -province, each small district, had a particular dialect. This great -number of different <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">patois</span></i>, was owing to two causes; the great -number of barbarous tribes with whom the Romans had successively -been confounded by the frequent invasions of their country, and the -great number of independent sovereignties which had been kept up -there. Neither of those causes operated on the Gauls in the formation -of the Romanesque. Three hordes established themselves there -nearly at the same time,—the Visigoths, the Burgundians, and the -Franks; and after the conquest of these last, no northern barbarians -could again form a fixed establishment there, except the Normans, -in a single province; no mixture of Germans, much less of the -Sclavonians and Scythians, came again to produce a change in -language and morals. The Gauls had then been employed in -consolidating themselves into one nation, with one language, for four -ages: during which Italy had been successively the prey of the -Lombards, the Francs, the Hungarians, the Saracens, and the -Germans. The birth of the Romanesque in Gaul, came thus to -precede that of the Italian language. It was divided into two -principal dialects:—the Provençal Romanesque, spoken in all the -provinces to the south of the Loire, which had been originally -conquered by the Visigoths and the Burgundians; and the Walloon -Romanesque, in the provinces to the north of the Loire, where the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>Franks had the ascendant. The political divisions remained conformable -to this first division of nations and languages. In spite of -the independence of the great feudatories, northern France always -formed one political body; the inhabitants of the different provinces -met in the same national assemblies, and in the same armies. Southern -France, on its side, after having been the inheritance of some of the -successors of Charlemagne, had been raised, in 879, to the rank of an -independent kingdom, by Bozon, who was crowned at Nantes, under -the title of King of Arles or of Provence; and who subjected to his -domination Provence, Dauphiny, Savoy, the Lyonese, and some -counties of Burgundy. The title of kingdom gave place, in 943, to -that of earldom, under Bozon <span class='fss'>II.</span>, without the dismemberment of -Provence, or its separation from the House of Burgundy, of which -Bozon I. had been the founder. This house was extinguished in -1092, in the person of Gillibert, who left two daughters only, between -whom he divided his states. One, Faydide, married Alphonso, -Count of Toulouse; and the other, Douce, married Raymond -Berenger, Count of Barcelona. The union of Provence during two -hundred and thirty years, under a line of princes who played no very -brilliant part beyond their own territory, and who are almost forgotten -by history, but who suffered no invasion; who, by a paternal -administration, augmented the riches, and extended the population of -the state, and favoured commerce, to which their maritime situation -invited them, sufficed to consolidate the laws, the manners, and the -language of the Provençals. It was at this epoch, but in a deep -obscurity, that in the kingdom of Arles, the Provençal Romanesque -took completely the place of the Latin. The latter was still made -use of in the public acts; but the former, which was spoken universally, -began also to be made use of in literature.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The succession of the Count of Barcelona, Raymond Berenger, -to the sovereignty of Provence, gave a new turn to the national spirit, -by the mixture of the Catalonians with the Provençals. Of the three -Romanesque languages, which the Christian inhabitants of Spain then -spoke, the Catalonian, the Castillian, and the Gallician, or Portuguese, -the first was almost absolutely like the Provençal; and though it has -since been much removed from it, especially in the kingdom of -Valencia, it has always been called after the name of a French -province. The people of the country call it <em>Llemosin</em> or Limousin. -The Catalans, therefore, could make themselves well understood by -the Provençals; and their intercourse at the same court served to -polish the one language by means of the other. The first of these -nations had already been much advanced, either by their wars and -their intercourse with the Moors of Spain, or by the great activity of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>the commerce of Barcelona. This city enjoyed the most ample -privileges: the citizens felt their freedom, and made their princes -respect it,—at the same time that the wealth which they had acquired -rendered the taxes more productive, and permitted the court of the -Counts to display a magnificence unknown to other sovereigns. -Raymond Berenger, and his successor, brought into Provence at once -the spirit of liberty and chivalry, the taste of elegance and the arts, -and the sciences of the Arabs. From this union of noble sentiments, -arose the poetry which shone at the same time in Provence, and all -the south of Europe, as if an electric spark had, in the midst of the -thickest darkness, kindled at once in all quarters its brilliant radiance.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Chivalry arose with the Provençal poetry; it was in some sort -the soul of every modern literature: and this character, so different -from all that antiquity had known,—that invention, so rich in poetical -effects, is the first subject for observation, which modern literary -history presents us. We must not, however, confound <em>feudalism</em> with -<em>chivalry</em>. Feudalism is the real world at this epoch—with its -advantages and disadvantages, its virtues and its vices; chivalry is -this world idealized, such as it has existed only in the invention of -the romancers: its essential character is a devotion to woman, and an -inviolable regard to honour; but the ideas which the poets manifested -then, as to what constituted the perfection of a knight or a lady, -were not entirely of their invention. They existed in the people, -without perhaps being followed by them; and when they had -acquired more consistence in their heroic songs, they reacted in their -turn upon the people, among whom they originated, and thus approximated -the real feudal system to the ideal notions of chivalry.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Without doubt, there can be few finer things than the bold and -active kind of life which characterized the feudal times; than the -independent existence of each nobleman in his castle; than the persuasion -which he felt, that God alone was his judge and master; -than that confidence in his own power which made him brave all -opposition, and offer an inviolable asylum to the weak and unfortunate,—which -made him share with his friends the only possessions which -they valued, arms and horses,—and rely on himself alone for his -liberty, his honour, and his life. But, at the same time, the vices of -the human character had acquired a development proportioned to the -vigour of men’s minds. Among the nobility, whom alone the laws -seemed to protect, absolute power had produced its habitual effect,—an -intoxication approaching to madness, and a ferocity of which later -times afford no example. The tyranny of a baron, it is true, extended -only a few leagues round his chateau, or the town which -belonged to him: If any one could pass this boundary, he was safe; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>but, within these limits, in which he kept his vassals like herds of -deer in a park, he gave himself up, in the plenitude of his power, to -the wildest caprices; and subjected those who displeased him to the -most frightful punishments. His vassals, who trembled before him, -were degraded below the human species; and, in the whole of this -class, there is hardly an instance of any individual displaying, in the -course of ages, a single trait of greatness or virtue. Frankness and -good faith, which are essentially the virtues of chivalry, are indeed, -in general, the consequence of strength and courage; but, in order to -render an adherence to them general, it is indispensable that punishment -or shame should be attached to their violation. But the -seignoral lords were placed in their chateaus above all fear; and -opinion had no force in restraining men who did not feel the relations -of social life. Accordingly, the history of the middle ages furnishes -a greater number of scandalous perfidies than any other period. -Lastly, the passion of love had, it is true, taken a new character, -which was much the same in reality and in the poetry of the time. -It was not more passionate or more tender than among the Greeks -and Romans, but it was more respectful; something mysterious was -joined to the sentiment. Some traces of that religious respect were -preserved towards women, which the Germans felt towards their -prophetesses. They were considered as a sort of angelic beings, -rather than as dependants, submitted to the will of their masters: It -was a point of honour to serve and to defend them, as if they were -the organs of the divinity on earth; and at the same time there was -joined to this deference, a warmth of sentiment, a turbulence of -passions and desires, which the Germans had known little of, but -which is characteristic of the people of the South, and of which they -borrowed the expression from the Arabians. In our ideas of chivalry, -love always retains this religious purity of character; but in the actual -feudal system, the disorder was extreme; and the corruption of -manners has left behind it traces more scandalous than in any other -period of society. Neither the <em>sirventes</em> nor the <em>canzos</em> of the -troubadours, nor the fables of the trouveres, nor the romances of -chivalry, can be read without blushing: the gross licentiousness of -the language is equalled only by the profound corruption of the -characters, and the profligacy of the moral. In the South of France, -in particular, peace, riches, and the example of courts, had introduced -among the nobility an extreme dissipation: they might be said to -live only for gallantry. The ladies, who did not appear in the world -till after they were married, prided themselves in the homage which -their lovers paid to their charms: they delighted in being celebrated -by their <em>troubadour</em>: they answered in their turn, and expressed their -<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>sentiments in the most tender and passionate verses. They even -instituted Courts of Love, where questions of gallantry were gravely -debated, and decided by their suffrages. In short, they had given to -the whole of the South of France the movement of a carnival, which -contrasts singularly with the ideas of restraint, of virtue, and of -modesty, which we connect with the good old times. The more we -study history, the more we shall be convinced that chivalry is an -almost purely poetical invention. We never can arrive by any -authentic documents at the scene where it flourished: it is always -represented at a distance, both in time and place. And while contemporary -historians give us a distinct, detailed, complete idea of the -vices of courts and of the great, of the ferocity or licentiousness of -the nobles, and the degradation of the people; one is astonished to -see, after a lapse of time, the same ages animated by the poets with -fictitious and splendid accounts of virtue, beauty, and loyalty. The -romancers of the twelfth century placed the age of chivalry in the -reign of Charlemagne; Francis I. placed it in their time: We at -present believe we see it flourishing in the persons of Du Guesclin -and of Bayard, at the courts of Charles <span class='fss'>V.</span> and Francis the <span class='fss'>I.</span> But -when we come to examine any of these periods, though we find some -heroic characters in all of them, we are soon forced to confess that it -is necessary to remove the age of chivalry three or four centuries -before any kind of reality.’ p. 91.</p> - -<p class='c010'>This, we cannot help thinking, is a little hard on the <em>good old times</em>: -though the specimens of their poetry, which are subjoined, go far to -justify this severity. They certainly indicate neither refinement of -sentiment, nor elevation of fancy. They are merely war or love-songs, -relating to the personal feelings or situation of the individual -who composed them. The Provençal poetry, indeed, is in a great -measure lyrical; at least it is certain, that it is neither epic nor -dramatic. The <em>tensons</em> were, indeed, a sort of eclogues, or disputes -in verse, in which two or three persons maintained their favourite -opinions on any given subject; and they appear to have been for the -most part extemporaneous effusions. The following example will -give some idea of the state of manners and literature at this period.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Several ladies who assisted at the Courts of Love, as they were -called, used to reply themselves to the verses which their beauty inspired. -There is left but a small portion of their compositions, but -they have almost always the advantage over the troubadours. Poetry -did not then aspire either to creative power, or to sublimity of thought, -or to variety of imagery. Those powerful efforts of genius, which -have given birth at a later period to dramatic and epic poetry, were -then unknown; and in the simple expression of feeling, an inspiration, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>more tender and more delicate, would give to the poetry of women a -more natural expression. One of the most pleasing of these compositions -is by Clara d’Anduse: it is left unfinished: but, as far as -a prose translation can convey the impression, which depends so much -on the harmony of the metre, it is as follows.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘“In what cruel trouble, in what profound sadness, jealous calumniators -have plunged my heart! With what malice these perfidious -destroyers of all pleasure have persecuted me! They have forced -you to banish yourself from me, you whom I love more than life! -They have robbed me of the happiness of seeing you, and of seeing -you without ceasing! Ah, I shall die of grief and rage!</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘“But let calumny arm itself against me: the love with which you -inspire me braves all its shafts: they will never be able to reach my -heart: nothing can increase its tenderness, or give new force to the -desires with which it is inflamed. There is no one, though it were -my enemy, who would not become dear to me, by speaking well of -you: but my best friend would cease to be so, from the moment he -dared to reproach you.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘“No, my sweet friend, no: do not believe that I have a heart -treacherous to you: do not fear that I should ever abandon you for -another, though I should be solicited by all the ladies of the land. -Love, who holds me in his chains, has said, that my heart should be -devoted to you alone; and I swear that it shall always be so. Ah, -if I was as much mistress of my hand, he who now possesses, should -never have obtained it.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘“Beloved! such is the grief which I feel at being separated from -you, such my despair, that when I wish to sing, I only sigh and weep. -I cannot finish this couplet. Alas! my songs cannot obtain for my -heart what it desires.”’</p> - -<p class='c010'>The poets of this period were almost all of them chevaliers; and -it is in their war-songs, that, according to M. Sismondi, we find most -of the enthusiasm of poetry. Guillaume de St. Gregory, thus chants -his love for war, and seems to be inspired by the very sight of the -field of battle.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘How I love the gay season of the approach of spring, which -covers our fields with leaves and flowers! How I love the sweet -warbling of the birds, which make the woods resound with their -songs! But how much more delightful still it is to see the tents -and pavillions pitched in the meadows! How I feel my courage -swell, when I see the armed chevaliers on their horses, marching in -long array!</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘I love to see the cavaliers put to flight,—the common people, who -strive to carry away their most precious effects: I love to see the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>thick battalions of soldiers, who advance in pursuit of the fugitives; -and my joy redoubles when I observe the siege laid to the strongest -castles, and hear their battered walls fall with a dreadful crash!’... -‘Yes, I repeat it again, the pleasures of the table, or of love, -are not to be compared, in my mind, with those of the furious fight ... when I hear the horses neighing on the green meadows, and the -cry repeated on all sides, “To arms, to arms!” when the great and -the vulgar load the earth with their bodies, or roll, dying, into the -ditches; and when large wounds from the blows of the lance mark -the victims of honour.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>This poetic rhapsody of the eleventh or twelfth century is not -altogether unworthy of the spirit of the nineteenth; so we shall not -stop to moralize upon it. One of the most heroic and magnanimous -personages of the same period was Bertrand de Born, Vicompte -Hautefort. He was a great maker of war and verses. ‘The most -violent,’ says M. Sismondi, ‘the most impetuous of the French -chevaliers, breathing nothing but war; exciting, inflaming the passions -of his neighbours and his superiors, in order to engage them in -hostilities, he troubled the provinces of Guienne by his arms and his -intrigues, during all the second half of the twelfth century; and -the reigns of the Kings of England, Henry <span class='fss'>II.</span> and Richard Cœur -de Lion. He first stripped his brother Constantine of his personal -inheritance, and made war upon Richard who protected him. He -then attached himself to Henry, the brother of Richard Cœur de -Lion, and afterwards made war upon him, after having engaged him -in a conspiracy against his father. For this last offence he is put by -Dante into his hell. In all his enterprizes, he encouraged himself by -composing <em>sirventes</em>, that is, songs in which he sounded the war-whoop, -in the manner of some writers nearer our own times. Let the reader -judge for himself.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘“What signify to me happy or miserable days? What are weeks -or years to me? At all times my only wish is, to destroy whoever -dares to offend me! Let others, if they please, embellish their -houses; let them idly procure the conveniences of life: but, for -myself, to collect lances, helmets, swords and implements of destruction, -shall be the only object of my life! I am fatigued with advice, -and swear never to attend to it!”’</p> - -<p class='c010'>The historical notice of Richard Cœur de Lion gives a striking -and more favourable picture of the manners of the time. Every one -is acquainted with the story of his deliverance from prison by the -fidelity of his servant Blondel, and of his rescue from the Saracens -by the gallant device of Guillaume de Preaux, who attracted the fury -of the assailants to his own person, by crying out, ‘Spare me; for -<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>I am the King of England!’ M. Sismondi gives the following -as the words of the celebrated song (a little modernized) composed -by Richard during the captivity to which he was treacherously -subjected by Leopold of Austria, after his return from the -Holy Land.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Si prisonnier ne dit point sa raison</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Sans un grand trouble, et douloureux soupçon,</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Pour son consort qu’il fasse une chanson</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">J’ai prou d’amis, mais bien pauvre est leur don;</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Honte ils auront, si faute de rançon,</span></div> - <div class='line in2'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Je suis deux hivers pris.</span></div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Qu’ils sachent bien, mes hommes, mes barons,</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Anglais, Normands, Poitevins et Gascons,</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Que je n’ai point si pauvres compagnons</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Que pour argent n’ouvrisse leurs prisons.</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Point ne les veux taxer de trahison,</span></div> - <div class='line in2'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Mais suis deux hivers pris.</span></div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Pour un captif plus d’ami, de parent!</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Plus que ses jours ils epargnent l’argent;</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Las! que je sens me douloir ce tourment!</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Et si je meurs dans mon confinement,</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Qui sauvera le renom de ma gent,</span></div> - <div class='line in2'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Car suis deux hivers pris?</span></div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Point au chagrin ne vaudrais succomber!</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le roi françois peut mes terres brûler,</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Fausser la paix qu’il jura de garder;</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Pourtant mon cœur je sens se rassurer,</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Si je l’en crois, mes fers vont se briser,</span></div> - <div class='line in2'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Mais suis deux hivers pris.</span></div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Fiers ennemis, dont le cœur est si vain,</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Pour guerrayer, attendez donc la fin</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">De mes ennemis; me trouverez enfin,</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Dites-le leur, Chail et Pensavin,</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Chers troubadours, qui me plaignez en vain</span></div> - <div class='line in2'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Car suis deux hivers pris.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Among the most distinguished troubadours, we find the names of -Arnaud de Marveil, and of Arnaud Daniel, celebrated by Petrarch -and Dante, Rambaud de Vaqueiras, and Pierre Vidal, both warriors -and poets, and Pierre Cardinal, the satirist of Provence. The Provençal -literature does not however appear to have produced any one -great genius or lasting work. Their poetry, indeed, did not aim at -immortality; but appears to have been considered chiefly as an ornamental -<span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>appendage of courts, as the indolent amusement of great lords -and ladies. It consists, therefore, entirely of occasional and fugitive -pieces. The ambition of the poet seems never to have reached -higher than to express certain habitual sentiments, or record passing -events in agreeable verse, so as to gratify himself or his immediate -employers; and his genius never appears to have received that high -and powerful impulse, which makes the unrestrained development of -its own powers its ruling passion, and which looks to future ages for -its reward.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The Provençal poetry belongs, in its essence as well as form, to -the same class as the Eastern or Asiatic; that is, it has the same constitutional -warmth and natural gaiety, but without the same degree of -magnificence and force. During its most flourishing period, it made -no perceptible progress; and it has left few traces of its influence -behind. The civil wars of the Albigeois, the crusades which made -the Italian known to all the rest of Europe, and the establishment of -the court of Charles of Anjou, the new sovereign of Provence, at -Naples, were fatal to the cultivation of a literature which owed its -encouragement to political and local circumstances, and to the favour -of the great. M. Sismondi compares the effects of the Provençal -poetry to the northern lights, which illumine the darkness of the -sky, and spread their colours almost from pole to pole; but suddenly -vanish, and leave neither light nor heat behind them. After the -literature of the troubadours had disappeared from the country which -gave it birth, it lingered for a while in the kingdoms of Arragon and -Catalonia, where it was cultivated with success by Don Henri of -Arragon, Marquis of Villera; by Ausias, who has been called the -Petrarch; and by Jean Martorell, the Boccacio of the Provençal -tongue, and the well-known author of the history of Tirante the -White, which is preserved by Cervantes with such marks of respect, -when Don Quixote’s library is condemned to the flames.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Our author next enters at great length, and with much acuteness, -into the literature of the North of France, or the <em>Roman Wallon</em>, -which succeeded the Provençal. The great glory of the writers of -this language, was the invention of the romances of chivalry. M. -Sismondi divides these romances into three classes or periods, and -supposes them all to be of Norman origin, in contradiction to the very -general theory which traces them to the Arabs or Moors. The first -class relates to the exploits of King Arthur, the son of Pendragon, -and the last British king who defended England against the Anglo-Saxons. -It is at the court of this king, and of his wife Geneura, -that we meet with the enchanter Merlin, and the institution of the -Round Table, and all the Preux chevaliers, Tristram de Leonois, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>Launcelot of the Lake, and many others. The romance of Launcelot -of the Lake was begun by Chretien de Troyes, and continued, after -his death, by Godfrey de Ligny: that of Tristram, the son of King -Meliadus of Leonois, the first that was written in prose, and which -is the most frequently cited by the old authors, was composed in -1190 by one of the <em>trouveres</em> or Northern troubadours, whose name -is unknown. The second class of chivalrous romances, is that which -commences with Amadis of Gaul, the hero of lovers, of which the -events are more fabulous, and the origin more uncertain. There are -numerous imitations of this work, Amadis of Greece, Florismarte of -Hircania, Galaor, Florestan, Esplandian, which are considered as of -Spanish origin, and which were in their greatest vogue at the time -of the appearance of Don Quixote. The third class considered by -our author, as undoubtedly of French origin, relates to the court of -Charlemagne and his peers. The most antient monument of the -marvellous history of Charlemagne, is the chronicle of Turpin, or -Tilpin, Archbishop of Rheims. Both the name of the author and -the date are, however, doubtful. It relates to the last expedition of -Charlemagne into Spain, to which he had been miraculously invited -by St. Jacques of Galicia, and to the wars of the Christians against -the Moors. M. Sismondi is inclined to refer this composition to the -period when Alphonso <span class='fss'>VI.</span> king of Castile and Leon, achieved, in the -year 1085, the conquest of New Castile and Toledo.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘He was followed,’ it is said, ‘in this triumphant expedition, by a -great number of French chevaliers, who passed the Pyrenees to -combat the infidels by the side of a great king, and to see the Cid, -the hero of his age. The war against the Moors in Spain was then -undertaken from a spirit of religious zeal, very different from that -which, twelve years later, kindled the first crusade. Its object -professedly was, to carry succour to neighbours, to brothers who -adored the same God, and who revenged common injuries, of which -the romancer seemed to wish to recal the remembrance: whereas the -end of the first crusade was to deliver the Holy Sepulchre, to recover -the inheritance of our Lord, and to bring assistance to God rather -than man, as one of the troubadours expressed it. This zeal for the -Holy Sepulchre, this devotion pointing towards the East, appears -nowhere in the Chronicle of Archbishop Turpin; which, nevertheless, -is animated by a burning fanaticism, and full of all sorts of -miracles. This chronicle, however fabulous, cannot itself be considered -as a romance. It consists alternately of incredible feats of -arms, and of miracles, of monkish superstition and monkish credulity. -We find there several instances of enchantment: the formidable -sword of Roland, Durandal, with every stroke opens a wound: -<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>Ferragus is all over enchanted and invulnerable: the dreadful horn of -Roland, which he sounds at Roncesvalles to call for succour, is -heard as far as St. Jean Pied de Port, where Charlemagne was with -his army; but the traitor Ganeton prevents the monarch from -giving assistance to his nephew. Roland, losing all hope, is himself -desirous to break his sword, that it may not fall into the hands of the -infidels, and thus hereafter bathe itself in the blood of Christians: he -strikes it against tall trees, against rocks—but nothing can resist the -enchanted blade, guided by an arm so powerful; the oaks are overturned, -the rocks are shattered in pieces, and Durandal remains entire. -Roland at last thrusts it up to the hilt in a hard rock, and twisting it -with violence, breaks it between his hands. Then he again sounds -his horn, not to demand succour from the Christians, but to announce -to them his last hour; and he blows it with such violence, that his -veins burst, and he dies covered with his own blood. All this is -sufficiently poetical, and indicates a brilliant imagination; but in order -to its being a romance of chivalry, it was necessary that love and -women should be introduced—and there is no allusion made to one or -the other.’ p. 289.</p> - -<p class='c010'>This, we think, is rather an arbitrary decision of our author, and -certainly does not prove that the work is not a romance of any kind. -He concludes this chapter in the following manner.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘But all these extraordinary facts, which in the Chronicle of -Turpin passed for history, were consigned soon after to the regions of -romance, when the crusades were finished, and had made us acquainted -with the East, at the end of the thirteenth century, and during the -reign of Philip the Hardy. The king at arms of this monarch, -Adenez, wrote in verse the romance of <cite>Berthe-au-grandpied</cite>; the -mother of Charlemagne, that of Ogier the Dane, and Cleomadis. -Huon de Villeneuve wrote the history of Renaud de Montauban. -The four sons of Aymon, Huon de Bourdeaux, Doolin de Mayence, -Morgante the giant, Maugis the christian magician, and several other -heroes of this illustrious court, were celebrated then or afterwards by -romancers, who have placed in broad day all the characters, and all -the events of this period of glory, of which the divine poem of Ariosto -has consecrated the mythology.—The creation of this brilliant -romantic chivalry, was completed at the end of the thirteenth -century; all that essentially characterizes it, is to be found in the -romances of Adenez. His chevaliers no longer wandered, like those -of the Round Table, through gloomy forests in a country half -civilized, and which seemed always covered with storms and snow: -the entire universe was expanded before their eyes, The Holy -Land was the grand object of their pilgrimage: but by it they -<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>entered into communication with the fine and rich countries of the -East. Their geography was as confused as all their other knowledge. -Their voyages from Spain to Cathay, from Denmark to Tunis, were -made, it is true, with a facility, a rapidity more astonishing than the -enchantments of Maugis or Morgana: but these fanciful voyages -afforded the romance writers the means of embellishing their recitals -with the most brilliant colours. All the softness and the perfumes of -the countries, the most favoured by nature, were at their disposal: -All the pomp and magnificence of Damascus, of Bagdad, and Constantinople, -might be made use of to adorn the triumph of their -heroes; and an acquisition more precious still, was the imagination -itself of the people of the East and South; that imagination, so -brilliant, so various, which was employed to give life to the sombre -mythology of the North. The fairies were no longer hideous -sorceresses, the objects of the fear and hatred of the people, but the -rivals or the friends of those enchanters, who disposed in the east of -Solomon’s ring, and of the genii who were attached to it. To the -art of prolonging life, they had joined that of augmenting its -enjoyments: they were in some sort the priestesses of nature and of -its pleasures. At their voice, magnificent palaces arose in the deserts; -enchanted gardens, groves, perfumed with orange-trees and myrtles, -appeared in the midst of burning sands, or on barren rocks in the -middle of the sea. Gold, diamonds, pearls, covered their garments, -or the inside of their palaces: and their love, far from being reputed -sacrilegious, was often the sweetest recompense of the toils of the -warrior. It was thus that Ogier the Dane, the valiant paladin of -Charlemagne, was received by the fairy Morgana in her castle of -Avalon. She placed on his head the fatal crown of gold, covered -with precious stones, and leaves of laurel, myrtle, and roses, to which -was attached the gift of immortal youth, and, at the same time, the -oblivion of every other sentiment than the love of Morgana. From -this moment the hero no longer remembered the court of Charlemagne; -nor the glory which he had acquired in France; nor the crowns of -Denmark, of England, Acre, Babylon, and Jerusalem, which he had -worn in succession; nor all the battles he had fought, nor the number -of giants he had vanquished. He passed two hundred years with -Morgana in the intoxication of love, without being sensible of the -flight of time; and when, by chance, his crown fell off into a fountain, -and his memory was restored, he thought Charlemagne still living, -and demanded with impatience, tidings of the brave paladins, his -companions in arms. In reading this elegant fiction, we easily -discover, that it was written after the Crusades had opened a communication -between the people of the East and those of the West, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>and had enriched the French with all the treasures of the Arabian -imagination!’</p> - -<p class='c010'>M. Sismondi also justly ascribes the invention of the Mysteries, -the first modern efforts of the dramatic art, to the French; but the -inference which he draws from it, that this was owing to the great -dramatic genius of that people, must excite a smile in many of his -readers. For, certainly, if there ever was a nation utterly and -universally incapable of forming a conception of any other manners or -characters than those which exist among themselves, it is the French. -The learned author is right, however, in saying that the Mystery of -the Passions, and the moralities performed by the French company -of players, laid the foundation of the drama in various parts of Europe, -and also suggested the first probable hint of the plan of the <cite>Divine -Comedy</cite> of Dante; but it is not right to say that the merit of this last -work consists at all in the design. The design is clumsy, mechanical, -and monotonous; the invention is in the style.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We have hitherto followed M. Sismondi in his account of the -progress of modern literature, before the Italian language had been -made the vehicle of poetical composition, and before the revival of -letters. The details which he gives on the last subject, and the -extraordinary picture he presents of the pains and labour undergone -by the scholars of that day in recovering antient manuscripts, and the -remains of antient art, are highly interesting. It is from this -important event, and also from the work of Dante, the first lasting -monument of modern genius, that we should strictly date the origin of -modern literature; and, indeed, it would not be difficult to show, -that it is still the emulation of the antients, working, indeed, on very -different materials, from different principles, and with very different -results, that has been the great moving spring of the grandest efforts -of human genius in our own times. Our author next follows the -progress of the Italian language, particularly at the court of the -Sicilian Monarchs, to the period of which we are speaking. He thus -introduces his account of the first great name in modern literature.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Nevertheless, no poet had as yet powerfully affected the mind, no -philosopher had penetrated the depths of thought and sentiment, -when the greatest of the Italians, the father of their poetry, Dante, -appeared, and showed to the world how a powerful genius is able to -arrange the gross materials prepared for him, in such a manner as to -rear from them an edifice, magnificent as the universe, of which it -was the image. Instead of love songs, addressed to an imaginary -mistress,—instead of madrigals, full of cold conceits,—of sonnets -painfully harmonious,—or allegories false and forced, the only models -which Dante had before his eyes in any modern tongue, he conceived -<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>in his mind an image of the whole invisible world, and unveiled it to -the eyes of his astonished readers. In the country, indeed, of Dante, -that is, at Florence, on the 1st of May, 1304,’ (our author says), -‘all the sufferings of hell were placed before the eyes of the people, -at a horrible representation appointed for a festival day; the first -idea of which was no doubt taken from the Inferno. The bed of the -river Arno was to represent the gulf of hell; and all the variety of -torments which the imagination of monks or of the poet had invented, -streams of boiling pitch, flames, ice, serpents, were inflicted on real -persons, whose cries and groans rendered the illusion complete to the -spectators.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The subject, then, which Dante chose for his immortal poem, -when he undertook to celebrate the invisible world, and the three -kingdoms of the dead, hell, purgatory, and paradise, was in that age -the most popular of all; at once the most profoundly religious, and -the most closely allied to the love of country, of glory, and of party-feelings, -inasmuch as all the illustrious dead were to appear on this -extraordinary theatre; and in short, by its immensity, the most loftily -sublime of any which the mind of man has ever conceived. The -commentaries on Dante, left us by Boccace and others, furnish a new -proof of the superiority of this great man. We are there astonished -to find his professed admirers unable to appreciate his real grandeur. -Dante himself, as well as his commentators, attaches his excellence -to purity and correctness: yet he is neither pure nor correct; but he -is <em>a creator</em>. His characters walk and breathe; his pictures are -nature itself; his language always speaks to the imagination, as well -as to the understanding; and there is scarcely a stanza in his poem, -which might not be represented with the pencil.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>M. Sismondi seems to have understood the great poet of Italy -little better than his other commentators; and indeed the <cite>Divine -Comedy</cite> must completely baffle the common rules of French criticism, -which always seeks for excellence in the external image, and never -in the internal power and feeling. But Dante is nothing but power, -passion, self-will. In all that relates to the imitative part of poetry, -he bears no comparison with many other poets; but there is a -gloomy abstraction in his conceptions, which lies like a dead-weight -upon the mind; a benumbing stupor from the intensity of the -impression; a terrible obscurity like that which oppresses us in -dreams; an identity of interest which moulds every object to its own -purposes, and clothes all things with the passions and imaginations of -the human soul, that make amends for all other deficiencies. Dante -is a striking instance of the essential excellences and defects of -modern genius. The immediate objects he presents to the mind, are -<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>not much in themselves;—they generally want grandeur, beauty, and -order; but they become every thing by the force of the character -which he impresses on them. His mind lends its own power to the -objects which it contemplates, instead of borrowing it from them. -He takes advantage even of the nakedness and dreary vacuity of his -subject. His imagination peoples the shades of death, and broods -over the barren vastnesses of illimitable space. In point of diction -and style, he is the severest of all writers, the most opposite to the -flowery and glittering—who relies most on his own power, and the -sense of power in the reader—who leaves most to the imagination.<a id='r2' /><a href='#f2' class='c014'><sup>[2]</sup></a></p> - -<p class='c010'>Dante’s only object is to interest; and he interests only by exciting -our sympathy with the emotion by which he is himself possessed. -He does not place before us the objects by which that emotion has -been excited; but he seizes on the attention, by showing us the effect -they produce on his feelings; and his poetry accordingly frequently -gives us the thrilling and overwhelming sensation which is caught by -gazing on the face of a person who has seen some object of horror. -The improbability of the events, the abruptness and monotony in the -Inferno, are excessive; but the interest never flags, from the intense -earnestness of the author’s mind. Dante, as well as Milton, appears -to have been indebted to the writers of the old Testament for the -gloomy tone of his mind, for the prophetic fury which exalts and -kindles his poetry. But there is more deep-working passion in -Dante, and more imagination in Milton. Milton, more perhaps than -any other poet, elevated his subject, by combining image with image -in lofty gradation. Dante’s great power is in combining internal -feelings with familiar objects. Thus the gate of Hell, on which that -withering inscription is written, seems to be endowed with speech -and consciousness, and to utter its dread warning, not without a sense -of mortal woes. The beauty to be found in Dante is of the same -severe character, or mixed with deep sentiment. The story of -Geneura, to which we have just alluded, is of this class. So is the -affecting apostrophe, addressed to Dante by one of his countrymen, -whom he meets in the other world.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Sweet is the dialect of Arno’s vale!</div> - <div class='line'>Though half consumed, I gladly turn to hear.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>And another example, even still finer, if any thing could be finer, is -his description of the poets and great men of antiquity, whom he -represents ‘serene and smiling,’ though in the shades of death,</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in4'><span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>——‘because on earth their names</div> - <div class='line'>In fame’s eternal records shine for aye.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>This is the finest idea ever given of the love of fame.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Dante habitually unites the absolutely local and individual with the -greatest wildness and mysticism. In the midst of the obscure and -shadowy regions of the lower world, a tomb suddenly rises up, with -this inscription, ‘I am the tomb of Pope Anastasius the Sixth’:—and -half the personages whom he has crowded into the Inferno are -his own acquaintance. All this tends to heighten the effect by the -bold intermixture of realities, and the appeal, as it were, to the -individual knowledge and experience of the reader. There are -occasional striking images in Dante—but these are exceptions; and -besides, they are striking only from the weight of consequences -attached to them. The imagination of the poet retains and associates -the objects of nature, not according to their external forms, but their -inward qualities or powers; as when Satan is compared to a cormorant. -It is not true, then, that Dante’s excellence consists in natural -description or dramatic invention. His characters are indeed -‘instinct with life’ and sentiment; but it is with the life and -sentiment of the poet. In themselves they have little or no dramatic -variety, except what arises immediately from the historical facts -mentioned; and they afford, in our opinion, very few subjects for -picture. There is indeed one gigantic one, that of Count Ugolino, -of which Michael Angelo made a bas-relief, and which Sir Joshua -Reynolds ought not to have painted. Michael Angelo was naturally -an admirer of Dante, and has left a sonnet to his memory.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The Purgatory and Paradise are justly characterised by our author -as ‘a falling off’ from the Inferno. He however points out a -number of beautiful passages in both these divisions of the poem. -That in which the poet describes his ascent into heaven, completely -marks the character of his mind. He employs no machinery, or -supernatural agency, for this purpose; but mounts aloft ‘by the sole -strength of his desires—fixing an intense regard on the orbit of the -sun’! This great poet was born at Florence in 1265, of the noble -family of the Alighieri—and died at Ravenna, September 14th, -1321. Like Milton, he was unfortunate in his political connexions, -and, what is worse, in those of his private life. He had a few -imitators after his death, but none of any eminence.</p> - -<p class='c010'>M. Sismondi professes to have a prejudice against Petrarch. In -this he is not, as he supposes, singular; but we suspect that he is -wrong. He seems to have reasoned on a very common, but very -false hypothesis, that because there is a great deal of false wit and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>affectation in Petrarch’s style, he is therefore without sentiment. -The sentiment certainly does not consist in the conceits;—but is it -not there in spite of them? The fanciful allusions, and the quaintnesses -of style lie on the surface; and it is sometimes found convenient -to make these an excuse for not seeking after that which lies -deeper and is of more value.<a id='r3' /><a href='#f3' class='c014'><sup>[3]</sup></a> It has been well observed, by a -contemporary critic, that notwithstanding the adventitious ornaments -with which their style is encumbered, there is more truth and feeling -in Cowley and Sir Philip Sidney, than in a host of insipid and merely -natural writers. It is not improbable, that if Shakespeare had -written nothing but his sonnets and smaller poems, he would, for -the same reason, have been assigned to the class of cold, artificial -writers, who had no genuine sense of nature or passion. Yet, taking -his plays for a guide to our decision, it requires no very great sagacity -or boldness to discover that his other poems contain a rich vein of -thought and sentiment. We apprehend it is the same with Petrarch. -The sentiments themselves are often of the most pure and natural -kind, even where the expression is the most laboured and far-fetched. -Nor does it follow, that this artificial and scholastic style was the -result of affectation in the author. All pedantry is not affectation. -Inveterate habit is not affectation. The technical jargon of professional -men is not affectation in them: for it is the language with -which their ideas have the strongest associations. Milton’s Classical -Pedantry was perfectly involuntary: it was the style in which he was -accustomed to think and feel; and it would have required an effort -to have expressed himself otherwise. The scholastic style is not -indeed the natural style of the passion or sentiment of love; but it is -quite false to argue, that an author did not feel this passion because -he expressed himself in the usual language in which this and all -other passions were expressed, in the particular age and country in -which he lived. On the contrary, the more true and profound the -feeling itself was, the more it might be supposed to be identified with -his other habits and pursuits—to tinge all his thoughts, and to put in -requisition every faculty of his soul—to give additional perversity to -his wit, subtlety to his understanding, and extravagance to his -expressions. Like all other strong passions, it seeks to express itself -in exaggerations, and its characteristic is less to be simple than -emphatic. The language of love was never more finely expressed -than in the play of Romeo and Juliet; and yet assuredly the force or -<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>beauty of that language does not arise from its simplicity. It is the -fine rapturous enthusiasm of youthful sensibility, which tries all ways -to express its emotions, and finds none of them half tender or -extravagant enough. The sonnet of Petrarch lamenting the death of -Laura,<a id='r4' /><a href='#f4' class='c014'><sup>[4]</sup></a> which is quoted by M. Sismondi, and of which he complains -as having ‘too much wit,’ would be a justification of these remarks; -not to mention numberless others.</p> - -<p class='c010'>M. Sismondi wishes that the connexion between Petrarch and -Laura had been more intimate, and his passion accompanied with -more interesting circumstances. The whole is in better keeping as -it is. The love of a man like Petrarch would have been less in -character, if it had been less ideal. For the purposes of inspiration, -a single interview was quite sufficient. The smile which sank into -his heart the first time he ever beheld her, played round her lips -ever after: the look with which her eyes first met his, never passed -away. The image of his mistress still haunted his mind, and was -recalled by every object in nature. Even death could not dissolve -the fine illusion: for that which exists in the imagination is alone -imperishable. As our feelings become more ideal, the impression of -the moment indeed becomes less violent; but the effect is more -general and permanent. The blow is felt only by reflection; it is -the rebound that is fatal. We are not here standing up for this -<span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>kind of Platonic attachment; but only endeavouring to explain -the way in which the passions very commonly operate in minds -accustomed to draw their strongest interests from constant contemplation.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Petrarch is at present chiefly remembered for his sonnets, and -the passion which they celebrate: he was equally distinguished in -his lifetime by his Latin poems, and as one of the great restorers -of learning. The following account of him is in many respects -interesting.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Petrarch, the son of a Florentine who had been exiled as well -as Dante, was born at Arezzo, in the night of the 19th of July 1304, -and died at Arqua, near Padua, the 18th July 1374. He had been, -during the century of which his life occupied three-fourths, the centre -of all the Italian literature. Passionately fond of letters, history, -and poetry, and an enthusiastic admirer of antiquity, he communicated -by his discourse, his writings, and his example, to all his contemporaries, -that impulse towards research and the study of the Latin -manuscripts, which so particularly distinguished the fourteenth century; -which preserved the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chef-d’œuvres</span></i> of the classic writers, at the moment -when, perhaps, they were about to be lost for ever; and which -changed, by means of these admirable models, the whole march of -the human mind. Petrarch, tormented by the passion which has -contributed so much to his celebrity, wishing to fly from himself, or -to vary his thoughts by the distraction of different objects, travelled -during almost the whole course of his life. He explored France, -Germany, all the states of Italy: he visited Spain: and, in a continual -activity directed to the discovery of the monuments of antiquity, -he associated himself with all the learned, and with all the poets and -philosophers of his time. From one end of Europe to the other, he -made them concur in this great object; he directed their pursuits; -and his correspondence became the magic chain which for the first -time united the whole literary republic of Europe. The age in -which he lived was that of small states. No sovereign had as yet -established any of those colossal empires, the authority of which -makes itself dreaded by nations of different languages. On the -contrary, each country was divided into a great number of sovereignties; -and the monarch of a small city was without power at a distance -of thirty leagues, and unknown at the distance of a hundred. But -the more political power was circumscribed, the more the glory of -letters was extended: and Petrarch, the friend of Azzo of Correggio, -prince of Parma, of Luchin and of Galeazzi Visconti, princes of -Milan, and of Francis of Carrara, prince of Padua, was better known -and more respected by Europe at large than all these sovereigns. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>The universal glory which his great knowledge had procured him, -and which he directed to the service of letters, also frequently -called him into the political career. No man of learning, or poet, -has ever been charged with so great a number of embassies to so -many great potentates,—the emperor, the Pope, the king of France, -the senate of Venice, and all the princes of Italy: and, what is -remarkable, is, that Petrarch did not fulfil those missions as belonging -to the state with whose interests he was charged, but as belonging to -all Europe. He received his title from his glory; and when he -treated between different powers, it was almost as an arbiter whose -suffrage each was desirous to secure with posterity. In fine, he -gave to his age that enthusiasm for the beauties of antiquity, that -veneration for learning, which renovated its character, and determined -that of all succeeding times. It was in some sort in the name of -grateful Europe, that Petrarch was crowned in the Capitol by the -senator of Rome, the 8th of April 1341; and this triumph, the -most glorious which has ever been decreed to any one, was not -disproportioned to the influence which this great man has exerted -over the ages which succeeded him.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>Boccacio was also one of the most indefatigable and successful -of the restorers of ancient learning; and is classed by M. Sismondi -as one of the three inventors of modern letters,—having done for -Italian prose what Dante and Petrarch had done for Italian poetry. -He was born at Paris in 1313, the son of a Florentine merchant; -and died at Certaldo, in Tuscany, in the house of his forefathers, -21st December 1375, at the age of sixty-two years. -He wrote epic poems and theology: But his Tales are his great -work.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The Decameron,’ says our author, ‘the work to which, in the -present day, Boccacio owes his high celebrity, is a collection of a -hundred novels, which he has arranged in an ingenious manner, by -supposing, that in the dreadful plague in 1348, a society of men and -women, who had retired into the country to avoid the contagion, had -imposed on themselves an obligation, for ten days together, to recite -each a novel a day. The company consisted of ten persons; and -the number of novels is, of course, a hundred. The description of -the delicious country round Florence, where these joyous hermits -took up their abode,—that of their walks—their festivals—their -repasts, has given Boccacio an opportunity to display all the riches -of a style the most flexible and graceful. The novels themselves, -which are varied with infinite art, both as to the subject and manner, -from the most touching and tender to the most playful, and unfortunately -also to the most licentious, demonstrate his talent for recounting -<span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>in every style and tone. His description of the plague of Florence, -which serves as the introduction, ranks as one of the finest historical -portraits which any age has left us. Finally, that which constitutes -the glory of Boccacio, is the perfect purity of the language, the -elegance, the grace, and above all, the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">naïveté</span></i> of the style, which is -the highest merit of this class of writing, and the peculiar charm of -the Italian language.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>All this is true; though it might be said of many other authors: -But what ought to have been said of him is, that there is in -Boccacio’s serious pieces a truth, a pathos, and an exquisite refinement -of sentiment, which is not to be met with in any other prose -writer whatever. We think M. Sismondi has missed a fine opportunity -of doing the author of the Decameron that justice which has -not been done him by the world. He has in general passed for a -mere narrator of lascivious tales or idle jests. This character -probably originated in the early popularity of his attacks on the -monks, and has been kept up by the grossness of mankind, who -revenged their own want of refinement on Boccacio, and only saw in -his writings what suited the coarseness of their own tastes. But the -truth is, that he has carried sentiment of every kind to its very -highest purity and perfection. By sentiment we would here understand -the habitual workings of some one powerful feeling, where the -heart reposes almost entirely upon itself, without the violent excitement -of opposing duties or untoward circumstances. In this way, -nothing ever came up to the story of Frederigo Alberigi and his -falcon. The perseverance in attachment, the spirit of gallantry and -generosity displayed in it, has no parallel in the history of heroical -sacrifices. The feeling is so unconscious too, and involuntary, is -brought out in such small, unlooked-for, and unostentatious circumstances, -as to show it to have been woven into the very nature and -soul of the author. The story of Isabella is scarcely less fine, and is -more affecting in the circumstances and the catastrophe. Dryden -has done justice to the impassioned eloquence of the Tancred and -Sigismunda; but has not given an adequate idea of the wild preternatural -interest of the story of Honoria. Cimon and Iphigene is by -no means one of the best, notwithstanding the popularity of the -subject. The proof of unalterable affection given in the story of -Jeronymo, and the simple touches of nature and picturesque beauty -in the story of the two holiday lovers, who were poisoned by tasting -of a leaf in the garden at Florence, are perfect masterpieces. The -epithet of Divine was well bestowed on this great painter of the -human heart. The invention implied in his different tales is immense: -but we are not to infer that it is all his own. He probably availed -<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>himself of all the common traditions which were floating in his time, -and which he was the first to appropriate. Homer appears the most -original of all authors—probably for no other reason than that we -can trace the plagiarism no farther. Several of Shakespeare’s plots -are taken from Boccacio; and indeed he has furnished subjects to -numberless writers since his time, both dramatic and narrative. -The story of Griselda is borrowed from the Decameron by Chaucer; -as is the knight’s Tale (Palamon and Arcite) from his poem of the -Theseid.</p> - -<p class='c010'>M. Sismondi follows the progress of Italian literature with great -accuracy and judgment, from this period to that of their epic and -romantic writers. Pulci and Boyardo preceded Ariosto and Tasso. -It has been observed that there is a great resemblance between the -style of Pulci’s Morganti Maggiore and that of Voltaire. Thus, -one of the personages in his poem being questioned as to the articles -of his faith, says, that ‘he believes in a fat capon and a bottle of -wine.’ His hero Rolando arriving at the gate of a monastery, on -which some giants showered down fragments of rocks from the -neighbouring mountain every night and morning, is advised by the -Abbot to make haste in, ‘for that the manna is going to fall!’ This -kind of levity of allusion, was characteristic of the literature of the -age. One of these giants, to wit, Morganti, is converted by -Orlando; but makes a very indifferent Christian after all. This -writer has a certain familiar sarcastic gaiety in common with Ariosto, -but none of his enthusiasm or elevation. The Orlando Amoroso -of Boyardo, who was governor of Reggio, and one of the courtiers -of Duke Hercules of Ferrara, was the foundation of Ariosto’s -poem.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘This poem,’ says our author, ‘which is at present known only -from the more modern edition of Berni, who revised it sixty years -after, is superior to that of Pulci, in the variety and novelty of the -adventures, the richness of the colouring, and in the interest it excites. -The women here appear, what they ought to be in a romance, the -soul of the work; Angelica here shows herself in all her charms, -and with all her power over the bravest knights. All those warriors, -whether Moors or Christians, whose names have become almost -historical, received from Boyardo their existence, and the characters -which they have preserved ever since. We are told that he took the -names of several, as Gradasso, Sacripant, Agramant, Mandiscardo, -from those of his vassals at his estate of Scandiano, where these -families still remain: but it seems he wished for a still more sounding -name for the most redoubtable of his Moorish chiefs. While on a -hunting party, that of Rodomont came into his mind. On the instant -<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>he returned full gallop to his chateau, and had the bells rung and -the cannon fired in sign of a fete, to the great astonishment of the -peasants, to whom this new saint was quite unknown. The style of -Boyardo did not correspond with the vivacity of his imagination: It -is little laboured; the verse is harsh and tedious; and it was not -without reason that in the following age it was judged proper to give -a new form to his work.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>The account given of Ariosto and Tasso is in general correct as -to the classification of their different styles, and the enumeration of -their particular excellences or defects; but we should be inclined to -give the preference in the contrary way. Ariosto’s excellence is -(what it is here described) infinite grace and gaiety. He has fine -animal spirits, an heroic disposition, sensibility mixed with vivacity, -an eye for nature, great rapidity of narration and facility of style, -and, above all, a genius buoyant, and with wings like the Griffin-horse -of Rogero, which he turns and winds at pleasure. He never -labours under his subject; never pauses; but is always setting out on -fresh exploits. Indeed, his excessive desire not to overdo any thing, -has led him to resort to the unnecessary expedient of constantly -breaking off in the middle of his story, and going on to something -else. His work is in this respect worse than Tristram Shandy; for -there the progress of the narrative is interrupted by some incident, in -a dramatic or humorous shape; but here the whole fault lies with -the author. The Orlando Furioso is a tissue of these separate -stories, crossing and jostling one another; and is therefore very -inferior, in the general construction of the plot, to the Jerusalem -Delivered. But the incidents in Ariosto are more lively, the -characters more real, the language purer, the colouring more natural: -even the sentiments show at least as much feeling, with less appearance -of affectation. There is less effort, less display, a less imposing use -made of the common ornaments of style and artifices of composition. -Tasso was the more accomplished writer, Ariosto the greater genius. -There is nothing in Tasso which is not to be found, in the same or -a higher degree, in others: Ariosto’s merits were his own. The -perusal of the one leaves a peculiar and very high relish behind it; -there is a vapidness in the other, which palls at the time, and goes off -sooner afterwards. Tasso indeed sets before us a dessert of melons, -mingled with roses:—but it is not the first time of its being served -up:—the flowers are rather faded, and the fruit has lost its freshness. -Ariosto writes on as it happens, from the interest of his subject, or -the impulse of his own mind. He is intent only on the adventure -he has in hand,—the circumstances which might be supposed to -attend it, the feelings which would naturally arise out of it. He -<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>attaches himself to his characters for their own sakes; and relates -their achievements for the mere pleasure he has in telling them. This -method is certainly liable to great disadvantages; but we on the -whole prefer it to the obtrusive artifices of style shown in the -Jerusalem,—where the author seems never to introduce any character -but as a foil to some other,—makes one situation a contrast to the -preceding, and his whole poem a continued antithesis in style, -action, sentiment, and imagery. A fierce is opposed to a tender, a -blasphemous to a pious character. A lover kills his mistress in -disguise, and a husband and wife are represented defending their -lives, by a pretty ambiguity of situation and sentiment, warding off -the blows which are aimed, not at their own breasts, but at each -other’s. The same love of violent effect sometimes produces -grossness of character, as in Armida, who is tricked out with all -the ostentatious trappings of a prostitute. Tasso has more of what -is usually called poetry than Ariosto—that is, more tropes and -ornaments, and a more splendid and elaborate diction. The latter is -deficient in all these:—the figures and comparisons he introduces do -not elevate or adorn that which they are brought to illustrate: they -are, for the most part, mere parallel cases; and his direct description, -simple and striking as it uniformly is, seems to us of a far higher -order of merit than the ingenious allusions of his rival. We cannot, -however, agree with M. Sismondi, that there is a want of sentiment -in Ariosto, or that he excels only as a painter of objects, or a narrator -of events. The instance which he gives from the story of Isabella, -is an exception to his general power. The episodes of Herminia, -and of Tancred and Clorinda, in Tasso, are exquisitely beautiful; -but they do not come up, in romantic interest or real passion, to the -loves of Angelica and Medoro. We might instance, to the same -purpose, the character of Bradamante;—the spirited apostrophe to -knighthood, ‘Oh ancient knights of true and noble heart;’—that to -Orlando, Sacripant, and the other lovers of Angelica—or the triumph -of Medoro—the whole progress of Orlando’s passion, and the still -more impressive description of his sudden recovery from his fatal -infatuation, after the restoration of his senses. Perhaps the finest -thing in Tasso is the famous description of Carthage, as the warriors -pass by it in the enchanted bark. ‘Giace l’alta Cartago,’ &c. -This passage, however, belongs properly to the class of lofty philosophical -eloquence; it owes its impressiveness to the grandeur of the -general ideas, and not to the force of individual feeling, or immediate -passion. The speech of Satan to his companions is said to have -suggested the tone of Milton’s character of the Devil. But we see -nothing in common in the fiend of the two poets. Tasso describes -<span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>his as a mere deformed monster. Milton was the first poet who had -the magnanimity to paint the devil without horns and a tail; to give -him personal beauty and intellectual grandeur, with only moral -deformity.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The life of Tasso is one of the most interesting in the world. Its -last unfortunate events are related thus by our author.—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Tasso, admitted into the society of the great, thought himself -sufficiently their equal, to fall in love with women of rank; and found -himself sufficiently their inferior, to suffer from the consequences of -his passion. His writings inform us, that he was attached to a lady -of the name of Leonora: but it would seem that he was alternately -in love with Leonora of Este, sister to the Duke Alphonso; with -Leonora of San Vitale, wife of Julius of Tiena; and with Lucretia -Bendidio, one of the maids of honour to the princess.... It is -said, that one day being at court with the Duke and the Princess -Leonora, he was so struck with the beauty of the lady, that, in a -transport of love, he approached her suddenly, and embraced her in -the eyes of the whole assembly. The Duke, turning coldly to his -courtiers, said to them—“What a pity that so great a man should -have gone mad!” and on this pretence, had him confined in the -hospital of St. Anne, a receptacle for lunatics at Ferrara. His -confinement disordered his imagination. His body was enfeebled by -the agitation of his mind; he believed himself by turns poisoned, or -tormented by witchcraft; he fancied that he saw dreadful apparitions, -and passed whole nights in painful watchfulness. He addressed -letters of complaint to all his friends, to all the princes of Italy, to -the city of Bergamo his native place, to the emperor, to the holy -office at Rome, imploring their pity and his liberty. To add to his -misfortunes, his poem was published without his permission, from an -imperfect copy. He remained confined in the hospital seven years; -during which, the numerous writings that proceeded from his pen, -could not convince Alphonso <span class='fss'>II.</span> that he was in his senses. The -princes of Italy in vain interposed for his release, which the Duke -refused to grant, chiefly to mortify his rivals, the Medici. At length, -he was released from his captivity at the instance of Vincent de -Gonzago, Prince of Mantua, on the occasion of the marriage of the -sister of this nobleman with the unrelenting Alphonso.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>It was during this melancholy interval, that he was seen by -Montaigne in his confinement, who, after some striking reflections on -the vicissitudes of genius, says,—‘I rather envied than pitied him, -when I saw him at Ferrara in so piteous a plight, that he survived -himself; misacknowledging both himself and his labours, which, -unwitting to him, and even to his face, have been published both -<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>uncorrected and maimed!’—Tasso died at Rome in 1599, when he -was fifty-one years old. After the Jerusalem, the most celebrated of -his works, is his pastoral poem of Aminta, on which the Pastor Fido -of Guarini is considered by M. Sismondi as an improvement. He -published both comedies and tragedies. He composed a tragedy, -called <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Il Torrismondo</span></i>, while in prison, and dedicated it to his liberator, -the Prince of Mantua. The concluding chorus of this tragedy -possesses the most profound pathos; and the poet, in writing it, had -evidently an eye to his own misfortunes and his glory, which he saw, -or thought he saw, vanishing from him—‘Like the swift Alpine -torrent, like the sudden lightning in the calm night, like the passing -wind, the melting vapour, or the winged arrow, so vanishes our fame; -and all our glory is but a fading flower. What then can we hope, or -what expect more? After triumphs and palms, all that remains for -the soul, is strife and lamentation, and regret; neither love nor -friendship can avail us aught, but only tears and grief!’</p> - -<p class='c010'>We have thus gone through M. Sismondi’s account of the great -Italian poets; and should now proceed to the consideration of their -more modern brethren of the drama, and of the Spanish and Portuguese -writers in general: But we cannot go on with this splendid -catalogue of foreigners, without feeling ourselves drawn to the native -glories of two of our own writers, who were certainly indebted -in a great degree to the early poets of Italy, and must be considered -as belonging to the same school.—We mean Chaucer and Spenser—who -are now, we are afraid, as little known to the ordinary run of -English readers as their tuneful contemporaries in the South. To -those among our own countrymen who agree with M. Sismondi in -considering the reign of Queen Anne as the golden period of English -poetry, it may afford some amusement at least to accompany us for a -little in these antiquarian researches.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Though Spenser was much later than Chaucer, his obligations to -preceding poets were less. He has in some measure borrowed the -plan of his poem from Ariosto; but he has engrafted upon it an exuberance -of fancy, and an endless voluptuousness of sentiment, which -are not to be found in the Italian writer.—Farther, Spenser is even -more of an inventor in the subject-matter. There is a richness and -variety in his allegorical personages and fictions, which almost vies -with the splendour of the ancient mythology. If Ariosto transports -us into the regions of romance, Spenser’s poetry is all fairy-land. In -Ariosto, we walk upon the ground, in a company, gay, fantastic, and -adventurous enough; in Spenser, we wander in another world among -ideal beings. The poet takes and lays us in the lap of a lovelier -nature, by the sound of softer streams, among greener hills, and fairer -<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>valleys. He paints nature, not as we find it, but as we expected to -find it; and fulfils the deluding promise of our youth. He waves -his wand of enchantment,—and at once embodies airy beings, and -throws a delicious veil over all actual objects. The two worlds of -reality and of fiction, seem poised on the wings of his imagination. -His ideas indeed seem always more distinct than his perceptions. -He is the painter of abstractions, and describes them with dazzling -minuteness. In the Mask of Cupid, the god of love ‘claps on high -his coloured winges <em>twain</em>;’ and it is said of Gluttony in the procession -of the Passions,—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘In green vine-leaves he was right fitly clad.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>At times he becomes picturesque from his intense love of beauty; -as, where he compares Prince Arthur’s crest to the appearance of the -almond-tree. The love of beauty, however, and not of truth, is the -moving principle of his mind; and his delineations are guided by -no principle but the impulse of an inexhaustible imagination. He -luxuriates equally in scenes of Eastern magnificence, or the still -solitude of a hermit’s cell—in the extremes of sensuality or refinement. -With all this, he neither makes us laugh nor weep. The -only jest in his poem is an allegory. But he has been falsely charged -with a want of passion and of strength. He has both in an immense -degree. He has not indeed the pathos of immediate action or suffering, -which is the dramatic; but he has all the pathos of sentiment -and romance,—all that belongs to distant objects of terror, and -uncertain, imaginary distress. His strength, in like manner, is not -coarse and palpable,—but it assumes the character of vastness and -sublimity, seen through the same visionary medium, and blended with -all the appalling associations of preternatural agency. We will only -refer to the Cave of Mammon, and to the description of Celleno in -the Cave of Despair. The three first books of the Faery Queen -are very superior to the others. It is not fair to compare Spenser with -Shakespeare, in point of interest. A fairer comparison would be with -Comus. There is only one book of this allegorical kind which has -more interest than Spenser (with scarcely less imagination); and -that is the Pilgrim’s Progress.</p> - -<p class='c010'>It is not possible for any two writers to be more opposite than -Spenser and Chaucer. Spenser delighted in luxurious enjoyment;—Chaucer -in severe activity of mind. Spenser was, perhaps, the most -visionary of all the poets;—Chaucer the most a man of observation -and of the world. He appealed directly to the bosoms and business -of men. He dealt only in realities; and, relying throughout on facts -or common tradition, could always produce his vouchers in nature. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>His sentiment is not the voluntary indulgence of the poet’s fancy, but -is founded on the habitual prejudices and passions of the very characters -he introduces. His poetry, therefore, is essentially picturesque -and dramatic: In this he chiefly differs from Boccacio, whose power -was that of sentiment. The picturesque and the dramatic in Chaucer, -are in a great measure the same thing; for he only describes external -objects as connected with character,—as the symbols of internal -passion. The costume and dress of the Canterbury pilgrims,—of the -knight,—the ‘squire,—the gap-toothed wife of Bath, speak for themselves. -Again, the description of the equipage and accoutrements of -the two Kings of Thrace and Inde, in the Knight’s Tale, are as -striking and grand, as the others are lively and natural. His descriptions -of natural scenery are in the same style of excellence;—their -beauty consists in their truth and characteristic propriety. They have -a local freshness about them, which renders them almost tangible; -which gives the very feeling of the air, the coldness or moisture of -the ground. In other words, he describes inanimate objects from -the effect which they have on the mind of the spectator, and as they -have a reference to the interest of the story. One of the finest parts -of Chaucer is of this mixed kind. It is in the beginning of the -Flower and the Leaf, where he describes the delight of that young -beauty, shrouded in her bower, and listening in the morning of the -year to the singing of the nightingale, while her joy rises with the -rising song, and gushes out afresh at every pause, and is borne along -with the full tide of pleasure, and still increases, and repeats, and prolongs -itself, and knows no ebb. The coolness of the arbour,—its -retirement,—the early time of the day,—the sudden starting up of -the birds in the neighbouring bushes—the eager delight with which -they devour and rend the opening buds and flowers, are expressed -with a truth and feeling, which make the whole seem like the recollection -of an actual scene. Whoever compares this beautiful and -simple passage with Rousseau’s description of the Elisée in the New -Eloise, will be able to see the difference between good writing and -fine writing, or between the actual appearances of nature, and the -progress of the feelings they excite in us, and a parcel of words, -images and sentiments thrown together without meaning or coherence. -We do not say this from any feeling of disrespect to Rousseau, for -whom we have a great affection; but his imagination was not that -of the poet or the painter. Severity and boldness are the characteristics -of the natural style: the artificial is equally servile and -ostentatious. Nature, after all, is the soul of art:—and there is a -strength in the imagination which reposes immediately on nature, -which nothing else can supply. It was this trust in nature, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>reliance on his subject, which enabled Chaucer to describe the grief -and patience of Griselda,—the faith of Constance,—and the heroic -perseverance of the little child, who, going to school through the -streets of Jewry,</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Oh, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Alma redemptoris mater</span></i>, loudly sung,’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>and who, after his death, still triumphed in his song. Chaucer has -more of this deep, internal, sustained sentiment than any other writer, -except Boccacio, to whom Chaucer owed much, though he did not -owe all to him: for he writes just as well where he did not borrow -from that quarter, as where he did; as in the characters of the -Pilgrims,—the Wife of Bath’s Prologue,—the ‘Squire’s Tale, and -in innumerable others. The poetry of Chaucer has a religious sanctity -about it, connected with the manners of the age. It has all the spirit -of martyrdom!</p> - -<p class='c010'>In looking back to the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chef-d’œuvres</span></i> of former times, we are sometimes -disposed to wonder at the little progress which has been made -since in poetry, and the arts of imitation in general. But this, -perhaps, is a foolish wonder. Nothing is more contrary to fact, than -the supposition, that in what we understand by the fine arts, as painting -and poetry, relative perfection is the result of repeated success; -and that, what has been once well done, constantly leads to something -better. What is mechanical, reducible to rule, or capable of -demonstration, is indeed progressive, and admits of gradual improvement: -but that which is not mechanical or definite, but depends on -taste, genius, and feeling, very soon becomes stationary or retrograde, -after a certain period, and loses more than it gains by transfusion. -The contrary opinion is indeed a common error, which has grown -up, like many others, from transferring an analogy of one kind to something -quite different, without thinking of the difference in the nature -of the things, or attending to the difference of the results. For most -persons, finding what wonderful advances have been made in biblical -criticism, in chemistry, in mechanics, in geometry, astronomy, &c., -<em>i.e.</em> in things depending on inquiry and experiment, or on absolute -demonstration, have been led hastily to conclude, that there was a -general tendency in the efforts of the human intellect to improve by -repetition, and, in all arts and institutions, to grow perfect and mature -by time. We look back upon the theological creed of our ancestors, -and their discoveries in natural philosophy, with a smile of pity: -Science, and the arts connected with it, have all had their infancy, -their youth and manhood, and seem to have in them no principle of -limitation or decay; and, inquiring no farther, we infer, in the intoxication -of our pride, and the height of our self-congratulation, that the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>same progress has been made, and will continue to be made, in all -other things which are the work of man. The fact, however, stares -us so plainly in the face, that one would think the smallest reflection -must suggest the truth, and overturn our sanguine theories. The -greatest poets, the ablest orators, the best painters, and the finest -sculptors that the world ever saw, appeared soon after the first birth -of these arts, and lived in a state of society which was in other -respects rude and barbarous. Those arts which depend on individual -genius and incommunicable power, have almost always leaped at once -from infancy to manhood—from the first rude dawn of invention to -their meridian height and dazzling lustre, and have, in general, -declined ever after. This is the peculiar distinction and privilege -of science and of art;—of the one, never to arrive at the summit of -perfection at all; and of the other, to arrive at it almost at once. -Homer, Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Dante and Ariosto, (Milton -alone was of a later period, and not the worse for it),—Raphael, -Titian, Michael Angelo, Correggio, Cervantes and Boccacio—all -lived near the beginning of their arts—perfected, and all but created -them. These giant sons of genius stand indeed upon the earth; but -they tower above their fellows; and the long line of their successors -does not interpose any object to obstruct their view, or lessen their -brightness. In strength and stature, they are unrivalled; in grace -and beauty, they have never been surpassed. In after ages and more -refined periods (as they are called), great men have arisen one by -one, as it were by throes and at intervals; though, in general, -the best of these cultivated and artificial minds were of an inferior -order; as Tasso and Pope among poets, Guido and Poussin among -painters. But in the earlier stages of the arts, when the first -mechanical difficulties had been got over, and the language acquired, -they rose by clusters and in constellations—never so to rise again.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The arts of poetry and painting are conversant with the world of -thought within us, and of the world of sense without us—with what -we know and see and feel intimately. They flow from the living -shrine of our own breasts, and are kindled at the living lamp of -Nature: But the pulse of the passions assuredly beat as high—the -depths and soundings of the human heart were as well understood, -three thousand or three hundred years ago, as they are at present. -The face of nature, and ‘the human face divine,’ shone as bright -then, as they have ever done since. But it is their light, reflected -by true genius on art, which marks out the path before it, and sheds -a glory round the Muses’ feet, like that which</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in6'>——‘circled Una’s angel face,</div> - <div class='line'>And made a sunshine in the shady place.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span> - <h3 class='c008'>SCHLEGEL ON THE DRAMA</h3> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Vol. xxvi.</span>]      [<em>February 1816.</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>The work is German; and is to be received with the allowances -which that school of literature generally requires. With these, however, -it will be found a good work: and as we should be sorry to -begin our account of it with an unmeaning sneer, we will explain at -once what appears to us to be the weak side of German literature. -In all that they do, it is evident that they are much more influenced -by a desire of distinction than by any impulse of the imagination, or -the consciousness of extraordinary qualifications. They write, not -because they are full of a subject, but because they think it is a -subject upon which, with due pains and labour, something striking -may be written. So they read and meditate,—and having, at length, -devised some strange and paradoxical view of the matter, they set -about establishing it with all their might and main. The consequence -is, that they have no shades of opinion, but are always straining at -a grand systematic conclusion. They have done a great deal, no -doubt, and in various departments; but their pretensions have always -much exceeded their performance. They are universal undertakers, -and complete encyclopedists, in all moral and critical science. No -question can come before them but they have a large apparatus of -logical and metaphysical principles ready to play off upon it; and the -less they know of the subject, the more formidable is the use they -make of their apparatus. In poetry, they have at one time gone to -the utmost lengths of violent effect,—and then turned round, with -equal extravagance, to the laborious production of no effect at all. -The truth is, that they are naturally a slow, heavy people; and can -only be put in motion by some violent and often repeated impulse, -under the operation of which they lose all control over themselves—and -nothing can stop them short of the last absurdity. Truth, in -their view of it, is never what is, but what, according to their system, -<em>ought to be</em>. Though they have dug deeply in the mine of knowledge, -they have too often confounded the dross and the ore, and -counted their gains rather by their weight than their quality. They -are a little apt, we suspect, literally to take the will for the deed,—and -are not always capable of distinguishing between effort and -success. They are most at home, accordingly, in matters of fact, -and learned inquiries. In art they are hard, forced, and mechanical; -and, generally, they may be said to have all that depends on strength -of understanding and persevering exertion,—but to want ease, quickness -<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>and flexibility. We should not have made these remarks, if -the work before us had formed an absolute exception to them.</p> - -<p class='c010'>William Schlegel has long been celebrated on the Continent as a -philosophical critic, and as the admirable translator of Shakespear -and Calderon into his native tongue. Madame de Staël acknowledges -her obligations to him, for the insight which he had given her -into the discriminating features of German genius. And M. Sismondi, -in his work on Southern literature, bears the most honourable -testimony to his talents and learning. The present work contains a -critical and historical account of the ancient and modern drama,—the -Greek, the Latin, the Italian, the French, the English, the -Spanish, and the German. The view which the author has taken -of the standard productions, whether tragic or comic, in these -different languages, is in general ingenious and just; and his speculative -reasonings on the principles of taste, are often as satisfactory -as they are profound. But he sometimes carries the love of theory, -and the spirit of partisanship, farther than is at all allowable. His -account of Shakespear is admirably characteristic, and must be highly -gratifying to the English reader. It is indeed by far the best account -which has been given of the plays of that great genius by any writer, -either among ourselves, or abroad. It is only liable to one exception—he -will allow Shakespear to have had no faults. Now, we -think he had a great many, and that he could afford to have had as -many more. It shows a distrust of his genius, to be tenacious of his -defects.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Our author thus explains the object of his work—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Before I proceed farther, I wish to say a few words respecting -the spirit of my criticism—a study to which I have devoted a great -part of my life. We see numbers of men, and even whole nations, -so much fettered by the habits of their education and modes of living, -that nothing appears natural, proper, or beautiful, which is foreign to -their language, their manners, and their social relations. In this -exclusive mode of seeing and feeling, it is no doubt possible, by -means of cultivation, to attain a great nicety of discrimination in the -narrow circle within which they are circumscribed. But no man -can be a true critic or connoisseur, who does not possess a universality -of mind,—who does not possess that flexibility which, throwing -aside all personal predilections and blind habits, enables him to transport -himself into the peculiarities of other ages and nations,—to feel -them as it were from their proper and central point,—and to recognize -and respect whatever is beautiful and grand under those external -circumstances which are necessary to their existence, and which -sometimes even seem to disguise them. There is no monopoly of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>poetry for certain ages and nations; and consequently, that despotism -in taste, by which it is attempted to make those rules universal, -which were at first perhaps arbitrarily established, is a pretension -which ought never to be allowed. Poetry, taken in its widest -acceptation, as the power of creating what is beautiful, and representing -it to the eye or ear, is a universal gift of Heaven; which -is even shared to a certain extent by those whom we call barbarians -and savages. Internal excellence is alone decisive; and where -this exists, we must not allow ourselves to be repelled by external -circumstances.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘It is well known, that, three centuries and a half ago, the study -of ancient literature, by the diffusion of the Greek language (for -the Latin was never extinct) received a new life: The classical -authors were sought after with avidity, and made accessible by means -of the press; and the monuments of ancient art were carefully dug -up, and preserved. All this excited the human mind in a powerful -manner, and formed a decided epoch in the history of our cultivation: -the fruits have extended to our times, and will extend to a -period beyond the power of our calculation. But the study of the -ancients was immediately carried to a most pernicious excess. The -learned, who were chiefly in possession of this knowledge, and who -were incapable of distinguishing themselves by their own productions, -yielded an unlimited deference to the ancients,—and with -great appearance of reason, as they are models in their kind. They -maintained, that nothing could be hoped for the human mind, but -in the imitation of the ancients; and they only esteemed, in the -works of the moderns, whatever resembled, or seemed to bear a -resemblance, to those of antiquity. Every thing else was rejected by -them as barbarous and unnatural. It was quite otherwise with the -great poets and artists. However strong their enthusiasm for the -ancients, and however determined their purpose of entering into -competition with them, they were compelled by the characteristic -peculiarity of their minds to proceed in a track of their own,—and -to impress upon their productions the stamp of their own genius. -Such was the case with Dante among the Italians, the father of -modern poetry: he acknowledged Virgil for his instructor; but -produced a work, which of all others differs the most from the -Æneid, and <em>far excels it, in our opinion, in strength, truth, depth, and -comprehension</em>. It was the same afterwards with Ariosto, who has -been most unaccountably compared to Homer; for nothing can be -more unlike. It was the same in the fine arts with Michael Angelo -and Raphael, who were without doubt well acquainted with the -antique. When we ground our judgment of modern painters merely -<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>on their resemblance to the ancients, we must necessarily be unjust -towards them. As the poets for the most part acquiesced in the -doctrines of the learned, we may observe a curious struggle in them -between their natural inclination and their imagined duty. When -they sacrificed to the latter, they were praised by the learned; but, -by yielding to their own inclinations, they became the favourites of -the people. What preserves the heroic poems of a Tasso or a -Camoens to this day alive, in the hearts and on the lips of their -countrymen, is by no means their imperfect resemblance to Virgil -or even to Homer,—but, in Tasso, the tender feeling of chivalrous -love and honour, and in Camoens the glowing inspiration of patriotic -heroism.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>The author next proceeds to unfold that which is the <em>nucleus</em> of -the prevailing system of German criticism, and the foundation of his -whole work, namely, the essential distinction between the peculiar -spirit of the modern or <em>romantic</em> style of art, and the antique or -<em>classical</em>. There is in this part of the work a singular mixture -of learning, acuteness and mysticism. We have certain profound -suggestions and distant openings to the light; but, every now and -then, we are suddenly left in the dark, and obliged to grope our way -by ourselves. We cannot promise to find a clue out of the labyrinth; -but we will at least attempt it. The most obvious distinction between -the two styles, the classical and the romantic, is, that the one is -conversant with objects that are grand or beautiful in themselves, or -in consequence of obvious and universal associations; the other, with -those that are interesting only by the force of circumstances and -imagination. A Grecian temple, for instance, is a classical object: -it is beautiful in itself, and excites immediate admiration. But the -ruins of a Gothic castle have no beauty or symmetry to attract the -eye; and yet they excite a more powerful and romantic interest -from the ideas with which they are habitually associated. If, in -addition to this, we are told that this is Macbeth’s castle, the scene -of the murder of Duncan, the interest will be instantly heightened -to a sort of pleasing horror. The classical idea or form of any -thing, it may also be observed, remains always the same, and suggests -nearly the same impressions; but the associations of ideas belonging -to the romantic character, may vary infinitely, and take in the whole -range of nature and accident. Antigone, in Sophocles, waiting near -the grove of the Furies—Electra, in Æschylus, offering sacrifice at -the tomb of Agamemnon—are classical subjects, because the circumstances -and the characters have a correspondent dignity, and -an immediate interest, from their mere designation. Florimel, in -Spenser, where she is described sitting on the ground in the Witch’s -<span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>hut, is not classical, though in the highest degree poetical and -romantic: for the incidents and situation are in themselves mean and -disagreeable, till they are redeemed by the genius of the poet, and -converted, by the very contrast, into a source of the utmost pathos -and elevation of sentiment. Othello’s handkerchief is not classical, -though ‘there was magic in the web;’—it is only a powerful instrument -of passion and imagination. Even Lear is not classical; for -he is a poor crazy old man, who has nothing sublime about him but -his afflictions, and who dies of a broken heart.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Schlegel somewhere compares the Furies of Æschylus to the -Witches of Shakespear—we think without much reason. Perhaps -Shakespear has surrounded the Weird Sisters with associations as -terrible, and even more mysterious, strange, and fantastic than the -Furies of Æschylus; but the traditionary beings themselves are not -so petrific. These are of marble,—their look alone must blast the -beholder;—those are of air, bubbles; and though ‘so withered and -so wild in their attire,’ it is their spells alone which are fatal. They -owe their power to ‘metaphysical aid’: but the others contain all -that is dreadful in their corporal figures. In this we see the distinct -spirit of the classical and the romantic mythology. The serpents -that twine round the head of the Furies are not to be trifled with, -though they implied no preternatural power: The bearded Witches -in Macbeth are in themselves grotesque and ludicrous, except as this -strange deviation from nature staggers our imagination, and leads us to -expect and to believe in all incredible things. They appal the -faculties by what they say or do;—the others are intolerable, even to -sight.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Our author is right in affirming, that the true way to understand -the plays of Sophocles and Æschylus, is to study them before the -groupes of the Niobe or the Laocoon. If we can succeed in explaining -this analogy, we shall have solved nearly the whole difficulty. -For it is certain, that there are exactly the same powers of mind -displayed in the poetry of the Greeks as in their statues. Their -poetry is exactly what their sculptors might have written. Both are -exquisite imitations of nature; the one in marble, the other in words. -It is evident, that the Greek poets had the same perfect idea of the -subjects they described, as the Greek sculptors had of the objects -they represented; and they give as much of this absolute truth of -imitation, as can be given by words. But, in this direct and simple -imitation of nature, as in describing the form of a beautiful woman, the -poet is greatly inferior to the sculptor; It is in the power of -illustration, in comparing it to other things, and suggesting other ideas -of beauty or love, that he has an entirely new source of imagination -<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>opened to him; and of this power, the moderns have made at least a -bolder and more frequent use than the ancients. The description of -Helen in Homer, is a description of what might have happened and -been seen, as ‘that she moved with grace, and that the old men rose -up with reverence as she passed;’ the description of Belphœbe in -Spenser, is a description of what was only visible to the eye of the poet.</p> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div>‘Upon her eyelids many graces sat,</div> - <div>Under the shadow of her even brows.’</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>The description of the soldiers going to battle in Shakespear, ‘all -plumed like estriches, like eagles newly bathed, wanton as goats, wild -as young bulls,’ is too bold, figurative, and profuse of dazzling images, -for the mild, equable tone of classical poetry, which never loses sight -of the object in the illustration. The ideas of the ancients were too -exact and definite, too much attached to the material form or vehicle -in which they were conveyed, to admit of those rapid combinations, -those unrestrained flights of fancy, which, glancing from heaven to -earth, unite the most opposite extremes, and draw the happiest -illustrations from things the most remote. The two principles of -imitation and imagination indeed, are not only distinct, but almost -opposite. For the imagination is that power which represents objects, -not as they are, but as they are moulded according to our fancies and -feelings. Let an object be presented to the senses in a state of -agitation and fear—and the imagination will magnify the object, and -convert it into whatever is most proper to encourage the fear. It is -the same in all other cases in which poetry speaks the language of the -imagination. This language is not the less true to nature because it -is false in point of fact; but so much the more true and natural, if it -conveys the impression which the object under the influence of -passion makes on the mind. We compare a man of gigantic stature -to a tower; not that he is any thing like so large, but because the -excess of his size, beyond what we are accustomed to expect, -produces a greater feeling of magnitude and ponderous strength than -an object of ten times the same dimensions. Things, in short, are -equal in the imagination, which have the power of affecting the mind -with an equal degree of terror, admiration, delight or love. When -Lear calls upon the Heavens to avenge his cause, ‘for they are old -like him,’ there is nothing extravagant or impious in this sublime -identification of his age with theirs; for there is no other image -which could do justice to the agonising sense of his wrongs and his -despair!</p> - -<p class='c010'>The great difference, then, which we find between the classical -and the romantic style, between ancient and modern poetry, is, that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>the one more frequently describes things as they are interesting in -themselves,—the other for the sake of the associations of ideas -connected with them; that the one dwells more on the immediate -impressions of objects on the senses—the other on the ideas which -they suggest to the imagination. The one is the poetry of form, the -other of effect. The one gives only what is necessarily implied in -the subject; the other all that can possibly arise out of it. The one -seeks to identify the imitation with an external object,—clings to it,—is -inseparable from it,—is either that or nothing; the other seeks to -identify the original impression with whatever else, within the range -of thought or feeling, can strengthen, relieve, adorn or elevate it. -Hence the severity and simplicity of the Greek tragedy, which -excluded everything foreign or unnecessary to the subject. Hence -the unities: for, in order to identify the imitation as much as -possible with the reality, and leave nothing to mere imagination, it -was necessary to give the same coherence and consistency to the -different parts of a story, as to the different limbs of a statue. Hence -the beauty and grandeur of their materials; for, deriving their power -over the mind from the truth of the imitation, it was necessary that -the subject which they made choice of, and from which they could -not depart, should be in itself grand and beautiful. Hence the -perfection of their execution; which consisted in giving the utmost -harmony, delicacy, and refinement to the details of a given subject. -Now, the characteristic excellence of the moderns is the reverse of -all this. As, according to our author, the poetry of the Greeks is -the same as their sculpture; so, he says, our own more nearly -resembles painting,—where the artist can relieve and throw back his -figures at pleasure,—use a greater variety of contrasts,—and where -light and shade, like the colours of fancy, are reflected on the -different objects. The Muse of classical poetry should be represented -as a beautiful naked figure: the Muse of modern poetry should be -represented clothed, and with wings. The first has the advantage in -point of form; the last in colour and motion.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Perhaps we may trace this difference to something analogous in -physical organization, situation, religion and manners. First, the -natural organization of the Greeks seems to have been more perfect, -more susceptible of external impressions, and more in harmony with -external nature than ours, who have not the same advantages of -climate and constitution. Born of a beautiful and vigorous race, with -quick senses and a clear understanding, and placed under a mild -heaven, they gave the fullest development to their external faculties: -and where all is perceived easily, every thing is perceived in harmony -and proportion. It is the stern genius of the North which drives -<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>men back upon their own resources, which makes them slow to -perceive, and averse to feel, and which, by rendering them insensible -to the single, successive impressions of things, requires their collective -and combined force to rouse the imagination violently and unequally. -It should be remarked, however, that the early poetry of some of the -Eastern nations has even more of that irregularity, wild enthusiasm, -and disproportioned grandeur, which has been considered as the -distinguishing character of the Northern nations.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Again, a good deal may be attributed to the state of manners and -political institutions. The ancient Greeks were warlike tribes -encamped in cities. They had no other country than that which -was enclosed within the walls of the town in which they lived. -Each individual belonged, in the first instance, to the State; and his -relations to it were so close, as to take away, in a great measure, all -personal independence and free-will. Every one was mortised to his -place in society, and had his station assigned him as part of the -political machine, which could only subsist by strict subordination -and regularity. Every man was as it were perpetually on duty, and -his faculties kept constant watch and ward. Energy of purpose, and -intensity of observation, became the necessary characteristics of such -a state of society; and the general principle communicated itself from -this ruling concern for the public, to morals, to art, to language, to -every thing.—The tragic poets of Greece were among her best -soldiers; and it is no wonder that they were as severe in their poetry -as in their discipline. Their swords and their styles carved out their -way with equal sharpness. This state of things was afterwards -continued under the Roman empire. In the ages of chivalry and -romance, which, after a considerable interval, succeeded its dissolution, -and which have stamped their character on modern genius and -literature, all was reversed. Society was again resolved into its -component parts; and the world was, in a manner, to begin anew. -The ties which bound the citizen and the soldier to the State being -loosened, each person was thrown back, as it were, into the circle of -the domestic affections, or left to pursue his doubtful way to fame and -fortune alone. This interval of time might be accordingly supposed -to give birth to all that was constant in attachment, adventurous in -action, strange, wild and extravagant in invention. Human life took -the shape of a busy, voluptuous dream, where the imagination was -now lost amidst ‘antres vast and deserts idle;’ or, suddenly transported -to stately palaces, echoing with dance and song. In this -uncertainty of events, this fluctuation of hopes and fears, all objects -became dim, confused and vague. Magicians, dwarfs, giants, followed -in the train of romance; and Orlando’s enchanted sword, the horn -<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>which he carried with him, and which he blew thrice at Roncesvalles, -and Rogero’s winged horse, were not sufficient to protect them in -their unheard-of encounters, or deliver them from their inextricable -difficulties. It was a return to the period of the early heroic ages; -but tempered by the difference of domestic manners, and the spirit of -religion. The marked difference in the relation of the sexes, arose -from the freedom of choice in women, which, from being the slaves -of the will and passions of men, converted them into the arbiters of -their fate, which introduced the modern system of gallantry, and first -made love a feeling of the heart, founded on mutual affection and -esteem. The leading virtues of the Christian religion, self-denial and -generosity, assisted in producing the same effect.—Hence the spirit -of chivalry, of romantic love, and honour!</p> - -<p class='c010'>The mythology of the romantic poetry differed from the received -religion: both differed essentially from the classical. The religion, -or mythology of the Greeks, was nearly allied to their poetry: it -was material and definite. The Pagan system reduced the Gods to -the human form, and elevated the powers of inanimate nature to the -same standard. Statues carved out of the finest marble, represented -the objects of their religious worship in airy porticos, in solemn -temples and consecrated groves. Mercury was seen ‘new-lighted on -some heaven-kissing hill;’ and the Naiad or Dryad came gracefully -forth as the personified genius of the stream or wood. All was subjected -to the senses. The Christian religion, on the contrary, is -essentially spiritual and abstract; it is ‘the evidence of things unseen.’ -In the Heathen mythology, form is everywhere predominant; in the -Christian, we find only unlimited, undefined power. The imagination -alone ‘broods over the immense abyss, and makes it pregnant.’ -There is, in the habitual belief of an universal, invisible Principle of -all things, a vastness and obscurity which confounds our perceptions, -while it exalts our piety. A mysterious awe surrounds the doctrines -of the Christian faith: the Infinite is everywhere before us, whether -we turn to reflect on what is revealed to us of the Divine nature or -our own.</p> - -<p class='c010'>History, as well as religion, has contributed to enlarge the bounds -of imagination; and both together, by showing past and future objects -at an interminable distance, have accustomed the mind to contemplate -and take an interest in the obscure and shadowy. The ancients were -more circumscribed within ‘the ignorant present time,’—spoke only -their own language,—were conversant only with their own customs,—were -acquainted only with the events of their own history. The -mere lapse of time then, aided by the art of printing, has served to -accumulate for us an endless mass of mixed and contradictory -<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>materials; and, by extending our knowledge to a greater number of -things, has made our particular ideas less perfect and distinct. The -constant reference to a former state of manners and literature, is a -marked feature in modern poetry. We are always talking of the -Greeks and Romans;—<em>they</em> never said any thing of us. This -circumstance has tended to give a certain abstract elevation, and -etherial refinement to the mind, without strengthening it. We are -lost in wonder at what has been done, and dare not think of emulating -it. The earliest modern poets, accordingly, may be conceived to -hail the glories of the antique world, dawning through the dark abyss -of time; while revelation, on the other hand, opened its path to the -skies: As Dante represents himself as conducted by Virgil to the -shades below; while Beatrice welcomes him to the abodes of -the blest.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We must now return, however, to our author, whose sketch -of the rise and progress of the Drama, will be interesting to our -readers.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The invention of the dramatic art, and of a theatre, seem to lie -very near one another. Man has a great disposition to mimicry. -When he enters vividly into the situation, sentiments and passions of -others, he even involuntarily puts on a resemblance to them in his -gestures. Children are perpetually going out of themselves: it is one -of their chief amusements to represent those grown people whom they -have had an opportunity of observing, or whatever comes in their -way: And with the happy flexibility of their imagination, they can -exhibit all the characteristics of assumed dignity in a father, a schoolmaster, -or a king. The sole step which is requisite for the invention -of a drama, namely, the separating and extracting the mimetic -elements and fragments from social life, and representing them -collected together into one mass, has not, however, been taken in -many nations. In the very minute description of ancient Egypt in -Herodotus and other writers, I do not recollect observing the smallest -trace of it. The Etrurians, again, who in many respects resembled -the Egyptians, had their theatrical representations; and, what is -singular enough, the Etruscan name for an actor, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">histrio</span></i>, is preserved -in living languages down to the present day. The Arabians and -Persians, though possessed of a rich poetical literature, are unacquainted -with any sort of drama. It was the same with Europe -in the middle ages. On the introduction of Christianity, the plays -handed down among the Greeks and Romans were abolished, partly -from their reference to Heathen ideas, and partly because they had -degenerated into the most impudent and indecent immorality; and -they were not again revived till after the lapse of nearly a thousand -<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>years. Even in the fourteenth century, we do not find in Boccacio, -who, however, gives us a most accurate picture of the whole constitution -of social life, the smallest trace of plays. In place of them, -they had then only story-tellers, minstrels, and jugglers. On the other -hand, we are by no means entitled to assume, that the invention of the -drama has only once taken place in the world, or that it has always -been borrowed by one people from another. The English navigators -mention, that among the islanders of the South Seas, who, in every -mental acquirement, are in such a low scale of civilization, they yet -observed a rude drama, in which a common event in life was imitated -for the sake of diversion. And to go to the other extreme:—Among -the Indians, the people from whom, perhaps, all the cultivation of -the human race has been derived, plays were known long before they -could have experienced any foreign influence. It has lately been -made known to Europe, that they have a rich dramatic literature, -which ascends back for more than two thousand years. The only -specimen of their plays (<em>nataks</em>) hitherto known to us, is the -delightful sakontala, which, notwithstanding the colouring of a foreign -climate, bears, in its general structure, such a striking resemblance -to our romantic drama, that we might be inclined to suspect we owe -this resemblance to the predilection for Shakespear entertained by -Jones the English translator, if his fidelity were not confirmed by -other learned Orientalists. In the golden times of India, the -representation of this <em>natak</em> served to delight the splendid imperial -court of Delhi; but it would appear that, from the misery of -numberless oppressions, the dramatic art in that country is now -entirely at an end. The Chinese, again, have their standing national -theatre, stationary perhaps in every sense of the word; and I do not -doubt that, in the establishment of arbitrary rules, and the delicate -observance of insignificant points of decorum, they leave the most -correct Europeans very far behind them. When the new European -stage, in the fifteenth century, had its origin in the allegorical and -spiritual pieces called Moralities and Mysteries, this origin was not -owing to the influence of the ancient dramatists, who did not come -into circulation till some time afterwards. In those rude beginnings -lay the germ of the romantic drama as a peculiar invention.’ p. 28.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The fault of this book is to have too much of every thing, but -especially of Greece; and we cannot help feeling, that the bold and -independent judgment which the author has applied to all other -nations, is somewhat suborned or overawed by his excessive veneration -for those ancient classics. There is a glow and a force, however, in -all that he says upon the subject, that almost persuades us that he is -in the right,—and that there was something incomparably more lofty -<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>in the conceptions of those early times, than the present undignified -and degenerate age can imagine. This imposing and enthusiastic -tone discloses itself in his introductory remarks on the Grecian -theatre.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘When we hear the word theatre,’ he says, ‘we naturally think -of what with us bears the same name; and yet nothing can be more -different from our theatre than the Grecian, in every part of its -construction. If, in reading the Greek pieces, we associate our own -stage with them, the light in which we shall view them must be false -in every respect.—The theatres of the Greeks were quite open above, -and their dramas were always acted in open day, and beneath the -canopy of heaven. The Romans, at an after period, endeavoured by -a covering to shelter the audience from the rays of the sun; but this -degree of luxury was hardly ever enjoyed by the Greeks. Such a -state of things appears very inconvenient to us: But the Greeks had -nothing of effeminacy about them; and we must not forget, too, -the beauty of their climate. When they were overtaken by a storm -or a shower, the play was of course interrupted; and they would -much rather expose themselves to an accidental inconvenience, than, -by shutting themselves up in a close and crowded house, entirely -destroy the serenity of a religious solemnity, which their plays -certainly were. To have covered in the scene itself, and imprisoned -gods and heroes in dark and gloomy apartments, imperfectly lighted -up, would have appeared still more ridiculous to them. An action -which so nobly served to establish the belief of the relation with -heaven, could only be exhibited under an unobstructed sky, and -under the very eyes of the gods, as it were, for whom, according to -Seneca, the sight of a brave man struggling with adversity is an -attractive spectacle. The theatres of the ancients were, in comparison -with the small scale of ours, of a colossal magnitude, partly for the -sake of containing the whole of the people, with the concourse of -strangers who flocked to the festivals, and partly to correspond with -the majesty of the dramas represented in them, which required to be -seen at a respectful distance.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>One of the most elaborate and interesting parts of this work, -is the account of the Greek tragedians, which is given in the -fourth Lecture. Our extracts from it will be copious, both on -account of the importance of the subject, and the ability with which -it is treated.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Of the inexhaustible stores possessed by the Greeks in the -department of tragedy, which the public competition at the Athenian -festivals called into being, as the rival poets always contended for a -prize, very little indeed has come down to us. We only possess -<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>works of three of their numerous tragedians, Æschylus, Sophocles, -and Euripides; and these in no proportion to the number of their -compositions. The three authors in question were selected by the -Alexandrian critics as the foundation for the study of ancient Greek -literature, not because they alone were deserving of estimation, but -because they afforded the best illustration of the various styles of -tragedy. Of each of the two oldest poets, we have seven remaining -pieces; in these, however, we have, according to the testimony of -the ancients, several of their most distinguished productions. Of -Euripides, we have a much greater number, and we might well -exchange many of them for other works which are now lost; for -example, the Satirical Dramas of Actæus, Æschylus and Sophocles; -several pieces of Phrynichus, for the sake of comparison with -Æschylus; or of Agathon, whom Plato describes as effeminate, but -sweet and affecting, and who was a contemporary of Euripides, -though somewhat younger.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The tragic style of Æschylus is grand, severe, and not unfrequently -hard. In the style of Sophocles, we observe the most -complete proportion and harmonious sweetness. The style of -Euripides is soft and luxuriant: Extravagant in his easy fulness, he -sacrifices the general effect to brilliant passages.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Æschylus is to be considered as the creator of Tragedy, which -sprung from him completely armed, like Pallas from the head of -Jupiter. He clothed it in a state of suitable dignity, and gave it an -appropriate place of exhibition. He was the inventor of scenic -pomp; and not only instructed the chorus in singing and dancing, -but appeared himself in the character of a player. He was the first -who gave development to the dialogue, and limits to the lyrical part -of the tragedy, which still however occupies too much space in his -pieces. He draws his characters with a few bold and strongly -marked features. The plans are simple in the extreme. He did -not understand the art of enriching and varying an action, and -dividing its development and catastrophe into parts, bearing a due -proportion to each other. Hence his action often stands still; and -this circumstance becomes still more apparent, from the undue extension -of his choral songs. But all his poetry betrays a sublime and -serious mind. Terror is his element, and not the softer affections: -he holds up the head of Medusa to his astonished spectators. His -manner of treating Fate is austere in the extreme; he suspends it -over the heads of mortals in all its gloomy majesty. The Cothurnus -of Æschylus has, as it were, an iron weight; gigantic figures alone -stalk before our eyes. It seems as if it required an effort in him to -condescend to paint mere men to us: he abounds most in the representation -<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>of gods, and seems to dwell with particular delight in -exhibiting the Titans, those ancient gods who typify the dark -powers of primitive nature, and who had long been driven into -Tartarus, beneath a better regulated world. He endeavours to swell -out his language to a gigantic sublimity, corresponding with the -standard of his characters. Hence he abounds in harsh combinations -and overstrained epithets; and the lyrical parts of his pieces are often -obscure in the extreme, from the involved nature of the construction. -He resembles Dante and Shakespeare in the very singular cast of his -images and expressions. These images are nowise deficient in the -terrible graces, which almost all the writers of antiquity celebrate in -Æschylus. He flourished in the very first vigour of the Grecian -freedom; was an eyewitness of the overthrow and annihilation of the -Persian hosts under Darius and Xerxes; and, in one of his pieces—the -Persians—describes in the most vivid and glowing colours the -battle of Salamis.’ p. 94.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Such is the general account of Æschylus given by our author. -He then proceeds to give a distinct sketch of each of his tragedies. -This, we will acknowledge, appears to us considerably too rapturous -and too long;—but we must give our readers a specimen of what is -perhaps the most elaborate, if not the most impressive part of the -whole publication. We shall select his account of the Eumenides -or Furies, the most terrible of all this poet’s compositions.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The fable of the Eumenides is the justification and absolution of -Orestes from his bloody crime, the murder of Clytemnestra his -mother. It is a trial, but a trial where the gods are accusers and -defenders and judges; and the manner in which the subject is treated, -corresponds with its majesty and importance. The scene itself -brought before the eyes of the Greeks the highest objects of veneration -which were known to them. It opens before the celebrated -temple at Delphi, which occupies the back-ground. The aged Pythia -enters in sacerdotal pomp, addresses her prayers to the gods who -preside over the oracle, harangues the assembled people, and goes -into the temple to seat herself on the tripod. She returns full of -consternation, and describes what she has seen in the temple; a man -stained with blood, supplicating protection, surrounded by sleeping -women with serpent hair. She then makes her exit by the same -entrance. Apollo now appears with Orestes in his traveller’s garb, -and a sword and olive branch in his hands. He promises him his -farther protection, commands him to fly to Athens, and recommends -him to the care of the present but invisible Mercury, to whom -travellers, and especially those who were under the necessity of -concealing their journey, were usually consigned. Orestes goes off -<span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>at the side allotted to strangers; Apollo re-enters the temple, which -remains open, and the Furies are seen in the interior sleeping on their -seats. Clytemnestra now ascends through the orchestra, and appears -on the stage. We are not to suppose her a haggard skeleton, but a -figure with the appearance of life, though paler, still bearing her -wounds in her breast, and shrouded in ethereal-coloured vestments. -She calls repeatedly to the Furies in the language of vehement -reproach; and then disappears. The Furies awake; and when they -no longer find Orestes, they dance in wild commotion round the -stage during the choral song. Apollo returns from the temple, and -expels them from his sanctuary as profanatory beings. <em>We may here -suppose him appearing with the sublime displeasure of the Apollo of the -Vatican, with bow and quiver, or clothed in his sacred tunic and chlamys.</em> -The scene now changes; but the back-ground probably remained -unchanged, and had now to represent the temple of Minerva on the -hill of Mars; and the lateral decorations would be converted into -Athens and the surrounding landscape. Orestes comes as from -another land, and embraces as a suppliant the statue of Pallas placed -before the temple. The chorus (who were clothed in black, with -purple girdles, and serpents in their hair), follow him on foot to this -place, but remain throughout the rest of the piece beneath in the -orchestra. The Furies had at first exhibited the rage of beasts of -prey at the escape of their victim; but they now sing with tranquil -dignity their high and terrible office among mortals, claim the head -of Orestes as forfeited to them, and consecrate it with mysterious -charms of endless pain. Pallas, the warlike virgin, appears in a -chariot and four at the intercession of the suppliant. She listens with -calm dignity to the mutual complaints of Orestes and his adversaries, -and finally undertakes the office of umpire at the solicitation of the -two parties. The assembled judges take their seats on the steps of -the temple; the herald commands silence among the people by sound -of trumpet, as at an actual tribunal. Apollo advances to advocate -the cause of the youth; the Furies in vain oppose his interference; -and the arguments for and against the deed are gone through in short -speeches. The judges throw their calculi into the urn; Pallas -throws in a white one; all are wrought up to the highest pitch of -expectation; Orestes calls out, full of anguish, to his protector: -“<em>O Phœbus Apollo, how is the cause decided?</em>”—The Furies on the -other hand, exclaim—“<em>O Black Night, mother of all things, dost thou -behold this?</em>” In the enumeration of the black and white pebbles, -they are found equal in number, and the accused is therefore declared -by Pallas acquitted of the charge. He breaks out into joyful expressions -of thanks, while the Furies declaim against the arrogance of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>the younger gods, who take such liberties with the race of Titan. -Pallas bears their rage with equanimity; addresses them in the -language of kindness, and even of veneration; and these beings, so -untractable in their general disposition, are unable to withstand the -power of her mild and convincing eloquence. They promise to bless -the land over which she has dominion; while Pallas assigns them a -sanctuary in the Attic territory, where they are to be called the -Eumenides, that is, the Benevolent. The whole ends with a solemn -procession round the theatre, with songs of invocation; while bands -of children, women, and old men, in purple robes and with torches in -their hands, accompany the Furies in their exit.’ p. 104.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The situation of Orestes at the opening of this tragedy, with the -Furies lying asleep on the floor, like aged women, with serpent hair, -is perhaps the most terrible that can be conceived. But yet, in this -situation, dreadful as it is—the sense of power; the representation of -preternatural forms; the sacredness of the place; the momentary suspense -of the action; the death like stillness; the expectation of what is -to come, subdue the spirit to a tone of awful tranquillity, and, from the -depth of despair, produce a lofty grandeur and collectedness of mind.</p> - -<p class='c010'>If this extraordinary play be the most terrible of Æschylus’s -works, the Chained Prometheus is the grandest. It is less a tragedy -than an ode. It does not describe a series of actions, but a succession -of visions. Prometheus, chained to a rock on the verge of the world, -holds parley with the original powers and oldest forms of Nature, -with Strength and Violence, and Oceanus and the race of the Titans. -Compared with the personages introduced in this poem, Jupiter and -Mercury, and the rest of that class, appear mere modern deities; we -are thrown back into the first rude chaos of Nature, where the -universe itself seems to rock like the sea, and the empire of heaven -was not yet fixed.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Prometheus,’ says our author, ‘is an image of human nature -itself; endowed with a miserable foresight, and bound down to a -narrow existence, without an ally, and with nothing to oppose to the -combined and inexorable powers of Nature, but an unshaken will, -and the consciousness of elevated claims. The other poems of the -Greek tragedians are single tragedies; but this may be called tragedy -itself; its purest spirit is revealed with all the overpowering influence -of its first unmitigated austerity.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>We agree with M. Schlegel, when he says, that ‘there is little -external action in this piece: Prometheus merely suffers and resolves -from the beginning to the end.’ But we cannot assent to his assertion, -that ‘the poet has contrived, in a masterly manner, to introduce -variety into that which was in itself determinate.’ All that is fine in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>it, is the abstract conception of the characters: The story is as -uninteresting, as it is inartificial and improbable.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The Seven before Thebes has also a very imperfect dramatic form. -It is for the most part only a narrative or descriptive dialogue passing -between two persons, the King and the Messenger. ‘The description -of the attack with which the city is threatened,’ says our critic, ‘and -of the seven leaders who have sworn its destruction, and who display -their arrogance in the symbols borne on their shields, is an epic -subject, clothed in the pomp of tragedy.’ The Agamemnon and -Electra are the two tragedies of Æschylus, which approach the -nearest to the perfection of the dramatic form, and which will bear -an immediate comparison with those of Sophocles on the same -subjects. M. Schlegel has drawn a detailed and very admirable -parallel between the two poets. Sophocles, he observes, is the more -elegant painter of outward forms and manners; but Æschylus catches -most of the enthusiasm of the passion he describes, and communicates -to the reader the lofty impulses of his own mind. In giving a poetical -colouring to objects from the suggestions of his own genius—in -describing not so much things themselves, as the impression which -they make on the imagination in a state of strong excitement, he -more nearly resembles some of the modern poets, than any of his -countrymen. The magnificent opening of the Agamemnon, in which -the watchman describes the appearance of the fires for which he had -watched ten long years, as the signal of the destruction of Troy, -might be cited as an instance of that rich and varied style, which -gives something over the bare description of the subject, and luxuriates -in the display of its own powers. The Ajax of Sophocles comes the -nearest to the general style of Æschylus, both in the nakedness of -the subject, and the poetical interest given to the character.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The account of Sophocles, which is next in order, is one of the -most finished and interesting parts of this work: though it is disfigured -by one extraordinary piece of rhodomontade, too characteristic to be -omitted. After observing that Sophocles lived to be upwards of -ninety years of age, our philosophical German breaks out into the -following mystic strain.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘It would seem as if the Gods, in return for his dedicating himself -at an early age to Bacchus as the giver of all joy, and the author of -the cultivation of the human race, by the representation of tragical -dramas for his festivals, had wished to confer immortality on him, so -long did they delay the hour of his death; but, as this was impossible, -they extinguished his life at least as gently as possible, that he might -imperceptibly change one immortality for another—the long duration -of his earthly existence for an imperishable name.’ p. 117.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>We cannot afford to enter into the detailed critique which M. -Schlegel has here offered upon the several plays of this celebrated -author. The following passage exhibits a more summary view of -them. After mentioning the native sweetness for which he was so -celebrated among his contemporaries, he observes—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Whoever is thoroughly imbued with the feeling of this property, -may flatter himself that a sense for ancient art has arisen within him: -for the lovers of the affected sentimentality of the present day would, -both in the representation of bodily sufferings, and in the language -and economy of the tragedies of Sophocles, find much of an insupportable -austerity. When we consider the great fertility of Sophocles, -for, according to some, he wrote a hundred and thirty pieces, and -eighty according to the most moderate account, we cannot help -wondering that seven only should have come down to us. Chance, -however, has so far favoured us, that, in these seven pieces, we find -several which were held by the ancients as his greatest works, -Antigone, for example, Electra, and the two Œdipuses; and these -have also come down to us tolerably free from mutilation and corruption -in the text. The first Œdipus and Philoctetes have been -generally, without any good reason, preferred to all the others by -the modern critics: the first, on account of the artifice of the plot, -in which the dreadful catastrophe, powerfully calculated to excite our -curiosity (a rare case in the Greek tragedies), is brought about -inevitably, by a succession of causes, all dependent on one another: -the latter, on account of the masterly display of character, the -beautiful contrast observable in the three leading individuals, and the -simple structure of the piece, in which, with so few persons, every -thing proceeds from the truest motives. But the whole of the -tragedies of Sophocles are conspicuous for their separate excellences. -In Antigone we have the purest display of female heroism; in Ajax -the manly feeling of honour in its whole force; in the Trachiniæ, -the female levity of Dejanira is beautifully atoned for by her death; -and the sufferings of Hercules are pourtrayed with suitable dignity. -Electra is distinguished for energy and pathos; in Œdipus Coloneus -there prevails the mildest emotion, and over the whole piece there -is diffused the utmost sweetness. I will not undertake to weigh the -respective merits of these pieces against each other; but I am free to -confess that I entertain a singular predilection for the last of them, -as it appears to me the most expressive of the personal feelings of the -poet himself. As this piece was written for the very purpose of -throwing a lustre upon Athens, and the spot of his birth more particularly, -he appears to have laboured it with a remarkable degree of -fondness.’ p. 123.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>In describing the Œdipus Coloneus, M. Schlegel has strikingly, -and, we think, beautifully, exemplified the distinct genius of Sophocles -and Æschylus, in the use these two poets make of the Furies.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In Æschylus,’ he says, ‘before the victim of persecution can be -saved, the hellish horror of the Furies must congeal the blood of the -spectator, and make his hair stand on end; and the whole rancour of -these goddesses of rage must be exhausted. The transition to their -peaceful retreat is therefore the more astonishing: It seems as if the -whole human race were redeemed from their power. In Sophocles, -however, they do not even once make their appearance, but are -altogether kept in the back-ground; and they are not called by their -proper name, but made known to us by descriptions, in which they -are a good deal spared. But even this obscurity and distance, so -suitable to these daughters of Night, is calculated to excite in us a -still dread, in which the bodily senses have no part. The clothing -the grove of the Furies with all the charms of a southern spring, -completes the sweetness of the poem: and were I to select an emblem -of the poetry of Sophocles from his tragedies, I should describe it as -a sacred grove of the dark goddesses of Fate, in which the laurel, the -olive, and the vine, display their luxuriant vegetation, and the song of -the nightingale is for ever heard.’ p. 128.</p> - -<p class='c010'>After all, however, the tragedies of Sophocles, which are the -perfection of the classical style, are hardly tragedies in our sense of -the word. They do not exhibit the extremity of human passion and -suffering. The object of modern tragedy is to represent the soul -utterly subdued as it were, or at least convulsed and overthrown by -passion or misfortune. That of the ancients was to show how the -greatest crimes could be perpetrated with the least remorse, and the -greatest calamities borne with the least emotion. Firmness of -purpose, and calmness of sentiment, are their leading characteristics. -Their heroes and heroines act and suffer as if they were always in -the presence of a higher power, or as if human life itself were a -religious ceremony, performed in honour of the Gods and of the -State. The mind is not shaken to its centre; the whole being is not -crushed or broken down. Contradictory motives are not accumulated; -the utmost force of imagination and passion is not exhausted to overcome -the repugnance of the will to crime; the contrast and combination -of outward accidents are not called in to overwhelm the mind -with the whole weight of unexpected calamity. The dire conflict -of the feelings, the desperate struggle with fortune, are seldom there. -All is conducted with a fatal composure. All is prepared and -submitted to with inflexible constancy, as if Nature were only an -instrument in the hands of Fate.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>It is for deviating from this ideal standard, and for a nearer -approximation to the frailty of human passion, that our author falls -foul of Euripides without mercy. There is a great deal of affectation -and mysticism in what he says on this subject. Allowing that the -excellences of Euripides are not the same as those of Æschylus and -Sophocles, or even that they are excellences of an inferior order, yet -it does not follow that they are defects. The luxuriance and effeminacy -with which he reproaches the style of Euripides might have been -defects in those writers; but they are essential parts of his system. -In fact, as Æschylus differs from Sophocles in giving greater scope -to the impulses of the imagination, so Euripides differs from him in -giving greater indulgence to the feelings of the heart. The heart is -the seat of pure affection,—of involuntary emotion,—of feelings -brooding over and nourished by themselves. In the dramas of -Sophocles, there is no want of these feelings; but they are suppressed -or suspended by the constant operation of the senses and the will. -Beneath the rigid muscles by which the heart is there braced, there -is no room left for those bursts of uncontrollable feeling, which -dissolve it in tenderness, or plunge it into the deepest woe. In the -heroic tragedy, no one dies of a broken heart,—scarcely a sigh is -heaved, or a tear shed. Euripides has relaxed considerably from -this extreme self-possession; and it is on that account that our critic -cannot forgive him. The death of Alcestis alone might have disarmed -his severity.</p> - -<p class='c010'>This play, which is the most beautiful of them all,—the Iphigenia, -which is the next to it,—the Phædra and Medea, which are more -objectionable, both from the nature of the subject, and the inferiority -of the execution, are instances of the occasional use which Euripides -made of the conflict of different passions. Though Antigone, in -Sophocles, is in love with Hæmon, and though there was here an -evident opportunity, and almost a necessity, for introducing a struggle -between this passion, which was an additional motive to attach her -to life, and her affection to the memory of her brother, which led -her to sacrifice it, the poet has carefully avoided taking any advantage -of the circumstance. Such is the spirit of the heroic tragedy, which -suffers no other motives to interfere with the calm determination of -the will, and which admits of nothing complicated in the development, -either of the passions or the story! M. Schlegel decidedly -prefers the Hippolytus of Euripides to the Phædra of Racine. His -reasons he gives in another work, which we have not seen; but we -are not at a loss to guess at them. His taste for poetry is just the -reverse of the popular: He has a horror of whatever obtrudes itself -violently on the notice, or tells at first sight; and is only disposed to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>admire those retired and recondite beauties which hide themselves -from all but the eye of deep discernment. He relishes most those -qualities in an author which require the greatest sagacity in the -critic to find them out,—as none but connoisseurs are fond of the -taste of olives. We shall say nothing here of the choice of the -subject; but such as it is, Racine has met it more fully and directly: -Euripides exhibits it, for the most part, in the back-ground. The -Hippolytus is a dramatic fragment in which the principal events are -given in a narrative form. The additions which Racine has chiefly -borrowed from Seneca to fill up the outline, are, we think, unquestionable -improvements. The declaration of love, to which our author -particularly objects, is, however, much more gross and unqualified in -Racine than in Seneca. The modern additions to the Iphigenia in -Aulis, by Racine, as the love between Achilles and Iphigenia, and -the jealousy of Eriphile, certainly destroy the propriety of costume, -as M. Schlegel has observed, without heightening the tragic interest. -In other respects, the French play is little more than an elegant, -flowing, and somewhat diffuse paraphrase of the Greek. The most -striking example of pathos in it is the ‘<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Tu y seras, ma fille</span></i>,’ addressed -by Agamemnon to his daughter, in answer to her wish to be present -at the sacrifice, of which she is herself the destined victim.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Euripides was the model of Racine among the French, as he was -of Seneca among the Romans. The remarks which Schlegel makes -on this last-mentioned author are exceedingly harsh, dogmatical, and -intolerant. They are as bad, and worse, than the sentence pronounced -by Cowley on</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>——‘The dry chips of short-lung’d Seneca.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Hear what he says of him.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘But whatever period may have given birth to the tragedies of -Seneca, they are beyond description bombastical and frigid, unnatural -in character and action—revolting, from their violation of every propriety—and -so destitute of every thing like theatrical effect—that I -am inclined to believe they were never destined to leave the rhetorical -schools for the stage. Every tragical common-place is spun out to -the very last; all is phrase; and even the most common remark is -delivered in stilted language. The most complete poverty of sentiment -is dressed out with wit and acuteness. There is even a display of -fancy in them, <em>or at least a phantom of it</em>; for they contain an example -of the misapplication of every mental faculty. The author or authors -have found out the secret of being diffuse, even to wearisomeness; -and at the same time so epigrammatically laconic, as to be often -obscure and unintelligible. Their characters are neither ideal nor -<span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>actual beings, but gigantic puppets, who are at one time put in motion -by the string of an unnatural heroism, and, at another, by that of -passions equally unnatural, which no guilt nor enormity can appal.’—‘Yet -not merely learned men, without a feeling for art, have judged -favourably of them, nay preferred them to the Greek tragedies, but -even poets have accounted them deserving of their study and imitation. -The influence of Seneca on Corneille’s idea of tragedy cannot be -mistaken: Racine, too, in his Phædra, has condescended to borrow a -good deal from him; and, among other things, nearly the whole of the -declaration of love, of all which we have an enumeration in Brumoy.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>The distaste of our learned critic to Euripides is sanctioned, no -doubt, by the ridicule of Aristophanes, from whom he gives a whole -scene, in which a buffoon comes to the tragic poet, to beg his rags, -his alms-basket, and his water-pitcher, in allusion to the homeliness -of costume, and the outward signs of distress which are sometimes -exhibited in his tragedies. Aristophanes, of course, is an immense -favourite with Schlegel—though it requires all his ingenuity to gloss -over and allegorize his extravagance and indecency.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The plays of Peace, the Acharnæ and Lysistrata, will be found -to recommend peace. In the Clouds, he laughs at the metaphysics of -the sophists; in the Wasps, at the rage of the Athenians for hearing -and determining lawsuits. The subject of the Frogs is the decline of -the tragic art; and Plutus is an allegory on the unjust distribution of -wealth. The Birds are, of all his pieces, the one <em>of which the aim -is the least apparent; and it is on that very account one of the most -diverting</em>.’ p. 213.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The comedies of Aristophanes, we confess, put the archaism of our -taste, and the soundness of our classic faith to a most severe test. -The great difficulty is not so much to understand their meaning, as to -comprehend their species—to know to what possible class to assign -them—of what nondescript productions of nature or art they are to be -considered as anomalies. According to Schlegel, who might be -styled the Œdipus of criticism, they are the perfection of <em>the old -comedy</em>. There is much virtue, we are aware, in that appellation: -But to us, we confess, they appear to be neither comedies, nor farces, -nor satires—but monstrous allegorical pantomimes—enormous practical -jokes—far-fetched puns, represented by ponderous machinery, which -staggers the imagination at its first appearance, and breaks down -before it has answered its purpose. They show, in a more striking -point of view than any thing else, the extreme subtlety of understanding -of the ancients, and their appetite for the gross, the material, and -the sensible. Compared with Aristophanes, Rabelais himself is plain -and literal. For example—</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>‘Peace begins in the most spirited and lively manner. The -tranquilly-disposed Trygæus rides on a dunghill beetle to heaven, in -the manner of Bellerophon: War, a desolating giant, with Tumult -his companion, in place of all the other gods, inhabits Olympus, and -pounds the cities in a great mortar, making use of the celebrated -generals as pestles; Peace lies bound in a deep well, and is dragged -up by a rope, through the united efforts of all the Greek states,’ &c.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Again—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘It is said of a man addicted to unintelligible reveries, that he is -up in the clouds:—accordingly Socrates, in the play of the <em>Clouds</em>, is -actually let down in a basket at his first appearance.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>The comic machinery in Aristophanes, is, for the most part, a -parody on the Greek mythology, and his wit a travestie on Euripides. -Whatever we may think of his talent in this way, the art itself of -making sense into nonsense, and of letting down the sublime into the -ludicrous, in general is rather a cheap one, and implies much more a -want of feeling than an excess of wit.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The account which is given of the <em>old</em>, the <em>middle</em>, and the <em>new -comedy</em>, is very learned and dogmatical. The different styles and -authors rise in value with the critic, in proportion as he knows -nothing of them. He likes that, which some old commentator has -praised, better than what he has read himself; and that still better, -which neither he himself, nor any one else, has read. Diphilus, -Philemon, Apollodorus, Menander, Sophron, and the Sicilian -Epicharmus, whose works are lost, are prodigiously great men; and -the author, ‘tries conclusions infinite’ respecting their different -possible merits. On the contrary, Terence is only half a Menander, -and Plautus a coarse buffoon. In spite, however, of this fastidiousness, -he cannot deny the elegant humanity of the one, nor the strong -native humour of the other. The style of these writers, particularly -that of Terence, is admirable for a certain conversational ease, and -correct simplicity, exactly in the mid-way between carelessness and -affectation. But M. Schlegel has a mode of doing away this merit, by -observing, that</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Plautus and Terence were among the most ancient Roman writers, -and belonged to a time when the language of books was hardly yet in -existence, and when every thing was drawn fresh from life. This -<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">naïve</span></i> simplicity had its charms in the eyes of those Romans, who -belonged to the period of learned cultivation; but it was much more -a natural gift, than the fruit of poetical art.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>We shall conclude this part of the subject, with his observations on -the nature and range of the characters introduced into the ancient -Comedy.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>‘Athens, where the fictitious, as well as the actual scenes, were -generally placed, was the centre of a small territory; and in nowise -to be compared with our great cities, either in extent or population. -The republican equality admitted no marked distinction of ranks: -There were no proper nobility; all were alike citizens, richer or -poorer; and, for the most part, had no other occupation, than that of -managing their properties. Hence the Attic comedy could not well -admit of the contrasts arising from diversity of tone and conversation; -it generally continues in a sort of middle state, and has something -citizen-like; nay, if I may so say, something of the manners of a -small town about it, which we do not see in those comedies, in which -the manners of a court, and the refinement or corruption of monarchial -capitals, are pourtrayed.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘From what has been premised, we may at once see nearly the -whole circle of characters; nay, those which perpetually occur, are -so few, that they may almost all of them be here enumerated. The -austere and frugal, or the mild and yielding father, the latter not -unfrequently under the dominion of his wife, and making common -cause with his son; the housewife, either loving and sensible, or -obstinate and domineering, and proud of the accession brought by -her to the family-property; the giddy and extravagant, but open and -amiable, young man, who, even in a passion, sensual at its very -commencement, is capable of true attachment; the vivacious girl, -who is either thoroughly depraved, vain, cunning and selfish—or -well-disposed, and susceptible of higher emotions; the simple and -boorish, or the cunning slave, who assists his young master to deceive -his old father, and obtain money for the gratification of his passions -by all manner of tricks; the flatterer, or accommodating parasite, -who, for the sake of a good meal, is ready to say or do any thing that -may be required of him; the sycophant, a man whose business it was -to set quietly-disposed people by the ears, and stir up lawsuits, for -which he offered his services; the braggart soldier, who returns from -foreign service, generally cowardly and simple, but who assumes airs -from the fame of the deeds performed by him abroad; and, lastly, -a servant, or pretended mother, who preaches up a bad system of -morals to the young girl entrusted to her guidance; and the slave-dealer, -who speculates on the extravagant passions of young people, -and knows no other object than the furtherance of his own selfish -views. The two last characters are to our feelings a blemish in the -new Grecian comedy; but it was impossible, from the manner in -which it was constituted, to dispense with them.’ p. 263.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We must now pass on to modern literature.—Of the Italian drama, -which is the least prolific part of their literature, we shall shortly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>have to speak with reference to another work; and shall at present -proceed to our author’s account of the French Theatre, which forms -a class by itself, and which is here most ably analyzed.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘With respect to the earlier tragical attempts of the French in -the last half of the sixteenth, and the first part of the seventeenth -century, we refer to Fontenelle, La Harpe, the <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Melanges Litteraires</span></cite> -of Suard and Andre. Our chief object is an examination of the -system of tragic art, practically followed by their later poets; and by -them partly, but by the French critics universally, considered as alone -entitled to any authority, and every deviation from it viewed as a sin -against good taste. If the system is in itself the best, we shall be -compelled to allow that its execution is masterly, perhaps not to be -surpassed. But the great question here is, how far the French -tragedy is, in spirit and inward essence, related to the Greek, and -whether it deserves to be considered as an improvement upon it.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Of their first attempts, it is only necessary to observe, that the -endeavour to imitate the ancients displayed itself at a very early -period in France; and that they conceived that the surest method -of succeeding in this endeavour, was to observe the strictest outward -regularity of form, of which they derived their ideas more from -Aristotle, and especially from Seneca, than from an intimate -acquaintance with the Greek models themselves. In the first -tragedies which were represented, the Cleopatra and Dido of -Jodelle, a prologue and chorus were introduced; Jean de la Peruse -translated the Medea of Seneca; Garnier’s pieces are all taken from -the Greek tragedies, or from Seneca; but, in the execution, they -bear a much closer examination to the latter. The writers of that -day employed themselves also diligently on the Sophonisba of Trissino, -from a regard for its classic appearance. Whoever is acquainted -with the mode of proceeding of real genius, which is impelled by the -almost unconscious and immediate contemplation of great and -important truths, will be extremely suspicious of all activity in art, -which originates in an abstract theory. But Corneille did not, like -an antiquary, execute his dramas as so many learned school exercises, -on the model of the ancients. Seneca, it is true, led him astray; -but he knew and loved the Spanish theatre; and it had a great -influence on his mind. The first of his pieces with which it is -generally allowed that the classical epoch of French tragedy begins, -and which is certainly one of his best, the <em>Cid</em>, is well known to have -been borrowed from the Spanish. It violates, considerably, the unity -of place, if not also that of time, and it is animated throughout by the -spirit of chivalrous love and honour. But the opinion of his contemporaries, -that a tragedy must be framed accurately according to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>the rules of Aristotle, was so universally prevalent, that it bore down -all opposition. Corneille, almost at the close of his dramatic career, -began to entertain scruples of conscience; and endeavoured, in a -separate treatise, to prove, that his pieces, in the composition of -which he had never even thought of Aristotle, were, however, all -accurately written according to his rules.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘It is quite otherwise with Racine: of all the French poets he -was, without doubt, the best acquainted with the ancients, and he -did not merely study them as a scholar; he felt them as a poet. -He found, however, the practice of the theatre already firmly -established, and he did not undertake to deviate from it for the sake -of approaching these models. He only therefore appropriated the -separate beauties of the Greek poets; but, whether from respect for -the taste of his age, or from inclination, he remained faithful to the -prevailing gallantry, so foreign to the Greek tragedy, and for the -most part made it the foundation of the intrigues of his pieces.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Such was nearly the state of the French theatre till Voltaire -made his appearance. He possessed but a moderate knowledge of -the Greeks, of whom, however, he now and then spoke with enthusiasm, -that on other occasions he might rank them below the more -modern masters of his own nation, including himself; but yet he -always considered himself bound to preach up the grand severity -and simplicity of the Greeks as essential to tragedy. He censured -the deviations of his predecessors as errors, and insisted on purifying -and at the same time enlarging the stage, as, in his opinion, from -the constraint of court manners, it had been almost straitened to the -dimensions of an antichamber. He at first spoke of the bursts of -genius in Shakespear, and borrowed many things from this poet, at -that time altogether unknown to his countrymen; he insisted too -on greater depth in the delineation of passion, on a more powerful -theatrical effect; he demanded a scene ornamented in a more -majestic manner; and lastly, he not unfrequently endeavoured to -give to his pieces a political or philosophical interest altogether -foreign to poetry. His labours have unquestionably been of utility -to the French stage, although it is now the fashion to attack this -idol of the last age, on every point, with the most unrelenting -hostility’ p. 323.</p> - -<p class='c010'>M. Schlegel very ably exposes the incongruities which have arisen -from engrafting modern style and sentiments on mythological and -classical subjects in the French writers.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In Phædra,’ he says, ‘this princess is to be declared regent for -her son till he comes of age, after the supposed death of Theseus. -How could this be compatible with the relations of the Grecian -<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>women of that day?—It brings us down to the times of a Cleopatra.—When -the way of thinking of two nations is so totally opposite, why -will they torment themselves with attempts to fashion a subject, -formed on the manners of the one to suit the manners of the other?—How -unlike the Achilles in Racine’s Iphigenia to the Achilles of -Homer! The gallantry ascribed to him is not merely a sin against -Homer, but it renders the whole story improbable. Are human -sacrifices conceivable among a people, whose chiefs and heroes are -so susceptible of the most tender feelings?’</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Corneille was in the best way in the world when he brought his -Cid on the stage; a story of the middle ages, which belonged to a -kindred people; a story characterized by chivalrous love and honour, -and in which the principal characters are not even of princely rank. -Had this example been followed, a number of prejudices respecting -tragical ceremony would of themselves have disappeared; tragedy, -from its greater truth, from deriving its motives from a way of -thinking still current and intelligible, would have been less foreign -to the heart; the quality of the objects would of themselves have -turned them from the stiff observation of the rules of the ancients, -which they did not understand; in one word, the French tragedy -would have become national and truly romantic. But I know not -what unfortunate star had the ascendant. Notwithstanding the extraordinary -success of his Cid, Corneille did not go one step farther; -and the attempt which he made had no imitators. In the time of -Louis XIV. it was considered as beyond dispute, that the French, and -in general the modern European history was not adapted for tragedy. -They had recourse therefore to the ancient universal history. Besides -the Greeks and Romans, they frequently hunted about among the -Assyrians, Babylonians, Persians, and Egyptians, for events, which, -however obscure they might often be, they could dress out for the -tragic stage. Racine made, according to his own confession, a -hazardous attempt with the Turks: It was successful; and since -that time, the necessary tragical dignity has been allowed to this -barbarous people. But it was merely the modern, and more particularly -the French names, which could not be tolerated as untragical -and unpoetical; for the heroes of antiquity are, with them, Frenchmen -in every thing but the name; and antiquity was merely used as a -thin veil under which the modern French character could be distinctly -recognized. Racine’s Alexander is certainly not the Alexander of -history: but if, under this name, we imagine to ourselves the great -Condé, the whole will appear tolerably natural.—And who does not -suppose Louis <span class='fss'>XIV.</span> and the Dutchess de la Valiere represented under -Titus and Berenice? Voltaire expresses himself somewhat strongly, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>when he says, that, in the tragedies which succeeded those of Racine, -we imagine we are reading the romances of Mademoiselle Scuderi, -which paint citizens of Paris under the names of heroes of antiquity. -He alluded here more particularly to Crebillon. However much -Corneille and Racine were tainted with the way of thinking of their -own nation, they were still at times penetrated with the spirit of true -<em>objective</em> exhibition. Corneille gives us a masterly picture of the -Spaniards in the Cid; and this is conceivable—for he drew his -materials from them. With the exception of the original sin of -gallantry, he succeeded also pretty well with the Romans: Of one -part of their character at least, he had a tolerable conception, their -predominating patriotism, and unyielding pride of liberty, and the -magnanimity of their political sentiments. All this, it is true, is -nearly the same as we find it in Lucan, varnished over with a certain -inflation and self-conscious pomp. The simple republican austerity, -the humility of religion, he could not attain. Racine (in Britannicus) -has admirably painted the corrupt manners of the Romans under the -Emperors, and the timid and dastardly manner in which the tyranny -of Nero first began to display itself. He had Tacitus indeed for a -model, as he himself gratefully acknowledges; but still it is a great -merit to translate history in such an able manner into poetry. He -has also shown a just conception of the general spirit of Hebrew -history. He was less successful with the Turks: Bajazet makes -love wholly in the European manner: The blood-thirsty policy of -Eastern despotism is very well pourtrayed in the Vizier; but the whole -resembles Turkey turned upside down, where the women, instead of -being slaves, have contrived to get possession of the government; and -the result is so very revolting, that we might be inclined to infer, -from it, the Turks are really not so much to blame in keeping their -women under lock and key. Neither has Voltaire, in my opinion, -succeeded much better in his Mahomet and Zaire: the glowing -colours of an Oriental fancy are no where to be found. Voltaire has, -however, this great merit, that he insisted on treating subjects with -more historical truth; and further, that he again elevated to the -dignity of the tragical stage the chivalrous and Christian characters of -modern Europe, which, since the time of the Cid, had been altogether -excluded from it. His Lusignan and Nerestan are among his most -true, affecting, and noble creations; his Tancred, although the invention -as a whole is defective in strength, will always gain upon -every heart, like his namesake in Tasso.’ p. 369.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Our author prefers Racine to Corneille, and even seems to think -Voltaire more natural: but he has exhausted all that can be said of -French tragedy in his account of Corneille; and all that he adds -<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>upon Racine and Voltaire, is only a modification of the same general -principles. He has been able to give no general character of either, -as distinct from the original founder of the French dramatic school; -Corneille had more pomp, Racine more tenderness; Voltaire aimed -at a stronger effect: But the essential qualities are the same in all of -them; the style is always French, as much as the language in which -they write.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘It has been often remarked, that, in French tragedy, the poet is -always too easily seen through the discourses of the different personages; -that he communicates to them his own presence of mind; his -cool reflection on their situation; and his desire to shine upon all -occasions. When we accurately examine the most of their tragical -speeches, we shall find that they are seldom such as would be delivered -by persons, speaking or acting by themselves without any restraint; -we shall generally discover in them something which betrays -a reference, more or less perceptible, to the spectator. Rhetoric, and -rhetoric in a court dress, prevails but too much in many French -tragedies, especially in those of Corneille, instead of the suggestions -of a noble, but simple and artless nature: Racine and Voltaire have -approximated much nearer to the true conception of a mind carried -away by its sufferings. Whenever the tragic hero is able to express -his pain in antitheses and ingenious allusions, we may safely dispense -with our pity. This sort of conventional dignity is, as it were, a -coat of mail, to prevent the blow from reaching the inward parts. On -account of their retaining this festal pomp, in situations where the -most complete self-forgetfulness would be natural, Schiller has wittily -enough compared the heroes in French tragedy to the kings in old -copperplates, who are seen lying in bed with their mantle, crown, and -sceptre.’ p. 373, &c.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Racine is deservedly the favourite of the French nation; for, -besides the perfection of his style, and a complete mastery over his -art, according to the rules prescribed by the national taste, there is a -certain tenderness of sentiment, a movement of the heart, under all -the artificial pomp by which it is disguised, which cannot fail to -interest the reader. His <cite>Athalie</cite> is perhaps the most perfect of all -his pieces. Some of the lyrical descriptions are equally delightful, -from the beauty of the rhythm and the imagery. We might mention -the chorus in which the infant Joaz is compared to a young lily on -the side of a stream. Poetry is the union of imagery with sentiment; -and yet nothing can be more rare than this union in French tragedy. -Another passage in Racine, which might be quoted as an exception -to their general style, is the speech of Phædra describing her descent -into the other world, which is, however, a good deal made up from -<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>Seneca; and indeed it is the fault of this author, that he leans too -constantly for support on others, and is rather the accomplished -imitator than the original inventor. There is but one thing wanting -to his plays—that they should have been his own. He can no more -be considered as the author of the Iphigenia, for instance, than La -Fontaine can be considered as the inventor of Æsop’s fables. Voltaire -is more original in the choice of his subjects. But the means by -which he seeks to give an interest to them, are of the most harsh and -violent kind; and, even in the variety of his materials, he shows the -monotony of his invention. Four of his principal tragedies turn -entirely on the question of religious apostasy, or on the conflict -between the attachment of supposed orphans to their newly discovered -parents, and their obligations to their old benefactors. As a relief, -however, the scene of these four tragedies is laid in the four opposite -quarters of the globe.</p> - -<p class='c010'>M. Schlegel speaks highly of Racine’s comedy, ‘<cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Les Plaideurs</span></cite>‘; -and thinks that if he had cultivated his talents for comedy, he would -have proved a formidable rival of Moliere. He might very probably -have succeeded in imitating the long speeches which Moliere too -often imitated from Racine; but nothing can (we think) be more -unlike, than the real genius of the two writers. In fact, Moliere -is almost as much an English as a French author,—quite a <em>barbare</em>, -in all in which he particularly excels. He was unquestionably one -of the greatest comic geniuses that ever lived; a man of infinite wit, -gaiety, and invention,—full of life, laughter, and observation. But -it cannot be denied that his plays are in general mere farces, without -nature, refinement of character, or common probability. Several -of them could not be carried on for a moment without a perfect -collusion between the parties to wink at impossibilities, and act in -defiance of all common sense. For instance, take the <cite>Medecin malgre -lui</cite>, in which a common wood-cutter takes upon himself, and is made -to support, through a whole play, the character of a learned physician, -without exciting the least suspicion; and yet, notwithstanding the -absurdity of the plot, it is one of the most laughable, and truly comic -productions, that can well be imagined. The rest of his lighter -pieces, the <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Bourgeois Gentilhomme</span></cite>, <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Monsieur Pourceaugnac</span></cite>, &c. are of -the same description,—gratuitous fictions, and fanciful caricatures of -nature. He indulges in the utmost license of burlesque exaggeration; -and gives a loose to the intoxication of his animal spirits. -With respect to his two most laboured comedies, the Tartuffe and -Misanthrope, we confess that we find them rather hard to get -through. They have the improbability and extravagance of the rest, -united with the endless common-place prosing of French declamation. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>What can exceed the absurdity of the Misanthrope, who -leaves his mistress, after every proof of her attachment and constancy, -for no other reason than that she will not submit to the -<em>technical formality</em> of going to live with him in a desert? The -characters which Celimene gives of her friends, near the opening of -the play, are admirable satires, (as good as Pope’s characters of -women), but not comedy. The same remarks apply in a greater -degree to the Tartuffe. The long speeches and reasonings in this -play may be very good logic, or rhetoric, or philosophy, or any -thing but comedy. If each of the parties had retained a special -pleader to speak his sentiments, they could not have appeared more -tiresome or intricate. The improbability of the character of Orgon -is wonderful. The <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Ecole des Femmes</span></cite>, from which Wycherley has -borrowed the Country Wife, with the true spirit of original genius, -is, in our judgment, the masterpiece of Moliere. The set speeches -in the original play would not be borne on the English stage, nor -indeed on the French, but that they are carried off by the verse. -The <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Critique de L’Ecole des Femmes</span></cite>, the dialogue of which is prose, -is written in a very different style.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Our author attributes the ambitious loquacity of the French drama -to their characteristic vanity, and the general desire of this nation -to shine on all occasions. But this principle seems itself to require -a prior cause, namely, a facility of shining on all occasions, and a -disposition to admire every thing. It has been remarked, as a general -rule, that the theatrical amusements of a people, which are intended -as a relaxation from their ordinary pursuits and habits, are by no -means a test of the national character; and it is a confirmation of -this opinion, that the French, who are naturally a lively and impatient -people, should be able to sit and hear with such delight their own -dramatic pieces, which abound, for the most part, in sententious -maxims and solemn declamation, and would appear quite insupportable -to an English audience, though the latter are considered as a -dull, phlegmatic people, much more likely to be tolerant of formal -descriptions and grave reflections.</p> - -<p class='c010'><em>Extremes meet.</em> This is the only way of accounting for that -enigma, the French character. It has often been remarked, indeed, -that this ingenious nation exhibits more striking contradictions in -its general deportment than any other that ever existed. They are -the gayest of the gay, and the gravest of the grave. Their very -faces pass at once from an expression of the most lively animation, -when they are in conversation or action, to a melancholy blank. -They are one moment the slaves of the most contemptible prejudices, -and the next launch out into all the extravagance of the most -<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>dangerous speculations. In matters of taste they are as inexorable -as they are lax in questions of morality: they judge of the one by -rules, of the other by their inclinations. It seems at times as if -nothing could shock them, and yet they are offended at the merest -trifles. The smallest things make the greatest impression on them. -From the facility with which they can accommodate themselves to -circumstances, they have no fixed principles or real character. They -are always that which gives them least pain, or costs them least -trouble. They can easily disentangle their thoughts from whatever -gives them the slightest uneasiness, and direct their sensibility to flow -in any channels they think proper. Their whole existence is more -theatrical than real—their sentiments put on or off like the dress of -an actor. Words are with them equivalent to things. They say -what is agreeable, and believe what they say. Virtue and vice, good -and evil, liberty or slavery, are matters almost of indifference. They -are the only people who were ever vain of being cuckolded, or being -conquered. Their natural self-complacency stands them instead of -all other advantages!</p> - -<p class='c010'>The same almost inexplicable contradictions appear in their -writings as in their characters. They excel in all that depends on -lightness and grace of style, on familiar gaiety, on delicate irony, -on quickness of observation, on nicety of tact—in all those things -which are done best with the least effort. Their sallies, their points, -their traits, turns of expression, their tales, their letters, are unrivalled. -Witness the writings of Voltaire, Fontaine, Le Sage. -Whence then the long speeches, the pompous verbosity, the systematic -arrangement of their dramatic productions? It would seem as if -they took refuge in this excessive formality, as a defence against -their natural lightness and frivolity: and that they admitted of no -mixed style in poetry, because the least interruption of their assumed -gravity would destroy the whole effect. The impression has no -natural hold of their minds. It is only by repeated efforts that they -work themselves up to the tragic tone, and their feelings let go their -hold with the first opportunity. They conform, in the most rigid -manner, to established rules, because they have no steadiness to go -alone, nor confidence to trust to the strength of their immediate -impulses. The French have no style of their own in serious art, -because they have no real force of character. Their tragedies are -imitations of the Greek dramas, and their historical pictures a still -more servile and misapplied imitation of the Greek statues. For -the same reason, the expression which their artists give to their faces -is affected and mechanical; and the description which their poets -give of the passions, the most laboured, overt and explicit possible. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>Nothing is left to be <em>understood</em>. Nothing obscure, distant, imperfect—nothing -that is not distinctly made out—nothing that does not -stand, as it were, in the foreground, is admitted in their works of art.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The dark and doubtful views of things, the irregular flights of -fancy, the silent workings of the heart—all these require some effort -to enter into them: They are therefore excluded from French poetry, -the language of which must, above all things, be clear and defined, -and not only intelligible, but intelligible by its previous application. -It is therefore essentially conventional and common-place. It rejects -every thing that is not cast in a given mould—that is not stamped by -custom—that is not sanctioned by authority;—every thing that is -not French. The French, indeed, can conceive of nothing that is -not French. There is something that prevents them from entering -into any views which do not perfectly fall in with their habitual -prejudices. In a word, they are not a people of imagination. They -receive their impressions without trouble or effort, and retain no -more of them than they can help. They are the creatures either -of sensation or abstraction. The images of things, when the objects -are no longer present, throw off all their complexity and distinctions, -and are lost in the general class, or name; so that the words <em>charming</em>, -<em>delicious</em>, <em>superb</em>, &c. convey just the same meaning, and excite -just the same emotion in the mind of a Frenchman, as the most vivid -description of real objects and feelings could do. Hence their poetry -is the poetry of abstraction. Yet poetry is properly the embodying -general ideas in individual forms and circumstances. But the French -style excludes all individuality. The true poet identifies the reader -with the characters he represents; the French poet only identifies -him with himself. There is scarcely a single page of their tragedy -which fairly throws nature open to you. It is tragedy in masquerade. -We never get beyond conjecture and reasoning—beyond the general -impression of the situation of the persons—beyond general reflections -on their passions—beyond general descriptions of objects. We never -get at that something more, which is what we are in search of, -namely, what we ourselves should feel in the same situations. The -true poet transports you to the scene—you see and hear what is -passing—you catch, from the lips of the persons concerned, what -lies nearest to their hearts;—the French poet takes you into his -closet, and reads you a lecture upon it. The <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chef-d’œuvres</span></i> of their -stage, then, are, after all, only ingenious paraphrases of nature. The -dialogue is a tissue of common-places, of laboured declamations on -human life, of learned casuistry on the passions, on virtue and -vice, which any one else might make just as well as the person -speaking; and yet, what the persons themselves would say, is all -<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>we want to know, and all for which the poet puts them into those -situations. It is what constitutes the difference between the dramatic -and the didactic.</p> - -<p class='c010'>All this is differently managed in Shakespear: And accordingly, -the French translations of that author uniformly leave out all the -poetry, or what we consider as such. They generalize the passion, -the character, the thoughts, the images, every thing;—they reduce -it to a common topic. It is then perfect—for it is French. It -would be in vain to look, in these unmeaning paraphrases, where all -is made unobjectionable, and smooth as the palm of one’s hand, for -the ‘Not a jot, not a jot,’ in Othello,—for the ‘Light thickens,’ -of Macbeth,—or the picture which the exclamation of the witches -gives us of him, ‘Why stands Macbeth thus amazedly?’ When -Othello kills himself, after that noble characteristic speech at the -end, in which he makes us feel all that passes in his soul, and runs -over the objects and events of his whole life, the blow strikes not -only at him but at us: When Orosman in Zaire, after a speech -which Voltaire has copied from the English poet, does the same -thing, he falls—like a common-place personified. We do not here -insist on the preference to be given to one or other of these two -styles; we only say they are quite different. The French critics -contend, we think without reason, that their own is exclusively good, -and all others barbarous.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Not so our author. If Shakespear never found a thorough -partisan before, he has found one now. We have not room for -half of his praise. He defends him at all points. His puns, his -conceits, his anachronisms, his broad allusions, all go, not indeed -for nothing, but for so many beauties. They are not something to -be excused by the age, or atoned for by other qualities; but they -are worthy of all acceptation in themselves. This we do not think -it necessary to say. It is no part of our poetical creed, that genius -can do no wrong. As the French show their allegiance to their -kings by crying <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Quand meme!</span></i>—so we think to show our respect for -Shakespear by loving him in spite of his faults. Take the whole of -these faults, throw them into one scale, heap them up double, and -then double that, and we will throw into the opposite scale single -excellences, single characters, or even single passages, that shall -outweigh them all! All his faults have not prevented him from -showing as much knowledge of human nature, in all possible shapes, -as is to be found in all other poets put together; and that, we -conceive, is quite enough for one writer. Compared with this -magical power, his faults are of just as much consequence as his bad -spelling, and to be accounted for in the same way. In speaking of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>Shakespear, we do not mean to make any general comparison between -the French and English stage. There is no other acknowledged -English school of tragedy,—or it is merely a bad imitation of the -French. We give them up Addison; but we must keep Shakespear -to ourselves. He had even the advantage of the Greek tragedians -in this respect, that, with all their genius, they seem to have described -only Greek manners and sentiments: whereas he describes all the -people that ever lived. That which distinguishes his dramatic productions -from all others, is this wonderful variety and perfect -individuality. Each of his characters is as much itself, and as -absolutely independent of the rest, as if they were living persons, -not fictions of the mind. The poet appears, for the time, to identify -himself with the character he wishes to represent, and to pass from -one to the other, like the same soul successively animating different -bodies. By an art like that of the ventriloquist, he throws his -imagination out of himself, and makes every word appear to proceed -from the mouth of the person in whose name it is spoken. His -plays alone are expressions of the passions, not descriptions of them. -His characters are real beings of flesh and blood: they speak like -men, not like authors. One might suppose that he had stood by -at the time, and overheard all that passed. As, in our dreams, we -hold conversations with ourselves, make remarks or communicate -intelligence, and have no idea of the answer which we shall receive, -and which we ourselves are to make, till we hear it; so, the dialogues -in Shakespear are carried on without any consciousness of what is to -follow, without any appearance of preparation or premeditation. The -gusts of passion come and go like sounds of music borne on the wind. -Nothing is made out by inference and analogy, by climax and antithesis; -all comes immediately from nature. Each object and circumstance -seems to exist in his mind, as it existed in nature; each several -train of thought and feeling goes on of itself without confusion or -effort: In the world of his imagination, every thing has a life, a -place, and being of its own!<a id='r5' /><a href='#f5' class='c014'><sup>[5]</sup></a></p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The distinguishing property,’ says our author, ‘of the dramatic -poet, is the capability of transporting himself so completely into -every situation, even the most unusual, that he is enabled, as plenipotentiary -of the whole human race, without particular instructions -<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>for each separate case, to act and speak in the name of every individual. -It is the power of endowing the creatures of his imagination -with such self-existent energy, that they afterwards act in each -conjuncture according to general laws of nature: the poet institutes, -as it were, experiments, which are received with as much authority as -if they had been made on real objects. Never, perhaps, was there so -comprehensive a talent for the delineation of character as Shakespear’s. -It not only grasps the diversities of rank, sex, and age, down to the -dawnings of infancy; not only do the king and the beggar, the hero -and the pickpocket, the sage and the idiot, speak and act with equal -truth; not only does he transport himself to distant ages and foreign -nations, and portray in the most accurate manner, with only a few -apparent violations of costume, the spirit of the ancient Romans, -of the French in their wars with the English, of the English themselves -during a great part of their history, of the Southern Europeans -(in the serious part of many comedies), the cultivated society of -that time, and the former rude and barbarous state of the North; -his human characters have not only such depth and precision that -they cannot be arranged under classes, and are inexhaustible, even -in conception:—no—This Prometheus not merely forms men, he -opens the gates of the magical world of spirits; calls up the midnight -ghost; exhibits before us his witches amidst their unhallowed -mysteries; peoples the air with sportive fairies and sylphs:—and, -these beings existing only in imagination, possess such truth and -consistency, that, even when deformed monsters like Caliban, he -extorts the conviction, that if there should be such beings, they -would so conduct themselves. In a word, as he carries with him -the most fruitful and daring fancy into the kingdom of nature,—on -the other hand, he carries nature into the regions of fancy, lying -beyond the confines of reality. We are lost in astonishment at seeing -the extraordinary, the wonderful, and the unheard of, in such -intimate nearness.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘If Shakespear deserves our admiration for his characters, he is -equally deserving it for his exhibition of passion, taking this word in -its widest signification, as including every mental condition, every -tone from indifference or familiar mirth to the wildest rage and -despair. He gives us the history of minds; he lays open to us, -in a single word, a whole series of preceding conditions. His -passions do not at first stand displayed to us in all their height, as is -the case with so many tragic poets, who, in the language of Lessing, -are thorough masters of the legal style of love. He paints in a -most inimitable manner, the gradual progress from the first origin. -“He gives,” as Lessing says, “a living picture of all the most minute -<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>and secret artifices by which a feeling steals into our souls; of all the -imperceptible advantages which it there gains; of all the stratagems -by which every other passion is made subservient to it, till it becomes -the sole tyrant of our desires and our aversions.” Of all poets, -perhaps, he alone has portrayed the mental diseases, melancholy, -delirium, lunacy, with such inexpressible, and, in every respect, -definite truth, that the physician may enrich his observations from -them in the same manner as from real cases.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘And yet Johnson has objected to Shakespear, that his pathos is -not always natural and free from affectation. There are, it is true, -passages, though, comparatively speaking, very few, where his poetry -exceeds the bounds of true dialogue, where a too soaring imagination, -a too luxuriant wit, rendered the complete dramatic forgetfulness of -himself impossible. With this exception, the censure originates only -in a fanciless way of thinking, to which every thing appears unnatural -that does not suit its own tame insipidity. Hence, an idea has been -formed of simple and natural pathos, which consists in exclamations -destitute of imagery, and nowise elevated above every-day life. -But energetical passions electrify the whole of the mental powers, -and will, consequently, in highly favoured natures, express themselves -in an ingenious and figurative manner. It has been often -remarked, that indignation gives wit; and, as despair occasionally -breaks out into laughter, it may sometimes also give vent to itself in -antithetical comparisons.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Besides, the rights of the poetical form have not been duly -weighed. Shakespear, who was always sure of his object, to move -in a sufficiently powerful manner when he wished to do so, has -occasionally, by indulging in a freer play, purposely moderated the -impressions when too painful, and immediately introduced a musical -alleviation of our sympathy. He had not those rude ideas of his -art which many moderns seem to have, as if the poet, like the clown -in the proverb, must strike twice on the same place. An ancient -rhetorician delivered a caution against dwelling too long on the -excitation of pity; for nothing, he said, dries so soon as tears; and -Shakespear acted conformably to this ingenious maxim, without -knowing it.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The objection, that Shakespear wounds our feelings by the open -display of the most disgusting moral odiousness, harrows up the -mind unmercifully, and tortures even our minds by the exhibition of -the most insupportable and hateful spectacles, is one of much greater -importance. He has never, in fact, varnished over wild and blood-thirsty -passions with a pleasing exterior,—never clothed crime and -want of principle with a false show of greatness of soul; and in that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>respect he is every way deserving of praise. Twice he has portrayed -downright villains; and the masterly way in which he has contrived -to elude impressions of too painful a nature, may be seen in Iago and -Richard the Third. The constant reference to a petty and puny -race must cripple the boldness of the poet. Fortunately for his art, -Shakespear lived in an age extremely susceptible of noble and tender -impressions, but which had still enough of the firmness inherited -from a vigorous olden time, not to shrink back with dismay from -every strong and violent picture. We have lived to see tragedies -of which the catastrophe consists in the swoon of an enamoured -princess. If Shakespear falls occasionally into the opposite extreme, -it is a noble error, originating in the fulness of a gigantic strength: -And yet this tragical Titan, who storms the heavens, and threatens -to tear the world from off its hinges; who, more fruitful than -Æschylus, makes our hair stand on end, and congeals our blood with -horror, possessed, at the same time, the insinuating loveliness of the -sweetest poetry. He plays with love like a child; and his songs -are breathed out like melting sighs. He unites in his genius the -utmost elevation and the utmost depth; and the most foreign, and -even apparently irreconcileable properties, subsist in him peaceably -together. The world of spirits and nature have laid all their -treasures at his feet. In strength a demi-god, in profundity of view -a prophet, in all-seeing wisdom a protecting spirit of a higher order, -he lowers himself to mortals, as if unconscious of his superiority; -and is as open and unassuming as a child.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Shakespear’s comic talent is equally wonderful with that which -he has shown in the pathetic and tragic: it stands on an equal -elevation, and possesses equal extent and profundity. All that I -before wished was, not to admit that the former preponderated. He -is highly inventive in comic situations and motives. It will be -hardly possible to show whence he has taken any of them; whereas -in the serious part of his drama, he has generally laid hold of -something already known. His comic characters are equally true, -various and profound, with his serious. So little is he disposed to -caricature, that we may rather say many of his traits are almost too -nice and delicate for the stage, that they can only be properly -seized by a great actor, and fully understood by a very acute -audience. Not only has he delineated many kinds of folly; he -has also contrived to exhibit mere stupidity in a most diverting and -entertaining manner.’ <span class='fss'>II.</span> 145.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The observations on Shakespear’s language and versification which -follow, are excellent. We cannot, however, agree with the author -in thinking his rhyme superior to Spenser’s: His excellence is -<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>confined to his blank verse; and in that he is unrivalled by any -dramatic writer. Milton’s alone is equally fine in its way. The -objection to Shakespear’s mixed metaphors is not here fairly got -over. They give us no pain from long custom. They have, in -fact, become idioms in the language. We take the meaning and -effect of a well known passage entire, and no more stop to scan and -spell out the particular words and phrases than the syllables of which -they are composed. If our critic’s general observations on Shakespear -are excellent, he has shown still greater acuteness and knowledge -of his author in those which he makes on the particular plays. -They ought, in future, to be annexed to every edition of Shakespear, -to correct the errors of preceding critics. In his analysis of the -historical plays,—of those founded on the Roman history,—of the -romantic comedies, and the fanciful productions of Shakespear, such -as, the Midsummer Night’s Dream, the Tempest, &c., he has shown -the most thorough insight into the spirit of the poet. His contrast -between Ariel and Caliban; the one made up of all that is gross and -earthly, the other of all that is airy and refined, ‘ethereal mould, sky-tinctured,’—is -equally happy and profound. He does not, however, -confound Caliban with the coarseness of common low life. He says of -him with perfect truth—‘Caliban is malicious, cowardly, false and -base in his inclinations; and yet he is essentially different from the -vulgar knaves of a civilized world, as they are occasionally portrayed -by Shakespear. He is rude, but not vulgar. He never falls into -the prosaical and low familiarity of his drunken associates, for he is a -poetical being in his way; he always, too, speaks in verse. But he -has picked up every thing dissonant and thorny in language, of which -he has composed his vocabulary.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>In his account of Cymbeline and other plays, he has done justice -to the sweetness of Shakespear’s female characters, and refuted the -idle assertion made by a critic, who was also a poet and a man of -genius, that</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>—‘stronger Shakespear felt for man alone.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Who, indeed, in recalling the names of Imogen, of Miranda, of -Juliet, of Desdemona, of Ophelia and Perdita, does not feel that -Shakespear has expressed the very perfection of the feminine -character, existing only for others, and leaning for support on the -strength of its affections? The only objection to his female -characters is, that he has not made them masculine. They are -indeed the very reverse of ordinary tragedy-queens. In speaking of -Romeo and Juliet, he says, ‘It was reserved for Shakespear to -unite purity of heart, and the glow of imagination, sweetness and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>dignity of manners, and passionate violence, in one ideal picture.’ -The character of Juliet was not to be mistaken by our author. It is -one of perfect unconsciousness. It has nothing forward, nothing coy, -nothing affected, nothing coquettish about it:—It is a pure effusion -of nature.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Whatever,’ says our critic, ‘is most intoxicating in the odour -of a southern spring, languishing in the song of the nightingale, or -voluptuous on the first opening of the rose, is breathed in this poem. -But, even more rapidly than the earliest blossoms of youth and -beauty decay, it hurries on from the first timid declaration of love -and modest return, to the most unlimited passion—to an irrevocable -union; then, amidst alternating storms of rapture and despair, to the -death of the two lovers, who still appear enviable as their love -survives them, and as, by their death, they have obtained a triumph -over every separating power. The sweetest and the bitterest; love -and hatred; festivity and dark forebodings; tender embraces and -sepulchres; the fulness of life and self-annihilation—are all here -brought close to each other: And all these contrasts are so blended -in the harmonious and wonderful work into a unity of impression, -that the echo which the whole leaves behind in the mind resembles -a single but endless sigh.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>In treating of the four principal tragedies, Othello, Macbeth, -Hamlet and Lear, he goes deeper into the poetry and philosophy -of those plays than any of the commentators. But we dare not now -encroach on the patience of our readers with any farther citations.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The remarks on the doubtful pieces of Shakespear are most liable -to objection. We cannot agree, for instance, that Titus Andronicus -is in the spirit of Lear, because in his dotage he mistakes a fly which -he has killed for his black enemy the Moor. Thomas Lord -Cromwell, and Sir John Oldcastle, which he praises highly, are very -indifferent. Pericles, prince of Tyre, is not much to our taste. -There is one fine scene in it, where Marina rouses the prince from -his lethargy, by the proofs of her being his daughter. Yet this is -not like Shakespear. The Yorkshire Tragedy is very good; -but decidedly in the manner of Heywood. The account given -by Schlegel, of the contemporaries and immediate successors of -Shakespear is good, though it might have been better. That of -Ben Jonson is particularly happy. He says, that he described not -characters, but ‘humours,’ that is, particular modes of expression, -dress and behaviour in fashion at the time, which have since become -obsolete, and the imitation of them dry and unintelligible. The -finest thing in Ben Jonson (not that it is by any means the only one), -is the scene between Surly and Sir Epicure Mammon, where the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>latter proves his possession of the philosopher’s stone, by a pompous -display of the riches, luxuries and pleasures he is to derive from it; -and, by a happy perversion of logic, satisfies himself, though not his -hearer, of the existence of the cause, by a strong imagination of the -effects which are to follow from it. He is also very successful in his -character of the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher. They describe -the passions at their height, not in their progress—the extremes, not -the gradations of feeling. Their plays, however, have great power -and great beauty. The Faithful Shepherdess is the origin of Milton’s -Comus. ‘Rule a Wife and Have a Wife’ is one of the very best -comedies that ever was written; and holds, to this day, undisputed -possession of the stage. Yet, as our critic observes, there is in the -general tone of their writings a certain crudeness and precocity, a -heat, a violence of fermentation, a disposition to carry every thing to -excess, which is not pleasant. Their plays are very much what -young noblemen of genius might be supposed to write in the heyday -of youthful blood, the sunshine of fortune, and all the petulance of -self-opinion. They have completely anticipated the German -paradoxes. Schlegel has no mercy on the writers of the age of -Charles <span class='fss'>II.</span> He compares Dryden himself to ‘a man walking upon -stilts in a morass.’ He justly prefers Otway to Rowe; but we -think he is wrong in supposing, that if Otway had lived longer he -would have done better. His plays are only the ebullitions of a fine, -enthusiastic, sanguine temperament: and his genius would no more -have improved with age, than the beauty of his person. Of our -comic writers, Congreve, Wycherley, Vanburgh, &c., M. Schlegel -speaks very contemptuously and superficially. It is plain that he -knows nothing about them, or he would not prefer Farquhar to all -the rest. If, after our earlier dramatists, we have any class of writers -who are excellent, it is our comic writers.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We cannot go into our author’s account of the Spanish drama. -The principal names in it are Cervantes, Calderon, and Lope de -Vega. Neither can we agree in the praises which he lavishes on -the dramatic productions of these authors. They are too flowery, -lyrical, and descriptive. They are pastorals, not tragedies. They -have warmth; but they want vigour.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Our author may be supposed to be at home in German literature; -but his doctrines appear to us to be more questionable there, than -upon any other subject. What the German dramatists really excel -in, is the production of effect: but this is the very thing which their -fastidious countryman most despises and abhors. They really excel -all others in mere effect; and there is no nation that can excel all -others in more than one thing. Werter is, in our opinion, the best -<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>of all Goethe’s works; but because it is the most popular, our author -takes an opportunity to express his contempt for it. Count Egmont, -which is here spoken highly of, seems to us a most insipid and -preposterous composition. The effect of the pathos which is said to -lie concealed in it, is utterly lost upon us. Nathan the Wise, by -Lessing, is also a great favourite of Schlegel; because it is unintelligible -except to the wise. As the French plays are composed -of a tissue of common-placs, the German plays of this stamp are -a tissue of paradoxes, which have no foundation in nature or -common opinion,—the pure offspring of the author’s fantastic brain. -For the same reason, Schiller’s Wallenstein is here preferred to his -Robbers. But we cannot so readily give up our old attachment to -the Robbers. The first reading of that play is an event in every -one’s life, which is not to be forgotten.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Madame de Staël has very happily ridiculed this pedantic’s taste -in criticism.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘By a singular vicissitude in taste, it has happened, that the -Germans at first attacked our dramatic writers, as converting all -their heroes into Frenchmen. They have, with reason, insisted on -historic truth as necessary to contrast the colours, and give life to the -poetry. But then, all at once, they have been weary of their own -success in this way, and have produced abstract representations, -in which the relations of mankind were expressed in a general -manner, and in which time, place and circumstance, passed for -nothing. In a drama of this kind by Goethe, the author calls the -different characters the Duke, the King, the Father, the Daughter, -&c., without any other designation.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Such a tragedy is only calculated to be acted in the palace of -Odin, where the dead still continue their different occupations on -earth; where the hunter, himself a shade, eagerly pursues the shade -of a stag; and fantastic warriors combat together in the clouds. It -should appear, that Goethe at one period conceived an absolute -disgust to all interest in dramatic compositions. It was sometimes to -be met with in bad works; and he concluded, that it ought to be -banished from good ones. Nevertheless, a man of superior mind -ought not to disdain what gives universal pleasure; he cannot -relinquish his resemblance with his kind, if he wishes to make others -feel his own value. Granting that the tyranny of custom often introduces -an artificial air into the best French tragedies, it cannot be -denied that there is the same want of natural expression in the -systematic and theoretical productions of the German muse. If -exaggerated declamation is affected, there is a certain kind of -intellectual calm which is not less so. It is a kind of arrogated -<span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>superiority over the affections of the soul, which may accord very -well with philosophy, but is totally out of character in the dramatic -art. Goethe’s works are composed according to different principles -and systems. In the Tasso and Iphigenia, he conceives of tragedy -as a lofty relic of the monuments of antiquity. These works have -all the beauty of form, the splendour and glossy smoothness of -marble;—but they are as cold and as motionless.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>We have, we trust, said enough of this work, to recommend it to -the reader: We ought to add, that the translation appears to be very -respectable.</p> - -<h3 class='c008'>COLERIDGE’S LAY SERMON</h3> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Vol. xxvii.</span>]      [<em>December 1816.</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘The privilege’ (says a certain author) ‘of talking, and even -publishing nonsense, is necessary in a free state; but the more -sparingly we make use of it, the better.’ Mr. Coleridge has here -availed himself of this privilege,—but not sparingly. On the -contrary, he has given full scope to his genius, and laid himself out -in absurdity. In this his first Lay Sermon (for two others are to -follow at graceful distances), we meet with an abundance of ‘fancies -and good-nights,’ odd ends of verse, and sayings of philosophers; -with the ricketty contents of his common-place book, piled up and -balancing one another in helpless confusion; but with not one word -to the purpose, or on the subject. An attentive perusal of this -Discourse is like watching the sails of a windmill: his thoughts and -theories rise and disappear in the same manner. Clouds do not shift -their places more rapidly, dreams do not drive one another out more -unaccountably, than Mr. Coleridge’s reasonings try in vain to ‘chase -his fancy’s rolling speed.’ His intended conclusions have always the -start of his premises,—and they keep it: while he himself plods -anxiously between the two, something like a man travelling a long, -tiresome road, between two stage coaches, the one of which is gone -out of sight before, and the other never comes up with him; for Mr. -Coleridge himself takes care of this; and if he finds himself in danger -of being overtaken, and carried to his journey’s end in a common -vehicle, he immediately steps aside into some friendly covert, with the -Metaphysical Muse, to prevent so unwelcome a catastrophe. In his -weary quest of truth, he reminds us of the mendicant pilgrims that -travellers meet in the Desert, with their faces always turned towards -Mecca, but who contrive never to reach the shrine of the Prophet: -and he treats his opinions, and his reasons for them, as lawyers do -<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>their clients, and will never suffer them to come together lest they -should join issue, and so put an end to his business. It is impossible, -in short, we find, to describe this strange rhapsody, without falling a -little into the style of it;—and, to do it complete justice, we must -use its very words. ‘<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Implicité</span></i>, it is without the <span class='fss'>COPULA</span>—it wants the -possibility—of every position, to which there exists any correspondence -in reality.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>Our Lay-preacher, in order to qualify himself for the office of a -guide to the blind, has not, of course, once thought of looking about -for matters of fact, but very wisely draws a metaphysical bandage -over his eyes, sits quietly down where he was, takes his nap, and -talks in his sleep—but we really cannot say very wisely. He winks -and mutters all unintelligible, and all impertinent things. Instead of -inquiring into the distresses of the manufacturing or agricultural -districts, he ascends to the orbits of the fixed stars, or else enters into -the statistics of the garden plot under his window, and, like Falstaff, -‘babbles of green fields:’ instead of the balance of the three estates, -King, Lords, and Commons, he gives us a theory of the balance of -the powers of the human mind, the Will, the Reason, and—the -Understanding: instead of referring to the tythes or taxes, he quotes -the Talmud; and illustrates the whole question of peace and war, by -observing, that ‘the ideal republic of Plato was, if he judges rightly, -to “the history of the town of Man-Soul” what Plato was to John -Bunyan:’—a most safe and politic conclusion!</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Coleridge is not one of those whom he calls ‘alarmists by -trade,’ but rather, we imagine, what Spenser calls ‘a gentle Husher, -Vanity by name.’ If he does not excite apprehension, by pointing -out danger and difficulties where they do not exist, neither does he -inspire confidence, by pointing out the means to prevent them where -they do. We never indeed saw a work that could do less good or -less harm; for it relates to no one object, that any one person can -have in view. It tends to produce a complete <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">interregnum</span></i> of all -opinions; an <em>abeyance</em> of the understanding; a suspension both of -theory and practice; and is indeed a collection of doubts and moot-points—all -hindrances and no helps. An uncharitable critic might -insinuate, that there was more quackery than folly in all this;—and -it is certain, that our learned author talks as magnificently of his -<em>nostrums</em>, as any advertising impostor of them all—and professes to be -in possession of all sorts of morals, religions, and political panaceas, -which he keeps to himself, and expects you to pay for the secret. -He is always promising great things, in short, and performs -nothing. The vagaries, whimsies, and pregnant throes of Joanna -Southcote, were sober and rational, compared with Mr. Coleridge’s -<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>qualms and crude conceptions, and promised deliverance in this Lay Sermon. -The true secret of all this, we suspect, is, that our author -has not made up his own mind on any of the subjects of which he -professes to treat, and on which he warns his readers against coming -to any conclusion, without his especial assistance; by means of which, -they may at last attain to ‘that imperative and oracular form of the -understanding,’ of which he speaks as ‘the form of reason itself in all -things purely rational and moral.’ In this state of voluntary self-delusion, -into which he has thrown himself, he mistakes hallucinations -for truths, though he still has his misgivings, and dares not communicate -them to others, except in distant hints, lest the spell should -be broken, and the vision disappear. Plain sense and plain speaking -would put an end to those ‘thick-coming fancies,’ that lull him to -repose. It is in this sort of waking dream, this giddy maze of -opinions, started, and left, and resumed—this momentary pursuit of -truths, as if they were butterflies—that Mr. Coleridge’s pleasure, and, -we believe, his chief faculty, lies. He has a thousand shadowy -thoughts that rise before him, and hold each a glass, in which they -point to others yet more dim and distant. He has a thousand self-created -fancies that glitter and burst like bubbles. In the world of -shadows, in the succession of bubbles, there is no preference but of the -most shadowy, no attachment but to the shortest-lived. Mr. Coleridge -accordingly has no principle but that of being governed entirely by -his own caprice, indolence, or vanity; no opinion that any body else -holds, or even he himself, for two moments together. His fancy is -stronger than his reason; his apprehension greater than his comprehension. -He perceives every thing, but the relations of things to -one another. His ideas are as finely shaded as the rainbow of the -moon upon the clouds, as evanescent, and as soon dissolved. The -subtlety of his tact, the quickness and airiness of his invention, make -him perceive every possible shade and view of a subject in its turn; -but this readiness of lending his imagination to every thing, prevents -him from weighing the force of any one, or retaining the most -important in mind. It destroys the balance and <em>momentum</em> of his -feelings; makes him unable to follow up a principle into its consequences, -or maintain a truth in spite of opposition: it takes away -all <em>will</em> to adhere to what is right, and reject what is wrong; and, -with the will, the power to do it, at the expense of any thing difficult -in thought, or irksome in feeling. The consequence is, that the -general character of Mr. Coleridge’s intellect, is a restless and yet -listless dissipation, that yields to every impulse, and is stopped by -every obstacle; an indifference to the greatest trifles, or the most -important truths: or rather, a preference of the vapid to the solid, of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>the possible to the actual, of the impossible to both; of theory to -practice, of contradiction to reason, and of absurdity to common -sense. Perhaps it is well that he is so impracticable as he is; for -whenever, by any accident, he comes to practice, he is dangerous in -the extreme. Though his opinions are neutralized in the extreme -levity of his understanding, we are sometimes tempted to suspect that -they may be subjected to a more ignoble bias; for though he does -not ply his oars very strenuously in following the tide of corruption, -or set up his sails to catch the tainted breeze of popularity, he suffers -his boat to drift along with the stream. We do not pretend to understand -the philosophical principles of that anomalous production, ‘the -Friend;’ but we remember that the practical measures which he -there attempted to defend, were the expedition to Copenhagen, the -expedition to Walcheren, and the assassination of Buonaparte, which, -at the time Mr. Coleridge was getting that work into circulation, was -a common topic of conversation, and a sort of <em>forlorn hope</em> in certain -circles. A man who exercises an unlimited philosophical scepticism -on questions of abstract right or wrong, may be of service to the -progress of truth; but a writer who exercises this privilege, with a -regular leaning to the side of power, is a very questionable sort of -person. There is not much of this kind in the present Essay. It -has no leaning any way. All the sentiments advanced in it are ‘like -the swan’s down feather—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘That stands upon the swell at full of tide,</div> - <div class='line'>And neither way inclines.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>We have here given a pretty strong opinion on the merits of this -performance: and we proceed to make it good by extracts from the -work itself; and it is just as well to begin with the beginning.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘If our whole knowledge and information concerning the Bible -had been confined to the one fact, of its immediate derivation from -God, we should still presume that it contained rules and assistances -for all conditions of men, under all circumstances; and therefore for -communities no less than for individuals. The contents of every -work must correspond to the character and designs of the workmaster; -and the inference in the present case is too obvious to be -overlooked, too plain to be resisted. It requires, indeed, all the -might of superstition, to conceal from a man of common understanding, -the further truth, that the interment of such a treasure, -in a dead language, must needs be contrary to the intentions of the -gracious Donor. Apostasy itself dared not question the <em>premise</em>: -and, that the practical <em>consequence</em> did not follow, is conceivable only -under a complete <em>system</em> of delusion, which, from the cradle to the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>death-bed, ceases not to overawe the will by obscure fears, while it -preoccupies the senses by vivid imagery and ritual pantomime. But -to such a scheme, all forms of sophistry are native. The very -excellence of the Giver has been made a reason for withholding the -gift; nay, the transcendent value of the gift itself assigned as the -motive of its detention. We may be shocked at the presumption, -but need not be surprised at the fact, that a jealous priesthood should -have ventured to represent the applicability of the Bible to all the -wants and occasions of men, as a wax-like pliability to all their -fancies and prepossessions. Faithful guardians of Holy Writ!’ &c.</p> - -<p class='c010'>And after a great deal to the same effect, he proceeds—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The humblest and least educated of our countrymen must have -wilfully neglected the inestimable privileges secured to all alike, if he -has not himself found, if he has not from his own personal experience -discovered, the sufficiency of the Scriptures in all knowledge requisite -for a right performance of his duty as a man and a Christian. Of -the labouring classes, who in all countries form the great majority of -the inhabitants, more than this is not demanded, more than this is -not perhaps generally desirable.’—‘They are not sought for in public -counsel, nor need they be found where politic sentences are spoken. -It is enough if every one is wise in the working of his own craft: so -best will they maintain the state of the world.’ p. 7.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Now, if this is all that is necessary or desirable for the people to -know, we can see little difference between the doctrine of the Lay -Sermon, and ‘that complete system of papal imposture, which inters -the Scriptures in a dead language, and commands its vassals to take -for granted what it forbids them to ascertain.’ If a candidate is to -start for infallibility, we, for our parts, shall give our casting vote -for the successor of St. Peter, rather than for Mr. Coleridge. The -Bible, we believe, when rightly understood, contains no set of rules -for making the labouring classes mere ‘workers in brass or in stone,’—‘hewers -of wood or drawers of water,’ each wise in his own craft. -Yet it is by confining their inquiries and their knowledge to such -vocations, and excluding them from any share in politics, philosophy, -and theology, ‘that the state of the world is best upheld.’ Such -is the exposition of our Lay-Divine. Such is his application of it. -Why then does he blame the Catholics for acting on this principle—for -deducing the <em>practical consequence</em> from the acknowledged <em>premise</em>? -Great as is our contempt for the delusions of the Romish Church, -it would have been still greater, if they had opened the sacred volume -to the poor and illiterate; had told them that it contained the most -useful knowledge for all conditions and for all circumstances of life, -public and private; and had then instantly shut the book in their -<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>faces, saying, it was enough for them to be wise in their own calling -and to leave the study and interpretation of the Scriptures to their -betters—to Mr. Coleridge and his imaginary audience. The Catholic -Church might have an excuse for what it did in the supposed difficulty -of understanding the Scriptures, their doubts and ambiguities, and -‘wax-like pliability to all occasions and humours.’ But Mr. -Coleridge has no excuse; for he says, they are plain to all capacities, -high and low together. ‘The road of salvation,’ he says, ‘is for -us a high road, and the way-farer, though simple, need not err therein.’ -And he accordingly proceeds to draw up a provisional bill of -indictment, and to utter his doubtful denunciations against us as a -nation, for the supposed neglect of the inestimable privileges, <em>secured -alike to all</em>, and for the lights held out to all for ‘maintaining the -state’ of their country in the precepts and examples of Holy Writ; -when, all of a sudden, his eye encountering that brilliant auditory -which his pen had conjured up, the Preacher finds out, that the -only use of the study of the Scriptures for the rest of the people, is -to learn that they have no occasion to study them at all—‘so best -shall they maintain the state of the world.’ If Mr. Coleridge has -no meaning in what he writes, he had better not write at all: if he -has any meaning, he contradicts himself. The truth is, however, -as it appears to us, that the whole of this Sermon is written to -sanction the principle of Catholic dictation, and to reprobate that -diffusion of free inquiry—that difference of private, and ascendancy -of public opinion, which has been the necessary consequence, and -the great benefit of the Reformation. That Mr. Coleridge himself -is as squeamish in guarding <em>his</em> Statesman’s Manual from profanation -as any Popish priest can be in keeping the Scriptures from the -knowledge of the Laity, will be seen from the following delicate -<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">morceau</span></i>, which occurs, p. 44.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘When I named this Essay a Sermon, I sought to prepare the -inquirers after it <em>for the absence of all the usual softenings suggested by -worldly prudence, of all compromise between truth and courtesy</em>. But -not even as a Sermon would I have addressed the present Discourse -<em>to a promiscuous audience</em>; and for this reason I likewise announced -it in the title-page, as exclusively <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">ad clerum, i.e.</span></i> (in the old and wide -sense of the word) to men of <em>clerkly</em> acquirements, of whatever -profession. I would that the greater part of our publications could -be thus <em>directed</em>, each to its appropriate class of readers.<a id='r6' /><a href='#f6' class='c014'><sup>[6]</sup></a> But this -cannot be! For among other odd burrs and kecksies, the misgrowth -of our luxuriant activity, we have now a <span class='sc'>Reading Public</span>—as strange -<span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>a phrase, methinks, as ever forced a splenetic smile on the staid -countenance of Meditation; and yet no fiction! For our readers -have, in good truth, multiplied exceedingly, and have waxed proud. -It would require the intrepid accuracy of a Colquhoun to venture at -the precise number of that vast company only, whose heads and -hearts are dieted at the two public <em>ordinaries</em> of Literature, the -circulating libraries and the periodical press. But what is the -result? Does the inward man thrive on this regimen? Alas! if -the average health of the consumers may be judged of by the articles -of largest consumption; if the secretions may be conjectured from -the ingredients of the dishes that are found best suited to their -palates; from all that I have seen, either of the banquet or -the guests, I shall utter my <cite>Profaccia</cite> with a desponding sigh. -From a popular philosophy and a philosophic populace, good sense -deliver us!’</p> - -<p class='c010'>If it were possible to be serious after a passage like this, we -might ask, what is to hinder a convert of ‘the church of superstition’ -from exclaiming in like manner, ‘From a popular theology, and a -theological populace, Good Lord deliver us! ‘Mr. Coleridge does -not say—will he say—that as many sects and differences of opinion -in religion have not risen up, in consequence of the Reformation, as -in philosophy or politics, from ‘the misgrowth of our luxuriant -activity?’ Can any one express a greater disgust, (approaching to -<em>nausea</em>), at every sect and separation from the Church of England, -which he sometimes, by an hyperbole of affectation, affects to call -the Catholic Church? There is something, then, worse than -‘luxuriant activity,’—the palsy of death; something worse than -occasional error,—systematic imposture; something worse than the -collision of differing opinions,—the suppression of all freedom of -thought and independent love of truth, under the torpid sway of an -insolent and selfish domination, which makes use of truth and falsehood -equally as tools of its own aggrandisement and the debasement -of its vassals, and always must do so, without the exercise of public -opinion, and freedom of conscience, as its control and counter-check. -For what have we been labouring for the last three hundred years? -Would Mr. Coleridge, with impious hand, turn the world ‘twice -ten degrees askance,’ and carry us back to the dark ages? Would -he punish the <em>reading public</em> for their bad taste in reading periodical -publications which he does not like, by suppressing the freedom of -the press altogether, or destroying the art of printing? He does not -know what he means himself. Perhaps we can tell him. He, or -at least those whom he writes to please, and who look ‘with jealous -leer malign’ at modern advantages and modern pretensions, would -<span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>give us back all the abuses of former times, without any of their -advantages; and impose upon us, by force or fraud, a complete -system of superstition without faith, of despotism without loyalty, of -error without enthusiasm, and all the evils, without any of the -blessings, of ignorance. The senseless jargon which Mr. Coleridge -has let fall on this subject, is the more extraordinary, inasmuch as -he declares, in an early part of his Sermon, that ‘Religion and -Reason are their own evidence;’—a position which appears to us -‘fraught with <em>potential infidelity</em>’ quite as much as Unitarianism, or -the detestable plan for teaching reading and writing, and a knowledge -of the Scriptures, without the creed or the catechism of the Church -of England. The passage in which this sweeping clause is introduced -<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en passant</span></i>, is worth quoting, both as it is very nonsensical -in itself, and as it is one of the least nonsensical in the present -pamphlet.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In the infancy of the world, signs and wonders were requisite, -in order to startle and break down that superstition, idolatrous in -itself, and the source of all other idolatry, which tempts the natural -man to seek the true cause and origin of public calamities in outward -circumstances, persons and incidents: in agents, therefore, that were -themselves but surges of the same tide, passive conductors of the -one invisible influence, under which the total host of billows, in -the whole line of successive impulse, swell and roll shoreward; there -finally, each in its turn, to strike, roar, and be dissipated.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘But with each miracle worked there was a truth revealed, which -thenceforward was to act as its substitute: And if we think the -Bible less applicable to us on account of the miracles, we degrade -ourselves into mere slaves of sense and fancy; which are, indeed, -the appointed medium between earth and heaven, but for that very -cause stand in a desirable relation to spiritual truth then only, when, -as a mere and passive medium, they yield a free passage to its light. -It was only to overthrow the usurpation exercised in and through -the senses, that the senses were miraculously appealed to. Reason -and Religion are their own evidence. The natural sun is, in this -respect, a symbol of the spiritual. Ere he is fully arisen, and while -his glories are still under veil, he calls up the breeze to chase away -the usurping vapours of the night-season, and thus converts the air -itself into the minister of its own purification: not surely in proof -or elucidation of the light from heaven, but to prevent its interception.’ -p. 12.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Here is a very pretty Della Cruscan image: and we really think -it a pity, that Mr. Coleridge ever quitted that school of poetry to -grapple with the simplicity of nature, or to lose himself in the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>depths of philosophy. His illustration is pretty, but false. He -treats the miracles recorded in the Scriptures, with more than -heretical boldness, as mere appeals to ‘sense and fancy,’ or to ‘the -natural man,’ to counteract the impressions of sense and fancy. But, -for the light of Heaven to have been like the light of day in this -respect, the Sun ought to have called up other vapours opposite, as -mirrors or pageants to reflect its light, dimmed by the intermediate -vapours, instead of chasing the last away. We criticize the simile, -because we are sure higher authority will object to the doctrine. -We might challenge Mr. Coleridge to point out a single writer, -Catholic, Protestant or Sectarian, whose principles are not regarded -as <em>potential infidelity</em> by the rest, that does not consider the miraculous -attestation of certain revealed doctrines as proofs of their truth, -independently of their internal evidence. They are a distinct and -additional authority. Reason and Religion are no more the same -in this respect, than ocular demonstration and oral testimony are the -same. Neither are they opposed to one another, any more. We -believe in credible witnesses. We believe in the word of God, -when we have reason to suppose, that we hear his voice in the -thunder of his power: but we cannot, consistently with the principles -of reason or of sound faith, suppose him to utter what is contrary -to reason, though it may be different from it. Revelation utters a -voice in the silence of reason, but does not contradict it: it throws -a light on objects too distant for the unassisted eye to behold. But -it does not pervert our natural organs of vision, with respect to -objects within their reach. Reason and religion are therefore consistent, -but not the same, nor equally self-evident. All this, we -think, is clear and plain. But Mr. Coleridge likes to darken and -perplex every question of which he treats. So, in the passage above -quoted, he affirms that Religion is its own evidence, to confound one -class of readers; and he afterwards asserts that Reason is founded -on faith, to astonish another. He proceeds indeed by the <em>differential -method</em> in all questions; and his chief care, in which he is tolerably -successful, is not to agree with any set of men or opinions. We pass -over his Jeremiad on the French Revolution,—his discovery that the -state of public opinion has a considerable influence on the state of -public affairs, particularly in turbulent times,—his apology for -imitating St. Paul by quoting Shakespear, and many others: for if -we were to collect all the riches of absurdity in this Discourse, we -should never have done. But there is one passage, upon which he -has plainly taken so much pains, that we <em>must</em> give it.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘A calm and detailed examination of the facts, justifies me to my -own mind, in hazarding the bold assertion, that the fearful blunders -<span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>of the late dread Revolution, and all the calamitous mistakes of its -opponents, from its commencement even to the era of loftier -principles and wiser measures (an era, that began with, and ought to -be named from, the war of the Spanish and Portuguese insurgents), -every failure, with all its gloomy results, may be unanswerably -deduced, from the neglect of some maxim or other that had been -established by clear reasoning and plain facts, in the writings of -Thucydides, Tacitus, Machiavel, Bacon, or Harrington. These are -red-letter names, even in the almanacks of worldly wisdom: and yet -I dare challenge all the critical benches of infidelity, to point out any -one important truth, any one efficient practical direction or warning, -which did not preexist, and for the most part in a sounder, more -intelligible, and more comprehensive form <span class='fss'>IN THE BIBLE</span>.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In addition to this, the Hebrew legislator, and the other inspired -poets, prophets, historians and moralists, of the Jewish church, -have two immense advantages in their favour. First, their particular -rules and prescripts flow directly and visibly from universal principles, -as from a fountain: they flow from principles and ideas that are -not so properly said to be confirmed by reason, as to be reason -itself! Principles, in act and procession, disjoined from which, and -from the emotions that inevitably accompany the actual intuition of -their truth, the widest maxims of prudence are like arms without -hearts, muscles without nerves. Secondly, from the very nature of -these principles, as taught in the Bible, they are understood, in exact -proportion as they are believed and felt. The regulator is never -separated from the main spring. For the words of the Apostle are -literally and philosophically true: <em>We</em> (that is the human race) <em>live -by faith</em>. Whatever we do or know, that in kind is different from -the brute creation, has its origin in a determination of the reason to -have faith and trust in itself. This, its first act of faith, is scarcely -less than identical with its own being. <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Implicité</span></i>, it is the copula—it -contains the <em>possibility</em>—of every position, to which there exists -any correspondence in reality. It is itself, therefore, the realizing -principle, the spiritual substratum of the whole complex body of -truths. This primal act of faith is enunciated in the word, God: -a faith not derived from experience, but its ground and source; -and without which, the fleeting <em>chaos of facts</em> would no more form -experience, than the dust of the grave can of itself make a living -man. The imperative and oracular form of the inspired Scripture, is -<em>the form of reason itself</em>, in all things purely rational and moral.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘If it be the word of Divine Wisdom, we might anticipate, that -it would in all things be distinguished from other books, as the -Supreme Reason, whose knowledge is creative, and antecedent to the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>things known, is distinguished from the understanding, or creaturely -mind of the individual, the acts of which are posterior to the things it -records and arranges. Man alone was created in the image of God: -a position groundless and inexplicable, if <em>the reason</em> in man do not -differ from <em>the understanding</em>. For this the inferior animals (many at -least) possess <em>in degree</em>: and assuredly the divine image or idea is not -a thing of degrees,’ &c. &c. &c.</p> - -<p class='c010'>There is one short passage, just afterwards, in which the author -makes an easy transition from cant to calumny: and, with equal -credit and safety to himself, insults and traduces the dead. ‘One -confirmation of the latter assertion you may find in the history of our -country, written by the same Scotch Philosopher, who devoted his -life to the undermining of the Christian Religion; and <em>expended his -last breath in a blasphemous regret, that he had not survived it</em>!’ This -last assertion is a gratuitous poetical fabrication, as mean as it is -malignant. With respect to Mr. Hume’s History, here spoken of -with ignorant petulance, it is beyond dispute the most judicious, -profound, and acute of all historical compositions, though the friends -of liberty may admit, with the advocate of servility, that it has its -defects;—and the scepticism into which its ingenious and most -amiable author was betrayed in matters of religion, must always be -lamented by the lovers of genius and virtue. The venom of the -sting meant to be inflicted on the memory of ‘the Scotch Philosopher,’ -seems to have returned to the writer’s own bosom, and to have -exhausted itself in the following bloated passage.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘At the annunciation of <span class='sc'>Principles</span>, of <span class='sc'>Ideas</span>, the soul of man -awakes, and starts up, as an exile in a far distant land at the -unexpected sounds of his native language, when, after long years of -absence, and almost of oblivion, he is suddenly addressed in his own -mother tongue. He weeps for joy, and embraces the speaker as his -brother. <em>How else can we explain the fact so honourable to Great -Britain,<a id='r7' /><a href='#f7' class='c014'><sup>[7]</sup></a> that the poorest amongst us will contend with as much -enthusiasm as the richest for the rights of property?</em> These rights are -the spheres and necessary conditions of free agency. But free agency -contains the idea of the free will; and in this he intuitively knows -the sublimity, and the infinite hopes, fears, and capabilities of his own -(English) nature. On what other ground but the <em>cognateness of ideas</em> -and principles to man as man, does the nameless soldier rush to the -combat in defence of the liberties or <em>the honour</em> of his country? Even -men, wofully neglectful of the principles of religion, will shed their -blood for its truth.’ p. 30.</p> - -<p class='c010'>How does this passage agree with Mr. C.’s general contempt of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>mankind, and that especial aversion to ‘Mob-Sycophancy’ which has -marked him from the cradle, and which formerly led him to give up -the periodical paper of the Watchman, and to break off in the middle -of his ‘<cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Conciones ad Populum</span></cite>?’ A few plain instincts, and a little -common sense, are all that the most popular of our popular writers -attribute to the people, or rely on for their success in addressing them. -But Mr. Coleridge, the mob-hating Mr. Coleridge, here supposes -them intuitively to perceive the cabalistical visions of German metaphysics; -and compliments the poorest peasant, and the nameless -soldier, not only on the cognateness of their ideas and principles to -man as man, but on their immediate and joyous excitation at the -mere annunciation of such delightful things as ‘<em>Principles</em> and <em>Ideas</em>.’ -Our mystic, in a Note, finds a confirmation of this cognateness of the -most important truths to the vulgarest of the people, in ‘an anecdote -told with much humour in one of Goldsmith’s Essays.’ Poor Goldy! -How he would have stared at this transcendental inference from his -humorous anecdote! He would have felt as awkwardly as Gulliver -did, when the monkey at the palace of Brobdignag took him an -airing on the tiles, and almost broke his neck by the honour. Mr. -Coleridge’s patronage is of the same unwieldy kind.—The Preacher -next gives his authorities for reading the Scriptures. They are—Heraclitus -and Horace.—In earnest? In good sooth, and in sad and -sober earnest.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Or would you wish for authorities?—for great examples?—You -may find them in the writings of Thuanus, of Lord Clarendon, of Sir -Thomas More, of Raleigh; and in the life and letters of the heroic -Gustavus Adolphus. But these, though eminent statesmen, were -Christians, and might lie under the thraldom of habit and prejudice. -I will refer you then to authorities of two great men, both Pagans; -but removed from each other by many centuries, and not more distant -in their ages than in their characters and situations. The first shall -be that of Heraclitus, the sad and recluse philosopher. <span lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">Πολυμαθιη -νοον οὐ διδασκει· Σιβυλλα δε μαινομενᾳ στόματι αγελαστα και -ακαλλωπιστα και αμυριστα φθεγγομενη, χιλιων ετων εξικνεται τῃ -φωνῃ δια τον θεον.</span><a id='r8' /><a href='#f8' class='c014'><sup>[8]</sup></a> Shall we hesitate to apply to the prophets of -God, what could be affirmed of the Sibylls by a philosopher whom -Socrates, the prince of philosophers, venerated for the profundity -of his wisdom?</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘For the other, I will refer you to the darling of the polished -<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>court of Augustus, to the man whose works have been in all ages -deemed the models of good sense, and are still the pocket-companions -of those who pride themselves on uniting the scholar with the -gentleman. This accomplished man of the world has given an -account of the subjects of conversation between the illustrious statesmen -who governed, and the brightest luminaries who then adorned, -the empire of the civilized world—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘<span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Sermo oritur non de villis domibusve alienis</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Nec, male, nec ne lepus saltet. Sed quod magis ad nos</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Pertinet, et nescire malum est, agitamus: utrumne</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Divitiis homines, an sint virtute beati?</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Et qua sit natura boni? summumque quid eius?</span>’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>It is not easy to conceive any thing better than this;—only the -next passage beats it hollow, and is itself surpassed by the one after -it, ‘as Alps o’er Alps arise.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>So far Mr. Coleridge has indulged himself in ‘a preparatory heat,’ -and said nothing about the Bible. But now he girds himself up for -his main purpose, places himself at the helm, and undertakes to -conduct the statesman to his desired haven in Scripture prophecy and -history. ‘But do you require some one or more particular passage -from the Bible, that may at once illustrate and exemplify its applicability -to the changes and fortunes of empires? Of the numerous -chapters that relate to the Jewish tribes, their enemies and allies, -before and after their division into two kingdoms, it would be more -difficult to state a single one, from which some guiding light might -<em>not</em> be struck.’ Does Mr. Coleridge then condescend to oblige us -with any one? Nothing can be farther from his thoughts. He is -here off again at a tangent, and does not return to the subject for the -next seven pages. When he does—it is in the following explicit -manner.—‘But I refer to the demand. <em>Were it my object to touch on -the present state of public affairs in this kingdom, or on the prospective -measures in agitation respecting our sister island, I would direct your -most serious meditations to the latter period of the reign of Solomon, and -to the revolutions in the reign of Rehoboam, his successor. But I should -tread on glowing embers: I will turn to the causes of the revolution, and -fearful chastisement of France.</em>’ Let the reader turn to the first book -of Kings, in which the parallel passage to our own history at the -present crisis stands, according to our author, so alarmingly conspicuous; -and he will not be surprised that Mr. Coleridge found -himself ‘treading on glowing embers.’ The insidious loyalty or -covert Jacobinism of this same parallel, which he declines drawing on -account of its extreme applicability, is indeed beyond our comprehension, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>and not a less ‘curious specimen of psychology,’ than the -one immediately preceding it, in which he proves the doctrine of -<em>divine right</em> to be revealed in an especial manner in the Hebrew -Scriptures.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We should proceed to notice that part of the Sermon, where the -orator rails at the public praises of Dr. Bell, and abuses Joseph -Lancaster, <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">con amore</span></i>. Nothing more flat and vapid, in wit or -argument, was ever put before the public, which he treats with such -contempt. Of the wit, take the following choice sample.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘But the phrase of the <span class='sc'>Reading Public</span>, which occasioned this -note, brings to my mind the mistake of a lethargic Dutch traveller, -who returning highly gratified from a showman’s caravan, which he -had been tempted to enter by the words, <span class='sc'>The Learned Pig</span>, gilt on -the pannels, met another caravan of a similar shape, with <span class='sc'>The -Reading Fly</span> on it, in letters of the same size and splendour. -“Why, dis is voonders above voonders!” exclaims the Dutchman; -takes his seat as first comer; and, soon fatigued by waiting, and by -the very hush and intensity of his expectation, gives way to his constitutional -somnolence, from which he is roused by the supposed -showman at Hounslow, with a—“<em>In what name, Sir! was your place -taken? Are you booked all the way for Reading?</em>”—Now a Reading -Public is (to my mind) more marvellous still, and in the third tier of -“voonders above voonders!”’</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Coleridge’s wit and sentimentality do not seem to have settled -accounts together; for in the very next page after this ‘third tier of -wonders,’ he says—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘And here my apprehensions point to two opposite errors. The -first consists in a disposition to think, that as the peace of nations has -been disturbed by the diffusion of a false light, it may be re-established -by excluding the people from all knowledge and all prospect of -amelioration. O! never, never! Reflection and stirrings of mind, -with all their restlessness, and all the errors that result from their -imperfection, from the <em>Too much</em>, because <em>Too little</em>, are come into the -world. The powers that awaken and foster the spirit of curiosity, -are to be found in every village: Books are in every hovel: The -infant’s cries are hushed with <em>picture</em>-books: and the Cottager’s child -sheds its first bitter tears over pages, which render it impossible for -the man to be treated or governed as a child. Here, as in so many -other cases, the inconveniences that have arisen from a thing’s having -become too general, are best removed by making it universal.’ p. 49.</p> - -<p class='c010'>And yet, with Mr. Coleridge, a reading public is ‘voonders above -voonders’—a strange phrase, and yet no fiction! The public is -become a reading public, down to the cottager’s child; and he thanks -<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>God for it—for that great moral steam-engine, Dr. Bell’s original -and unsophisticated plan, which he considers as an especial gift of -Providence to the human race—thus about to be converted into one -great reading public; and yet he utters his <em>Profaccia</em> upon it with a -desponding sigh; and proposes, as a remedy, to put this spirit which -has gone forth, under the tutelage of churchwardens, to cant against -‘liberal ideas,’ and ‘the jargon of this enlightened age;’—in other -words, to turn this vast machine against itself, and make it a go-cart -of corruption, servility, superstition and tyranny. Mr. Coleridge’s -first horror is, that there should be a reading public: his next hope is -to prevent them from reaping an atom of benefit from ‘reflection and -stirrings of mind, with all their restlessness.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>The conclusion of this discourse is even more rhapsodical than the -former part of it; and we give the pulpit or rostrum from which -Mr. Coleridge is supposed to deliver it, ‘high enthroned above all -height,’ the decided preference over that throne of dulness and of -nonsense which Pope did erst erect for the doubtful merits of Colley -and Sir Richard.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The notes are better, and but a little better than the text. We -might select, as specimens of laborious foolery, the passage in which the -writer defends <em>second sight</em>, to prove that he has unjustly been accused -of visionary paradox, or hints that a disbelief in ghosts and witches is -no great sign of the wisdom of the age, or that in which he gives us -to understand that Sir Isaac Newton was a great astrologer, or Mr. -Locke no conjurer. But we prefer (for our limits are straitened) -the author’s description of a green field, which he prefaces by -observing, that ‘the book of Nature has been the music of gentle and -pious minds in all ages; and that it is the poetry of all human nature -to read it likewise in a figurative sense, and to find therein correspondences -and symbols of a spiritual nature.’</p> - -<p class='c015'><span class='sc'>Mr. Coleridge’s Description of a Green Field.</span></p> - -<p class='c010'>‘I have at this moment before me, in the flowery meadow on -which my eye is now reposing, one of Nature’s most soothing -chapters, in which there is no lamenting word, no one character of -guilt or anguish. For never can I look and meditate on the vegetable -creation, without a feeling similar to that with which we gaze at a -beautiful infant that has fed itself asleep at its mother’s bosom, and -smiles in its strange dream of obscure yet happy sensations. The -same tender and genial pleasure takes possession of me, and this -pleasure is checked and drawn inward by the like aching melancholy, -by the same whispered remonstrance, and made restless by a similar -impulse of aspiration. It seems as if the soul said to herself—“From -<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>this state” (from that of a flowery meadow) “hast <em>thou</em> -fallen! Such shouldst thou still become, thyself all permeable to a -holier power! Thyself at once hidden and glorified by its own -transparency, as the accidental and dividuous in this quiet and -harmonious object is subjected to the life and light of nature which -shines in it, even as the transmitted power, love and wisdom, of God -over all fills, and shines through, Nature! But what the plant <em>is</em>, -by an act not its own, and unconsciously—<em>that</em> must thou <em>make</em> thyself -to <em>become</em>! must by prayer, and by a watchful and unresisting spirit, -<em>join</em> at least with the preventive and assisting grace to <em>make</em> thyself, in -that light of conscience which inflameth not, and with that knowledge -which puffeth not up.”’</p> - -<p class='c010'>This will do. It is well observed by Hobbes, that ‘it is by means -of words only that a man becometh excellently wise or excellently -foolish.’</p> - -<h3 class='c008'>COLERIDGE’S LITERARY LIFE</h3> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Vol. xxviii.</span>]      [<em>August 1817.</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>There are some things readable in these volumes; and if the learned -author could only have been persuaded to make them a little more -conformable to their title, we have no doubt that they would have -been the most popular of all his productions. Unfortunately, however, -this work is not so properly an account of his Life and -Opinions, as an Apology for them. ‘It will be found,’ says our -Auto-Biographer, ‘that the least of what I have written concerns -myself personally.’ What then, it may be asked, is the work taken -up with? With the announcement of an explanation of the author’s -Political and Philosophical creed, to be contained in another work—with -a prefatory introduction of 200 pages to an Essay on the -difference between Fancy and Imagination, which was intended to -form part of this, but has been suppressed, at the request of a judicious -friend, as unintelligible—with a catalogue of Mr. Southey’s domestic -virtues, and author-like qualifications—a candid defence of the -Lyrical Ballads—a critique on Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry—quotations -from the Friend—and attacks on the Edinburgh Review. There -are, in fact, only two or three passages in the work which relate to -the details of the author’s life,—such as the account of his school-education, -and of his setting up the Watchman newspaper. We shall -make sure of the first of these curious documents, before we completely -lose ourselves in the multiplicity of his speculative opinions.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘At school, I enjoyed the inestimable advantage of a very sensible, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>though at the same time, a very severe master, the Rev. James -Bowyer, many years Head Master of the Grammar-School, Christ’s -Hospital. He early moulded my taste to the preference of Demosthenes -to Cicero, of Homer and Theocritus to Virgil, and again, of -Virgil to Ovid. He habituated me to compare Lucretius (in such -extracts as I then read), Terence, and, above all, the chaster poems -of Catullus, not only with the Roman poets of the so called silver and -brazen ages, but with even those of the Augustan era; and, on grounds -of plain sense, and universal logic, to see and assert the superiority of -the former, in the truth and nativeness both of their thoughts and -diction. At the same time that we were studying the Greek tragic -poets, he made us read Shakespeare and Milton as lessons: and they -were the lessons, too, which required most time and trouble to <em>bring -up</em>, so as to escape his censure. I learnt from him, that Poetry, even -that of the loftiest, and, seemingly, that of the wildest odes, had a -logic of its own, as severe as that of science; and more difficult, -because more subtle, more complex, and dependent on more, and -more fugitive causes. In the truly great poets, he would say, there -is a reason assignable, not only for every word, but for the position of -every word; and I well remember, that, availing himself of the -synonimes to the Homer of Didymus, he made us attempt to show, -with regard to each, <em>why</em> it would not have answered the same -purpose; and <em>wherein</em> consisted the peculiar fitness of the word in the -original text.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘I had just entered on my seventeenth year, when the Sonnets of -Mr. Bowles, twenty in number, and just then published in a quarto -pamphlet, were first made known and presented to me, by a school-fellow -who had quitted us for the University, and who, during the -whole time that he was in our first form (or, in our school language, -a <span class='sc'>Grecian</span>), had been my patron and protector. I refer to Dr. -Middleton, the truly learned, and every way excellent Bishop of -Calcutta—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in18'>‘<span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Qui laudibus amplis</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Ingenium celebrare meum, calamumque solebat,</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Calcar agens animo validum. Non omnia terræ</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Obruta! Vivit amor, vivit dolor! Ora negatur</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Dulcia conspicere; at flere et meminisse relictum est.</span>’</div> - <div class='line in36'><cite>Petr. Ep. Lib. 7. Ep. 1.</cite></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘It was a double pleasure to me, and still remains a tender recollection, -that I should have received from a friend so revered, the first -knowledge of a poet, by whose works, year after year, I was so -enthusiastically delighted and inspired. My earliest acquaintances -will not have forgotten the undisciplined eagerness and impetuous -<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>zeal, with which I laboured to make proselytes, not only of my companions, -but of all with whom I conversed, of whatever rank, and -in whatever place. As my school finances did not permit me to -purchase copies, I made, within less than a year and an half, more -than forty transcriptions, as the best presents I could offer to those -who had in any way won my regard. And, with almost equal -delight, did I receive the three or four following publications of the -same author.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Though I have seen and known enough of mankind to be well -aware that I shall perhaps stand alone in my creed, and that it will -be well, if I subject myself to no worse charge than that of singularity; -I am not therefore deterred from avowing, that I regard, and ever -have regarded the obligations of intellect among the most sacred of -the claims of gratitude. A valuable thought, or a particular train of -thoughts, gives me additional pleasure, when I can safely refer and -attribute it to the conversation or correspondence of another. My -obligations to Mr. Bowles were indeed important, and for radical -good. <em>At a very premature age, even before my fifteenth year, I had -bewildered myself in metaphysicks, and in theological controversy. Nothing -else pleased me. History, and particular facts, lost all interest in my -mind.</em> Poetry (though for a schoolboy of that age, I was above par -in English versification, and had already produced two or three compositions -which, I may venture to say, without reference to my age, -were somewhat above mediocrity, and which had gained me more -credit, than the sound, good sense of my old master was at all pleased -with)—<em>poetry itself, yea novels and romances, became insipid to me</em>. In -my friendless wanderings on our <em>leave-days</em>, (for I was an orphan, -and had scarcely any connexions in London), highly was I delighted, -if any passenger, especially if he were drest in black, would enter -into conversation with me. For I soon found the means of directing -it to my favourite subjects</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Of providence, fore-knowledge, will, and fate,</div> - <div class='line'>Fix’d fate, free-will, fore-knowledge absolute,</div> - <div class='line'>And found no end in wandering mazes lost.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>‘This preposterous pursuit was, beyond doubt, injurious, both to my -natural powers, and to the progress of my education. It would -perhaps have been destructive, had it been continued; but from this -I was auspiciously withdrawn, partly indeed by an accidental introduction -to an amiable family, chiefly however by the genial influence -of a style of poetry, so tender, and yet so manly, so natural and real, -and yet so dignified and harmonious, as the sonnets, &c. of Mr. -Bowles! Well were it for me, perhaps, had I never relapsed into -<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>the same mental disease; if I had continued to pluck the flower, and -reap the harvest from the cultivated surface, instead of delving in -the unwholesome quicksilver mines of metaphysic depths. But if in -after-time I have sought a refuge from bodily pain and mismanaged -sensibility, in abstruse researches, which exercised the strength and -subtlety of the understanding, without awakening the feelings of the -heart; still there was a long and blessed interval, during which my -natural faculties were allowed to expand, and my original tendencies -to develop themselves—my fancy, and the love of nature, and the -sense of beauty in forms and sounds.’ p. 17.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Coleridge seems to us, from this early association, to overrate -the merits of Bowles’s Sonnets, which he prefers to Warton’s, -which last we, in our turn, prefer to Wordsworth’s, and indeed to -any Sonnets in the language. He cannot, however, be said to overrate -the extent of the intellectual obligations which he thinks he owes -to his favourite writer. If the study of Mr. Bowles’s poems could -have effected a permanent cure of that ‘preposterous’ state of mind -which he has above described, his gratitude, we admit, should be -boundless: But the disease, we fear, was in the mind itself; and the -study of poetry, instead of counteracting, only gave force to the -original propensity; and Mr. Coleridge has ever since, from the combined -forces of poetic levity and metaphysic bathos, been trying to -fly, not in the air, but under ground—playing at hawk and buzzard -between sense and nonsense,—floating or sinking in fine Kantean -categories, in a state of suspended animation ’twixt dreaming and -awake,—quitting the plain ground of ‘history and particular facts’ for -the first butterfly theory, fancy-bred from the maggots of his brain,—going -up in an air-balloon filled with fetid gas from the writings of -Jacob Behmen and the mystics, and coming down in a parachute -made of the soiled and fashionable leaves of the Morning Post,—promising -us an account of the Intellectual System of the Universe, -and putting us off with a reference to a promised dissertation on the -Logos, introductory to an intended commentary on the entire Gospel -of St. John. In the above extract, he tells us, with a degree of -<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">naïveté</span></i> not usual with him, that, ‘even before his fifteenth year, -history and particular facts had lost all interest in his mind.’ Yet, -so little is he himself aware of the influence which this feeling still -continues to exert over his mind, and of the way in which it has -mixed itself up in his philosophical faith, that he afterwards makes it -the test and definition of a sound understanding and true genius, that -‘the mind is affected by thoughts, rather than by things; and only -then feels the <em>requisite</em> interest even for the most important events and -accidents, when by means of meditation they have passed into -<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span><em>thoughts</em>.’ p. 30. We do not see, after this, what right Mr. C. -has to complain of those who say that he is neither the most literal -nor logical of mortals; and the worst that has ever been said of him -is, that he is the least so. If it is the proper business of the -philosopher to dream over theories, and to neglect or gloss over facts, -to fit them to his theories or his conscience; we confess we know of -few writers, ancient or modern, who have come nearer to the perfection -of this character than the author before us.</p> - -<p class='c010'>After a desultory and unsatisfactory attempt (Chap. <span class='fss'>II.</span>) to account -for and disprove the common notion of the irritability of authors, -Mr. Coleridge proceeds (by what connexion we know not) to a full, -true and particular account of the personal, domestic, and literary -habits of his friend Mr. Southey,—to all which we have but one -objection, namely, that it seems quite unnecessary, as we never -heard them impugned,—except indeed by the Antijacobin writers, -here quoted by Mr. Coleridge, who is no less impartial as a friend, -than candid as an enemy. The passage altogether is not a little -remarkable.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘It is not, however,’ says our author, ‘from grateful recollections -only, that I have been impelled thus to leave these my deliberate -sentiments on record; but in some sense as a debt of justice to the -man, whose name has been so often connected with mine, for evil to -which he is a stranger. As a specimen, I subjoin part of a note -from the ‘Beauties of the Anti-Jacobin,’ in which, having previously -informed the Public that I had been dishonoured at Cambridge for -preaching Deism, at a time when, for my youthful ardour in defence -of Christianity, I was decried as a bigot by the proselytes of French -philosophy, the writer concludes with these words—‘<em>Since this time -he has left his native country, commenced citizen of the world, left his -poor children fatherless, and his wife destitute. Ex his disce his friends, -Lamb and Southey.</em>’ ‘With severest truth,’ continues Mr. Coleridge, -‘it may be asserted, that it would not be easy to select two men -more exemplary in their domestic affections, than those whose names -were thus printed at full length, as in the same rank of morals with -a denounced infidel and fugitive, who had left his children fatherless, -and his wife destitute! <em>Is it surprising that many good men remained -longer than perhaps they otherwise would have done, adverse to a party -which encouraged and openly rewarded the authors of such atrocious -calumnies?</em>’ p. 71.</p> - -<p class='c010'>With us, we confess the wonder does not lie there:—all that -surprises us is, that the objects of these atrocious calumnies were <em>ever</em> -reconciled to the authors of them;—for the calumniators were the -party itself. The Cannings, the Giffords, and the Freres, have -<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>never made any apology for the abuse which they then heaped upon -every nominal friend of freedom; and yet Mr. Coleridge thinks it -necessary to apologize in the name of all good men, for having -remained so long adverse to a party which recruited upon such a -bounty; and seems not obscurely to intimate that they had such -effectual means of propagating their slanders against those good men -who differed with them, that most of the latter found there was no -other way of keeping their good name but by giving up their -principles, and joining in the same venal cry against all those who -did not become apostates or converts, ministerial Editors, and ‘laurel-honouring -Laureates’ like themselves!—What! at the very moment -when this writer is complaining of a foul and systematic conspiracy -against the characters of himself, and his most intimate friends, he -suddenly stops short in his half-finished burst of involuntary indignation, -and ends with a lamentable affectation of surprise at the otherwise -unaccountable slowness of good men in yielding implicit -confidence to a party, who had such powerful arts of conversion in -their hands,—who could with impunity, and triumphantly, take away -by atrocious calumnies the characters of all who disdained to be their -tools, and rewarded with honours, places, and pensions all those who -were. This is pitiful enough, we confess; but it is too painful to be -dwelt on.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Passing from the Laureate’s old Antijacobin, to his present Antiministerial -persecutors—‘<em>Publicly</em>,’ exclaims Mr. Coleridge, ‘has -Mr. Southey been reviled by men, who (I would fain hope, for the -honour of human nature) hurled fire-brands against a figure of their -own imagination,—<em>publicly</em> have his talents been depreciated, his -principles denounced.’ This is very fine and lofty, no doubt; but -we wish Mr. C. would speak a little plainer. Mr. Southey has come -voluntarily before the public; and all the world has a right to speak -of his publications. It is those only that have been either depreciated -or denounced. We are not aware, at least, of any attacks that have -been made, publicly or privately, on his private life or morality. -The charge is, that he wrote democratical nonsense in his youth; and -that he has not only taken to write against democracy in his maturer -age, but has abused and reviled those who adhere to his former -opinions; and accepted of emoluments from the party which formerly -calumniated him, for those good services. Now, what has Mr. -Coleridge to oppose to this? Mr. Southey’s private character! He -evades the only charge brought against him, by repelling one not -brought against him, except by his Antijacobin patrons—and answers -for his friend, as if he was playing at cross-purposes. Some people -say, that Mr. Southey has deserted the cause of liberty: Mr. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>Coleridge tells us, that he has not separated from his wife. They -say, that he has changed his opinions: Mr. Coleridge says, that he -keeps his appointments; and has even invented a new word, <em>reliability</em>, -to express his exemplariness in this particular. It is also objected, -that the worthy Laureate was as extravagant in his early writings, as -he is virulent in his present ones: Mr. Coleridge answers, that he is -an early riser, and not a late sitter up. It is further alleged, that he -is arrogant and shallow in political discussion, and clamours for -vengeance in a cowardly and intemperate tone: Mr. Coleridge assures -us, that he eats, drinks, and sleeps moderately. It is said that he -must either have been very hasty in taking up his first opinions, or -very unjustifiable in abandoning them for their contraries; and Mr. -Coleridge observes, that Mr. Southey exhibits, in his own person and -family, all the regularity and praiseworthy punctuality of an eight-day -clock. With all this we have nothing to do. Not only have we -said nothing against this gentleman’s private virtues, but we have -regularly borne testimony to his talents and attainments as an author, -while we have been compelled to take notice of his defects. Till -this panegyric of Mr. Coleridge, indeed, we do not know where -there was so much praise of him to be found as in our pages. Does -Mr. Coleridge wish to get a monopoly for criticising the works of his -friends? If we had a particular grudge against any of them, we -might perhaps apply to him for his assistance.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Of Mr. Southey’s prose writings we have had little opportunity to -speak; but we should speak moderately. He has a clear and easy -style, and brings a large share of information to most subjects he -handles. But, on practical and political matters, we cannot think -him a writer of any weight. He has too little sympathy with the -common pursuits, the follies, the vices, and even the virtues of the -rest of mankind, to have any tact or depth of insight into the actual -characters or manners of men. He is in this respect a mere bookworm, -shut up in his study, and too attentive to his literary duty to -mind what is passing about him. He has no humour. His wit is -at once scholastic and vulgar. As to general principles of any sort, -we see no traces of any thing like them in any of his writings. He -shows the same contempt for abstract reasoning that Mr. Coleridge -has for ‘history and particular facts.’ Even his intimacy with the -metaphysical author of the ‘Friend,’ with whom he has chimed in, -both in poetry and politics, in verse and prose, in Jacobinism and -Antijacobinism, any time these twenty years, has never inoculated -him with the most distant admiration of Hartley, or Berkeley, or -Jacob Behmen, or Spinosa, or Kant, or Fichte, or Schelling. His -essays are in fact the contents of his common-place-book, strung -<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>together with little thought or judgment, and rendered marketable by -their petulant adaptation to party-purposes—‘full of wise saws and -modern instances’—with assertions for proofs—conclusions that -savour more of a hasty temper than patient thinking—supported by -learned authorities that oppress the slenderness of his materials, and -quarrel with one another. But our business is not with him; and we -leave him to his studies.</p> - -<p class='c010'>With chap. <span class='fss'>IV.</span> begins the formidable ascent of that mountainous -and barren ridge of clouds piled on precipices and precipices on -clouds, from the top of which the author deludes us with a view of -the Promised Land that divides the regions of Fancy from those -of the Imagination, and extends through 200 pages with various -inequalities and declensions to the end of the volume. The object of -this long-winding metaphysical march, which resembles a patriarchal -journey, is to point out and settle the true grounds of Mr. Wordsworth’s -claim to originality as a poet; which, if we rightly understand -the deduction, turns out to be, that there is nothing peculiar about -him; and that his poetry, in so far as it is good for anything at all, is -just like any other good poetry. The learned author, indeed, -judiciously observes, that Mr. Wordsworth would never have been -‘idly and absurdly’ considered as ‘the founder of a school in poetry,’ -if he had not, by some strange mistake, announced the fact himself in -his preface to the Lyrical Ballads. This, it must be owned, looks -as if Mr. Wordsworth thought more of his <em>peculiar</em> pretensions than -Mr. Coleridge appears to do, and really furnishes some excuse for -those who took the poet at his word; for which idle and hasty -conclusion, moreover, his friend acknowledges that <em>there was</em> some -little foundation in diverse silly and puerile passages of that collection, -equally unworthy of the poet’s great genius and classical taste.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We shall leave it to Mr. Wordsworth, however, to settle the -relative worthlessness of these poems with his critical patron, and also -to ascertain whether his commentator has discovered, either his <em>real</em> -or his <em>probable</em> meaning in writing that Preface,—and should now -proceed with Mr. Coleridge up those intricate and inaccessible steeps to -which he invites our steps. ‘It has been hinted,’ says he, with -characteristic simplicity, ‘that metaphysics and psychology have long -been my hobby-horse. But to have a hobby-horse, and to be vain of -it, are so commonly found together, that they pass almost for the -same.’ <em>We own the soft impeachment</em>, as Mrs. Malaprop says, and can -with difficulty resist the temptation of accepting this invitation—especially -as it is accompanied with a sort of challenge. ‘Those at -least,’ he adds, ‘who have taken so much pains to render me ridiculous -for a perversion of taste, and have supported the charge by -<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>attributing strange notions to me, on no other authority than their own -conjectures, owe it to themselves as well as to me, not to refuse their -attention to my own statement of the theory which I <em>do</em> acknowledge, -or shrink from the trouble of examining the grounds on which I rest -it, or the arguments which I offer in its justification.’ But, in spite -of all this, we must not give way to temptation—and cannot help -feeling, that the whole of this discussion is so utterly unreadable in -Mr. Coleridge, that it would be most presumptuous to hope that it -would become otherwise in our hands. We shall dismiss the whole -of this metaphysical investigation, therefore, into the law of association -and the nature of fancy, by shortly observing, that we can by no -means agree with Mr. C. in refusing to Hobbes the merit of -originality in promulgating that law, with its consequences—that we -agree with him, generally, in his refutation of Hartley—and that we -totally dissent from his encomium on Kant and his followers.</p> - -<p class='c010'>With regard to the claims of the philosopher of Malmesbury as the -first discoverer of the principle of association, as it is now understood -among metaphysicians, Mr. C. thinks fit to deny it <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">in toto</span></i>, because -Descartes’s work, ‘De Methodo,’ in which there is an intimation of -the same doctrine, preceded Hobbes’s ‘De Natura Humana’ <em>by a -whole year</em>.—What an interval to invent and mature a whole system -in!—But we conceive that Hobbes has a strict claim to the merit of -originality in this respect, because he is the first writer who laid down -this principle as <em>the sole and universal law</em> of connexion among our -ideas:—which principle Hartley afterwards illustrated and applied to -an infinite number of particular cases, but did not assert the general -theorem itself more broadly or explicitly. We deny that the statement -of this principle, as <em>the</em> connecting band of our ideas, is to be -found in any of those writers before Hobbes, whom Mr. Coleridge -enumerates; Descartes or Melancthon, or those more ‘illustrious -obscure,’ Ammerbach, or Ludovicus Vives, or even Aristotle. It is -not the having remarked, that association was one source of connexion -among certain ideas, that would anticipate this discovery or the theory -of Hartley; but the asserting, that this principle was alone sufficient -to account for every operation of the human mind, and that there was -no other source of connexion among our ideas,—a proposition which -Hobbes was undoubtedly the first to assert, and by the assertion of -which he did certainly anticipate the system of Hartley; for all that -the latter could do, or has attempted to do, after this, was to prove -the proposition in detail, or to reduce all the phenomena to this one -general law. That Hobbes was in fact the original inventor of the -doctrine of Association, and of the modern system of philosophy in -general, is matter of fact and history; as to which, we are surprised -<span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>that Mr. C. should profess any doubt, and which we had gratified -ourselves by illustrating by a series of citations from his greater -works,—which nothing but a sense of the prevailing indifference to -such discussions prevents us from laying before our readers.</p> - -<p class='c010'>As for the great German oracle Kant, we must take the liberty to -say, that his system appears to us the most wilful and monstrous -absurdity that ever was invented. If the French theories of the mind -were too chemical, this is too mechanical:—if the one referred -every thing to nervous sensibility, the other refers every thing to the -test of muscular resistance, and voluntary prowess. It is an enormous -heap of dogmatical and hardened assertions, advanced in contradiction -to all former systems, and all unsystematical opinions and impressions. -He has but one method of getting over difficulties:—when he is at -a loss to account for any thing, and cannot give a reason for it, he -turns short round upon the inquirer, and says that it is self-evident. -If he cannot make good an inference upon acknowledged premises, or -known methods of reasoning, he coolly refers the whole to a new -class of ideas, and the operation of some unknown faculty, which he -has invented for the purpose, and which he assures you <em>must</em> exist,—because -there is no other proof of it. His whole theory is machinery -and scaffolding—an elaborate account of what he has undertaken to -do, because no one else has been able to do it—and an <em>assumption</em> -that he has done it, because he has undertaken it. If the will were -to go for the deed, and to be confident were to be wise, he would -indeed be the prince of philosophers. For example, he sets out with -urging the indispensable necessity of answering Hume’s argument on -the origin of our idea of cause and effect; and because he can find no -answer to this argument, in the experimental philosophy, he affirms, -that this idea <em>must be</em> ‘a self-evident truth, contained in the first forms -or categories of the understanding;’ that is, the thing must be as he -would have it, whether it is so or not. Again, he argues that -external objects exist because they seem to exist; and yet he denies -that we know any thing at all about the matter, further than their -appearances. He defines beauty to be perfection, and virtue to consist -in a conformity to our duty; with other such deliberate truisms; and -then represents necessity as inconsistent with morality, and insists on -the existence and certainty of the free-will as a faculty necessary to -explain the <em>moral sense</em>, which could not exist without it. This -transcendental philosopher is also pleased to affirm, in so many words, -that we have neither any possible idea, nor any possible proof of the -existence of the Soul, God, or Immortality, by means of the ordinary -faculties of sense, understanding, or reason; and he therefore (like a -man who had been employed to construct a machine for some -<span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>particular purpose), invents a new faculty, for the admission and -demonstration of these important truths, <em>namely, the practical reason</em>; -in other words, the will or determination that these things should be -infinitely true because they are infinitely desirable to the human -mind,—though he says it is impossible for the human mind to have -any idea whatever of these objects, either as true or desirable. But -we turn gladly from absurdities that have not even the merit of being -amusing; and leave Mr. Coleridge to the undisturbed adoration of an -idol who will have few other worshippers in this country. His own -speculations are, beyond all comparison, more engaging.</p> - -<p class='c010'>In chap. <span class='fss'>IX.</span> Mr. Coleridge, taking leave of that ‘sound book-learnedness’ -which he had opposed, in the Lay Sermon, to the upstart -pretensions of modern literature, praises the inspired ignorance, -upward flights, and inward yearnings of Jacob Behmen, George Fox -and De Thoyras, and proceeds to defend himself against the charge -of plagiarism, of which he suspects that he may be suspected by the -readers of Schlegel and Schelling, when he comes to unfold, in fulness -of time, the mysterious laws of the drama and the human mind. -And thereafter, the ‘extravagant and erring’ author takes leave of -the Pantheism of Spinoza, of Proclus, and Gemistius Pletho, of the -philosopher of Nola, ‘whom the idolaters of Rome, the predecessors -of that good old man, the present Pope, burnt as an atheist in the -year 1660;’ of the <i><span lang="de" xml:lang="de">Noumenon</span></i>, or Thing in itself; of Fichte’s <span class='sc'>Ordo -Ordinans</span>, or exoteric God; of Simon Grynæus, Barclay’s Argenis, -and Hooker’s Ecclesiastical Polity, from whom the author ‘cites a -cluster of citations, to amuse the reader, as with a voluntary before -a sermon’—to plunge into Chap. <span class='fss'>X.</span>, entitled ‘A Chapter of -Digressions and Anecdotes, as an interlude preceding that on the -Nature and Genesis of the Imagination or Plastic Power!’</p> - -<p class='c010'>As this latter chapter, by the advice of a correspondent, has been -omitted, we must make the most of what is left, and ‘wander down -into a lower world obscure and wild,’ to give the reader an account -of Mr. Coleridge’s setting up the Watchman, which is one of the -first things to which he <em>digresses</em>, in the tenth chapter of his Literary -Biography. Out of regard to Mr. C. as well as to our readers, we -give our longest extract from this narrative part of the work—which -is more likely to be popular than any other part—and is, upon the -whole, more pleasingly written. We cannot say much, indeed, either -for the wit or the soundness of judgment it displays. But it is an -easy, gossipping, garrulous account of youthful adventures—by a man -sufficiently fond of talking of himself, and sufficiently disposed to -magnify small matters into ideal importance.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Toward the close of the first year from the time that, in an -<span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>inauspicious hour, I left the friendly cloysters, and the happy grove of -quiet, ever-honoured, Jesus College, Cambridge, I was persuaded, by -sundry Philanthropists and Antipolemists, to set on foot a periodical -work, entitled <span class='sc'>The Watchman</span>, that (according to the general motto -of the work) <em>all might know the truth, and that the truth might make -us free</em>! In order to exempt it from the stamp-tax, and likewise to -contribute as little as possible to the supposed guilt of a war against -freedom, it was to be published on every eighth day, thirty-two -pages, large octavo, closely printed, and price only Fourpence. -Accordingly, with a flaming prospectus, <em>“Knowledge is power,” &c. -to try the state of the political atmosphere</em>, and so forth, I set off on -a tour to the North, from Bristol to Sheffield, for the purpose of -procuring customers; preaching by the way in most of the great -towns, as a hireless volunteer, in a blue coat and white waistcoat, -that not a rag of the woman of Babylon might be seen on me. For -I was at that time, and long after, though a Trinitarian (<i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">i.e. ad -normam Platonis</span></i>) in philosophy, yet a zealous Unitarian in religion; -more accurately, I was a <em>psilanthropist</em>, one of those who believe our -Lord to have been the real son of Joseph, and who lay the main -stress on the resurrection, rather than on the crucifixion. O! never -can I remember those days with either shame or regret. For I was -most sincere, most disinterested! My opinions were indeed in many -and most important points erroneous; but my heart was single. -Wealth, rank, life itself then seemed cheap to me, compared with the -interests of (what I believed to be) the truth, and the will of my -Maker. I cannot even accuse myself of having been actuated by -vanity; for in the expansion of my enthusiasm, I did not think of -<em>myself</em> at all.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘My campaign commenced at Birmingham; and my first attack -was on a rigid Calvinist, a tallow-chandler by trade. He was a tall -dingy man, in whom length was so predominant over breadth, that he -might almost have been borrowed for a foundery poker. O that face! -a face <span lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">κατέμφασιν</span>! I have it before me at this moment. The lank, -black, twine-like hair, <em>pingui-nitescent</em>, cut in a straight line along the -black stubble of his thin gunpowder-eyebrows, that looked like a -scorched <em>after-math</em> from a last week’s shaving. His coat-collar -behind in perfect unison, both of colour and lustre, with the coarse, -yet glib cordage, that I suppose he called his hair, and which, with a -<em>bend</em> inward at the nape of the neck, (the only approach to flexure in -his whole figure), slunk in behind his waistcoat; while the countenance, -lank, dark, very <em>hard</em>, and with strong perpendicular furrows, -gave me a dim notion of some one looking at me through a <em>used</em> -gridiron, all soot, grease, and iron! But he was one of the <em>thoroughbred</em>, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>a true lover of liberty; and (I was informed) had proved to -the satisfaction of many, that Mr. Pitt was one of the horns of the -second beast in the Revelation, <em>that spoke like a dragon</em>. A person, -to whom one of my letters of recommendation had been addressed, -was my introducer. It was a new event in my life, my first <em>stroke</em> in -the new business I had undertaken, of an author; yea, and of an -author trading on his own account. My companion, after some -imperfect sentences, and a multitude of <em>hums</em> and <em>haas</em>, abandoned the -cause to his client; and I commenced an harangue of half an hour to -Phileleutheros the tallow-chandler, varying my notes through the -whole gamut of eloquence, from the ratiocinative to the declamatory, -and in the latter, from the pathetic to the indignant. I argued, I -described, I promised, I prophesied; and, beginning with the -captivity of nations, I ended with the near approach of the millennium; -finishing the whole with some of my own verses, describing that -glorious state, out of the <cite>Religious Musings</cite>.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in20'>—‘“Such delights,</div> - <div class='line'>As float to earth, permitted visitants!</div> - <div class='line'>When in some hour of solemn jubilee</div> - <div class='line'>The massive gates of Paradise are thrown</div> - <div class='line'>Wide open: and forth come in fragments wild</div> - <div class='line'>Sweet echoes of unearthly melodies,</div> - <div class='line'>And odours snatched from beds of amaranth,</div> - <div class='line'>And they that from the chrystal river of life</div> - <div class='line'>Spring up on freshen’d wings, ambrosial gales!”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘My taper man of lights listened with perseverant and praiseworthy -patience, though (as I was afterwards told on complaining of certain -gales that were not altogether ambrosial) it was a <em>melting</em> day with -him. And what, Sir! (he said, after a short pause) might the cost -be? <em>Only</em> four-pence, (O! how I felt the anti-climax, the abysmal -bathos of that <em>four-pence</em>!) <em>only four-pence, Sir, each Number, to be -published on every eighth day</em>. That comes to a deal of money at the -end of a year. And how much did you say there was to be for the -money? <em>Thirty-two pages, Sir! large octavo, closely printed.</em> Thirty -and two pages? Bless me; why, except what I does in a family -way on the Sabbath, that’s more than I ever reads, Sir! all the year -round. I am as great a one as any man in Brummagem, Sir! for -liberty, and truth, and all them sort of things; but as to this, (no -offence, I hope, Sir!) I must beg to be excused.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘So ended my first canvass: from causes that I shall presently -mention, I made but one other application in person. This took -place at Manchester, to a stately and opulent wholesale dealer in -cottons. He took my letter of introduction, and having perused it, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>measured me from head to foot, and again from foot to head, and -then asked if I had any bill or invoice of the thing. I presented my -prospectus to him; he rapidly skimmed and hummed over the first -side, and still more rapidly the second and concluding page; crushed -it within his fingers and the palm of his hand; then most deliberately -and <em>significantly</em> rubbed and smoothed one part against the other; -and lastly, putting it into his pocket, turned his back on me with an -“<em>overrun</em> with these articles!” and so without another syllable -retired into his counting-house—and, I can truly say, to my unspeakable -amusement.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘This, I have said, was my second and last attempt. On returning -baffled from the first, in which I had vainly essayed to repeat the -miracle of Orpheus with the Brummagem patriot, I dined with the -tradesman who had introduced me to him. After dinner, he importuned -me to smoke a pipe with him, and two or three other illuminati -of the same rank. I objected, both because I was engaged to spend -the evening with a minister and his friends, and because I had never -smoked except once or twice in my lifetime; and then it was herb -tobacco, mixed with Oronooko. On the assurance, however, that -the tobacco was equally mild, and seeing too that it was of a yellow -colour, (not forgetting the lamentable difficulty I have always experienced -in saying, No! and in abstaining from what the people -about me were doing), I took half a pipe, filling the lower half of the -bole with salt. I was soon, however, compelled to resign it, in -consequence of a giddiness and distressful feeling in my eyes, which, -as I had drank but a single glass of ale, must, I knew, have been the -effect of the tobacco. Soon after, deeming myself recovered, I -sallied forth to my engagement; but the walk and the fresh air -brought on all the symptoms again; and I had scarcely entered the -minister’s drawing-room, and opened a small packet of letters which -he had received from Bristol for me, ere I sunk back on the sofa, in -a sort of swoon rather than sleep. Fortunately I had found just -time enough to inform him of the confused state of my feelings, and -of the occasion. For here and thus I lay, my face like a wall that -is white-washing, <em>deathly</em> pale, and with the cold drops of perspiration -running down it from my forehead, while, one after another, there -dropt in the different gentlemen, who had been invited to meet and -spend the evening with me, to the number of from fifteen to twenty. -As the poison of tobacco acts but for a short time, I at length awoke -from insensibility, and looked around on the party; my eyes dazzled -by the candles which had been lighted in the interim. By way of -relieving my embarrassment, one of the gentlemen began the conversation -with “<em>Have you seen a paper to-day, Mr. Coleridge?</em>”—“Sir! -<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>(I replied, rubbing my eyes), I am far from convinced, that -a Christian is permitted<a id='r9' /><a href='#f9' class='c014'><sup>[9]</sup></a> to read either newspapers or any other -works of merely political and temporary interest.” This remark, so -ludicrously inapposite to, or rather incongruous with, the purpose for -which I was known to have visited Birmingham, and to assist me in -which they were all then met, produced an involuntary and general -burst of laughter; and seldom, indeed, have I passed so many -delightful hours as I enjoyed in that room, from the moment of that -laugh to an early hour the next morning. Never, perhaps, in so -mixed and numerous a party, have I since heard conversation -sustained with such animation, enriched with such variety of information, -and enlivened with such a flow of anecdote. Both then and -afterwards, they all joined in dissuading me from proceeding with my -scheme; assured me, with the most friendly, and yet most flattering -expressions, that the employment was neither fit for me, nor I fit for -the employment. Yet if I had determined on persevering in it, they -promised to exert themselves to the utmost to procure subscribers, -and insisted that I should make no more applications in person, but -carry on the canvass by proxy. The same hospitable reception, the -same dissuasion, and (that failing) the same kind exertions in my -behalf, I met with at Manchester, Derby, Nottingham, Sheffield, -indeed at every place in which I took up my sojourn. I often recall, -with affectionate pleasure, the many respectable men who interested -themselves for me, a perfect stranger to them, not a few of whom I -can still name among my friends. They will bear witness for me, -how opposite, even then, my principles were to those of Jacobinism, -or even of Democracy, and can attest the strict accuracy of the -statement which I have left on record in the 10th and 11th Numbers -of <cite>The Friend</cite>.’ p. 174.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We shall not stop at present to dispute with Mr. Coleridge, how -far the principles of the Watchman, and the <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Conciones ad Populum</span></cite> -were or were not akin to those of the Jacobins. His style, in -general, admits of a convenient latitude of interpretation. But we -think we are quite safe in asserting, that they were still more opposite -to those of the Anti-Jacobins, and the party to which he admits he -has gone over.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>Our author next gives a somewhat extraordinary account of his -having been set upon with his friend Wordsworth, by a Government -spy, in his retreat at Nether-Stowey—the most lively thing in which -is, that the said spy, who, it seems had a great red nose, and had -overheard the friends discoursing about <em>Spinosa</em>, reported to his -employers, that he could make out very little of what they said,—only -he was sure they were aware of his vicinity, as he heard them -very often talking of <em>Spy-nosy</em>! If this is not the very highest vein -of wit in the world, it must be admitted at least to be very innocent -merriment. Another excellent joke of the same character is his -remark on an Earl of Cork not paying for his copy of the <em>Friend</em>—that -he might have been an Earl of <em>Bottle</em> for him!—We have then -some memorandums of his excursion into Germany, and the conditions -on which he agreed, on his return home in 1800, to write for the -Morning Post, which was at that time not a very ministerial paper, if -we remember right.</p> - -<p class='c010'><i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">A propos</span></i> of the Morning Post, Mr. C. takes occasion to eulogise -the writings of Mr. Burke, and observes, that ‘as our very sign-boards -give evidence that there has been a Titian in the world, so the essays -and leading paragraphs of our journals are so many remembrancers of -Edmund Burke.’ This is modest and natural we suppose for a -newspaper editor: But our learned author is desirous of carrying the -parallel a little further,—and assures us, that nobody can doubt of -Mr. Burke’s consistency. ‘Let the scholar,’ says our biographer, -‘who doubts this assertion, refer only to the speeches and writings of -Edmund Burke at the commencement of the American war, and -compare them with his speeches and writings at the commencement of -the French Revolution. He will find the principles exactly the -same, and the deductions the same—but the practical inferences -almost opposite in the one case from those drawn in the other, yet in -both equally legitimate and confirmed by the results.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>It is not without reluctance that we speak of the vices and -infirmities of such a mind as Burke’s: But the poison of high example -has by far the widest range of destruction; and, for the sake of -public honour and individual integrity, we think it right to say, that -however it may be defended upon other grounds, the political career -of that eminent individual has no title to the praise of consistency. -Mr. Burke, the opponent of the American war—and Mr. Burke, the -opponent of the French Revolution, are not the same person, but -opposite persons—not opposite persons only, but deadly enemies. In -the latter period, he abandoned not only all his practical conclusions, -but all the principles on which they were founded. He proscribed -all his former sentiments, denounced all his former friends, rejected -<span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>and reviled all the maxims to which he had formerly appealed as -incontestable. In the American war, he constantly spoke of the -rights of the people as inherent, and inalienable: After the French -Revolution, he began by treating them with the chicanery of a -sophist, and ended by raving at them with the fury of a maniac. In -the former case, he held out the duty of resistance to oppression, as -the palladium, and only ultimate resource, of natural liberty; in the -latter, he scouted, prejudged, vilified and nicknamed, all resistance in -the abstract, as a foul and unnatural union of rebellion and sacrilege. -In the one case, to answer the purposes of faction, he made it out, -that the people are always in the right; in the other, to answer -different ends, he made it out that they are always in the wrong—lunatics -in the hands of their royal keepers, patients in the sick-wards -of an hospital, or felons in the condemned cells of a prison. In the -one, he considered that there was a constant tendency on the part of -the prerogative to encroach on the rights of the people, which ought -always to be the object of the most watchful jealousy, and of -resistance, when necessary: In the other, he pretended to regard it -as the sole occupation and ruling passion of those in power, to watch -over the liberties and happiness of their subjects. The burthen of -all his speeches on the American war was conciliation, concession, -timely reform, as the only practicable or desirable alternative of -rebellion: The object of all his writings on the French Revolution -was, to deprecate and explode all concession and all reform, as -encouraging rebellion, and an irretrievable step to revolution and -anarchy. In the one, he insulted kings personally, as among the -lowest and worst of mankind; in the other, he held them up to the -imagination of his readers as sacred abstractions. In the one case, he -was a partisan of the people, to court popularity; in the other, to gain -the favour of the Court, he became the apologist of all courtly abuses. -In the one case, he took part with those who were actually rebels -against his Sovereign; in the other, he denounced, as rebels and -traitors, all those of his own countrymen who did not yield -sympathetic allegiance to a foreign Sovereign, whom we had always -been in the habit of treating as an arbitrary tyrant.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Judging from plain facts and principles, then, it is difficult to -conceive more ample proofs of inconsistency. But try it by the more -vulgar and palpable test of comparison. Even Mr. Fox’s enemies, -we think, allow <em>him</em> the praise of consistency. <em>He</em> asserted the rights -of the people in the American war, and continued to assert them in -the French Revolution. He remained visibly in his place; and -spoke, throughout, the same principles in the same language. When -Mr. Burke abjured these principles, he left this associate; nor did it -<span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>ever enter into the mind of a human being to impute the defection to -any change in Mr. Fox’s sentiments—any desertion by him of the -maxims by which his public life had been guided. Take another -illustration, from an opposite quarter. Nobody will accuse the -principles of his present Majesty, or the general measures of his -reign, of inconsistency. If they had no other merit, they have at -least that of having been all along actuated by one uniform and -constant spirit: Yet Mr. Burke at one time vehemently opposed, and -afterwards most intemperately extolled them; and it was for his -recanting his opposition, not for his persevering in it, that he received -his pension. He does not himself mention his flaming speeches in -the American war, as among the public services which had entitled -him to this remuneration.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The truth is, that Burke was a man of fine fancy and subtle -reflection; but not of sound and practical judgment—nor of high or -rigid principles.—As to his understanding, he certainly was not a -great philosopher; for his works of mere abstract reasoning are -shallow and inefficient:—Nor a man of sense and business; for, both -in counsel and in conduct, he alarmed his friends as much at least as -his opponents:—But he was a keen and accomplished pamphleteer—an -ingenious political essayist. He applied the habit of reflection, -which he had borrowed from his metaphysical studies, but which was -not competent to the discovery of any elementary truth in that -department, with great felicity and success, to the mixed mass of -human affairs. He knew more of the political machine than a -recluse philosopher; and he speculated more profoundly on its -principles and general results than a mere politician. He saw a -number of fine distinctions and changeable aspects of things, the good -mixed with the ill, the ill mixed with the good; and with a sceptical -indifference, in which the exercise of his own ingenuity was always -the governing principle, suggested various topics to qualify or assist -the judgment of others. But for this very reason he was little -calculated to become a leader or a partisan in any important practical -measure: For the habit of his mind would lead him to find out a -reason for or against any thing: And it is not on speculative refinements, -(which belong to <em>every</em> side of a question), but on a just -estimate of the aggregate mass and extended combinations of objections -and advantages, that we ought to decide and act. Burke had the -power, almost without limit, of throwing true or false weights into -the scales of political casuistry, but not firmness of mind—or, shall -we say, honesty enough—to hold the balance. When he took a -side, his vanity or his spleen more frequently gave the casting vote -than his judgment; and the fieriness of his zeal was in exact proportion -<span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>to the levity of his understanding, and the want of conscious -sincerity.</p> - -<p class='c010'>He was fitted by nature and habit for the studies and labours of -the closet; and was generally mischievous when he came out;—because -the very subtlety of his reasoning, which, left to itself, would -have counteracted its own activity, or found its level in the common -sense of mankind, became a dangerous engine in the hands of power, -which is always eager to make use of the most plausible pretexts to -cover the most fatal designs. That which, if applied as a general -observation on human affairs, is a valuable truth suggested to the -mind, may, when forced into the interested defence of a particular -measure or system, become the grossest and basest sophistry. Facts -or consequences never stood in the way of this speculative politician. -He fitted them to his preconceived theories, instead of conforming -his theories to them. They were the playthings of his style, the -sport of his fancy. They were the straws of which his imagination -made a blaze, and were consumed, like straws, in the blaze they had -served to kindle. The fine things he said about Liberty and Humanity, -in his speech on the Begum’s affairs, told equally well, whether -Warren Hastings was a tyrant or not: Nor did he care one jot who -caused the famine he described, so that he described it in a way to -attract admiration. On the same principle, he represents the French -priests and nobles under the old regime as excellent moral people, -very charitable, and very religious, in the teeth of notorious facts,—to -answer to the handsome things he has to say in favour of priesthood -and nobility in general; and, with similar views, he falsifies the -records of our English Revolution, and puts an interpretation on the -word <em>abdication</em>, of which a schoolboy would be ashamed. He constructed -his whole theory of government, in short, not on rational, but -on picturesque and fanciful principles; as if the King’s crown were a -painted gewgaw, to be looked at on gala days; titles an empty sound -to please the ear; and the whole order of society a theatrical procession. -His lamentation over the age of chivalry, and his projected -crusade to restore it, is about as wise as if any one, from reading the -Beggar’s Opera, should take to picking of pockets; or, from admiring -the landscapes of Salvator Rosa, should wish to convert the abodes of -civilized life into the haunts of wild beasts and banditti. On this -principle of false refinement, there is no abuse, nor system of abuses, -that does not admit of an easy and triumphant defence; for there is -something which a merely speculative inquirer may always find out, -good as well as bad, in every possible system, the best or the worst; -and if we can once get rid of the restraints of common sense and -honesty, we may easily prove, by plausible words, that liberty and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>slavery, peace and war, plenty and famine, are matters of perfect -indifference. This is the school of politics, of which Mr. Burke was -at the head; and it is perhaps to his example, in this respect, that -we owe the prevailing tone of many of those newspaper paragraphs, -which Mr. Coleridge thinks so invaluable an accession to our political -philosophy.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Burke’s literary talents, were, after all, his chief excellence. His -style has all the familiarity of conversation, and all the research of -the most elaborate composition. He says what he wants to say, by -any means, nearer or more remote, within his reach. He makes -use of the most common or scientific terms, of the longest or shortest -sentences, of the plainest and most downright, or of the most -figurative modes of speech. He gives for the most part loose reins -to his imagination, and follows it as far as the language will carry -him. As long as the one or the other has any resources in store -to make the reader feel and see the thing as he has conceived it,—in -its nicest shade of difference, in its utmost degree of force and -splendour,—he never disdains, and never fails to employ them. Yet, -in the extremes of his mixed style there is not much affectation, and -but little either of pedantry or of coarseness. He everywhere gives -the image he wishes to give, in its true and appropriate colouring: -and it is the very crowd and variety of these images that have given -to his language its peculiar tone of animation, and even of passion. -It is his impatience to transfer his conceptions entire, living, in all -their rapidity, strength, and glancing variety—to the minds of others, -that constantly pushes him to the verge of extravagance, and yet -supports him there in dignified security—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Never so sure our rapture to create,</div> - <div class='line'>As when he treads the brink of all we hate.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>He is, with the exception of Jeremy Taylor, the most poetical -of prose writers, and at the same time his prose never degenerates -into the mere glitter or tinkling of poetry; for he always aims at -overpowering rather than at pleasing; and consequently sacrifices -beauty and grandeur to force and vividness. He has invariably a -task to perform, a positive purpose to execute, an effect to produce. -His only object is therefore to strike hard, and in the right place; -if he misses his mark, he repeats his blow; and does not care how -ungraceful the action, or how clumsy the instrument, provided it -brings down his antagonist.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. C. enters next into a copious discussion of the merits of his -friend Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry,—which we do not think very -remarkable either for clearness or candour; but as a very great part -<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>of it is occupied with specific inculpations of our former remarks on -that ingenious author, it would savour too much of mere controversy -and recrimination, if we were to indulge ourselves with any observations -on the subject. Where we are parties to any dispute, and -consequently to be regarded as incapable of giving an <em>impartial</em> -account of our adversary’s argument, we shall not pretend to give any -account of it at all; and therefore, though we shall endeavour to -give all due weight to Mr. C.’s reasonings, when we have occasion -to consider any new publication from the Lake school, we must for -the present decline any notice of the particular objections he has -here urged to our former judgments on their productions; and shall -pass over all this part of the work before us, by merely remarking, -that with regard to Mr. Wordsworth’s ingenious project of confining -the language of poetry to that which is chiefly in use among the -lower orders of society, and that, from horror or contempt for the -abuses of what has been called poetic diction, it is really unnecessary -to say anything—the truth and common sense of the thing being so -obvious, and, we apprehend, so generally acknowledged, that nothing -but a pitiful affectation of singularity could have raised a controversy -on the subject. There is, no doubt, a simple and familiar language, -common to almost all ranks, and intelligible through many ages, -which is the best fitted for the direct expression of strong sense and -deep passion, and which, consequently, is the language of the best -poetry as well as of the best prose. But it is not the exclusive -language of poetry. There is another language peculiar to this -manner of writing, which has been called <em>poetic diction</em>,—those -flowers of speech, which, whether natural or artificial, fresh or -faded, are strewed over the plainer ground which poetry has in -common with prose: a paste of rich and honeyed words, like the -candied coat of the auricula; a glittering tissue of quaint conceits -and sparkling metaphors, crusting over the rough stalk of homely -thoughts. Such is the style of almost all our modern poets; such -is the style of Pope and Gray; such, too, very often, is that -of Shakespeare and Milton; and, notwithstanding Mr. Coleridge’s -decision to the contrary, of Spenser’s Faery Queen. Now this -style is the reverse of one made up of <em>slang</em> phrases; for, as they are -words associated only with mean and vulgar ideas, poetic diction is -such as is connected only with the most pleasing and elegant associations; -and <em>both</em> differ essentially from the middle or natural style, -which is a mere transparent medium of the thoughts, neither degrading -nor setting them off by any adventitious qualities of its own, -but leaving them to make their own impression, by the force of -truth and nature. Upon the whole, therefore, we should think this -<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>ornamented and coloured style, most proper to descriptive or fanciful -poetry, where the writer has to lend a borrowed, and, in some sort, -meretricious lustre to outward objects, which he can best do by -enshrining them in a language that, by custom and long prescription, -reflects the image of a poetical mind,—as we think the common or -natural style is the truly dramatic style, that in which he can best -give the impassioned, unborrowed, unaffected thoughts of others. -The pleasure derived from poetic diction is the same as that derived -from classical diction. It is in like manner made up of words dipped -in ‘the dew of Castalie,’—tinged with colours borrowed from the -rainbow,—‘sky-tinctured,’ warmed with the glow of genius, purified -by the breath of time,—that soften into distance, and expand into -magnitude, whatever is seen through their medium,—that varnish -over the trite and common-place, and lend a gorgeous robe to the -forms of fancy, but are only an incumbrance and a disguise in conveying -the true touches of nature, the intense strokes of passion. -The beauty of poetic diction is, in short, borrowed and artificial. -It is a glittering veil spread over the forms of things and the feelings -of the heart; and is best laid aside, when we wish to show either -the one or the other in their naked beauty or deformity. As the -dialogues in Othello and Lear furnish the most striking instances of -plain, point-blank speaking, or of the real language of nature and -passion, so the Choruses in Samson Agonistes abound in the fullest -and finest adaptations of classic and poetic phrases to express distant -and elevated notions, born of fancy, religion and learning.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Coleridge bewilders himself sadly in endeavouring to -determine in what the essence of poetry consists;—Milton, we think, -has told it in a single line—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'>——‘Thoughts that voluntary move</div> - <div class='line'>Harmonious numbers.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Poetry is the music of language, expressing the music of the mind. -Whenever any object takes such a hold on the mind as to make us -dwell upon it, and brood over it, melting the heart in love, or kindling -it to a sentiment of admiration;—whenever a movement of imagination -or passion is impressed on the mind, by which it seeks to -prolong and repeat the emotion, to bring all other objects into accord -with it, and to give the same movement of harmony, sustained and -continuous, to the sounds that express it,—this is poetry. The -musical in sound is the sustained and continuous; the musical in -thought and feeling is the sustained and continuous also. Whenever -articulation passes naturally into intonation, this is the beginning of -poetry. There is no natural harmony in the ordinary combinations -<span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>of significant sounds: the language of prose is not the language of -music, or of <em>passion</em>: and it is to supply this inherent defect in the -mechanism of language—to make the sound an echo to the sense, -when the sense becomes a sort of echo to itself—to mingle the tide -of verse, ‘the golden cadences of poesy,’ with the tide of feeling, -flowing, and murmuring as it flows—or to take the imagination off -its feet, and spread its wings where it may indulge its own impulses, -without being stopped or perplexed by the ordinary abruptnesses, or -discordant flats and sharps of prose—that poetry was invented.</p> - -<p class='c010'>As Mr. C. has suppressed his Disquisition on the Imagination as -unintelligible, we do not think it fair to make any remarks on the -200 pages of prefatory matter, which were printed, it seems, in -the present work, before a candid friend apprised him of this little -objection to the appearance of the Disquisition itself. We may -venture, however, on one observation, of a very plain and practical -nature, which is forced upon us by the whole tenor of the extraordinary -history before us.—Reason and imagination are both -excellent things; but perhaps their provinces ought to be kept more -distinct than they have lately been. ‘Poets have such seething -brains,’ that they are disposed to meddle with everything, and mar -all. Mr. C., with great talents, has, by an ambition to be everything, -become nothing. His metaphysics have been a dead weight -on the wings of his imagination—while his imagination has run away -with his reason and common sense. He might, we seriously think, -have been a very considerable poet—instead of which he has chosen -to be a bad philosopher and a worse politician. There is something, -we suspect, in these studies that does not easily amalgamate. We -would not, with Plato, absolutely banish poets from the commonwealth; -but we really think they should meddle as little with its -practical administration as may be. They live in an ideal world of -their own; and it would be, perhaps, as well if they were confined -to it. Their flights and fancies are delightful to themselves and to -every body else; but they make strange work with matter of fact; -and, if they were allowed to act in public affairs, would soon turn -the world upside down. They indulge only their own flattering -dreams or superstitious prejudices, and make idols or bugbears of -what they please, caring as little for ‘history or particular facts,’ as -for general reasoning. They are dangerous leaders and treacherous -followers. Their inordinate vanity runs them into all sorts of -extravagances; and their habitual effeminacy gets them out of them -at any price. Always pampering their own appetite for excitement, -and wishing to astonish others, their whole aim is to produce a -dramatic effect, one way or other—to shock or delight their -<span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>observers; and they are as perfectly indifferent to the consequences -of what they write, as if the world were merely a stage for them -to play their fantastic tricks on.—As romantic in their servility as -in their independence, and equally importunate candidates for fame -or infamy, they require only to be distinguished, and are not -scrupulous as to the means of distinction. Jacobins or Antijacobins—outrageous -advocates for anarchy and licentiousness, or flaming -apostles of persecution—always violent and vulgar in their opinions, -they oscillate, with a giddy and sickening motion, from one absurdity -to another, and expiate the follies of their youth by the heartless -vices of their advancing age. None so ready as they to carry every -paradox to its most revolting and nonsensical excess—none so sure -to caricature, in their own persons, every feature of an audacious -and insane philosophy:—In their days of innovation, indeed, the -philosophers crept at their heels like hounds, while they darted on -their distant quarry like hawks; stooping always to the lowest game; -eagerly snuffing up the most tainted and rankest scents; feeding -their vanity with the notion of the strength of their digestion of -poisons, and most ostentatiously avowing whatever would most -effectually startle the prejudices of others. Preposterously seeking -for the stimulus of novelty in truth, and the eclat of theatrical -exhibition in pure reason, it is no wonder that these persons at last -became disgusted with their own pursuits, and that, in consequence -of the violence of the change, the most inveterate prejudices and -uncharitable sentiments have rushed in to fill up the <em>vacuum</em> produced -by the previous annihilation of common sense, wisdom, and -humanity.</p> - -<p class='c010'>This is the true history of our reformed Antijacobin poets; the -life of one of whom is here recorded. The cant of Morality, like -the cant of Methodism, comes in most naturally to close the scene: -and as the regenerated sinner keeps alive his old raptures and new-acquired -horrors, by anticipating endless ecstasies or endless tortures -in another world; so, our disappointed demagogue keeps up that -‘pleasurable poetic fervour’ which has been the cordial and the bane -of his existence, by indulging his maudlin egotism and his mawkish -spleen in fulsome eulogies of his own virtues, and nauseous abuse of -his contemporaries<a id='r10' /><a href='#f10' class='c014'><sup>[10]</sup></a>—in making excuses for doing nothing himself, -and assigning bad motives for what others have done.—Till he can -do something better, we would rather hear no more of him.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span> - <h3 class='c008'>LETTERS OF HORACE WALPOLE</h3> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Vol. xxxi.</span>]      [<em>December 1818.</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Horace Walpole was by no means a venerable or lofty character:—But -he has here left us another volume of gay and graceful letters, -which, though they indicate no peculiar originality of mind, or depth -of thought, and are continually at variance with good taste and right -feeling, still give a lively and amusing view of the time in which he -lived. He was indeed a garrulous <em>old</em> man nearly all his days; and, -luckily for his gossiping propensities, he was on familiar terms with -the gay world, and set down as a man of genius by the Princess -Amelia, George Selwyn, Mr. Chute, and all persons of the like -talents and importance. His descriptions of court dresses, court -revels, and court beauties, are in the highest style of perfection,—sprightly, -fantastic and elegant: And the zeal with which he hunts -after an old portrait or a piece of broken glass, is ten times more -entertaining than if it were lavished on a worthier object. He is -indeed the very prince of Gossips,—and it is impossible to question -his supremacy, when he floats us along in a stream of bright talk, or -shoots with us the rapids of polite conversation. He delights in the -small squabbles of great politicians and the puns of George Selwyn,—enjoys -to madness the strife of loo with half a dozen bitter old -women of quality,—revels in a world of chests, cabinets, commodes, -tables, boxes, turrets, stands, old printing, and old china,—and indeed -lets us loose at once amongst all the frippery and folly of the last two -centuries, with an ease and a courtesy equally amazing and delightful. -His mind, as well as his house, was piled up with Dresden china, -and illuminated through painted glass; and we look upon his heart to -have been little better than a case full of enamels, painted eggs, -ambers, lapis-lazuli, cameos, vases and rock-crystals. This may in -some degree account for his odd and quaint manner of thinking, and -his utter poverty of feeling:—He could not get a plain thought out -of that cabinet of curiosities, his mind and he had no room for -feeling,—no place to plant it in, or leisure to cultivate it. He was at -all times the slave of elegant trifles; and could no more screw himself -up into a decided and solid personage, than he could divest -himself of petty jealousies and miniature animosities. In one word, -every thing about him was in little; and the smaller the object, and -the less its importance, the higher did his estimation and his praises -of it ascend. He piled up trifles to a colossal height—and made a -pyramid of nothings ‘most marvellous to see.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>His political character was a heap of confusion: but the key to it -<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>is easy enough to find. He united an insufferable deal of aristocratical -pretension with Whig professions,—and, under an assumed carelessness -and liberality, he nourished a petty anxiety about court movements -and a degree of rancour towards those who profited by them, which -we should only look for in the most acknowledged sycophants of -Government. He held out austere and barren principles, in short, to -the admiration of the world,—but indemnified himself in practice by -the indulgence of all the opposite ones. He wore his horse-hair -shirt as an <em>outer</em> garment; and glimpses might always be caught of a -silken garment within. He was truly ‘of outward show elaborate; of -inward less exact.’ But, setting his political character—or rather -the want of it—and some few private failings, and a good many -other questionable peculiarities, aside,—we find Walpole an amusing -companion, and should like to have such a chronicler of small matters -every fifty or sixty years;—or it might be better, perhaps, if, like the -aloe, they should blossom but once in a century. With what spirit -does he speak of the gay and noble visitors at Strawberry Hill! -How finely does he group, in his letters, the high-born and celebrated -beauties of the court, with whom it was his fortune and his fancy to -associate!</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Strawberry Hill is grown a perfect Paphos; it is the land of -beauties. On Wednesday, the Dutchesses of Hamilton and Richmond, -and Lady Ailesbury, dined there; the two latter staid all -night. There never was so pretty a sight as to see them all sitting -in the shell. A thousand years hence, when I begin to grow old, if -that can ever be, I shall talk of that event, and tell young people how -much handsomer the women of my time were than they will be. -Then I shall say, “Women alter now: I remember Lady Ailesbury -looking handsomer than her daughter the pretty Dutchess of Richmond, -as they were sitting in the shell on my terrace, with the -Dutchess of Richmond, one of the famous Gunnings,” &c. &c. -Yesterday, t’other famous Gunning dined there. She has made a -friendship with my charming niece, to disguise her jealousy of the -new Countess’s beauty: there were they two, their Lords, Lord -Buckingham, and Charlotte. You will think that I did not choose -men for my parties so well as women. I don’t include Lord -Waldegrave in this bad election.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>All the rest is in the same style: and lords and ladies are shuffled -about the whole work as freely as court cards in a party at Loo. -Horace Walpole, to be sure, is always Pam: but this only makes the -interest greater, and the garrulity more splendid. He is equally -sprightly and facetious, whether he describes a King’s death and -funeral, or a quirk of George Selwyn; and is nearly as amusing when -<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>he recounts the follies and the fashions of the day, as when he affects -to be patriotic, or solemnizes into the sentimental. His style is not a -bit less airy when he deals with ‘the horrid story of Lord Ferrers’s -murdering his steward,’ than when it informs us that ‘Miss Chudleigh -has called for the council books of the subscription concert, and has -struck off the name of Mrs. Naylor.’ He is equally amusing whether -he records the death of the brave Balmerino, or informs us that ‘old -Dunch is dead.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>The letters of eminent men make, to our taste, very choice and -curious reading; and, except when their publication becomes a breach -of honour or decorum, we are always rejoiced to meet with them in -print. We should except, perhaps, the letters of celebrated warriors; -which, for the most part, should only be published in the Gazette. -But, setting these heroes aside, whose wits, Pope has informed us, -‘are kept in ponderous vases,’ letters are certainly the honestest -records of great minds, that we can become acquainted with; and we -like them the more, for letting us into the follies and treacheries of -high life, the secrets of the gay and the learned world, and the -mysteries of authorship. We are ushered, as it were, behind the -scenes of life; and see gay ladies and learned men, the wise, the -witty, and the ambitious, in all the nakedness, or undress at least, of -their spirits. A poet, in his private letters, seldom thinks it necessary -to keep up the farce of feeling; but casts off the trickery of sentiment, -and glides into the unaffected wit, or sobers quietly into the honest -man. By his published works, we know that an author becomes a -‘Sir John with all Europe;’ and it can only be by his letters that -we discover him to be ‘Jack with his brothers and sisters, and John -with his familiars.’ This it is that makes the private letters of a -literary person so generally entertaining. He is glad to escape from -the austerity of composition, and the orthodoxy of thought; and feels -a relief in easy speculations or ludicrous expressions. The finest, -perhaps, in our language, are eminently of this description—we mean -those of Gray to his friends or literary associates. His poetry is too -scholastic and elaborate, and is too visibly the result of laborious and -anxious study. But, in his letters, he at once becomes an easy, and -graceful, and feeling writer. The composition of familiar letters just -suited his indolence, his taste, and his humour. His remarks on -poetry are nearly as good as poetry itself;—his observations on life -are full of sagacity and fine understanding;—and his descriptions of -natural scenery, or Gothic antiquities, are worth their weight in gold. -Pope’s letters, though extremely elegant, are failures as letters. He -wrote them to the world, not to his friends; and they have therefore -very much the air of universal secrets. Swift has recorded his own -<span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>sour mind in many a bitter epistle; and his correspondence remains a -stern and brief chronicle of the time in which he lived. Cowper hath -unwittingly beguiled us of many a long hour, by his letters to Lady -Hesketh; and in them we see the fluctuations of his melancholy -nature more plainly, than in all the biographical dissertations of his -affectionate editor.——But we must not make catalogues,—nor -indulge longer in this eulogy on letter-writing. We take a particular -interest, we confess, in what is thus spoken aside, as it were, and -without a consciousness of being overheard;—and think there is a -spirit and freedom in the tone of works written for the post, which is -scarcely ever to be found in those written for the press. We are -much more edified by one letter of Cowper, than we should be by a -week’s confinement and hard labour in the metaphysical Bridewell of -Mr. Coleridge; and a single letter from the pen of Gray, is worth all -the pedlar-reasoning of Mr. Wordsworth’s Eternal Recluse, from the -hour he first squats himself down in the sun to the end of his -preaching. In the first we have the light unstudied pleasantries of a -wit, and a man of feeling;—in the last we are talked to death by an -arrogant old proser, and buried in a heap of the most perilous stuff and -the most dusty philosophy.</p> - -<p class='c010'>But to come back to the work before us.—Walpole evidently -formed his style upon that of Gray, with whom he travelled; and, -with his own fund of pleasantry and sarcasm, we know of no other -writer whom he could so successfully have studied. There are some -odd passages on Gray, scattered up and down the present volume, -which speak more for the poet than for the justice or friendship of -Walpole. In one letter he says,</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The first volume of Spencer is published with prints designed by -Kent;—but the most execrable performance you ever beheld. The -graving not worse than the drawing; awkward knights, scrambling -Unas, hills tumbling down themselves, no variety of prospect, and -three or four perpetual spruce firs.—Our charming Mr. Bentley is -doing Mr. Gray as much more honour as he deserves than Spencer!’ -This is indeed a lordly criticism. We really never saw so much -bad taste condensed into so small a portion of prose. But he next -shows us what ladies of the court think of men of letters, and how -lords defend them.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘My Lady Ailesbury has been much diverted, and so will you too. -Gray is in their neighbourhood. My Lady Carlisle says <em>he is extremely -like me in his manner</em>. They went a party to dine on a cold loaf, and -passed the day. Lady A. protests he never opened his lips but -once, and then only said, “Yes, my Lady, I believe so.”</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘I agree with you most absolutely in your opinion about Gray; he -<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>is the worst company in the world. From a melancholy turn, from -living reclusely, and from a little too much dignity, he never -converses easily. All his words are measured and chosen, and -formed into sentences. His writings are admirable. He himself is -not agreeable.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>But it is not only to his particular friends that he is thus amiably -candid. Two other great names are dealt with in the same spirit in -the following short sentence.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Dr. Young has published a new book, on purpose, he says himself, -to have an opportunity of telling a story that he has known these -forty years. Mr. Addison sent for the young Lord Warwick, as -he was dying, to show him in what peace a Christian could die. -Unluckily he died of brandy. Nothing makes a Christian die in -peace like being a maudlin! But don’t say this in Gath, where you -are.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>It is worthy of remark, indeed, that Walpole never speaks with -respect of any man of genius or talent, and, least of all, of those -master spirits who ‘have got the start of this majestic world.’ He -envied all great minds; and shrunk from encountering them, lest his -own should suffer by the comparison. He contrived indeed to -quarrel with all his better-spirited friends. Even the gentleman to -whom these epistles were addressed, a correspondent of three score -years’ standing, fell at last under his displeasure, and was dismissed -his friendship. He turned out the domestics of the heart as easily as -those of the house; with little or no notice, and with threats of -giving them a bad character as a return for their past services. He -wished to have genius to wait upon him; but was always surprised -that it would not submit to be a servant of all work. Poor Bentley, -of whom we hear praises ‘high fantastical’ in the early letters, meets -with but scurvy treatment the moment he gets out of fashion with his -half-patron and half-friend. He is all spirit, goodness and genius, -till it falls to his turn to be disliked; and then the altered patron -sneers at his domestic misfortunes, depreciates his talents, and even -chuckles at the failure of a play which the artist’s necessities required -should be successful. The following is the ill-natured passage to -which we allude.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘No, I shall never cease being a dupe, till I have been undeceived -round by every thing that calls itself a virtue. I came to town -yesterday, through clouds of dust, to see The Wishes, and went -actually feeling for Mr. Bentley, and full of the emotions he must be -suffering. What do you think, in a house crowded, was the first -thing I saw? Mr. and Madame Bentley perched up in the front -boxes, and acting audience at his own play! No, all the impudence -<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>of false patriotism never came up to it. Did one ever hear of an -author that had courage to see his own first night in public? I don’t -believe Fielding or Foote himself ever did; and this was the modest, -bashful Mr. Bentley, that died at the thought of being known for an -author even by his own acquaintance! In the stage-box was Lady -Bute, Lord Halifax, and Lord Melcombe. I must say, the two last -entertained the house as much as the play. Your King was prompter, -and called out to the actors every minute to speak louder. The -other went backwards and forwards behind the scenes, fetched the -actors into the box, and was busier than Harlequin. The <em>curious</em> -prologue was not spoken—the whole very ill acted. It turned out -just what I remembered it: the good parts extremely good; the rest -very flat and vulgar, &c.’</p> - -<p class='c015'>A poor painter of the name of Müntz is worse off even than -Bentley; and is abused in a very ungenerous way for want of -gratitude, and unmerciful extortion. There is a sad want of feeling -and dignity in all this; but the key to it is, that Walpole was a miser. -He loved the arts after a fashion; but his avarice pinched his affections. -He would have had ‘that which he esteemed the ornament -of life,’ but that he ‘lived a coward in his own esteem.’ The -following haggling passage in one of his letters would disgrace a petty -merchant in Duke’s Place, in a bargain for the reversion of an old -pair of trowsers.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘I am disposed to prefer the younger picture of Madame Grammont -by Lely; but I stumbled at the price; twelve guineas for a copy in -enamel is very dear. Mrs. Vesey tells me his originals cost sixteen, -and are not so good as his copies. I will certainly have none of his -originals. His, what is his name? I would fain resist this copy; -I would more fain excuse myself for having it. I say to myself it -would be rude not to have it, now Lady Kingsland and Mr. -Montagu have had so much trouble. Well—<em>I think I must have it</em>, -as my Lady Wishfort says, <em>why does not the fellow take me?</em> Do try -if he will take ten;—remember it is the younger picture.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>Thus did he coquet with his own avarice. Of poor Mason, -another of his dear friends, he speaks thus spitefully—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Mr. Mason has published another drama, called Caractacus. -There are some incantations poetical enough, and odes so Greek as -to have very little meaning. But the whole is laboured, uninteresting, -and no more resembling the manners of Britons than of Japanese. It -is introduced by a piping elegy; for Mason, in imitation of Gray, -<em>will cry and roar all night</em>, without the least provocation.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mason might have endured the paltriness of this remark, if he could -<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>have seen the following pertinent remark on the Cymbeline of -Shakespeare.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘You want news. I must make it if I send it. To change the -dulness of the scene, I went to the play, where I had not been this -winter. They are so crowded, that though I went before six, I got -no better place than a fifth row, where I heard very ill, and was pent -for five hours without a soul near me that I knew. It was Cymbeline; -and appeared to me as long as if every body in it went really to Italy -in every act, and back again. With a few pretty passages and a -scene or two, it is so absurd and tiresome, that I am persuaded -Garrick****’</p> - -<p class='c010'>This precious piece of criticism is cut short; whether from the -sagacity of the editor or the prudence of the publishers, we cannot say. -But it is much to be lamented. For it must have been very edifying -to have seen Shakespeare thus pleasantly put down with a dash of the -Honourable Mr. Walpole’s pen—as if he had never written any -thing better than the Mysterious Mother.</p> - -<p class='c010'>A conversation is here recorded between Hogarth and Walpole, -which seems to us very curious and characteristic; though we -cannot help smiling a little at the conclusion, where our author -humanely refrains from erasing the line of praise which he had -‘consecrated’ to Hogarth;—as if the painter would infallibly have -been damned into oblivion by that portentous erasure. But he is of -the stuff that cannot die. With many defects, he was a person of -great and original powers—a true and a terrific historian of the human -heart: and his works will be remembered and <em>read</em>, as long as men -and women retain their old habits, passions and vices. The following -is the conversation of which we have spoken.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Hogarth.</em>—I am told you are going to entertain the town with -something in our way. <em>Walpole.</em> Not very soon, Mr. Hogarth.—<em>H.</em> -I wish you would let me have it to correct; I should be very -sorry to have you expose yourself to censure; we painters must know -more of those things than other people. <em>W.</em> Do you think nobody -understands painting but painters? <em>H.</em> Oh! so far from it, there’s -Reynolds who certainly has genius; why but t’other day he offered -a hundred pounds for a picture that I would not hang in my cellars; -and indeed to say truth, I have generally found that persons, who -had studied painting least, were the best judges of it; but what I -particularly wished to say to you was about Sir James Thornhill (you -know he married Sir James’s daughter); I would not have you say -any thing against him: There was a book published some time ago, -abusing him, and it gave great offence. He was the first that -attempted history in England; and I assure you, some Germans have -<span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>said that he was a very great painter. <em>W.</em> My work will go no lower -than the year one thousand seven hundred, and I really have not -considered whether Sir J. Thornhill will come into my plan or not: -If he does, I fear you and I shall not agree upon his merits. <em>H.</em> I -wish you would let me correct it; besides I am writing something of -the same kind myself—I should be sorry we should clash. <em>W.</em> I -believe it is not much known what my work is; very few persons -have seen it. <em>H.</em> Why it is a critical history of painting is it not? -<em>W.</em> No, it is an antiquarian history of it in England. I bought Mr. -Vertue’s <span class='fss'>MSS.</span> and I believe the work will not give much offence; -besides if it does I cannot help it: when I publish any thing I give it -to the world to think as they please. <em>H.</em> Oh! if it is an antiquarian -work we shall not clash; mine is a critical work; I don’t know -whether I shall ever publish it. It is rather an apology for painters. -I think it is owing to the good sense of the English that they have -not painted better. <em>W.</em> My dear Mr. Hogarth, I must take my -leave of you; you now grow too wild—and I left him. If I had -staid, there remained nothing but for him to bite me. I give you my -honour this conversation is literal and, perhaps as long as you have -known Englishmen and painters you never met with any thing so -distracted. I had consecrated a line to his genius (I mean for wit) -in my preface; I shall not erase it; but I hope no one will ask me if -he is not mad.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>We do not think he was mad:—But the self-idolatry of fanciful -persons often exhibits similar symptoms. A man of limited genius, -accustomed to contemplate his own conceptions, has long settled his -ideas as to every thing, and every other person existing in the world. -He thinks nothing truly bright that does not reflect his own image -back upon himself;—nothing truly beautiful, that is not made so by -the lustre of his own feelings. He lives in a sort of chaste singleness; -and holds every approach of a stronger power as dangerous to his -solitary purity. He thinks nothing so important as his own thoughts—nothing -so low, that his own fancy cannot elevate into greatness. -He sees only ‘himself and the universe;’ and will ‘admit no discourse -to his beauty.’ He is himself—alone! If such a man had -had a voice in the management of the flood, he would have suffered -no creeping thing to enter the ark but himself; and would have -floated about the waters for forty days in lonely magnificence.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Passages of the kind, we have hitherto instanced, are very plentiful -in all parts of the work; and we are glad they are so numerous,—because -they will set Walpole’s higher pretensions at rest with -posterity. Time is a disinterested personage, and does his work on -dull or rash men fairly and effectually. He knows nothing of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>criticism but its austerity and its sarcasm. He cannot feel poetry; -and has, therefore, no right to settle its laws, or imitate its language. -His taste in painting was affected and dogmatical. His conduct to -men of genius was a piece of insolence, which Posterity is bound to -resent! The true heirs of fame are not to be disturbed in the -enjoyment of their property, by every insolent pretender who steps in -and affects a claim upon it. The world is called on ‘to defend the -right.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>To come, however, to the better side of our subject.—Walpole is, -as we have said, an inimitable gossip,—a most vivacious garrulous -historian of fair-haired women, and curious blue china. His garrulity, -moreover, hath a genius of its own—and a transparent tea-cup lets in -the light of inspiration upon it, and makes it shine with colours nigh -divine. An inlaid commode is, with him, the mind’s easy chair. -We shall select a few passages from the letters before us, which, for -pleasantry, ease and alertness, are by far the gayest <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">morceau</span></i> of description -we have read of late. We may begin with a curious anecdote of -Fielding, which is almost as interesting as any thing in the book. -Thus it is—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Take sentiments out of their pantoufles, and reduce them to the -infirmities of mortality, what a falling off there is! I could not help -laughing in myself t’other day, as I went through Holborn in a very -hot day, at the dignity of human nature. All those foul old-clothes -women panting without handkerchiefs, and mopping themselves all -the way down within their loose jumps. Rigby gave me as strong a -picture of nature. He and Peter Bathurst, t’other night, carried -a servant of the latter’s, who had attempted to shoot him, before -Fielding; who, to all his other vocations, has, by the grace of Mr. -Lyttleton, added that of Middlesex Justice. He sent them word -that he was at supper; that they must come next morning. They -did not understand that freedom, and ran up, where they found him -banqueting with a blind man, a w——, and three Irishmen, on some -cold mutton and a bone of ham, both in one dish, and the dirtiest -cloth. He never stirred, nor asked them to sit. Rigby, who had -seen him so often come to beg a guinea of Sir. C. Williams, and -Bathurst, at whose father’s he had lived for victuals, understood that -dignity as little, and pulled themselves chairs,—on which he civilized.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>It is very certain that the writings of men are coloured by their -indolence, their amusements, and their occupations; and this little -peep into Fielding’s private hours, lets us at once into his course of -studies, and is an admirable illustration of his Tom Jones, Jonathan -Wild, and other novels. We are taken into the artist’s workshop, -and shown the models from which he works; or rather, we break in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>upon him at a time when he is copying from the <em>life</em>. It is a very -idle piece of morality, to lament over Fielding for this low indulgence -of his appetite for character. If he had been found quietly at his tea, -he would never have left behind him the name he has done. There -is nothing of a tea inspiration in any of his novels. They are assuredly -the finest things of the kind in the language; and we are Englishmen -enough to consider them the best in any language. They are -indubitably the most English of all the works of Englishmen.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The descriptions of Lord Ferrers’s fatal murder, and of Balmerino’s -death, are given with considerable spirit—(our author, indeed, is -extremely <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">piquant</span></i> in matters of life and death); and we are puzzled -which to select for our readers. They are both strongly illustrative -of the times in which Walpole and the heroes of them lived; but we -cannot afford room for them both; and we choose the letter on Lord -Ferrers,—not because it is better written, or that the subject is more -interesting, but because the book before us is open at that part, and -because we would not idly meddle with so heroic a fall as that of the -Lord Balmerino.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The extraordinary history of Lord Ferrers is closed: He was -executed yesterday. Madness, that in other countries is a disorder, -is here a systematic character: It does not hinder people from forming -a plan of conduct, and from even dying agreeably to it. You -remember how the last Ratcliffe died with the utmost propriety; so -did this horrid lunatic, coolly and sensibly. His own and his wife’s -relations had asserted that he would tremble at last. No such thing; -he shamed heroes. He bore the solemnity of a pompous and tedious -procession of above two hours, from the Tower to Tyburn, with as -much tranquillity as if he was only going to his own burial, not to -his own execution. He even talked of indifferent subjects in the -passage; and if the sheriff and the chaplain had not thought that -they had parts to act too, and had not consequently engaged him in -most particular conversation, he did not seem to think it necessary -to talk on the occasion. He went in his wedding clothes; marking -the only remaining impression on his mind. The ceremony he was -in a hurry to have over. He was stopped at the gallows by a vast -crowd; but got out of his coach as soon as he could, and was but -seven minutes on the scaffold; which was hung with black, and -prepared by the undertaker of his family at their expense. There -was a new contrivance for sinking the stage under him, which did not -play well; and he suffered a little by the delay, but was dead in four -minutes. The mob was decent, and admired him, and almost pitied -him; so they would Lord George, whose execution they are so angry -at missing. I suppose every highwayman will now preserve the blue -<span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>handkerchief he has about his neck when he is married, that he may -die like a lord. With all his madness, he was not mad enough to -be struck with his aunt Huntingdon’s sermons. The Methodists -have nothing to brag of his conversion; though Whitfield prayed for -him, and preached about him. Even Tyburn has been above their -reach. I have not heard that Lady Fanny dabbled with his soul; -but I believe she is prudent enough to confine her missionary zeal to -subjects where the body may be her perquisite.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>The following is the account of Walpole’s visit to Newsted Abbey,—the -seat of the Byrons.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘As I returned, I saw Newsted and Althorpe; I like both. The -former is the very abbey. The great east window of the church -remains, and connects with the house; the hall entire, the refectory -entire, the cloister untouch’d, with the ancient cistern of the convent, -and their arms on; It is a private chapel, quite perfect. The park, -which is still charming, has not been so much unprofaned: The -present lord has lost large sums, and paid part in old oaks; five -thousand pounds of which have been cut near the house. In -recompense, he has built two baby forts, to pay his country in castles -for damage done to the navy; and planted a handful of Scotch firs, -that look like ploughboys dress’d in old family liveries for a public -day. In the hall is a very good collection of pictures, all animals; -the refectory, now the great drawing room, is full of Byrons; the -vaulted roof remaining, but the windows have new dresses making for -them by a Venetian tailor.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>This is a careless, but happy description, of one of the noblest -mansions in England; and it will <em>now</em> be read with a far deeper -interest than when it was written. Walpole saw the seat of the -Byrons, old, majestic, and venerable;—but he saw nothing of that -magic beauty which Fame sheds over the habitations of Genius, and -which now mantles every turret of Newsted Abbey. He saw it -when Decay was doing its work on the cloister, the refectory, and -the chapel, and all its honours seemed mouldering into oblivion. He -could not know that a voice was soon to go forth from those antique -cloisters, that should be heard through all future ages, and cry, -‘Sleep no more, to all the house.’ Whatever may be its future fate, -Newsted Abbey must henceforth be a memorable abode. Time may -shed its wild flowers on the walls, and let the fox in upon the courtyard -and the chambers. It may even pass into the hands of unlettered -pride or plebian opulence.—But it has been the mansion of a mighty -poet. Its name is associated to glories that cannot perish—and will -go down to posterity in one of the proudest pages of our annals.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Our author is not often pathetic: But there are some touches of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>this sort in the account of his visit to Houghton—though the first -part is flippant enough.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The surprise the picture gave me is again renewed. Accustomed -for many years to see nothing but wretched daubs and varnished -copies at auctions, I look at these as enchantment. My own description -of them seems poor; but, shall I tell you truly, the majesty of -Italian ideas almost sinks before the warm nature of Flemish colouring. -Alas! don’t I grow old? My young imagination was fired with -Guido’s ideas; must they be plump and prominent as Abishag to -warm me now? Does great youth feel with poetic limbs, as well -as see with poetic eyes? In one respect I am very young; I cannot -satiate myself with looking: an incident contributed to make me feel -this more strongly. A party arrived, just as I did, to see the house; -a man, and three women in riding dresses, and they rode post through -the apartments. I could not hurry before them fast enough; they -were not so long in seeing for the first time, as I could have been in -one room, to examine what I knew by heart. I remember formerly -being often diverted with this kind of <em>seers</em>; they come—ask what -such a room is called—in which Sir Robert lay—write it down—admire -a lobster or a cabbage in a market piece—dispute whether the -last room was green or purple—and then hurry to the inn for fear the -fish should be over-dressed. How different my sensations! Not a -picture here but recalls a history; not one but I remember in -Downing-street or Chelsea, where queens and crowds admired them,—though -seeing them as little as these travellers!’</p> - -<p class='c010'>There is some appearance of heart, too, in his account of Lady -Waldegrave’s sufferings on the death of her husband. She was a -beautiful woman; and Walpole seems to have been really kind to her.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘I had not risen from table, when I received an express from -Lady Betty Waldegrave, to tell me that a sudden change had -happened; that they had given him James’s powders, but that they -feared it was too late; and that he probably would be dead before I -could come to my niece, for whose sake she begged I would return -immediately. I was indeed too late! Too late for every thing.—Late -as it was given, the powder vomited him even in the agonies. -Had I had power to direct, he should never have quitted James:—But -these are vain regrets!—Vain to recollect how particularly kind -he, who was kind to everybody, was to me! I found Lady Waldegrave -at my brother’s. She weeps without ceasing; and talks of his -virtues and goodness to her in a manner that distracts one. My -brother bears this mortification with more courage than I could have -expected from his warm passions: but nothing struck me more than -to see my rough savage Swiss, Louis, in tears as he opened my -<span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>chaise.—I have a bitter scene to come. To-morrow morning I carry -poor Lady Waldegrave to Strawberry. Her fall is great, from that -adoration and attention that he paid her,—from that splendour of -fortune, so much of which dies with him,—and from that consideration -which rebounded to her from the great deference which the -world had for his character. Visions, perhaps. Yet who could -expect that they would have passed away even before that fleeting -thing, her beauty!’</p> - -<p class='c010'>This lady seems to have been afflicted nearly beyond the hope of -consolation. Nevertheless, she married again. It is not a bad sign, -we believe, when a widow sets in with a good wet grief: she has the -better chance of a fine day. Philosophers assert, indeed, that it is -possible for a woman to cry a sorrow clean out:—and we must -confess, we have now and then heard of such things.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We must draw to a close now with our quotations—though we -wish we had room for more. For the author is exceedingly amusing -in his attempt at tracing his descent from Chaucer;—in his remarks -on old and young kings,—in his practical and prospective speculations -on gout in the feet and stomach,—and in his picture of himself, ‘with -sweet peas stuck in his hair!’ We should have liked, too, to extract -a <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">bon mot</span></i> or two of George Selwyn, whose love of puns and executions -was equally insatiable; but they stick too fast in the looser -texture of his historian, to be disengaged with any moderate labour. -The following little passage is very pleasingly written.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘For what are we taking Belleisle?—I rejoiced at the little loss -we had on landing: For the glory, I leave it to the Common Council. -I am very willing to leave London to them too, and do pass half the -week at Strawberry, where my two passions, lilacs and nightingales, -are in full bloom. I spent Sunday as if it were Apollo’s birth-day; -Gray and Mason were with me, and we listened to the nightingales -till one o’clock in the morning. Gray has translated two noble incantations -from the Lord knows who, a Danish Gray, who lived the -Lord knows when. They are to be enchased in a history of English -Bards, which Mason and he are writing, but of which the former has -not written a word yet, and of which the latter, if he rides Pegasus -at his usual foot pace, will finish the first page two years hence!’</p> - -<p class='c010'>We cannot understand the Editor’s drift in leaving so many names -unprinted. The respect for the living has been carried, we think, to -a most awful extent: for names are continually left blank, which -would visit their sins, if at all, upon the third or fourth generation. -In many instances, too, the allusions are as plain as if the names had -been written at full length. At p. 185, for example, we perceive a -delicate attention of this sort to the family of Northumberland,—though -<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>few readers can be so respectfully uninformed as to be at all -perplexed by the suppression. Chevy Chase has not left the Douglas -and the Percy in such comfortable security. The mystical passage -is as follows.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Lady R—— P—— pushed her on the birth-night against a -bench. The Dutchess of Grafton asked if it was true that Lady -R—— kicked her? “Kick me, Madam! when did you ever hear -of a P——y that took a kick?” I can tell you another anecdote of -that house, that will not divert you less. Lord March making them -a visit this summer at Alnwic Castle, my Lord received him at the -gate and said, “I believe, my Lord, this is the first time that ever a -Douglas and a P——y met here in friendship.” Think of this from -a Smithson to a true Douglas.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>The beauty of the thing too, is, that Smithson (which alone could -give offence) is printed with all the letters—while Percy is delicately -left in initials and finals.</p> - -<p class='c010'>There are some verses in the book, of which, out of regard to the -author’s memory, we shall say nothing. They are very apparently -‘by a person of quality.’ Pope, we think, has written something -like them under that signature—which rather takes from their -originality.——But we now take our final leave of this lively volume, -with our usual protest against the enormous size into which this -collection has been distended. Book-sellers now-a-days only study -how to construct large paper houses for their little families of letterpress,—and -never think of the taxation to which they thus subject -their readers. These Letters might have been comfortably accommodated -in a comely little octavo, and sold at a reasonable price: -Instead of which, they are put forth in a good stiff quarto,—and are, -to use old Marall’s phrase, ‘very chargeable.’ We hope soon to see -them in a more accessible shape.</p> - -<h3 class='c008'>LIFE OF SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS</h3> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Vol. xxxiv.</span>]      [<em>August 1820.</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>This, with regard to its main object, must certainly be regarded as a -superfluous publication. Forty years after the death of Sir Joshua, -Mr. Farington has found himself called upon to put forth a thin -octavo volume, to revive the recollection of the dispute between their -late President and the Academy, and to correct an error into which -Mr. Malone had fallen, in supposing that Sir Joshua was not entirely -to blame in that business. This is a remarkable instance of the -tenaciousness of corporate bodies with respect to the immaculate -<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>purity of their conduct. It was at first suggested that printed notes -might be sufficient, with references to the pages of Mr. Malone’s -account: but it was finally judged best to give it as a connected -narrative—that the vindication of the Academy might slip in only as -a parenthesis or an episode. So we have a full account of Sir -Joshua’s birth and parentage, god-fathers and god-mothers, with as -many repetitions beside as were necessary to give a colouring to Mr. -Farington’s ultimate object. The manner in which the plot of the -publication is insinuated, is curious and characteristic: But our -business at present is with certain more general matters, on which we -have some observations to offer.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In the present instance,’ says Mr. F., ‘we see how a character, -formed by early habits of consideration, self-government, and persevering -industry, acquired the highest fame; and made his path through -life a course of unruffled moral enjoyment. Sir Joshua Reynolds, -when young, wrote rules of conduct for himself. One of his maxims -was, “that the great principle of being happy in this world, is, not to -mind or be affected with small things.” To this rule he strictly -adhered; and the constant habit of controlling his mind contributed -greatly to that evenness of temper which enabled him to live pleasantly -with persons of all descriptions. Placability of temper may be said -to have been his characteristic. The happiness of possessing such a -disposition was acknowledged by his friend Dr. Johnson, who said, -“Reynolds was the most invulnerable man he had ever known.”</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The life of this distinguished artist exhibits a useful lesson to all -those who may devote themselves to the same pursuit. He was not -of the class of such as have been held up, or who have esteemed -themselves, to be heaven-born geniuses. He appeared to think little -of such claims. It will be seen, in the account of his progress to the -high situation he attained in his profession, that at no period was -there in him any such fancied inspiration; on the contrary, every -youthful reader of the Memoirs of Sir Joshua Reynolds may feel -assured, that his ultimate success will be in proportion to the resolution -with which he follows his example.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>This, we believe, is the current morality and philosophy of the -present day; and therefore it is of more consequence to observe, -that it appears to us to be a mere tissue of sophistry and folly. And -first, as to happiness depending on ‘not being affected with small -things,’ it seems plain enough, that a continued flow of pleasurable -sensations cannot depend every moment on great objects. Children -are supposed to have a fair share of enjoyment; and yet this arises -chiefly from their being delighted with trifles—‘pleased with a rattle, -tickled with a straw.’ The reason why we so seldom carry on the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>happy vivacity of early youth into maturer age is, that we form to -ourselves a higher standard of enjoyment than we can realize; and -that our passions gradually fasten on certain favourite objects, which, -in proportion to their magnitude, are of rare occurrence, and, for the -most part, out of our reach. The example, too, which suggested -these general remarks, actually exposes their fallacy. Sir Joshua did -<em>not</em> owe his happiness to his contempt of little things, but to his -success in great ones—and it was by that actual success, far more -than by the meritorious industry and exertion which contributed to it, -that he was enabled to disregard little vexations. Was Richardson, -for example, who, it is observed afterwards, ‘had merit in his profession, -but not of a high order, though he thought so well on the -subject of art, and had practised it so long,’ to feel an equal moral -enjoyment in the want of equal success? Was the idea of that -excellence, which he had so long laboured in vain to realize, to -console him for the loss of that ‘highest fame,’ which is here represented -as the invariable concomitant of persevering industry? Or -was he to disregard his failure as a trifle? Was the consciousness -that he had done his best, to stand him in stead of that ‘unruffled -moral enjoyment’ which Sir Joshua owed in no small degree to the -coronet-coaches that besieged his doors, to the great names that sat at -his table, to the beauty that crowded his painting-room, and reflected -its loveliness back from the lucid mirror of his canvas? These -things do indeed put a man above minding little inconveniences, and -‘greatly contribute to that evenness of temper which enables him to -live pleasantly with persons of all descriptions.’ But was Hudson, -Sir Joshua’s master, who had grown old and rich in the cultivation of -his art, and who found himself suddenly outdone and eclipsed by his -pupil, to derive much <em>unruffled enjoyment</em> from this petty circumstance, -or to comfort himself with one of those maxims which young -Reynolds had written out for his conduct in life? When Sir Joshua -himself lost the use of one of his eyes, in the decline of his life, he -became peevish, and did not long survive the practice of his favourite -art. Suppose the same loss to have happened to him in the meridian -of his fame, we fear that all his consciousness of merit, and all his -efforts of industry, would have been insufficient to have supplied that -unruffled felicity which we are here taught to refer exclusively to -these high sources.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The truth is, that those specious maxims, though they may seem -at first sight to minister to content, and to encourage to meritorious -exertion, lead in fact to a wrong estimate of human life, to unreasonable -anticipations of success, and to bitter repinings and regrets at -what in any reverse of fortune we think the injustice of society and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>the caprice of nature. We have a very remarkable instance of this -process of mental sophistication, or the setting up a theory against -experience, and then wondering that human nature does not answer -to our theory, in what our author says on this very subject of Hudson, -and his more fortunate scholar afterwards. P. 46. ‘It might be -thought that the talents of Reynolds, to which no degree of ignorance -or imbecility in the art could be insensible, added to his extraordinary -reputation, would have extinguished every feeling of Jealousy or -Rivalship in the mind of his master Hudson; but the malady was so -deeply seated as to defy the usual remedies applied by time and -reflection. <em>Hudson, when at the head of his art, admired and praised -by all, had seen a youth rise up and annihilate both his Income and his -Fame; and he never could divest his mind of the feelings of mortification -caused by the loss he had thus sustained.</em>’ This Mr. F. actually considers -as something quite extraordinary and unreasonable; and which -might have been easily prevented by a diligent study of Sir Joshua’s -admirable aphorisms, against being affected by small things. Such -is our Academician’s ethical simplicity, and enviable ignorance of the -ways of the world!</p> - -<p class='c010'>One would think that the name of Hudson, which occurs frequently -in these pages, might have taught our learned author some -little distrust of that other favourite maxim, that Genius is the effect -of education, encouragement, and practice. It is the basis, however, -of his whole moral and intellectual system; and is thus distinctly -announced and enforced in a very elaborate passage.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘With respect to his (Sir Joshua’s) early indications of talent for -the art he afterwards professed, it would be idle to dwell upon them -as manifesting any thing more than is common among boys of his age. -As an amusement he probably preferred drawing to any other to -which he was tempted. In the specimens which have been preserved, -there is no sign of premature ingenuity; his history is, in -this respect, like what might be written of very many other artists, -perhaps of artists in general. His attempts were applauded by kind -and sanguine friends; and this encouraged him to persevere till it -became a fixed desire in him to make further proficiency, and continually -to request that it might be his profession. It is said, that -his purpose was determined by reading Richardson’s Treatise on -Painting. Possibly it might have been so; his thoughts having been -previously occupied with the subject. Dr. Johnson, in his Life of -Cowley, writes as follows—“In the windows of his mother’s apartment -lay Spenser’s Faery Queen, in which he very early took delight -to read, till by feeling the charms of verse, he became, as he relates, -irrecoverably a poet. Such are the accidents which, sometimes -<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>remembered, and perhaps sometimes forgotten, produce that peculiar -designation of mind, and propensity for some certain science or -employment, which is commonly called Genius. The true genius is -a man of large general powers accidentally determined to some -particular direction. Sir Joshua Reynolds, the great painter of the -present age, had the first fondness for his art excited by the perusal -of Richardson’s Treatise.” In this definition of genius, Reynolds -fully concurred with Dr. Johnson; and he was himself an instance in -proof of its truth. He had a sound natural capacity, and, by observation -and long-continued labour, always discriminating with judgment, -he obtained universal applause, and established his claim to be ranked -amongst those to whom the highest praise is due; for his productions -exhibited perfect originality. No artist ever consulted the works of -eminent predecessors more than Sir Joshua Reynolds. He drew -from every possible source something which might improve his -practice; and he resolved the whole of what he saw in nature, and -found in art, into a union, which made his pictures a singular display -of grace, truth, beauty and richness.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>From the time that Mr. Locke exploded <em>innate ideas</em> in the -commencement of the last century, there began to be a confused -apprehension in some speculative heads, that there could be no innate -faculties either; and our half metaphysicians have been floundering -about in this notion ever since: as if, because there are no innate -ideas, that is, no actual impressions existing in the mind without -objects, there could be no peculiar capacity to receive them from -objects; or as if there might not be as great a difference in the -capacity itself as in the outward objects to be impressed upon it. -We might as well deny, at once, that there are organs or faculties to -receive impressions, because there are no innate ideas, as deny that -there is an inherent difference in the organs or faculties to receive -impressions of any particular kind. If the capacity exists (which it -must do), there may, nay we should say there <em>must</em>, be a difference in -it, in different persons, and with respect to different things. To -allege that there is such a difference, no more implies the doctrine of -innate ideas, than to say that the brain of a man is more fitted to -discern external objects than a block of marble, imports that there -are innate ideas in the brain, or in the block of marble. The impression, -it is true, does not exist in the sealing-wax till the seal has -been applied to it: but there was the previous capacity to receive the -impression; and there may be, and most probably is, a greater degree -of fitness in one piece of sealing-wax than in another. That the -original capacity, the aptitude for certain impressions or pursuits, -should be necessarily the same in different instances, with the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>diversity that we see in men’s organs, faculties, and acquirements of -various kinds, is a supposition not only gratuitous, but absurd. There -is the capacity of animals, the capacity of idiots, and of half idiots -and half madmen of various descriptions: there is capacity, in short, -of all sorts and degrees, from an oyster to a Newton: Yet we are -gravely told, that wherever there is a power of sensation, the genius -must be the same, and would, with proper cultivation, produce the -same effects. ‘No,’ say the French materialists; ‘but in minds -commonly well organized (<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">communement bien organisés</span></i>), the results -will, in the same given circumstances, be the same.’ That is, in the -same circumstances, and with the same <em>average</em> capacity, there will -be the same average degree of genius or imbecility—which is just an -identical proposition.</p> - -<p class='c010'>To make any sense at all of the doctrine, that circumstances are -everything and natural genius nothing, the result ought at least to -correspond to the aggregate of impressions, determining the mind this -way or that, like so many weights in a scale. But the advocates of -this doctrine allow that the result is not by any means according to -the known aggregate of impressions, but, on the contrary, that one of -the most insignificant, or one not at all perceived, will turn the scale -against the bias and experience of a man’s whole life. The reasoning -is here lame again. These persons wish to get rid of occult -causes, to refer every thing to distinct principles and a visible origin; -and yet they say that they know not how it is, that, in spite of all -visible circumstances, such a one should be an incorrigible blockhead -and such an other an extraordinary genius; but that, no doubt, there -was a secret influence exerted, a by-play in it, in which nature had no -hand, but accident gave a nod, and in a lucky or unlucky minute -fixed the destiny of both for life, by some slight and transient impulse! -Now, this is like the reasoning of the astrologers, who pretend that -your whole history is to be traced to the constellation under which -you were born: and when you object that two men born at the same -time have the most different character and fortune, they answer, that -there was <em>an imperceptible interval</em> between the moment of their births, -that made the whole difference. But if this short interval, of which -no one could be aware, made the whole difference, it also makes their -whole science vain. Besides, the notion of an accidental impulse, a -slight turn of the screws giving a total revulsion to the whole frame -of the mind, is only intelligible on the supposition of an original or -previous bias which falls in with that impression, and catches at the -long-wished for opportunity of disclosing itself:—like combustible -matter meeting with the spark that kindles it into a flame. But it is -little less than sheer nonsense to maintain, while outward impressions -<span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>are said to be every thing, and the mind alike indifferent to all, that -one single unconscious impression shall decide upon a man’s whole -character, genius, and pursuits in life,—and all the rest thenceforward -go for nothing.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Again, we hear it said that the difference of understanding or -character is not very apparent at first:—though this is not uniformly -true—but neither is the difference between an oak and a briar very -great in the seed or in the shoot:—yet will any one deny that the -germ is there, or that the soil, culture, the sun and heat alone produce -the difference? So circumstances are necessary to the mind: but the -mind is necessary to circumstances. The ultimate success depends -on the joint action of both. They were fools who believed in innate -ideas, or talked of ‘heaven-born genius’ without any means of -developing it. They are greater, because more learned fools, who -assert that circumstances alone can create or develop genius, where -none exists. We may distinguish a stature of the mind as well as of -the body,—a mould, a form, to which it is predetermined irrevocably. -It is true that exercise gives strength to the faculties both of mind -and body; but it is not true that it is the only source of strength in -either case. Exercise will make a weak man strong, but it will make -a strong man stronger. A dwarf will never be a match for a giant, -train him ever so. And are there not dwarfs as well as giants in -intellect? Appearances are for it, and reason is not against it.</p> - -<p class='c010'>There are, beyond all dispute, persons who have a talent for -particular things, which according to Dr. Johnson’s definition of -genius, proceeds from ‘a greater general capacity accidentally determined -to a particular direction.’ But this, instead of solving, doubles -the miracle of genius; for it leaves entire all the former objections to -inherent talent, and supposes that one man ‘of large general capacity’ -is all sorts of genius at once. This is like admitting that one man -may be naturally stronger than another—but denying that he can be -naturally stronger in the legs or the arms only; and, deserting the -ground of original equality, would drive the theorist to maintain that -the inequality which exists must always be universal, and not particular, -although all the instances we actually meet with are particular only. -Now surely we have no right to give any man credit for genius in -more things than he has shown a particular genius in. In looking -round us in the world, it is most certain that we find men of large -general capacity and no particular talent, and others with the most -exquisite turn for some particular thing, and no general talent. -Would Dr. Johnson have made Reynolds or Goldsmith, Burke, by -beginning early and continuing late? We should make strange havoc -by this arbitrary transposition of genius and industry. Some persons -<span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>cannot for their lives understand the first proposition in Euclid. -Would they ever make great mathematicians? Or does this incapacity -preclude them from ever excelling in any other art or -mystery? Swift was admitted by special grace to a Bachelor’s -Degree at Dublin College, which, however, did not prevent him -from writing Gulliver’s Travels: and Claude Lorraine was turned -away by his master from the trade of a pastry-cook to which he was -apprenticed, for sheer stupidity. People often fail most in what they -set themselves most diligently about, and discover an unaccountable -<em>knack</em> at something else, without any effort or even consciousness that -they possess it. One great proof and beauty of works of true genius, -is the ease, simplicity, and freedom from conscious effort which pervades -them. Not only in different things is there this difference of -skill and aptness displayed; but in the same thing, to which a man’s -attention is continually directed, how narrow is the sphere of human -excellence, how distinct the line of pursuit which nature has marked -out even for those whom she has most favoured! Thus in painting, -Raphael excelled in drawing, Titian in colouring, Rembrandt in -<i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">chiaroscuro</span></i>. A small part of nature was revealed to each by a -peculiar felicity of conformation; and they would have made sad -work of it, if each had neglected his own advantages to go in search -of those of others, on the principle that genius is a large general -capacity, transferred, by will or accident, to some particular channel.</p> - -<p class='c010'>It may be said, that in all these cases it is habit, not nature, that -produces the disqualification for different pursuits. But if the bias -given to the mind, by a particular study, totally unfits it for others, is -it probable that there is something in the nature of those studies -which requires a particular bias and structure of the faculties to excel -in them, from the very first? If genius were, as some pretend, the -mere exercise of general power on a particular subject, without any -difference of organs or subordinate faculties, a man would improve -equally in every thing, and grow wise at all points. But if, besides -mere general power, there is a constant exercise and sharpening of -different organs and faculties required for any particular pursuit, then -a natural susceptibility of those organs and faculties must greatly assist -him in his progress. To argue otherwise, is to shut one’s eyes to -the whole mass of inductive evidence; and to run headlong into a -dogmatical theory, depending wholly on presumption and conjecture. -We would sooner go the whole length of the absurdities of craniology, -than get into this flatting-machine of the original sameness and indiscriminate -tendency of men’s faculties and dispositions. A painter, -of all men, should not give into any such notion. Does he pretend to see -differences in faces, and will he allow none in minds? Or, does he -<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>make the outline of the head the criterion of a corresponding difference -of character, and yet reject all distinction in the original -conformation of the soul? Has he never been struck with <em>family</em> -likenesses? And is there not an inherent, indestructible, and -inalienable character to be found in the individuals of such families -answering to this physiognomical identity, even in remote branches, -where there has been no communication when young, and where the -situation, pursuits, education, and character of the individuals have -been totally opposite? Again, do we not find persons with every -external advantage, without any intellectual superiority; and the -greatest prodigies emerge from the greatest obscurity? What made -Shakespeare! Not his education as a link-boy or a deer-stealer! -Have there not been thousands of mathematicians, educated like Sir -Isaac Newton, who have risen to the rank of Senior Wranglers, and -never been heard of afterwards? Did not Hogarth live in the same -age with Hayman? Who will believe that Highmore could, by any -exaggeration of circumstances, have been transformed into Michael -Angelo? That Hudson was another Vandyke <em>incognito</em>; or that -Reynolds would, as our author dreads, have learned to paint like his -master, if he had staid to serve out his apprenticeship with him? -The thing was impossible.—Hudson had every advantage, as far as -Mr. Farington’s mechanical theory goes (for he was brought up -under Richardson), to enable him to break through the trammels of -custom, and to raise the degenerate style of art in his day. Why did -he not? He had not original force of mind either to inspire him -with the conception, or to impel him to execute it. Why did -Reynolds burst through the cloud that overhung the region of art, and -shine out, like the glorious sun, upon his native land? Because he -had the genius to do it. It was nature working in him, and forcing -its way through all impediments of ignorance and fashion, till it found -its native element in undoubted excellence and wide-spread fame. -His eye was formed to drink in light, and to absorb the splendid -effects of shadowy obscurity; and it gave out what it took in. He -had a strong intrinsic perception of grace and expression; and he -could not be satisfied with the stiff, formal, inanimate models he saw -before him. There are indeed certain minds that seem formed as -conductors to truth and beauty, as the hardest metals carry off the -electric fluid, and round which all examples of excellence, whether in -art or nature, play harmless and ineffectual. Reynolds was not one -of these: but the instant he saw gorgeous truth in natural objects, or -artificial models, his mind ‘darted contagious fire.’ It is said that he -surpassed his servile predecessors by a more diligent study, and more -careful imitation of nature. But how was he attracted to nature, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>but by the sympathy of real taste and genius? He also copied the -portraits of Gandy, an obscure but excellent artist of his native -county. A blockhead would have copied his master, and despised -Gandy: but Gandy’s style of painting satisfied and stimulated his -ambition, because he saw nature there. Hudson’s made no impression -on him, because it presented nothing of the kind. Why then -did Reynolds perform what he did? From the force and bias of his -genius. Why did he not do more? Because his natural bias did not -urge him farther. As it is the property of genius to find its true level, -so it cannot rise above it. He seized upon and naturalized the -beauties of Rembrandt and Rubens, because they were connate to his -own turn of mind. He did not at first instinctively admire, nor did -he ever, with all his professions, make any approach to the high -qualities of Raphael or Michael Angelo, because there was an obvious -incompatibility between them. Sir Joshua did not, after all, found a -school of his own in general art, because he had not strength of mind -for it. But he introduced a better taste for art in this country, -because he had great taste himself, and sufficient genius to transplant -many of the excellences of others.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Farington takes the trouble to vindicate Sir Joshua’s title to -be the author of his own Discourses—though this is a subject on -which we have never entertained a doubt; and conceive indeed that -a doubt never could have arisen, but from estimating the talents -required for painting too low in the scale of intellect, as something -mechanical and fortuitous; and from making literature something -exclusive and paramount to all other pursuits. Johnson and Burke -were equally unlikely to have had a principal or considerable hand in -the Discourses. They have none of the pomp, the vigour, or -<em>mannerism</em> of the one, nor the boldness, originality, or extravagance -of the other. They have all the internal evidence of being Sir -Joshua’s. They are subdued, mild, unaffected, thoughtful,—containing -sensible observations on which he laid too little stress, and -vague theories which he was not able to master. There is the same -character of mind in what he wrote, as of eye in what he painted. -His style is gentle, flowing, and bland: there is an inefficient outline, -with a mellow, felicitous, and delightful filling-up. In both, the taste -predominates over the genius: the manner over the matter! The -real groundwork of Sir Joshua’s Discourses is to be found in -Richardson’s Essays.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We proceed to Mr. F.’s account of the state of art in this country, -a little more than half a century ago, which is no less accurate than it -is deplorable. It may lead us to form a better estimate of the merits -of Sir Joshua in rescuing it from this lowest point of degradation, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>perhaps assist our conjectures as to its future progress and its present -state.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘It was the lot of Sir Joshua Reynolds to be destined to pursue -the art of painting at a period when the extraordinary effort he made -came with all the force and effect of novelty. He appeared at a -time when the art was at its lowest ebb. What might be called an -English school had never been formed. All that Englishmen had -done was to copy, and endeavour to imitate, the works of eminent -men, who were drawn to England from other countries by encouragement, -which there was no inducement to bestow upon the inferior -efforts of the natives of this island. In the reign of Queen Elizabeth, -Frederigo Zucchero, an Italian, was much employed in England, as -had been Hans Holbein, a native of Basle, in a former reign. -Charles the First gave great employment to Rubens and Vandyke. -They were succeeded by Sir Peter Lely, a native of Soest in -Westphalia; and Sir Godfrey Kneller came from Lubec to be, for a -while, Lely’s competitor: and after his death, he may be said to -have had the whole command of the art in England. He was succeeded -by Richardson, the first English painter that stood at the -head of portrait painting in this country. Richardson had merit in -his profession, but not of a high order: and it was remarkable, that a -man who thought so well on the subject of art, and more especially -who practised so long, should not have been able to do more than is -manifested in his works. He died in 1745, aged 80. Jervais, the -friend of Pope, was his competitor, but very inferior to him. Sir -James Thornhill, also, was contemporary with Richardson, and -painted portraits; but his reputation was founded upon his historical -and allegorical compositions. In St. Paul’s cathedral, in the Hospital -at Greenwich, and at Hampton Court, his principal works are to be -seen. As Richardson in portraits, so Thornhill in history painting -was the first native of this island, who stood preeminent in the line of -art he pursued at the period of his practice. He died in 1732, -aged 56.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Horace Walpole, in his Anecdotes of Painting, observes, that -“at the accession of George the First, the arts were sunk to the -lowest state in Britain.” This was not strictly true. Mr. Walpole, -who published at a later time, should have dated the period of their -utmost degradation to have been in the middle of the last century, -when the names of Hudson and Hayman were predominant. It is -true, Hogarth was then well known to the public; but he was less -so as a painter than an engraver, <em>though many of his pictures representing -subjects of humour and character are excellent</em>; and Hayman, as a -history painter, could not be compared with Sir James Thornhill.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>‘Thomas Hudson was a native of Devonshire. His name will -be preserved from his having been the artist to whom Sir Joshua -Reynolds was committed for instruction. Hudson was the scholar -of Richardson, and married his daughter; and after the death -of his father-in-law, succeeded to the chief employment in portrait -painting. He was in all respects much below his master in -ability; but being esteemed the best artist of his time, commissions -flowed in upon him; and his <em>business</em>, as it might truly be termed, -was carried on like that of a manufactory. To his ordinary -heads, draperies were added by painters who chiefly confined themselves -to that line of practice. No time was lost by Hudson in the -study of character, or in the search of variety in the position of -his figures: a few formal attitudes served as models for all his -subjects; and the <em>display</em> of arms and hands, being the more difficult -parts, was managed with great economy, <em>by all the contrivances -of concealment</em>.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘To this scene of imbecile performance, Joshua Reynolds was -sent by his friends. He arrived in London on the 14th of October -1741, and on the 18th of that month he was introduced to his future -preceptor. He was then aged seventeen years and three months. -The terms of the agreement were, that provided Hudson approved -him, he was to remain four years: but might be discharged at -pleasure. He continued in this situation two years and a half, during -which time he drew many heads upon paper; and in his attempts in -painting, succeeded so well in a portrait of Hudson’s cook, as to -excite his master’s jealousy. In this temper of mind, Hudson availed -himself of a very trifling circumstance to dismiss him. Having one -evening ordered Reynolds to take a picture to Van Haaken the -drapery painter; but as the weather proved wet he postponed carrying -it till next morning. At breakfast, Hudson demanded why he -did not take the picture the evening before? Reynolds replied, that -“he delayed it on account of the weather; but that the picture was -delivered that morning before Van Haaken rose from bed.” Hudson -then said, “You have not obeyed my orders, and shall not stay in -my house.” On this peremptory declaration, Reynolds urged that -he might be allowed time to write to his father, who might otherwise -think he had committed some great crime. Hudson, though reproached -by his own servant for this unreasonable and violent -conduct, persisted in his determination: accordingly, Reynolds went -that day from Hudson’s house to an uncle who resided in the -Temple, and from thence wrote to his father, who, after consulting -his neighbour Lord Edgcumbe, directed him to come down to -Devonshire.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>‘Thus did our great artist commence his professional career. -Two remarks may be made upon this event. First by quitting -Hudson at this early period, he avoided the danger of having his mind -and his hand habituated to a mean practice of the art, which, when -established, is most difficult to overcome. It has often been observed -in the works of artists who thus began their practice, that though -they rose to marked distinction, there have been but few who could -wholly divest themselves of the bad effects of a long-continued -exercise of the eye and the hand in copying ordinary works. In -Hudson’s school, this was fully manifested. Mortimer and Wright -of Derby were his pupils. They were both men of superior talents; -but in Portraits they never succeeded beyond what would be called -mediocre performance. In this line their productions were tasteless -and laboured: fortunately, however, they made choice of subjects -more congenial with their minds. Mortimer, charmed with the wild -spirit of Salvator Rosa, made the exploits of lawless banditti the -chief subjects of his pencil; while Wright devoted himself to the -study of objects viewed by artificial light, and to the beautiful effects -of the moon upon landscape scenery: yet, even in these, though deserving -of great praise, the effects of their early practice were but too -apparent; their pictures being uniformly executed with what artists -call a heavy hand.’ p. 19.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘This is a humiliating retrospect for the lovers of art, and of their -country. In speculating upon its causes, we are half afraid to hint at -the probable effects of Climate,—so much is it now the fashion to -decry what was once so much overrated. Our theoretical opinions -are directed far more frequently by a spirit of petulant contradiction -than of fair inquiry. We detect errors in received systems, and then -run into the contrary extreme, to show how wise we are. Thus one -folly is driven out by another; and the history of philosophy is little -more than an alternation of blind prejudices and shallow paradoxes. -Thus climate was everything in the days of Montesquieu, and in our -day it is nothing. Yet it was but one of many cooperating causes at -first—and it continues to be one still. In all that relates to the -senses, physical causes may be allowed to operate very materially, -without much violence to experience or probability. ‘Are the -<em>English</em> a Musical people?’ is a question that has been debated at -great length, and in all the forms. But whether the <em>Italians</em> are a -musical people, is a question not to be asked, any more than whether -they have a taste for the fine arts in general. Nor does the subject -ever admit of a question, where a faculty or genius for any particular -thing exists in the most eminent degree; for then it is sure to show -itself, and force its way to the light, in spite of all obstacles. That -<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>which no one ever denied to any people, we may be sure they -actually possess: that which is as often denied as allowed them, we -may be sure they do not possess in a very eminent degree. That, -to which we make the angriest claim, and dispute the most about, -whatever else may be, is not our <em>forte</em>. The French are allowed -by all the world to be a dancing, talking, cooking people. If the -English were to set up the same pretensions, it would be ridiculous. -But then, they say, they have other excellences; and having these, -they would have the former too. They think it hard to be set down -as a dull, plodding people: but is it not equally hard upon others to -be called vain and light? They tell us, they are the wisest, the -freest, and most moral people on the face of the earth, without the -frivolous accomplishments of their neighbours; but they insist upon -having these too, to be upon a par in every thing with the rest of -the world. We have our bards and sages (‘better none’), our prose writers, -our mathematicians, our inventors in useful and mechanic -arts, our legislators, our patriots, our statesmen, and our fighting-men, -in the field and in the ring:—In these we challenge, and -justly, all the world. We are not behind-hand with any people in -all that depends on hard thinking and deep and firm feeling, on long -heads and stout hearts:—But why must we excel also in the reverse -of these,—in what depends on lively perceptions, on quick sensibility, -and on a voluptuous effeminacy of temperament and character? An -Englishman does not ordinarily pretend to combine his own gravity, -plainness and reserve, with the levity, loquacity, grimace, and artificial -politeness (as it is called) of a Frenchman. Why then will he -insist upon engrafting the fine upon the domestic arts, as an indispensable -consummation of the national character? We may indeed -cultivate them as an experiment in natural history, and produce -specimens of them, and exhibit them as rarities in their kind, as we -do hot-house plants and shrubs; but they are not of native growth -or origin. They do not spring up in the open air, but shrink from -the averted eye of Heaven, like a Laplander into his hut. They -do not sit as graceful ornaments, but as excrescences on the English -character: they are ‘like flowers in our caps, dying or ere they -sicken:’—they are exotics and aliens to the soil. We do not -import foreigners to dig our canals, or construct our machines, or -solve difficult problems in political economy, or write Scotch novels -for us—but we import our dancing-masters, our milliners, our Opera-singers, -our valets, and our travelling cooks,—as till lately we did our -painters and sculptors.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The English (we take it) are a nation with certain decided -features and predominating traits of character; and if they have -<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>any characteristics at all, this is one of them, that their feelings are -internal rather than external, reflex rather than organic,—and that -they are more inclined to contend with pain than to indulge in -pleasure. ‘The stern genius of the North,’ says Schlegel, ‘throws -men back upon themselves.’—The progress of the Fine Arts has -hitherto been slow, and wavering and unpromising in this country, -‘like the forced pace of a shuffling nag,’ not like the flight of -Pegasus; and their encouragement has been cold and backward in -proportion. They have been wooed and won—as far as they have -been won, which is no further than to a mere promise of marriage—‘with -coy, reluctant, amorous delay.’ They have not rushed into our -embraces, nor been mingled in our daily pastimes and pursuits. It -is two hundred and fifty years since this island was civilized to all -other intellectual purposes: but, till within half a century, it was a -desert and a waste in art. Were there no <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">terræ filii</span></i> in those days; -no brood of giants to spring out of the ground, and launch the mighty -fragments of genius from their hands; to beautify and enrich the -public mind; to hang up the lights of the eye and of the soul in -pictured halls, in airy porticoes, and solemn temples; to illumine -the land, and weave a garland for their own heads, like ‘the crown -which Ariadne wore upon her bridal day,’ and which still shines -brighter in heaven? There were: but ‘their affections did not that -way tend.’ They were of the tribe of Isaachar, and not of Judah. -There were two sisters, Poetry and Painting: one was taken, and the -other was left.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Were our ancestors insensible to the charms of nature, to the -music of thought, to deeds of virtue or heroic enterprise? No. But -they saw them in their mind’s eye: they felt them at their heart’s -core, and there only. They did not translate their perceptions into -the language of sense: they did not embody them in visible images, -but in breathing words. They were more taken up with what an -object suggested to combine with the infinite stores of fancy or trains -of feeling, than with the single object itself; more intent upon the -moral inference, the tendency and the result, than the appearances of -things, however imposing or expressive, at any given moment of time. -If their first impressions were less vivid and complete, their after-reflections -were combined in a greater variety of striking resemblances, -and thus drew a dazzling veil over their merely sensitive impressions, -which deadened and neutralized them still more. Will it be denied -that there is a wide difference, as to the actual result, between the -mind of a Poet and a Painter? Why then should not this difference -be inherent and original, as it undoubtedly is in individuals, and, to -all appearance, in nations? Or why should we be uneasy because -<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>the same country does not teem with all varieties and with each -extreme of excellence and genius?<a id='r11' /><a href='#f11' class='c014'><sup>[11]</sup></a></p> - -<p class='c010'>In this importunate theory of ours, we misconstrue nature, and tax -Providence amiss. In that short, but delightful season of the year, -and in that part of the country where we now write, there are wild -woods and banks covered with primroses and hyacinths for miles -together, so that you cannot put your foot between, and with a gaudy -show ‘empurpling all the ground,’ and branches loaded with nightingales -whose leaves tremble with their liquid notes: Yet the air does -not resound, as in happier climes, with shepherd’s pipe or roundelay, -nor are the village-maids adorned with wreaths of vernal flowers, -ready to weave the braided dance, or ‘returning with a choral song, -when evening has gone down.’ What is the reason? ‘We also -are <em>not</em> Arcadians!’ We have not the same animal vivacity, the -same tendency to external delight and show, the same ear for melting -sounds, the same pride of the eye, or voluptuousness of the heart. -The senses and the mind are differently constituted; and the outward -influences of things, climate, mode of life, national customs and -character, have all a share in producing the general effect. We -should say that the eye in warmer climates drinks in greater pleasure -from external sights, is more open and porous to them, as the ear is -to sounds; that the sense of immediate delight is fixed deeper in the -beauty of the object; that the greater life and animation of character -gives a greater spirit and intensity of expression to the face, making -finer subjects for history and portrait; and that the circumstances in -which a people are placed in a genial atmosphere, are more favourable -to the study of nature and of the human form. Claude -could only have painted his landscapes in the open air; and the -Greek statues were little more than copies from living, every-day -forms.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Such a natural aptitude and relish for the impressions of sense -gives not only more facility, but leads to greater patience, refinement, -and perfection in the execution of works of art. What our own -artists do is often up-hill work, against the grain:—not persisted in -and brought to a conclusion for the love of the thing; but, after the -first dash, after the subject is got in, and the gross general effect -<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>produced, they grudge all the rest of their labour as a waste of time -and pains. Their object is not to look at nature, but to have their -picture <em>exhibited</em> and <em>sold</em>. The want of intimate sympathy with, and -entire repose on nature, not only leaves their productions hard, -violent, and crude, but frequently renders them impatient, wavering, -and dissatisfied with their own walk of art, and never easy till they -get into a different or higher one, where they think they can earn -more money or fame with less trouble. By beginning over again, by -having the same preliminary ground to go over, with new subjects or -bungling experiments, they seldom arrive at that nice, nervous point -that trembles on perfection. This last stage, in which art is as it -were identified with nature, an English painter shrinks from with -strange repugnance and peculiar abhorrence. The French style is -the reverse of ours: it is all dry finishing without effect. We see -their faults, and, as we conceive, their general incapacity for art: but -we cannot be persuaded to see our own.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The want of encouragement, which is sometimes set up as an all-sufficient -plea, will hardly account for this slow and irregular progress -of English art. There was no premium offered for the production -of dramatic excellence in the age of Elizabeth: there was no society -for the encouragement of works of wit and humour in the reign of -Charles II.: no committee of taste ever voted Congreve, or Steele, or -Swift, a silver vase, or a gold medal, for their comic vein: Hogarth -was not fostered in the annual exhibitions of the Royal Academy. -In plain truth, that is not the way in which that sort of harvest is -produced. The seeds must be sown in the mind: there is a fulness -of the blood, a plethoric habit of thought, that breaks out with the -first opportunity on the surface of society. Poetry has sprung up -indigenously, spontaneously, at all times of our history, and under all -circumstances, with or without encouragement: it is therefore a rich, -natural product of the mind of the country, unforced, unpampered, -unsophisticated. It is obviously and entirely genuine, ‘the unbought -grace of life.’ If it be asked, why Painting has all this time kept -back, has not dared to show its face, or retired ashamed of its poverty -and deformity, the answer is plain—because it did not shoot out with -equal vigour and luxuriance from the soil of English genius—because -it was not the native language and idiom of the country. Why then -are we bound to suppose that it will shoot up <em>now</em> to an unequalled -height—why are we confidently told and required to predict to others -that it is about to produce wonders, when we see no such thing; -when these very persons tell us that there has been hitherto no such -thing, but that it must and shall be revealed in their time and persons? -And though they complain that that public patronage which they -<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>invoke, and which they pretend is alone wanting to produce the high -and palmy state of art to which they would have us look forward, is -entirely and scandalously withheld from it, and likely to be so!</p> - -<p class='c010'>We turn from this subject to another not less melancholy or -singular,—from the imperfect and abortive attempts at art in this -country formerly, to its present state of degeneracy and decay in Italy. -Speaking of Sir Joshua’s arrival at Rome in the year 1749, Mr. -Farington indulges in the following remarks.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘On his arrival at Rome, he found Pompeo Battoni, a native of -Lucca, possessing the highest reputation. His name was, indeed, -known in every part of Europe, and was every where spoken of as -almost another Raphael; but in that great school of art, such was -the admiration he excited, or rather such was the degradation of -taste, that the students in painting had no higher ambition than to be -his imitators.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Battoni had some talent, but his works are dry, cold, and insipid. -That such performances should have been so extolled in the very -seat and centre of the fine arts, seems wonderful. But in this manner -has public taste been operated upon; and from the period when art -was carried to the highest point of excellence known in modern -times, it has thus gradually declined. A succession of artists -followed each other, who, being esteemed the most eminent in their -own time, were praised extravagantly by an ignorant public; and in -the several schools they established, their own productions were the -only objects of study.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘So widely spread was the fame of Battoni, that, before Reynolds -left England, his patron, Lord Edgcumbe, strongly urged the -expediency of placing himself under the tuition of so great a man. -This recommendation, however, on seeing the works of that master, -he did not choose to follow:—which showed that he was then above -the level of those whose professional views all concentrated in the -productions of the popular favourite. Indeed nothing could be more -opposite to the spirited execution, the high relish of colour, and -powerful effect, which the works of Reynolds at that time possessed, -than the tame and inanimate pictures of Pompeo Battoni. Taking a -wiser course, therefore, he formed his own plan, and studied chiefly -in the Vatican, from the works of Michael Angelo, Raphael, and -Andrea del Sarto, with great diligence; such indeed was his -application, that to a severe cold, which he caught in those apartments, -he owed the deafness which continued during the remainder of his -life.’ p. 31.</p> - -<p class='c010'>This account may serve to show that Italy is no longer Italy: -why it is so, is a question of greater difficulty. The soil, the climate, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>the religion, the people are the same; and the men and women in the -streets of Rome still look as if they had walked out of Raphael’s -pictures; but there is no Raphael to paint them, nor does any Leo -arise to encourage them. This seems to prove that the perfection of -art is the destruction of art: that the models of this kind, by their -accumulation, block up the path of genius; and that all attempts at -distinction lead, after a certain period, to a mere lifeless copy of what -has been done before, or a vapid, distorted, and extravagant caricature -of it. This is but a poor prospect for those who set out late in art, -and who have all the excellence of their predecessors, and all the -fastidious refinements of their own taste, the temptations of indolence, -and the despair of vanity, to distract and encumber their efforts. -The artists who revel in the luxuries of genius thus prepared by their -predecessors, clog their wings with the honeyed sweets, and get -drunk with the intoxicating nectar. They become servitors and -lacqueys to Art, not devoted servants of Nature;—the fluttering, -foppish, lazy retinue of some great name. The contemplation of -unattainable excellence casts a film over their eyes, and unnerves their -hands. They look on, and do nothing. In Italy, it costs them a -month to paint a hand, a year an eye: the feeble pencil drops from -their grasp, while they wonder to see an Englishman make a hasty -copy of the Transfiguration, turn over a portfolio of Piranesi’s -drawings for their next historical design, and read Winckelman on -<i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">virtù</span></i>! We do much the same here, in all our collections and -exhibitions of modern or ancient paintings, and of the Elgin marbles, -to boot. A picture-gallery serves very well for a place to lounge in, -and talk about; but it does not make the student go home and set -heartily to work:—he would rather come again and lounge, and talk, -the next day, and the day after that. He cannot do <em>all</em> that he sees -there; and less will not satisfy his expansive and refined ambition. -He would be all the painters that ever were—or none. His -indolence combines with his vanity, like alternate doses of provocatives -and sleeping-draughts. He copies, however, a favourite -picture (though he thinks copying bad in general),—or makes a -chalk-drawing of it—or gets some one else to do it for him.—We -might go on: but we have written what many people will call a -lampoon already!</p> - -<p class='c010'>There is another view of the subject more favourable and encouraging -to ourselves, and yet not immeasurably so, when all -circumstances are considered. All that was possible had been -formerly done for art in Italy, so that nothing more was left to be -done. That is not the case with us yet. Perfection is not the -insurmountable obstacle to <em>our</em> success: we have enough to do, if we -<span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>knew how. That is some inducement to proceed. We can hardly -be retrograde in our course. But there is a difficulty in the way,—no -less than our Establishment in Church and State. Rome was the -capital of the Christian and of the civilized world. Her mitre -swayed the sceptres of the earth; and the Servant of Servants set his -foot on the neck of kings, and deposed sovereigns with the signet of -the Fisherman. She was the eye of the world, and her word was a -law. She set herself up, and said, ‘All eyes shall see me, and all -knees shall bow to me.’ She ruled in the hearts of the people by -dazzling their senses, and making them drunk with hopes and fears. -She held in her hands the keys of the other world to open or shut; -and she displayed all the pomp, the trappings, and the pride of this. -Homage was paid to the persons of her ministers; her worship was -adorned and made alluring by every appeal to the passions and -imaginations of its followers. Art was rendered tributary to the -support of this grand engine of power; and Painting was employed, -as soon as its fascination was felt, to aid the devotion, and rivet the -faith of the Catholic believer. Thus religion was made subservient -to interest, and art was called in to aid in the service of this ambitious -religion. The patron-saint of every church stood at the head of his -altar: the meekness of love, the innocence of childhood, ‘amazing -brightness, purity, and truth,’ breathed from innumerable representations -of the Virgin and Child; and the Vatican was covered with -the acts and processions of Popes and Cardinals, of Christ and the -Apostles. The churches were filled with these objects of art and of -devotion: the very walls spoke. ‘A present deity they shout -around; a present deity the walls and vaulted roofs rebound.’ This -unavoidably put in requisition all the strength of genius, and all the -resources of enthusiastic feeling in the country. The spectator -sympathized with the artist’s inspiration. No elevation of thought, -no refinement of expression, could outgo the expectation of the -thronging votaries. The fancy of the painter was but a spark kindled -from the glow of public sentiment. This was a sort of patronage -worth having. The zeal and enthusiasm and industry of native genius -was stimulated to works worthy of such encouragement, and in unison -with its own feelings. But by degrees the tide ebbed: the current -was dried up or became stagnant. The churches were all supplied -with altar-pieces: the niches were full, not only with scriptural -subjects, but with the stories of every saint enrolled in the calendar, -or registered in legendary lore. No more pictures were wanted,—and -then it was found that there were no more painters to do them! -The art languished, and gradually disappeared. They could not -take down the Madona of Foligno, or new-stucco the ceiling at -<span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>Parma, that other artists might undo what Raphael and Correggio -had done. Some of them, to be sure, did follow this desperate -course; and spent their time, as in the case of Leonardo’s Last -Supper at Milan, in painting over, that is, in defacing the works of -their predecessors. Afterwards, they applied themselves to landscape -and classical subjects, with great success for a time, as we see in -Claude and N. Poussin; but the original <em>state</em> impulse was gone.</p> - -<p class='c010'>What confirms the foregoing account, is, that at Venice, and other -places out of the more immediate superintendence of the Papal See, -though there also sacred subjects were in great request, yet the art -being patronized by rich merchants and nobles, took a more decided -turn to portraits;—magnificent indeed, and hitherto unrivalled, for the -beauty of the costume, the character of the faces, and the marked pretensions -of the persons who sat for them,—but still wildly remote -from that public and national interest that it assumed in the Roman -school. We see, in like manner, that painting in Holland and -Flanders took yet a different direction; was mostly scenic and ornamental, -or confined to local and personal subjects. Rubens’s pictures, -for example, differ from Raphael’s by a total want of religious enthusiasm -and studied refinement of expression, even where the subjects are -the same; and Rembrandt’s portraits differ from Titian’s in the grossness -and want of animation and dignity of his characters. There was -an inherent difference in the look of a Doge of Venice or one of -the Medici family, and that of a Dutch burgomaster. The climate -had affected the picture, through the character of the sitter, as it -affected the genius of the artist (if not otherwise) through the class -of subjects he was constantly called upon to paint. What turn -painting has lately taken, or is likely to take with us, now remains -to be seen.</p> - -<p class='c010'>With the Memoirs of Sir Joshua Mr. Farington very properly -connects the history of the institution of the Royal Academy from -which he dates the hopes and origin of all sound art in this country. -There is here at first sight an inversion of the usual order of things. -The institution of Academies in most countries has been coeval with -the decline of art: in ours, it seems, it is the harbinger, and main -prop of its success. Mr. F. thus traces the outline of this part of -his subject with the enthusiasm of an artist, and the fidelity of an -historian.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘At this period (1760) a plan was formed by the artists of the -metropolis to draw the attention of their fellow-citizens to their ingenious -labours; with a view both to an increase of patronage, and the -cultivation of taste. Hitherto works of that kind produced in the -country were seen only by a few; the people in general knew nothing -<span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>of what was passing in the arts. Private collections were then inaccessible, -and there were no public ones; nor any casual display of the -productions of genius, except what the ordinary sales by auction -occasionally offered. Nothing, therefore, could exceed the ignorance -of a people who were in themselves learned, ingenious, and highly -cultivated in all things, excepting the arts of design.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In consequence of this privation, it was conceived that a Public -Exhibition of the works of the most eminent Artists could not fail -to make a powerful impression; and if occasionally repeated, might -ultimately produce the most satisfactory effects. The scheme was no -sooner proposed than adopted; and being carried into immediate -execution, the result exceeded the most sanguine expectations of the -projectors. All ranks of people crowded to see the delightful novelty; -it was the universal topic of conversation; and a passion for the arts -was excited by that first manifestation of native talent, which, cherished -by the continued operation of the same cause, has ever since been increasing -in strength, and extending its effects through every part of -the Empire.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The history of our Exhibitions affords itself the strongest evidence -of their impressive effect upon public taste. At their commencement, -though men of enlightened minds could distinguish and appreciate -what was excellent, the admiration of the <em>many</em> was confined to -subjects either gross or puerile, and commonly to the meanest efforts -of intellect; whereas, at this time, the whole train of subjects most -popular in the earlier exhibitions have disappeared. The loaf and -cheese, that could provoke hunger, the cat and canary-bird, and the -dead mackarel on a deal board, have long ceased to produce astonishment -and delight; while truth of imitation now finds innumerable -admirers, though combined with the high qualities of beauty, grandeur, -and taste.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘To our Public Exhibitions, and to arrangements that followed in -consequence of their introduction, this change must be chiefly attributed. -<em>The present generation appears to be composed of a new, and at -least, with respect to the arts, a superior order of beings.</em> Generally -speaking, their thoughts, their feelings, and language on these subjects -differ entirely from what they were sixty years ago. No just opinions -were at that time entertained on the merits of ingenious productions -of this kind. The state of the public mind, incapable of discriminating -excellence from inferiority, proved incontrovertibly that a right -sense of art in the spectator can only be acquired by long and frequent -observation; and that, without proper opportunities to improve the -mind and the eye, a nation would continue insensible of the true value -of the fine arts.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>‘The first or probationary Exhibition, which opened April 21st, -1760, was at a large room in the Strand, belonging to the society for -the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce, which -had then been instituted five or six years. It is natural to conclude, -that the first artist in the country was not indifferent to the success of -a plan which promised to be so extensively useful. Accordingly, four -of his pictures were for the first time here placed before the public, -with whom, by the channel now opened, he continued in constant -intercourse as long as he lived.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Encouraged by the successful issue of the first experiment, the -<em>artistical body</em> determined that it should be repeated the following -year. Owing, however, to some inconveniences experienced at their -former place of exhibition, and also to a desire to be perfectly independent -in their proceedings, they engaged, for their next public -display, a spacious room near the Spring Gardens’ entrance into the -Park; at which place the second Exhibition opened, May 9th, -1761. Here Reynolds sent his fine picture of Lord Ligonier on -horseback, a portrait of the Rev. Laurence Sterne, and three -others....</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The artists had now fully proved the efficacy of their plan; and -their income exceeding their expenditure, affording a reasonable hope -of a permanent establishment, they thought they might solicit a -Royal Charter of Incorporation; and having applied to his Majesty -for that purpose, he was pleased to accede to their request. This -measure, however, which was intended to consolidate the body of -artists, was of no avail: on the contrary, it was probably the cause -of its dissolution; for in less than four years a separation took place, -which led to the establishment of the Royal Academy, and finally to -the extinction of the incorporated Society. The charter was dated -January 26th, 1765; the secession took place in October, 1768; and -the Royal Academy was instituted December 10th in the same year.’ -p. 53.</p> - -<p class='c010'>On this statement we must be allowed to make a few remarks. -First, the four greatest names in English art, Hogarth, Reynolds, -Wilson<a id='r12' /><a href='#f12' class='c014'><sup>[12]</sup></a> and West, were not formed by the Academy, but were -formed before it; and the first gave it as his opinion, that it would -be a death-blow to the art. He considered an Academy as a school -for servile mediocrity, a hotbed for cabal and dirty competition, and -a vehicle for the display of idle pretensions and empty parade.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Secondly, we agree with the writer as to the deplorable state of -the art and of the public taste in general, which, at the period in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>question, was as gross as it was insipid: but we do not think that it -has been improved so much since, as Mr. Farington is willing to -suppose; nor that the Academy has taken more than <em>half-measures</em> -for improving or refining it.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘They found it poor at first, and kept it so.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>They have attended to their own interests, and flattered their customers, -while they have neglected or cajoled the public. They may -indeed look back with triumph and pity to ‘the cat and canary-bird, -the dead mackarel and Deal board;’ but they seem to rest satisfied -with this conquest over themselves, and, ‘leaving the things that are -behind, have not pressed forward (with equal ardour) to the things -that are before.’ Theirs is a very moderate, not a Radical Reform -in this respect. We do <em>not</em> find, even in the latest Exhibitions at -Somerset House, ‘innumerable examples of truth of imitation, combined -with the high qualities of beauty, grandeur, and taste.’ The -mass of the pictures exhibited there are <em>not</em> calculated to give the -English people a true notion, not merely of high art (as it is emphatically -called), but of the genuine objects of art at all. We do not -believe—to take a plain test of the progress we have made—that nine-tenths -of the persons who go there annually, and who go through the -Catalogue regularly, would know a Guido from a daub—the finest -picture from one not badly executed perhaps, but done in the worst -taste, and on the falsest principles. The vast majority of the pictures -received there, and hung up in the most conspicuous places, are -pictures painted to please the natural vanity or fantastic ignorance of -the artist’s sitters, their friends and relations, and to lead to more -commissions for half and whole lengths—or else pictures painted -purposely to be seen in the Exhibition, to strike across the Great -Room, to catch attention, and force admiration, in the distraction and -dissipation of a thousand foolish faces and new-gilt frames, by gaudy -colouring and meretricious grace. We appeal to any man of judgment, -whether this is not a brief, but true summary, of ‘the annual -show’ at the Royal Academy? And is this the way to advance -the interests of art, or to fashion the public taste? There is not one -head in ten painted as a study from nature, or with a view to bring -out the real qualities of the mind or countenance. If there is any -such improvident example of unfashionable sincerity, it is put out of -countenance by the prevailing tone of <em>rouged</em> and smiling folly, and -affectation all around it.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The only pictures painted in any quantity as studies from nature, -free from the glosses of sordid art and the tincture of vanity, are -<em>portraits of places</em>; and it cannot be denied that there are many of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>these that have a true and powerful look of nature: but then, as if this -was a matter of great indifference, and nobody’s business to see to, -they are seldom anything more than bare sketches, hastily got up for -the chance of a purchaser, and left unfinished to save time and trouble. -They are not, in general, lofty conceptions or selections of beautiful -scenery, but mere common out-of-door views, relying for their value -on their literal fidelity; and where, consequently, the exact truth -and perfect identity of the imitation is the more indispensable.—Our -own countryman, Wilkie, in scenes of domestic and familiar life, is -equally deserving of praise for the arrangement of his subjects, and -care in the execution: but we have to lament that he too is in some -degree chargeable with that fickleness and desultoriness in the pursuit -of excellence, which we have noticed above as incident to our native -artists, and which, we think, has kept him stationary, instead of being -progressive, for some years past. He appeared at one time as if he -was near touching the point of perfection in his peculiar department; -and he <em>may</em> do it yet! But how small a part do his works form of -the Exhibition, and how unlike all the rest!</p> - -<p class='c010'>It was the panic-fear that all this daubing and varnishing would be -seen through, and the scales fall off from the eyes of the public, in -consequence of the exhibition of some of the finest specimens of the -Old Masters at the British Institution, that called into clandestine -notoriety that disgraceful production, the <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Catalogue Raisonné</span></cite>. The -concealed authors of that work conceived, that a discerning public -would learn more of the art from the simplicity, dignity, force and -truth, of these admired and lasting models, in a short season or two, -than they had done from the Exhibitions of the Royal Academy for -the last fifty years: that they would see that it did not consist -entirely in tints and varnishes and megilps and washes for the skin, -but that all the effects of colour, and charms of expression, might be -united with purity of tone, with articulate forms, and exquisite -finishing. They saw this conviction rapidly taking place in the -public mind, and they shrunk back from it ‘with jealous leer malign.’ -They persuaded themselves, and had the courage to try to persuade -others, that to exhibit approved specimens of art in general, selected -from the works of the most famous and accomplished masters, was to -destroy the germ of native art; was cruelly to strangle the growing -taste and enthusiasm of the public for art in its very birth; was to -blight the well-earned reputation, and strike at the honest livelihood -of the liberal professors of the school of painting in England. They -therefore set to work to decry these productions as worthless and -odious in the sight of the true adept: they smeared over, with every -epithet of low abuse, works and names sacred to fame, and to generations -<span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>to come: they spared no pains to heap ridicule and obloquy -on those who had brought these works forward: they did every -thing to disgust and blind the public to their excellence, by showing -in themselves a hatred and a loathing of all high excellence, and of -all established reputation in art, in which their paltry vanity and -mercenary spite were not concerned. They proved, beyond all contradiction, -that to keep back the taste of the town, and the knowledge -of the student, to the point to which <em>the Academy</em> had found it -practicable to conduct it by its example, was the object of a powerful -and active party of professional intriguers in this country. If the -Academy had any hand, directly or indirectly, in this unprincipled -outrage upon taste and decency, they ought to be disfranchised (like -Grampound) to-morrow, as utterly unworthy of the trust reposed in -them.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The alarm indeed (in one sense) was not unfounded: for many -persons who had long been dazzled, not illumined, by the glare of -the most modern and fashionable productions, began to open their -eyes to the beauties and loveliness of painting, and to see reflected -there as in a mirror those hues, those expressions, those transient and -heavenly glances of nature, which had often charmed their own -minds, but of which they could find the traces nowhere else, and -became true worshippers at the shrine of genuine art. Whether this -taste will spread beyond the immediate gratification of the moment, -or stimulate the rising generation to new efforts, and to the adoption -of a new and purer style, is another question; with regard to which, -for reasons above explained, we are not very sanguine.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We have a great respect for <em>high</em> art, and an anxiety for its -advancement and cultivation; but we have a greater still for the -advancement and encouragement of <em>true</em> art. That is the first, and -the last step. The knowledge of what is contained in nature is the -only foundation of legitimate art; and the perception of beauty and -power, in whatever objects or in whatever degree they subsist, is the -test of real genius. The principle is the same in painting an archangel’s -or a butterfly’s wing; and the very finest picture in the finest -collection may be one of a very common subject. We speak and -think of Rembrandt as Rembrandt, of Raphael as Raphael, not of -the one as a portrait, of the other as a history painter. Portrait may -become history, or history portrait, as the one or the other gives the -soul or the mask of the face. ‘<em>That</em> is true history,’ said an eminent -critic, on seeing Titian’s picture of Pope Julius <span class='fss'>II.</span> and his two -nephews. He who should set down Claude as a mere landscape -painter, must know nothing of what Claude was in himself; and -those who class Hogarth as a painter of low life, only show their -<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>ignorance of human nature. High art does not consist in high or -epic subjects, but in the manner of treating those subjects; and that -manner among us, as far as we have proceeded, has we think been -false and exceptionable. We appeal from the common cant on this -subject to the Elgin marbles. They are high art, confessedly: But -they are also true art, in our sense of the word. They do not deviate -from truth and nature in order to arrive at a fancied superiority to -truth and nature. They do not represent a vapid abstraction, but -the entire, undoubted, concrete object they profess to imitate. They -are like casts of the finest living forms in the world, taken in momentary -action. They are nothing more: and therefore certain great -critics who had been educated in the ideal school of art, think nothing -of them. They do not conform to a vague, unmeaning standard, -made out of the fastidious likings or dislikings of the artist; they are -carved out of the living, imperishable forms of nature, as the marble -of which they are composed was hewn from its native rock. They -contain the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. We -cannot say so much of the general style of history-painting in this -country, which has proceeded, as a first principle, on the determined -and deliberate dereliction of living nature, both as means and end. -Grandeur was made to depend on leaving out the details. Ideal -grace and beauty were made to consist in neutral forms, and character -and expression. The first could produce nothing but slovenliness; -the second nothing but insipidity. The Elgin marbles have proved, -by oracular demonstration, that the utmost freedom and grandeur of -style is compatible with the minutest details,—the variety of the -subordinate parts not destroying the masses in the productions of art -more than in those of nature. Grandeur without softness and precision, -is only another name for grossness. These invaluable -fragments of antiquity have also proved, beyond dispute, that ideal -beauty and historic truth do not consist in middle or <em>average</em> forms, -&c. but in harmonious outlines, in unity of action, and in the utmost -refinement of character and expression. We there see art following -close in the footsteps of nature, and exalted, raised, refined with it to -the utmost extent that either was capable of. With us, all this has -been reversed; and we have discarded nature at first, only to flounder -about, and be lost in a Limbo of Vanity. With them invention rose -from the ground of imitation: with us, the boldness of the invention -was acknowledged in proportion as no traces of imitation were -discoverable. Our greatest and most successful candidates in the -epic walk of art, have been those who founded their pretensions to be -history-painters on their not being portrait-painters. They could not -paint that which they had seen, and therefore they must be qualified -<span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>to paint that which they had not seen. There was not any one part -of any one of their pictures good for any thing; and therefore the -whole was grand, and an example of lofty art! There was not, in -all probability, a single head in an acre of canvas, that, taken by -itself, was more than a worthless daub, scarcely fit to be hung up as -a sign at an alehouse door: But a hundred of these bad portraits or -wretched caricatures, made, by numerical addition, an admirable -historical picture! The faces, hands, eyes, feet, had neither beauty -nor expression, nor drawing, nor colouring; and yet the composition -and arrangement of these abortive and crude materials, which might -as well or better have been left blanks, displayed the mind of the -great master. Not one tone, one line, one look for the eye to dwell -upon with pure and intense delight, in all this endless scope of subject -and field of canvas.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We cannot say that we in general like very large pictures; for -this reason, that, like overgrown men, they are apt to be bullies and -cowards. They profess a great deal, and perform little. They are -often a contrivance not to display magnificent conceptions to the -greatest advantage, but to throw the spectator to a distance, where it -is impossible to distinguish either gross faults or real beauties.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The late Mr. West’s pictures were admirable for the composition -and grouping. In these respects they could not be better: as we see -in the print of the death of General Wolfe: but for the rest, he -might as well have set up a parcel of figures in wood, and painted -them over with a sign-post brush, and then copied what he saw, and -it would have been just as good. His skill in drawing was confined -to a knowledge of mechanical proportions and measurements, and was -not guided in the line of beauty, or employed to give force to -expression. He, however, laboured long and diligently to advance -the interests of art in this his adopted country; and if he did not do -more, it was the fault of the coldness and formality of his genius, not -of the man.—Barry was another instance of those who scorn nature, -and are scorned by her. He could not make a likeness of any one -object in the universe: when he attempted it, he was like a drunken -man on horseback; his eye reeled, his hand refused its office,—and -accordingly he set up for an example of <em>the great style</em> in art, which, -like charity, covers all other defects. It would be unfair at the same -time to deny, that some of the figures and groupes in his pictures of -the Olympic Games in the Adelphi, are beautiful designs after the -antique, as far as outline is concerned. In colour and expression -they are like wild Indians. The other pictures of his there, are not -worthy of notice; except as warnings to the misguided student who -would scale the high and abstracted steep of art, without following -<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>the path of nature. Yet Barry was a man of genius, and an -enthusiastic lover of his art. But he unfortunately mistook his -ardent aspiration after excellence for the power to achieve it; -assumed the capacity to execute the greatest works instead of -acquiring it; supposed that ‘the bodiless creations of his brain’ were -to start out from the walls of the Adelphi like a dream or a fairy -tale;—and the result has been, that all the splendid illusions of his -undigested ambition have, ‘like the baseless fabric of a vision, left -not a wreck behind.’ His name is not a light or beacon, but a by-word -and an ill omen in art. What he has left behind him in -writing on the subject, contains much real feeling and interesting -thought.—Mr. Fuseli is another distinguished artist who complains -that nature puts him out. But <em>his</em> distortions and vagaries are -German, and not English: they lie like a night-mare on the breast -of our native art. They are too recondite, obscure, and extravagant -for us: we only want to get over the ground with large, clumsy -strides, as fast as we can; and do not go out of our way in search of -absurdity. We cannot consider his genius as naturalized among us, -after the lapse of more than half a century: and if in saying this we -do not pay him a compliment, we certainly do not intend it as a very -severe censure. Mr. Fuseli has wit and words at will; and, though -he had never touched a pencil, would be a man of extraordinary pretensions -and talents.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Haydon is a young artist of great promise, and much ardour -and energy; and has lately painted a picture which has carried away -universal admiration. Without wishing to detract from that tribute -of deserved applause, we may be allowed to suggest (and with no -unfriendly voice) that he has there, in our judgment, laid in the -groundwork, and raised the scaffolding, of a noble picture; but no -more. There is spirit, conception, force, and effect: but all this is -done by the first going over of the canvas. It is the foundation, not -the superstructure of a first-rate work of art. It is a rude outline, a -striking and masterly sketch.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Milton has given us a description of the growth of a plant—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in26'>——‘So from the root</div> - <div class='line'>Springs lighter the green stalk; from thence the leaves</div> - <div class='line'>More airy; last the bright consummate flower.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>And we think this image might be transferred to the slow and -perfect growth of works of imagination. We have in the present -instance the rough materials, the solid substance and the glowing -spirit of art; and only want the last finishing and patient working up. -Does Mr. Haydon think this too much to bestow on works designed -<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>to breathe the air of immortality, and to shed the fragrance of thought -on a distant age? Does he regard it as beneath him to do what -Raphael has done? We repeat it, here are bold contrasts, distinct -grouping, a vigorous hand and striking conceptions. What remains -then, but that he should add to bold contrasts fine gradations,—to -masculine drawing nice inflections,—to vigorous pencilling those -softened and trembling hues which hover like air on the canvas,—to -massy and prominent grouping the exquisite finishing of every -face and figure, nerve and artery, so as to have each part instinct -with life and thought and sentiment, and to produce an impression -in the spectator not only that he can touch the actual substance, but -that it would shrink from the touch? In a word, Mr. Haydon has -strength: we would wish him to add to it refinement. Till he does -this, he will not remove the common stigma on British art. Nor do -we ask impossibilities of him: we only ask him to make that a -leading principle in his pictures, which he has followed so happily -in parts. Let him take his own Penitent Girl as a model,—paint -up to this standard through all the rest of the figures, and we shall be -satisfied. His Christ in the present picture we do not like, though -in this we have no less an authority against us than Mrs. Siddons. -Mr. Haydon has gone at much length into a description of his <em>idea</em> -of this figure in the Catalogue, which is a practice we disapprove: -for it deceives the artist himself, and may mislead the public. In -the idea he conveys to us from the canvas, there can be no deception. -Mr. Haydon is a devoted admirer of the Elgin marbles; and he has -taken advantage of their breadth and size and masses. We would -urge him to follow them also into their details, their involved graces, -the texture of the skin, the indication of a vein or muscle, the -waving line of beauty, their calm and motionless expression; into all, -in which they follow nature. But to do this, he must go to nature -and study her more and more, in the greatest and the smallest things. -In short, we wish to see this artist paint a picture (he has now every -motive to exertion and improvement) which shall not only have a -striking and imposing effect in the aggregate, but where the impression -of the whole shall be the joint and irresistible effect of the value -of every part. This is our notion of fine art, which we offer to -him, not by way of disparagement or discouragement, but to do our -best to promote the cause of truth and the emulation of the highest -excellence.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We had quite forgotten the chief object of Mr. Farington’s book, -Sir Joshua’s dispute with the Academy about Mr. Bonomi’s election; -and it is too late to return to it now. We think, however, that Sir -Joshua was in the right, and the Academy in the wrong; but we -<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>must refer those who require our reasons to Mr. Farington’s account; -who, though he differs from us in his conclusion, has given the facts -too fairly to justify any other opinion. He has also some excellent -observations on the increasing respectability of artists in society, from -which, and from various other passages of his work, we are inclined -to infer that, on subjects not relating to the Academy, he would be a -sensible, ingenious, and liberal writer.</p> - -<h3 class='c008'>THE PERIODICAL PRESS</h3> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Vol. xxxviii.</span>]      [<em>May 1823.</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>We often hear it asked, <em>Whether Periodical Criticism is, upon the -whole, beneficial to the cause of literature?</em> And this question is -usually followed up by another, which is thought to settle the first, -<em>Whether Shakespeare could have written as he did, had he lived in the -present day?</em> We shall not attempt to answer either of these -questions: But we will be bold to say, that we have at least one -author at present, whose productions spring up free and numberless, -in the very hotbed of criticism—a large and living refutation of the -chilling and blighting effects of such a neighbourhood. ‘But would -not the author of Waverley himself,’ resumes our tritical querist, -‘have written better, if he had not had the fear of the periodical -press before his eyes?’ We answer, that he has no fear of the -periodical press; and that we do not see how, in any circumstances, -he could have written better than he does. ‘But a single exception -does not disprove the rule.’ But he is not a single exception. Is -there not Lord Byron? Are there not many more?—only that we -are too near them to scan the loftiness of their pretensions, or to -guess at their unknown duration. Genius carries on an unequal -strife with Fame; nor will our bare word (if we durst presume to -give it) make the balance even. Time alone can show who are the -authors of mortal or immortal mould; and it is the height of wilful -impertinence to anticipate its award, and assume, because certain living -authors are new, that they never can become old.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Waving, however, any answer to these ingenious questions, we -will content ourselves with announcing a truism on the subject, which, -like many other truisms, is pregnant with deep thought,—<em>viz. That -periodical criticism is favourable—to periodical criticism</em>. It contributes -to its own improvement—and its cultivation proves not only that it -suits the spirit of the times, but advances it. It certainly never -flourished more than at present. It never struck its roots so deep, -nor spread its branches so widely and luxuriantly. Is not the proposal -<span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>of this very question a proof of its progressive refinement? -And what, it may be asked, can be desired more than to have the -perfection of one thing at any one time? If literature in our day -has taken this decided turn into a critical channel, is it not a presumptive -proof that it ought to do so? Most things find their own -level; and so does the mind of man. If there is a preponderance of -criticism at any one period, this can only be because there are subjects, -and because it is the time for it. We complain that this is a Critical -age; and that no great works of Genius appear, because so much -is said and written about them; while we ought to reverse the -argument, and say, that it is because so many works of genius <em>have -appeared</em>, that they have left us little or nothing to do, but to -think and talk about them—that if we did not do that, we should -do nothing so good—and if we do this well, we cannot be said to -do amiss!</p> - -<p class='c010'>It has been stated as a kind of anomaly in the history of the Fine -Arts, that periods of the highest civilization are not usually distinguished -by the greatest works of original genius. But, instead of a -remote or doubtful deduction, this, if closely examined, will be found -a self-evident proposition. Take the case, for example, of ancient -Greece. The time of its greatest splendour, was when its first -statues, pictures, temples, tragedies, had been produced, when they -existed in the utmost profusion, and the taste for them had become -habitual and universal. But the time of the greatest Genius was -undoubtedly the time that produced them,—which was necessarily -antecedent to the other: So that if we were to wait till the era -of the most general refinement, for the production of the highest -models of excellence, we should never arrive at them at all; since -it is these very models themselves, that, by being generally studied, -and diffused through social life, give birth to the last degrees of -taste and civilization. When the edifice is raised and finished in all -its parts, we have nothing to do but to admire it; and invention -gives place to judicious applause, or, according to the temper of the -observers, to petty cavils. While the niches are empty, every nerve -is strained, every faculty is called into play, to supply them with the -masterpieces of skill or fancy: when they are full, the mind reposes -on what has been done, or amuses itself by comparing one excellence -with another. Hence a masculine boldness and creative vigour is -the character of one age, a fastidious and effeminate delicacy that of -a succeeding one. This seems to be the order of nature: and why -should we repine at it? Why insist on combining all sorts of advantages -(even the most opposite) forcibly together; or refuse to cultivate -those that we possess, because there are others that we think more -<span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>highly of, but which are placed out of our reach? ‘We are nothing, -if not critical.’ Be it so: but then let us be critical, or we shall be -nothing.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The demand for works of original genius, the craving after them, -the capacity for inventing them, naturally decay, when we have -models of almost every species of excellence already produced to -our hands. When this is the case, why call out for more? When -art is a blank, then we want genius, enthusiasm, and industry to fill -it up: when it is teeming with beauty and strength, then we want an -eye to gaze at it, hands to point out its striking features, leisure to -luxuriate in, and be enamoured of, its divine spirit. When we have -Shakespeare, we do not want more Shakespeares: one Milton, one -Pope or Dryden, is enough. Have we not plenty of Raphael’s, of -Rubens’s, of Rembrandt’s pictures in the world? <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Terra plena nostri -laboris</span></i>, is almost literally true of them. Who has seen all the fine -pictures, or read all the fine poetry, that already exists?—and yet -till we have done this, what do we want with more? It is like -leaving our own native country unexplored, to travel into foreign -lands. Do we not neglect the standard works to hunt after mere -novelty? This is not wisdom, but affectation or caprice. Learning -becomes, by degrees, an undigested heap, without pleasure or use. -We do not see the absolute necessity why another work should be -written, or another picture painted, till those that we already have -are becoming worm-eaten, or mouldering into decay. We can -hardly expect a new harvest till the old crop is off the ground. If -we insist on absolute originality in living writers or artists, we should -begin by destroying the works of their predecessors. We want -another Osmyn to burn and spare not—and then the work of -extermination and the work of regeneration would go on kindly -together. Are we to learn all that is already known, and, at the -same time, to invent more? This would indeed be the ‘large -discourse of reason looking before and after.’ Who is there that -can boast of having read all the books that have been written, and -that are worth reading? Who is there that can read all those with -which the modern press teems, and which, did they not daily disappear -and turn to dust, the world would not be able to contain them? -Are we to blame for despatching the most worthless of these from -time to time, or for abridging the process of getting at the marrow -of others, and thus leaving the learned at leisure to contemplate -the time-hallowed relics, as well as the ephemeral productions, of -literature?</p> - -<p class='c010'>To instance in our own language only, is there not many a sterling -old author that lies neglected on solitary, unexplored shelves, or -<span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>tottering bookstalls, unknown to, or passed over by, the idle and the -diligent, the republication of which would be the greatest service -that could be performed by the modern man of letters? To master -the Old English Dramatic Writers, the most esteemed novelists, the -good old comedies and periodical works alone, would occupy the -leisure of a life devoted to taste and study. If we look at the rise -and progress, the maturity and decay, of each of these classes of -excellence, we shall find that they were limited in duration, and -successive. The deep rich tragic vein of Shakespeare, Webster, -Ford, Deckar, Marlow, Beaumont and Fletcher, was discovered -and worked out in the time of Elizabeth and the two first Stuarts. -All that the heart of man could feel, all that the wit of man could -express on the most striking and interesting occasions, had been -exhausted by half a dozen great writers, who left little to their -successors but pompous turgidity or smooth common-place,—the art -of swelling trifles into importance, or taming rough boldness into -insipidity. But Comedy rose as Tragedy fell; and, in the age of -Charles II. and Queen Anne, Congreve, Wycherley and Vanburgh, -were contemporary with Dryden, Lee and Rowe. Otway, it is -true, belonged to the same period, a straggler from the veteran corps -of tragic writers:—as, in a range of lofty mountains, we generally -see one green hill thrown to a distance from the rest, and breaking -the abrupt declivity into the level plain. But at each of the periods -here spoken of, the Tragic or the Comic Muse was attended by a -group of writers such as we can scarcely hope to see again, and such -as we have no right to complain of seeing unrivalled, while <em>they</em> are -themselves suffered to remain undisturbed in old collections and odd -volumes. These probed the follies, as those unveiled the passions, -of men: depicted jealousy, rage, ambition, love, madness, affectation, -ignorance, conceit, in their most striking forms and picturesque -contrasts: took possession of the strongholds, the ‘vantage points -of vice or vanity: filled the Stage with the mask of living manners, -or ‘the pomp of elder days:’ shook it with laughter, or drowned -it with tears—poured out the wine of life, the living spirit of the -drama, and left the lees to others. Little could afterwards be made -of the subject, except by resorting to inferior branches of it, or to a -second-hand imitation. No doubt, nature is exceedingly various; -but the capital eminences, the choicest points of view, are limited; -and when these have been once seized upon, we must either follow in -the steps of others, or turn aside to humbler and less practicable -subjects. When the highest places have been occupied, when the -happiest strokes have been anticipated, the ambition of the poet flags: -without the stimulus of novelty, the rapidity or eagerness of his blows -<span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>ceases; and as soon as he can avail himself of common-place and -conventional artifices, he shrinks from the task of original invention. -Or, if he is bent on trying his native strength, and adding to the stock -of what has been effected by others, it must be by striking into a new -path, and cultivating some neglected plot of ground. So, the Periodical -Essayists, Steele and Addison, succeeded to our great Comic -Writers, and the Novelists, Fielding, Sterne, Smollett, to these; and -each left works superior to any thing of the kind before, and unrivalled -in their way by any thing since. Thus genius, like the sun, seems -not to rise higher and higher, but from its first dawn to ascend to its -meridian, and then decline; and art, like life, may be said to have its -stated periods of infancy, manhood, and old age. Alas! the miracles -of art stand often like proud monuments in the waste of time. The -age of Leo the Tenth is like a rock rising out of the abyss,—with -nothing before it, with nothing behind it! As art rose high then, so -did it sink low afterwards: and the Vatican overlooks modern Italian -art, stagnant, puny, steril, unwholesome, ague-struck, as Rome itself -overlooks the marshes of the Campagna. What then? Does not -the Vatican remain, the wonder of succeeding ages and surrounding -nations? And when it yields (as yield it must) to time’s destructive -rage, and its glories crumble into dust, a new Vatican will arise, and -other Raphaels and Michael Angelos will breathe the inspiration of -genius upon its walls! As fires kindled in the night send their light -to a vast distance, so Taste, an emanation from Genius, lingers long -after it; and when its mild radiance is extinguished, then comes night -and barbarism. Modern art, which took its rise in Italy, was -transplanted indeed elsewhere, and flourished in Holland, Spain, and -Flanders—it never took root in France, nor has it yet done so in -England—but the soil, where it first sprung up, became effete soon -after, and has produced scarcely any thing worth naming since.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Not only are literature and art circumscribed by the limits of -nature or the mind of man, but each age or nation has a standard of -its own, which cannot be trespassed upon with impunity. Tragedy -was at its height in France, when it was on the decline with us; but -then it was in a totally different style of composition, which could -never be successfully naturalized in this country. Popularity can only -be insured by the sympathy of the audience with any given mode of -representing nature. The English genius excludes sententious and -sentimental declamations on the passions; and Shakespeare, were he -alive, would be ‘cabin’d, cribbed, confined,’ to say the least, on that -very stage where his plays still flourish, by the change of feeling and -circumstances. He would not have scope for his fancy: the passion -would often seem groundless and overwrought. To produce any -<span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>thing new and striking at present, it is necessary to shift the scene -altogether, to take new subjects, an entire new set of <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Dramatis -Personæ</span></i>,—to pitch the interest in the Heart of Mid-Lothian, or -suspend it in air with the Children of the Mist. We see what Sir -Walter Scott has done in this way, by turning up again to the day -the rich accumulated mould of ancient manners and wild unexplored -scenery of his native land; and we already see what some of his -imitators have done. In a word, literature is confined not only -within certain <em>natural</em>, but also within <em>local</em> and <em>temporary</em> limits, -which necessarily have fewer available topics; and when these are -exhausted, it becomes a <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">caput mortuum</span></i>, a shadow of itself. Nothing -is easier, for instance, than to show how, from the alteration of -manners, the brilliant dialogue of the older comedy has gradually -disappeared from the stage. The style of our common conversation -has undergone a total change from the personal and <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">piquant</span></i> to the -critical and didactic; and, instead of aiming at elegant raillery or -pointed repartee, the most polished circles now discuss general topics, -or analyze abstruse problems. Wit, unless it is exercised on an -indiscriminate subject, is considered as an impertinence in civil life: -yet we complain that the stage is dull and prosaic.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Farther, the Fine Arts, by their spread, interfere with one another, -and hinder the growth of originality. All the greatest things are -done by the division of labour—by the intense concentration of a -number of minds, each on a single and chosen object. But by the -progress of cultivation, different arts and exercises stretch out their -arms to impede, not to assist one another. Politics blend with -poetry, painting with literature; fashion and elegance must be -combined with learning and study: and thus the mind gets a -smattering of every thing, and a mastery in none. The mixing of -acquirements, like the <em>mixing of liquors</em>, is no doubt a bad thing, and -<em>muddles</em> the brain; but in a certain stage of society, it is in some -degree unavoidable. Rembrandt lived retired in his cell of gorgeous -light and shade. Night and Day waited upon him by turns, or -together: his eye gazed on the dazzling gloom, nor did he ask for -any other object. He existed wholly in this part of his art, which -he has stamped on his canvas with such vast and wondrous power. -He was not distracted or diverted from his favourite study by other -things, by penning a Sonnet, or reading the Morning’s Paper. Had -he lived in our time, or in a state of manners like ours, he would have -been a hundred other things, but not Rembrandt—a polite scholar, -an imitator probably of the antique, a pleasing versifier, ‘a chemist, -statesman, fiddler, and buffoon,’—every thing but what he was, the -great master of light and shade! Michael Angelo, again, had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>diversity of genius enough, and grasped more arts than one with -hallowed hands. Yet did he not use to say, that ‘Painting was -jealous, and required the whole man to herself?’ How many -modern accomplishments would it take to make a Michael Angelo? -Yet perhaps the flutter of idle pretensions, the glitter of fashion, the -cant of criticism, with the sense of his own deficiencies in frivolous -pursuits, might have dismayed the dauntless Youth who, with a blow -of his chisel, repaired the Meleager; who afterwards carved the -Moses, painted the Prophets and Sybils, reared the dome of St. -Peter’s, and fortified his native city against a foreign foe! The little -might have turned aside, in his triple career of renown, him whom -the great could not intimidate.</p> - -<p class='c010'>One effect of the endowment of Institutions for the Fine Arts is, -to make the union of the accidents of fortune and fashion, that is, of -the extrinsic and meretricious, indispensable to the artist. He is -violently taken out of his own sphere, and thrust into one for which -he is qualified neither by nature nor habit. He must be able to make -speeches to assembled multitudes, to hold conversation with Princes. -He climbs to the highest honours of his profession by arts which -have nothing to do with it—by frivolous or servile means. He must -have the ear of committees, the countenance of the great. He takes -precedence as a matter of etiquette or costume. He rises, as he -would at college or at court. The chair of a Royal Academy for -the Fine Arts must be filled by a gentleman and scholar. So Sir -Thomas Lawrence (<i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">absit invidia</span></i>) is chosen President, not more -because he is the best portrait-painter in existence, than because he is -one of the finest gentlemen of the day. This is confounding the -essential differences of things, and weakening the solid superstructure -of art at its foundations.—A scholar was formerly another name for a -sloven, an artist was known only by his works. Now, a professional -man, who should come into the world, relying on his genius or -learning for his success, without other advantages, would be looked -upon as a pedant, a barbarian, or a poor creature. ‘Though he -should have all knowledge, and could speak with the tongues of -angels, yet, without <em>affectation</em>, he would be nothing.’ He who is not -acquainted with the topic, who is not fashioned in the mode of the -day, is no better than a brute. We will not have the arts and -sciences ‘relegated to obscure cloisters and villages: no, we will have -them to lift up their sparkling front in courts and palaces,’—in -drawing-rooms and booksellers’ shops. ‘The toe of the scholar must -tread so close on the heel of the courtier, that it galls his kibe.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>This is also a consequence of the approximation and amalgamation -of different ranks and pretensions from the more general diffusion of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>knowledge. Each takes something of the colour, or borrows some -of the advantages, of its neighbour. A reflected light is thrown on -all parts of society. The polite affect literature: the literary affect -to be polite. Such a state of things, no doubt, produces a great deal -of mock-patronage and mock-gentility. What then? It cannot be -prevented: and is it not better to make the most of this florid and -composite style of manners, than to proscribe and stigmatize it altogether, -or insist on going back to the simple Doric or pure Gothic—to -barbaric wealth or cynical knowledge? ‘Take the good the -Gods provide ye’—is our motto, and our advice. The impulse that -sways the human mind cannot be created by a <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">fiat</span></i> of captious discontent: -it floats on the tide of mighty <span class='sc'>Circumstance</span>. By resisting -this natural bias, and peevishly struggling against the stream, we shall -only lose the favourable opportunities we possess, both for enjoyment -and for use. It is not sufficient to say, ‘Let there be Shakespeares, -and there were Shakespeares:’—but we have writers in great -numbers, respectable in their way, and suited to the mediocrity of the -age we live in: And, by cultivating sound principles of taste and -criticism, we can still point out the beauties of the old authors, and -improve the style of the new. There is a change in the world, -and we must conform to it. Instead of striving to revive the spirit -of old English literature, which is impossible, unless we could restore -the same state of things, and push the world back two centuries in its -course, let us add the last polish and fine finish to the modern <em>Belles-Lettres</em>. -Instead of imitating the poets or prose writers of the age of -Elizabeth, let us admire them at a distance. Let us remember, that -there is a great gulf between them and us—the gulf of ever-rolling -years. Let them be something sacred, and venerable to the imagination: -But let us be contented to serve as priests at the shrine of -ancient genius, and not attempt to mount the pedestal ourselves, or -disturb the sanctuary with our unwarranted pretensions.</p> - -<p class='c010'>This is the course dictated no less by modesty than wisdom. -Half the cant of criticism (on the other side of the question) is envy -of the moderns, rather than admiration of the ancients. It is not -that we really wish our contemporaries to rival their predecessors in -grandeur, in force and depth; but that we wish them to fall short of -themselves in elegance, in taste, in ingenuity, and facility. The -exclusive outcry in favour of ancient models, is a <em>diversion</em> to the -exercise of modern talents, and a misdirection to the age. If we -cannot produce the great and lasting works of former times, we may -at least improve our knowledge of the principles on which they were -raised, and of the distinguishing characteristics of each. If we have -nothing to show equal to some of these, let us make it up (to the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>best of our power) by a taste susceptible of the beauties of all. If -we do not succeed in solid folio, let us excel in light duodecimo. If -we are superficial, let us be brilliant. If we cannot be profound, let -us at least be popular.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Why should we dismiss <em>the reading public</em> with contempt, when we -have so little chance with the next generation? Literature formerly -was a sweet Heremitress, who fed on the pure breath of Fame, in -silence and in solitude; far from the madding strife, in sylvan shade -or cloistered hall, she trimmed her lamp or turned her hourglass, -pale with studious care, and aiming only to ‘make the age to come -her own!’ She gave her life to the perfecting some darling work, -and bequeathed it, dying, to posterity! Vain hope, perhaps; but -the hope itself was fruition—calm, serene, blissful, unearthly! -Modern literature, on the contrary, is a gay Coquette, fluttering, -fickle, vain; followed by a train of flatterers; besieged by a crowd -of pretenders; courted, she courts again; receives delicious praise, -and dispenses it; is impatient for applause; pants for the breath of -popularity; renounces eternal fame for a newspaper puff; trifles with -all sorts of arts and sciences; coquettes with fifty accomplishments—<i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mille -ornatus habet, mille decenter</span></i>; is the subject of polite conversation; -the darling of private parties; the go-between in politics; the -directress of fashion; the polisher of manners; and, like her winged -prototype in Spenser,</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Now this now that, she tasteth tenderly,’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>glitters, flutters, buzzes, spawns, dies,—and is forgotten! But the -very variety and superficial polish show the extent and height to -which knowledge has been accumulated, and the general interest -taken in letters.</p> - -<p class='c010'>To dig to the bottom of a subject through so many generations of -authors, is now impossible: the concrete mass is too voluminous and -vast to be contained in any single head; and therefore we must have -essences and samples as substitutes for it. We have collected a -superabundance of raw materials: the grand <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">desideratum</span></i> now is, to -fashion and render them portable. Knowledge is no longer confined -to the few: the object therefore is, to make it accessible and -attractive to the many. The <em>Monachism</em> of literature is at an end; -the cells of learning are thrown open, and let in the light of universal -day. We can no longer be churls of knowledge, ascetics in -pretension. We must yield to the spirit of change (whether for the -better or worse); and ‘to beguile the time, look like the time.’ A -modern author may (without much imputation of his wisdom) declare -for a short life and a merry one. He may be a little gay, thoughtless, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>and dissipated. Literary immortality is now let on short leases, and -he must be contented to succeed by rotation. A scholar of the olden -time had resources, had consolations to support him under many -privations and disadvantages. A light (that light which penetrates -the most clouded skies) cheered him in his lonely cell, in the most -obscure retirement: and, with the eye of faith, he could see the -meanness of his garb exchanged for the wings of the Shining Ones, -and the wedding-garment of the Spouse. Again, he lived only in -the contemplation of old books and old events; and the remote and -future became habitually present to his imagination, like the past. -He was removed from low, petty vanity, by the nature of his studies, -and could wait patiently for his reward till after death. <span class='sc'>We</span> exist in -the bustle of the world, and cannot escape from the notice of our -contemporaries. We must please to live, and therefore should live to -please. We must look to the public for support. Instead of solemn -testimonies from the learned, we require the smiles of the fair and the -polite. If princes scowl upon us, the broad shining face of the -people may turn to us with a favourable aspect. Is not this life (too) -sweet? Would we change it for the former if we could? But the -great point is, that <em>we cannot</em>! Therefore, let Reviews flourish—let -Magazines increase and multiply—let the Daily and Weekly Newspapers -live for ever! We are optimists in literature, and hold, with -certain limitations, that, in this respect, whatever is, is right!</p> - -<p class='c010'>It has been urged as one fatal objection against periodical criticism, -that it is too often made the engine of party-spirit and personal -invective. This is an abuse of it greatly to be lamented; but in fact, -it only shows the extent and importance of this branch of literature, -so that it has become the organ of every thing else, however alien to -it. The current of political and individual obloquy has run into this -channel, because it has absorbed every topic. The bias to miscellaneous -discussion and criticism is so great, that it is necessary to -insert politics in a sort of sandwich of literature, in order to make -them at all palatable to the ordinary taste. The war of political -pamphlets, of virulent pasquinades, has ceased, and the ghosts of -Junius and Cato, of Gracchus and Cincinnatus, no longer ‘squeak -and gibber’ in our modern streets, or torment the air with a hubbub -of hoarse noises. A Whig or Tory <em>tirade</em> on a political question, -the abuse of a public character, now stands side by side in a fashionable -Review, with a disquisition on ancient coins, or is introduced right -in the middle of an analysis of the principles of taste. This is a -violation, no doubt, of the rules of decorum and order, and might -well be dispensed with: but the stock of malice and prejudice in the -world is much the same, though it has found a more classical and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>agreeable vehicle to vent itself. Mere politics, mere personal altercation, -will not go down without an infusion of the Belles-Lettres and -the Fine Arts. This makes decidedly either for the refinement or -the frivolity of our taste. It is found necessary to poison or to sour -the public mind, by going to the well-head of polite literature and -periodical criticism,—which shows plainly how many drink at that -fountain, and will drink at no other. As a farther example of this -rage for conveying information in an easy and portable form, we -believe that booksellers will often refuse to purchase in a volume, -what they will give a handsome price for, if divided piecemeal, and fitted -for occasional insertion in a newspaper or magazine; so that the only -authors who, as a class, are not starving, are periodical essayists, as -almost the only writers who can keep their reputation above water -are anonymous critics. But we have enlarged sufficiently on the -general question, and shall now proceed to a more particular account -of the state of the Periodical Press. We consider this Article, -however, as an exception to our general rules of criticizing, and -protest against its being turned into a precedent; for if our several -contemporaries were to criticize one author as a constant habit, there -would be no end of the repeated reflections and continually lessening -perspective of cavils and objections, which would resemble nothing in -nature but the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Caffée des Milles Colonnes</span></i>!</p> - -<p class='c010'>The staple literature of the Periodical Press may, we presume, be -fairly divided into Newspapers, Magazines, and Reviews; and of -each of these, if we have courage to go through with it, we shall say -a word or two in their order.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The <span class='sc'>St. James’s Chronicle</span> is, we have understood, the oldest -existing paper in London. We are not quite sure whether it was in -this or in another three-times-a-week paper (the Englishman<a id='r13' /><a href='#f13' class='c014'><sup>[13]</sup></a>) that -we first met with some extracts from Mr. Burke’s Letter to a Noble -Lord in the year 1796, and on the instant became converts to his -familiar, inimitable, powerful prose style. The richness of Burke -showed, indeed, more magnificent, contrasted with the meagreness of -the ordinary style of the paper into which his invective was thrown. -Let any one, indeed, who may be disposed to disparage modern -<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>intellect and modern letters, look over a file of old newspapers (only -thirty or forty years back), or into those that, by prescription, keep -up the old-fashioned style in accommodation to the habitual dulness -of their readers, and compare the poverty, the meanness, the want of -style and matter in their original paragraphs, with the amplitude, -the strength, the point and terseness which characterize the leading -journals of the day, and he will perhaps qualify the harshness of his -censure. We have not a Burke, indeed—we have not even a Junius; -but we have a host of writers, working for their bread on the spur of -the occasion, and whose names are not known, formed upon the model -of the best writers who have gone before them, and reflecting many -of their graces.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Let any one (for instance) compare the St. James’s Chronicle, -which is on the model of the old school, with the <span class='sc'>Morning -Chronicle</span>, which is, or was at least, at the head of the new. This -paper we have been long used to think the best, both for amusement -and instruction, that issued from the daily press. It is full, but not -crowded; and we have breathing-spaces and openings left to pause -upon each subject. We have plenty and variety. The reader of a -morning paper ought not to be crammed to satiety. He ought to -rise from the perusal light and refreshed. Attention is paid to every -topic, but none is overdone. There is a liberality and decorum. -Every class of readers is accommodated with its favourite articles, -served up with taste, and without sparing for the sharpest sauces.<a id='r14' /><a href='#f14' class='c014'><sup>[14]</sup></a> -A copy of verses is supplied by one of the popular poets of the day; -a prose essay appears in another page, which, had it been written two -hundred years ago, might still have been read with admiration; a -correction of a disputed reading, in a classical author, is contributed -by a learned correspondent. The politician may look profound over -a grave dissertation on a point of constitutional history; a lady may -smile at a rebus or a charade. Here, Pitt and Fox, Burke and -Sheridan, maintained their nightly combats over again; here Porson -criticized, and Jekyll punned. An appearance of conscious dignity -<span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>is kept up, even in the Advertisements, where a principle of proportion -and separate grouping is observed; the announcement of a new work -is kept distinct from the hiring of a servant of all work, or the sailing -of a steam-yacht.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The late Mr. Perry, who raised the Morning Chronicle into its -present consequence, held the office of Editor for nearly forty years; -and he held firm to his party and his principles all that time,—a long -term for political honesty and consistency to last! He was a man of -strong natural sense, some acquired knowledge, a quick tact; prudent, -plausible, and with great heartiness and warmth of feeling. This -last quality was perhaps of more use to him than any other, in the -sphere in which he moved. His cordial voice and sanguine mode of -address made friends, whom his sincerity and gratitude insured. An -overflow of animal spirits, sooner than any thing else, floats a man -into the tide of success. Nothing cuts off sympathy so much as the -obvious suppression of the kindly impulses of our nature. He who -takes another slightly by the hand, will not stick to him long, nor in -difficulties. Others perceive this, and anticipate the defection, or the -hostile blow. Among the ways and means of success in life, if good -sense is the first, good nature is the second. If we wish others to -be attached to us, we must not seem averse or indifferent to them. -Perry was more vain than proud. This made him fond of the society -of lords, and them of his. His shining countenance reflected the -honour done him, and the alacrity of his address prevented any sense -of awkwardness or inequality of pretensions. He was a little of a -coxcomb, and we do not think he was a bit the worse for it. A -man who does not think well of himself, generally thinks ill of -others; nor do they fail to return the compliment. Towards the -last, he, to be sure, received visitors in his library at home, something -in the style of the Marquis Marialva in Gil Blas. He affected -the scholar. On occasion of the death of Porson, he observed that -‘<em>Epithalamia</em> were thrown into his coffin;’ of which there was an -awkward correction next day,—‘For <em>Epithalamia</em> read <em>Epicedia</em>!’ -The worst of it was, that a certain consciousness of merit, with a -little overweening pretension, sometimes interfered with the conduct -of the paper. Mr. Perry was not like a contemporary editor, who -never writes a sentence himself, and assigns, as a reason for it, that -‘he has too many interests to manage as it is, without the addition of -his own literary vanity.’ The Editor of the Morning Chronicle -wrote up his own paper; and he had an ambition to have it thought, -that every good thing in it, unless it came from a lord, or an acknowledged -wit, was his own. If he paid for the article itself, he thought -he paid for the credit of it also. This sometimes brought him into -<span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>awkward situations. He wished to be head and chief of his own -paper, and would not have any thing behind the editor’s desk, greater -than the desk itself. He was frequently remiss himself, and was not -sanguine that others should make up the deficiency. He possessed a -most tenacious memory, and often, in the hottest periods of Parliamentary -warfare, carried off half a Debate on his own shoulders. -The very first time he was intrusted with the task of reporting -speeches in the House of Commons, a singular lapse of memory -occurred to him. Soon after he had taken his seat in the Gallery, -some accident put him out, and he remained the whole night stupified -and disconcerted. When the House broke up, he returned to the -office of the paper for which he was engaged, in despair, and professing -total inability to give a single word of it. But he was prevailed -upon to sit down at the writing-desk. The sluices of memory, which -were not empty, but choked up, began to open, and they poured on, -till he had nearly filled the paper with a <em>verbatim</em> account of the speech -of a Lord Nugent, when his employer, finding his mistake, told him -this would never do, but he must begin over again, and merely give a -general and <em>historical</em> account of what had passed. Perry snapped his -fingers at this release from his terrors; and it has been observed, that -the <em>historical</em> mode of giving a Debate was his delight ever afterwards. -From the time of Woodfall, the Morning Chronicle was distinguished -by its superior excellence in reporting the proceedings of Parliament. -Woodfall himself often filled the whole paper without any assistance. -This, besides the arduousness of the undertaking, necessarily occasioned -delay. At present, several Reporters take the different speeches in -succession—(each remaining an hour at a time)—go immediately, -and transcribe their notes for the press; and, by this means, all the -early part of a debate is actually printed before the last speaker has -risen upon his legs. The public read the next day at breakfast-time -(perhaps), what would make a hundred octavo pages, every word of -which has been spoken, written out, and printed within the last twelve -or fourteen hours!</p> - -<p class='c010'>The <span class='sc'>Times Newspaper</span> is, we suppose, entitled to the character it -gives itself, of being the ‘Leading Journal of Europe,’ and is perhaps -the greatest engine of temporary opinion in the world. Still it is not -to our taste—either in matter or manner. It is elaborate, but heavy; -full, but not readable: it is stuffed up with official documents, with -matter-of-fact details. It seems intended to be deposited in the office -of the Keeper of the Records, and might be imagined to be composed -as well as printed with a steam-engine. It is pompous, dogmatical, -and full of pretensions, but neither light, various, nor agreeable. It -sells more, and contains more, than any other paper; and when you -<span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>have said this, you have said all. It presents a most formidable front -to the inexperienced reader. It makes a toil of a pleasure. It is -said to be calculated for persons in business, and yet it is the business -of a whole morning to get through it. Bating voluminous details of -what had better be omitted, the same things are better done in the -Chronicle. To say nothing of poetry (which may be thought too -frivolous and attenuated for the atmosphere of the city), the prose is -inferior. No equally sterling articles can be referred to in it, either -for argument or wit. More, in short, is effected in the Morning -Chronicle, without the formality and without the effort. The Times -is not a <em>classical</em> paper. It is a commercial paper, a paper of business, -and it is conducted on principles of trade and business. It floats with -the tide: it sails with the stream. It has no other principle, as we -take it. It is not ministerial; it is not patriotic; but it is <em>civic</em>. It -is the lungs of the British metropolis; the mouthpiece, oracle, and -echo of the Stock Exchange; the representative of the mercantile -interest. One would think so much gravity of style might be accompanied -with more steadiness and weight of opinion. But <em>the</em> <span class='sc'>Times</span> -conforms to the changes of the time. It bears down upon a question, -like a first-rate man of war, with streamers flying and all hands on -deck; but if the first broadside does not answer, turns short upon it, -like a triremed galley, firing off a few paltry squibs to cover its -retreat. It takes up no falling cause; fights no up-hill battle; -advocates no great principle; holds out a helping hand to no oppressed -or obscure individual. It is ‘ever strong upon the stronger side.’ -Its style is magniloquent; its spirit is not magnanimous. It is valiant, -swaggering, insolent, with a hundred thousand readers at its heels; but -the instant the rascal rout turn round with the ‘whiff and wind’ of -some fell circumstance, the Times, the renegade, inconstant Times, -turns with them! Let the mob shout, let the city roar, and the voice -of the Times is heard above them all, with outrageous deafening -clamour; but let the vulgar hubbub cease, and no whisper, no echo of -it is ever after heard of in the Times. Like Bully Bottom in the -play, it then ‘aggravates its voice so, as if it were a singing dove, an -it were any nightingale.’ Its coarse ribaldry is turned to a harmless -jest; its swelling rhodomontade sinks to a vapid common-place; and -the editor amuses himself in the interval, before another great explosion, -by collecting and publishing from time to time, Affidavits -of the numbers of his paper sold in the last stormy period of the -press.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The Times rose into notice through its diligence and promptitude -in furnishing Continental intelligence, at a time when foreign news -was the most interesting commodity in the market; but at present it -<span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>engrosses every other department. It grew obscene and furious during -the revolutionary war; and the nicknames which Mr. Walter bestowed -on the French Ruler were the counters with which he made -his fortune. When the game of war and madness was over, and the -proprietor wished to pocket his dear-bought gains quietly, he happened -to have a writer in his employ who wanted to roar on, as if any -thing more was to be got by his continued war-whoop, and who -scandalized the whole body of disinterested Jews, contractors, and -stock-jobbers, by the din and smithery with which, in the piping -time of peace, he was for rivetting on the chains of foreign nations. -It was found, or thought at least, that this could not go on. The -tide of gold no longer flowed up the river, and the tide of Billingsgate -and blood could no longer flow down it, with any pretence to decency, -morality, or religion. There is a cant of patriotism in the city: -there is a cant of humanity among hackneyed politicians. The -<em>writer</em> of the <span class='fss'>LEADING ARTICLE</span>, it is true, was a fanatic; but the -<em>proprietor</em> of the <span class='fss'>LEADING JOURNAL</span> was neither a martyr nor confessor. -The principles gave way to the policy of the paper; and this was the -origin of the <span class='sc'>New Times</span>.</p> - -<p class='c010'>This new Morning paper is one which every Tory ought to -encourage. If the friend of the people cannot <em>away with</em> it, the -friend of power ought not to be without it. Nay, it may be of use to -the liberal or the wavering; for it goes all lengths, boggles at no consequences, -and unmasks the features of despotism fearlessly and -shamelessly, without remorse and without pity. The Editor deals in -no half measures, in no half principles; but is a thorough-paced -stickler for the modernized doctrines of passive obedience and non-resistance. -Dr. Sacheverel, in his day, could not go beyond him. -He is no flincher, no trimmer; he ‘champions <em>Legitimacy</em> to the -outrance.’ There is something in this spirit, that if it exposes the -possessor to hatred, exempts him from contempt. The present -Editor of the New, and late Editor of the Old Times, whatever we -may think of his opinions, must be acknowledged to be staunch, -determined, and consistent in maintaining them. He is a violent -partisan, blind to the blots in his own cause; and, by this means, he -often opens the eyes of others to them. He has no evasion, no -disguises. Let him take up a wrong argument (which he does on -principle) and no one can beat him in pushing it to the <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">reductio ad -absurdum</span></i>: let him engage in a bad cause (which he does by instinct) -and no consideration of prudence or compassion will make him turn -back. He is a logician, and will not bate one ace of his argument. -He goes the utmost length of the spirit, as well as the principles, of -his party. If we like the spirit of despotism, we see it exemplified -<span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>in his views and sentiments: if we like the principles, we find them -in full perfection, and without any cowardly drawback in his -reasonings. He is the true organ of the <em>Ultras</em>, at home or abroad. -It is the creed, we believe, of all legitimate princes, that the world -was made for them; and this sentiment is stamped, fixed, seared in -inverted but indelible characters, on the mind of the Editor of the -New Times, who, we believe, would march to a stake, in testimony -of the opinion that he and all mankind ought to be held as slaves, in -fee and perpetuity, by half a dozen lawful rulers of the species. He -lays it down, for instance, in so many words, that ‘Louis XVIII. has -the same undoubted right (in kind and in degree) to the throne of -France, that Mr. Coke has to his estate of Holkham in Norfolk:’ -and from this declaration he never swerves, not even in thought. -Other writers may argue upon the assumption of this principle, or -now and then, in a moment of unexpected triumph, avow it; but he -alone has the glory and the shame of making it the acknowledged, -undisguised basis of all his reasoning. He is fascinated, in short, -with the abstract image of royalty; he has swallowed love-powders -from despotism; he is drunk with the spirit of servility; mad with -the hatred of liberty; flagrant, obscene in the exposure of the -shameful parts of his cause; and his devotion to power amounts to a -prostration of all his faculties. It is strange, as well as lamentable, -to see this misguided enthusiasm, this preposterous pertinacity in -wilful degradation. Yet it is not without its use. Its honesty warns -us of the consequences we have to dread: as its consistency insures -us some compensation in some part or other of the system. There is -no pure evil, but hypocrisy. Every principle (almost) if consistently -followed up, leads to some good, by some reaction on itself. It is -only by tergiversation, by tricking, by being false to all opinion, and -picking out the bad of every cause to suit it to our own interest, that -we get a vile compost of intolerable and opposite abuses. Thus, we -should say that superstition, while it was real, with all its evils, had -its redeeming points, in the faith and zeal of those who were actuated -by it, into whatever excesses they might be hurried: but we object -entirely to modern fanaticism, which is the patchwork product of a -perverted intellect, with all the absurdity and all the mischief, without -one particle of sincerity, to justify it. Despotism even has its -advantages; but we see no good in modern despotism, which has lost -its reverence, and retains only the odiousness of power. The <span class='sc'>State -Doctor</span> of the <span class='small'><span class='sc'>New Times</span> is, however, a perfect <em>Preux Chevalier</em></span>, -compared with some of his hireling contemporaries: another Peter -the Hermit, to preach an everlasting crusade against Jacobins and -Levellers, and to rekindle another Holy War in favour of <em>Divine Right</em>. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>There is a dramatic interest in the fury of his exclamations, which -induces us to make some allowance for the barbarism of his creed. -He is less mischievous than when he wrote in the <span class='sc'>Old Times</span>, which -trimmed between power and popularity, and oiled the wheels of -Despotism with the cant of Liberty. He does not now fawn on public -opinion, but sets it at defiance, both in theory and practice. He does -not mix up the grossness of faction with the refinements of sophistry. -He does not uphold the principles, and insult the persons, of the -aristocracy. No one was more bitter against the late queen, or more -able or strenuous in the cause of her enemies; but he maintained a -certain respect for her rank and birth. He did not think that every -species of outrage and indecency, heaped on the daughter of a prince, -the consort of a king, was the most delicate compliment that could be -paid to royalty; but conceived, that when we forget what is due to -place and title, we make a gap in ceremony and outward decorum, -through which all such persons may be assailed with impunity. -Perhaps this starched, pedantic preference of principles to persons, -may not, after all, be the surest road to court favour; but we respect -any one who is ever liable to a frown from a patron, or to be left in -a minority by his own party. There is nothing truly contemptible, -but that which is always tacking and veering before the breath of -power.</p> - -<p class='c010'>This naturally leads us to the <span class='sc'>Courier</span>; which is a paper of shifts -and expedients, of bare assertions, and thoughtless impudence. It -denies facts on the word of a minister, and dogmatizes by authority. -‘The force of dulness can no farther go:’—but its pertness keeps -pace with its <em>dulness</em>. It sets up a lively pretension to safe common-places -and stale jests; and has an alternate gaiety and gravity of -manner:—The <em>matter</em> is nothing. Compared with the solemn -quackery of the Old or New Times, the ingenious editor is the -Merry-Andrew of the political show. The Courier is intended for -country readers, the clergy and gentry, who do not like to be disturbed -with a <em>reason</em> for any thing, but with whom the self-complacent -shallowness of the editor passes for a self-evident proof that every -thing is as it should be. It is a paper that those who run may read. -It asks no thought: it creates no uneasiness. In it the last quarter’s -assessed taxes are always made good: the harvest is abundant; trade -reviving; the Constitution unimpaired; the minister immaculate, and -the Monarch the finest gentleman in his dominions. The writer has -no idea beyond a certain set of cant phrases, which he repeats by -rote, and never puzzles any one by the smallest glimpse of meaning -in what he says. This lacquey to the Treasury, in short, puts one in -mind of those impudent valets at the doors of great houses—sleek, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span>saucy, empty, and vulgar—who give short answers, and laugh into -the faces of those who come with complaints and grievances to their -masters—think their employers great men, and themselves clever -fellows—eat, drink, sleep, and let the world <em>slide</em>!</p> - -<p class='c010'>The <span class='small'><span class='sc'>Sun</span> is a paper that <em>appears</em> daily, but never <em>shines</em></span>. The -editor, who is an agreeable man, has a sinecure of it; and the public -trouble their heads just as little about it as he does.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The <span class='sc'>Traveller</span> is not a new, but a newly-conducted evening -paper; which, if it has not much wit or brilliancy, is distinguished -by sound judgment, careful information, and constitutional principles.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We really cannot presume to scan the transcendent merits of the -<span class='sc'>Morning Post</span> and <span class='sc'>Fashionable World</span>—and, in short, the other -daily papers must excuse us for saying nothing about them.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Of the <span class='sc'>Weekly Journalists</span>, Cobbett stands first in power and -popularity. Certainly he has earned the latter: would that he -abused the former less! We once tried to cast this Antæus to the -ground; but the earth-born rose again, and still staggers on, blind or -one-eyed, to his remorseless, restless purpose,—sometimes running -upon posts and pitfalls—sometimes shaking a country to its centre. -It is best to say little about him, and keep out of his way; for he -crushes, by his ponderous weight, whomsoever he falls upon; and, -what is worse, drags to cureless ruin whatever cause he lays his hands -upon to support.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The <span class='sc'>Examiner</span> stands next to Cobbett in talent; and is much -before him in moderation and steadiness of principle. It has also a -much greater variety both of tact and subject. Indeed, an agreeable -rambling scope and freedom of discussion is so much in the author’s -way, that the reader is at a loss under what department of the paper -to look for any particular topic. A literary criticism, perhaps, -insinuates itself under the head of the Political Examiner; and the -theatrical critic, or lover of the Fine Arts, is stultified by a <em>tirade</em> -against the Bourbons. If the dishes are there, it does not much -signify in what order they are placed. With the exception of a little -egotism and <em>twaddle</em>, and flippancy and dogmatism about religion or -morals, and mawkishness about firesides and furious Buonapartism, -and a vein of sickly sonnet-writing, we suspect the Examiner must be -allowed (whether we look to the design or execution of the general -run of articles in it) to be the ablest and most respectable of the -publications that issue from the weekly press.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The <span class='sc'>News</span> is also an excellent paper—interspersed with historical -and classical knowledge, written in a good taste, and with an excellent -spirit. Its circulation is next, we believe, to that of the <span class='sc'>Observer</span>, -which has twice as many murders, assaults, robberies, fires, accidents, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>offences, as any other paper, and sells proportionably. Shadows -affright the town as well as substances, and ill news fly fast. We -apprehend these are the chief of the weekly journals. There are -others that have become notorious for qualities that ought to have -consigned them long ago to the hands of the common hangman; and -some that, by their tameness and indecision, have been struggling into -existence ever since their commencement. There is ability, but -want of direction, in several of the last.</p> - -<p class='c010'>As to the Weekly Literary Journals, Gazettes, &c. they are a -truly insignificant race—a sort of flimsy announcements of favoured -publications—insects in letters, that are swallowed up in the larger -blaze of full-orbed criticism, and where</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Coming <em>Reviews</em> cast their shadows before!’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>We cannot condescend to enumerate them. Before we quit this -part of our subject, we must add, that Scotland boasts but one -original newspaper, the <span class='sc'>Scotsman</span>, and that newspaper but one subject—Political -Economy.—The Editor, however, may be said to be -king of it!</p> - -<p class='c010'>Of the <em>Magazines</em>, which are a sort of <em>cater-cousins</em> to ourselves, we -would wish to speak with tenderness and respect. There is the -Gentleman’s Magazine, at one extremity of the series, and Mr. -Blackwood’s at the other—and between these there is the European, -which is all abroad,—and the Lady’s, which is all at home,—and the -London, and the Monthly, and the New Monthly—nay, hold; for -if all their names were to be written down, one Article or one -Number would hardly contain them—so many of them are there, -and such antipathy do they hold to each other! For the <span class='sc'>Gentleman’s -Magazine</span> we profess an affection. We like the name, we like -the title of the Editor, (Mr. Sylvanus Urban—what a rustic civility -is there in it!)—we like the frontispiece of St. John’s Gate—a well-preserved -piece of useless antiquity, an emblem of the work—we like -the table of contents, which promises no more than it performs. -There we are sure of finding the last lingering remains of a former -age, with the embryo production of the new—some nine days wonder, -some forlorn <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Hic jacet</span></i>—all that is forgotten, or soon to be so—an -alligator stuffed, a mermaid, an Egyptian mummy—South-sea inventions, -or the last improvement on the spinning-jenny—an epitaph in -Pancras Church-yard, the head of Memnon, Lord Byron’s Farewell, -a Charade by a Young Lady, and Dr. Johnson’s dispute with Osborn -the bookseller! Oh! happy mixture of indolence and study, of -order and disorder! Who, with the Gentleman’s Magazine held -carelessly in his hand, has not passed minutes, hours, days, in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span><em>lackadaisical</em> triumph over <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ennui</span></i>! Who has not taken it up on parlour -window-seats? Who has not ran it slightly through in reading-rooms? -If it has its faults, they are those of an agreeable old age; -and we could almost wish some ill to those who can say any harm -of it.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The <span class='sc'>Monthly Magazine</span> was originally an improvement on the -Gentleman’s, and the model on which succeeding ones have been -formed. It was a literary Miscellany, variously and ably supported—a -sort of repository for the leading topics of conversation of the day; -but it has of late degenerated into a register of patents, and an account -of the proprietor’s philosophy of the universe, in answer to Sir Isaac -Newton! Other publications have succeeded to it, and prevailed. -Which of these is the best, the <span class='sc'>London</span> or the <span class='sc'>New Monthly</span>? -We are not the Œdipus to solve this riddle; and indeed it might be -difficult, for we believe many of the writers are the same in each. -But both contain articles, we will be bold to say, in the form of -Essays, Theatrical Criticism, <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Jeux-d’esprit</span></cite>, which may be considered -as the flower and cream of periodical literature. To those who -judge of books in the lump, by the cubic contents, the binding, or the -letters on the back, and who think that all that is conveyed between -blue or yellow or orange-tawny covers, must be vain and light as the -leaves that flutter round it, we would remark, that many of these -fugitive, unowned productions, have been collected, and met with no -unfavourable reception, in solid octavo or compact duodecimo. Are -there not the quaint and grave subtleties of Elia, the extreme -paradoxes of the author of Table Talk, the Confessions of an Opium-eater, -the copious tales of Traditional Literature, all from one -Magazine? We believe, the agreeable lucubrations of Mr. Geoffrey -Crayon also first ventured to meet the public eye in an obscure -publication of the same sort—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in12'>‘With a blush,</div> - <div class='line'>Modest as morning, when she coldly eyes</div> - <div class='line'>The youthful Phœbus!’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>To say truth, some such ordeal seems almost necessary as a passport -to literary reputation. The public like to taste works in the sample, -before they swallow them whole. If in the two leading Magazines -just alluded to, we do not meet with any great fund of anecdote, with -much dramatic display of character, with the same number of successful -experiments in the world of letters as at an earlier period of our -history, yet the reader may perhaps think the want of these in a great -measure compensated by a better sustained tone of general reflection, -of mild sentiment, and liberal taste; which we hold, in spite of some -<span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>strong exceptions, to be the true characteristics of the age. The -fault of the London Magazine is, that it wants a sufficient unity of -direction and purpose. There is no particular bias or governing -spirit,—which neutralizes the interest. The articles seem thrown -into the letter-box, and to come up like blanks or prizes in the lottery—all -is in a confused, unconcocted state, like the materials of a rich -plum-pudding before it has been well boiled. On the contrary, there -may be said to be too much tampering with the management of the -New Monthly, till the taste and spirit evaporate. A thing, by being -overdone, stands a chance of being insipid—the fastidious may end in -languor—the agreeable may cloy by repetition. The Editor, we are -afraid, <em>pets</em> it too much,—and it is accordingly more remarkable for -delicacy than robustness of constitution, and, by being faultless, loses -some of its effect.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Over-refinement, however, cannot be charged as the failing of most -of our periodical publications. Some are full of polemical orthodoxy—some -of methodistical deliration—some inculcate servility, and -others preach up sedition—some creep along in a series of dull truisms -and stale moralities—while others, more ‘lively, audible, and full of -vent,’ subsist on the great staple of falsehood and personality, and -enjoy all the advantages that result from an entire contempt for the -restraints of decency, consistency, or candour. There is no pretence, -indeed, or concealment of the principles on which such works are -conducted: and the reader feels almost as if he were admitted to -look in on a club of thorough-going hack authors, in their moments -of freedom and exaltation. There is plenty of <em>slang-wit</em> going, and -some shrewd remark. The pipes and tobacco are laid on the table, -with a set-out of oysters and whisky, and bludgeons and sword-sticks -in the corner! A profane parody is recited, or a libel on an absent -member—and songs are sung in mockery of their former friends and -employers. From foul words they get to blows and broken heads; -till, drunk with ribaldry, and stunned with noise, they proceed to -throw open the windows and abuse the passengers in the street, for -their want of religion, morals, and decorum! This is a modern and -an enormous abuse, and requires to be corrected.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The illiberality of the Periodical Press is ‘the sin that most easily -besets it.’ We have already accounted for this from the rank and -importance it has assumed, which have made it a necessary engine in -the hands of party. The abuse, however, has grown to a height -that renders it desirable that it should be crushed, if it cannot be -corrected; for it threatens to overlay, not only criticism and letters, -but to root out all common honesty and common sense from works of -the greatest excellence, upon large classes of society. All character, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>all decency, the plainest matters of fact, or deductions of reason, are -made the sport of a nickname, an inuendo, or a bold and direct -falsehood. The continuance of this nuisance rests not with the -writers, but with the public; it is they that pamper it into the -monster it is; and, in order to put an end to the traffic, the best way -is to let them see a little what sort of thing it is which they encourage. -Both of the extreme parties in the State, the Ultra-Whigs as well as -the Ultra-Royalists, have occasionally trespassed on the borders of -this enormity: But it is only the worst part of the Ministerial Press -that has had the temptation, the hardihood, or the cowardice to make -literature the mere tool and creature of party-spirit; and, in the -sacredness of the cause in which it was embarked, to disregard -entirely the profligacy of the means. It was pious and loyal to -substitute abuse for argument, and private scandal for general argument. -He who calumniated his neighbour was a friend to his -country. If you could not reply to your opponent’s objections, you -might caricature his person; if you were foiled by his wit or learning, -you might recover your advantage by stabbing his character. The -cry of ‘No Popery,’ or ‘the Constitution is in danger,’ was an answer -to all cavils or scruples. Who would hesitate about the weapons he -used to repel an attack on all that was dear and valuable in civil -institutions? He who drew off the public attention from a popular -statement, by alluding to a slip in the private history of an individual, -did well; he who embodied a flying rumour as an undoubted fact, -for the same laudable end, did better; and he who invented a palpable -falsehood, did best of all. He discovered most invention, most zeal, -and most boldness; and received the highest reward for the sacrifice -of his time, character, and principle. If the jest took, it was gravely -supported; if it was found out, it was well intended: To belie a -Whig, a Jacobin, a Republican, or a Dissenter, was doing God and -the king good service; at any rate, whether true or false, detected or -not, the imputation left a stain behind it, and would be ever after -coupled with the name of the individual, so as to disable him, and -deter others from doing farther mischief. Knowledge, writing, the -press was found to be the great engine that governed public opinion; -and the scheme therefore was, to make it recoil upon itself, and act in -a retrograde direction to its natural one. Prejudice and power had -a provocation to this extreme and desperate mode of defence, in their -instinctive jealousy of any opposition to their sentiments or will. -They felt that reason was against them—and therefore it was necessary -that they should be against reason,—they felt, too, that they could -extend impunity to their agents and accomplices, whom they could -easily screen from reprisals. Conscious that they were no match for -<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>modern philosophers and reformers in abstract reasoning, they paid -off their dread of their talents and principles by a proportionable -contempt for their persons, for which no epithets could be too mean -or hateful. These were therefore poured out in profusion by their -satellites. The nicknames, the cant phrases, too, were all in favour -of existing institutions and opinions, and were easily devised in a -contest where victory, not truth, was the object. The warfare -was therefore turned into this channel from the first; and what -passion dictated, a cunning and mercenary policy has continued. -The Anti-Jacobin was one of the first that gave the alarm, that -set up the war-whoop of reckless slander and vulgar abuse. Here -is a specimen.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Mr. Coleridge having been dishonoured at Cambridge for preaching -Deism, has, since that time, left his native country; commenced -citizen of the world; left his poor children fatherless, and his wife -destitute. <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Ex hoc disce omnes</span></i>—his friend Southey and others.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>This is the way in which a man of the most exemplary habits and -strict morals was included in the same sentence of reprobation with -one of greater genius, though perhaps of more irregular conduct; -while the imputations in both cases were impudent falsehoods—probably -known to be so, or else founded on some idle report, -eagerly caught up and maliciously exaggerated. What has been the -effect? Why, that these very persons have, in the end, joined that -very pack of hunting-tigers that strove to harass them to death, and -now halloo longest and loudest in the chase of blood. Nor was the -result, after all, so unnatural as it might at first appear. They saw -that there was but one royal road to reputation. The new Temple -of Fame was built as an outwork to the rotten boroughs, and the -warders were busy on the top of it, pouring down scalding lead and -horrible filth on all those who approached, and demanded entrance, -without well-attested political credentials. ‘The manna’ of court -favour ‘was falling’; and our pilgrims to the land of promise, slowly, -reluctantly, but perhaps wisely, got out of the way of it. Who, -indeed, was likely to stand, for any length of time, ‘the pelting of -this pitiless storm’—the precipitation of nicknames from such a -height, the thundering down of huge volumes of dirt and rubbish, -the ugly blows at character, the flickering jests on personal defects—with -the complacent smiles of the great, and the angry shouts -of the mob, to say nothing of the Attorney-General’s informations, -filed <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">ex officio</span></i>, and the well-paid depositions of spies and informers? -It was a hard battle to fight. The enemy were well entrenched on -the heights of place and power, and skulked behind their ramparts—those -whom they assailed were exposed, and on the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pavé</span></i>. It was the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>forlorn hope of genius and independence struggling for fame and bread; -and it is no wonder that many of the candidates <em>turned tail</em>, and fled -from such fearful odds.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The beauty of it is, that there is generally no reparation or means -of redress. From the nature of the imputations, it is frequently -impossible distinctly to refute them, or to gain a hearing to the -refutation. But if the calumniators are detected and exposed, they -plead authority and the <em>King’s privilege</em>! They assume a natural -superiority over you, as if, being of a different party, you were of -an inferior species, and justly liable to be tortured, worried, and -hunted to death, like any other vermin. They have a right to say -what they please of you, to invent or propagate any falsehood or -misrepresentation that suits their turn. The greater falsehood, the -more merit; the more barefaced the imposture, the more pious the -fraud. You are a Whig, a reformer—does not that of itself imply -all other crimes and misdemeanours? That being once granted, -they have a clear right to heap every other outrage, every other -indignity, upon you as a matter of course; and you cannot complain -of that which is no more than a commutation of punishment. You -are an enthusiast in the cause of liberty: does it not follow that you -must be a bad poet? You are against Ministers; is it to be -supposed that you can write a line of prose without repeated offences -against sense and grammar? If it be once admitted that you are an -opposition writer of some weight and celebrity, it follows, of course, -that the government scribbler should get a <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">carte blanche</span></i> to fill up your -character and pretensions, life, parentage, and education. Your mind -and morals are, in justice, <em>deodands</em> to the Crown, and should be -handed over to the court critic to be dissected without mercy, like -the body of a condemned malefactor. The disproportion between -the fact and the allegation only points the <em>moral</em> the more strongly -against you; for the odiousness of your conduct, in differing with -men in office and their sycophants, is such, that no colours can be -black enough to paint it; and if you are not really guilty of all the -petty vices and absurdities imputed to you, it is plain that you ought -to be so, to answer to their theory, and as a <em>fiction</em> in loyalty, for -the credit of church and state. You are a bad subject, they pretend: -that you are a bad writer and bad man, is a self-evident consequence -that will be at once admitted by all the respectable and well-disposed -part of the community. You are entitled, in short, neither to justice -nor mercy: and he who <em>volunteers</em> to deprive you of a livelihood or -your good name by any means, however atrocious or dastardly, is -entitled to the thanks of his own country.</p> - -<p class='c010'>One of their most common expedients is, to strew their victim -<span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>over and over with epithets of abuse, and to trust to the habitual -association between words and things for the effect of their application. -There was an instance of this, some little time ago, in a -well-known paper, with which we shall exemplify our doctrine. It -was in reference to the assault made on Sir Hudson Lowe by young -Las Casas.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘A French lad, of the name of Las Casas, the son of one of -Buonaparte’s Counts, waylaid Sir Hudson Lowe in the street on -Tuesday, and struck him, because Sir Hudson did his duty properly, -as an English Governor, at St. Helena, and as keeper of the <em>miscreant</em> -of whom he had the charge. The Chronicle put forth yesterday a -letter without an address, said to be from the boy himself, signed -Baron ——, something. In this he confesses the assault, which, in -default of other witnesses, will substantiate the fact, and consign him, -<em>as soon as the thief-takers can catch him</em>, no doubt to the pleasing -recreation of the tread-mill for a given time.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>We pass over the terms ‘miscreant,’—‘fellow,’ &c.; but there is -a refinement, in one part of this paragraph, worth notice. It is said, -as if casually, that the ‘thief-takers were after him.’ What! had he -been accused of picking pockets, of shop-lifting, or petty larceny? -No; but though the fact was known to be quite different, the feeling, -it was thought, would be the same. His offence would be transferred, -by the operation of this choice expression, to the class of misdemeanors -which thief-takers are employed to look after; and thus young Las -Casas, for resenting the unworthy treatment of his father and old -master, has an indirect imputation fastened on him, by which he is -confounded in the imagination with felons and housebreakers, and -other persons for whom the ‘tread-mill’ is a suitable punishment! -Such is the force of words—the power of prejudice—and the means -of poisoning public opinion.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Take another illustration in a native instance. A man of classical -taste and attainments appears to be editor of an Opposition Journal. -He publishes (it is the fault of his stars) an elegant and pathetic -poem. The first announcement of the work, in a Ministerial publication, -sets out with a statement, that the author has lately been -relieved from Newgate—which gives a felon-like air to the production, -and makes it necessary for the fashionable reader to perform -a sort of quarantine against it, as if it had the gaol-infection. It is -declared by another critic, in the same pay, to be unreadable from -its insipidity, and afterwards, by the same critic, to be highly -pernicious and inflammatory—a slight contradiction, but no matter! -This, and fifty other inconsistencies, would all go down, provided -they were equally malignant and unblushing. The writer may -<span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>contradict himself as often as he pleases: if he only speaks <em>against</em> -the work, his criticism is sound and orthodox. Nor is it only -obnoxious writers on politics themselves, but all their friends and -acquaintance, or those whom they casually notice, that come under -this sweeping anathema. It is proper to make a clear stage. The -friends of Cæsar must not be suspected of an amicable intercourse -with patriotic and incendiary writers. A young poet comes forward: -an early and favourable notice appears of some boyish verses of his -in the Examiner, independently of all political opinion. That alone -decides his fate; and from that moment he is set upon, pulled in -pieces, and hunted into his grave by the whole venal crew in full -cry after him. It was crime enough that he dared to accept praise -from so disreputable a quarter. He should have thrown back his -bounty in the face of the donor, and come with his manuscript in -his hand, to have poetical justice dealt out to him by the unbiassed -author of the Baviad and Mæviad! His tenderness and beauties -would then have been exalted with <em>faint</em> praise, instead of being -mangled and torn to pieces with ruthless, unfeeling rage; his -faults would have been gently hinted at, and attributed to youth -and inexperience; and his profession, instead of being made the -subject of loud ribald jests by vile buffoons, would have been introduced -to enhance the merit of his poetry. But a different fate -awaited poor Keats! His fine fancy and powerful invention were -too obvious to be treated with mere neglect; and as he had not -been ushered into the world with the court-stamp upon him, he was -to be crushed as a warning to genius how it keeps company with -honesty, and as a sure means of inoculating the ingenuous spirit and -talent of the country with timely and systematic servility! We -sometimes think that writers are alarmed at the praises that even <em>we</em> -bestow upon them, lest it should preclude them from the approbation -of the authorized sources of fame!</p> - -<p class='c010'>This system thus pursued is intended to amount, and in fact does -amount, to a prohibition to authors to write, and to the public to -read any works that have not the Government mark upon them. The -professed object is to gag the one, and hoodwink the others, and to -persuade the world that all talent, taste, elegance, science, liberality -and virtue, are confined to a few hack-writers and their employers. -One would think the public would resent this gross attempt to impose -on their understandings, and encroach on their liberty of private -judgment. When a gentleman is reading a new work, of which he -is beginning to form a favourable opinion, is it to be borne that he -should have it snatched out of his hands, and tossed into the dirt by a -retainer of the <em>literary police</em>? Can he be supposed to pick it up -<span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>afterwards, either to read himself, or to lend it to a friend, sullied and -disfigured as it is? But the truth we fear is, that the public, besides -their participation in the same prejudices, are timid, indolent, and -easily influenced by a little swaggering and an air of authority. They -like to amuse their leisure with reading a new work; and if they -have more leisure, have no objection to fill it up with listening to an -abuse of the writer. If they approve of candour and equity in the -abstract, they do not disapprove of a little scandal and tittle-tattle by -the by. They take in a disgusting publication, because it is ‘amusing -and clever’—that is, full of incredible assertions which make them -stare, and of opprobrious epithets applied to high characters, which, -by their smartness and incongruity, operate as a lively stimulus to -their ordinary state of ennui. This happens on the Sunday morning; -and the rest of the week passes in unravelling the imposture, and -expressing a very edifying mixture of wonder and indignation at it. -Such a paper was detected, not long ago, in the fabrication of a low -falsehood against a most respectable gentleman, who was said to have -proposed a dinner and rump and dozen, in triumph over the death of -Lord Castlereagh. This was said to have taken place in a public -room, so that the exposure of the falsehood was immediate and -complete. Not long before, it put a leading question to a popular -member for the city, as if some ill-conduct of his had caused his -father’s death: it was shown that this gentleman’s father had died -before he was born! Is it to be supposed that the writer knew the -facts? We should rather think not. He probably neither knew -nor cared any thing about them. It was his vocation to hazard the -dark insinuation, and to trust to chance and the malice of mankind -for its success. The blow was well meant, though it failed. But -was it not a blow to the paper itself? Alas, no; it still blunders -on; and the public gape after it, half in fear half in indignation. It -slanders a virtuous lady; it insults the misfortunes of a Noble House; -it rakes up the infirmities of the dead; it taints (for whatever it -touches it contaminates) the unborn. No matter. They or their -family had sinned in being Whigs—and there are still men in -England, it would appear, who think that this is the way by which -differences of opinion should be revenged or prevented.</p> - -<p class='c010'>It used to be the boast of English gentlemen, that their political -contentions were conducted in a spirit, not merely of perfect fairness, -but of mutual courtesy and urbanity; and that, even among the lower -orders, quarrels were governed by a law of honour and chivalry, -which proscribed all base advantages, and united all the spectators -against him by whom a <em>foul blow</em> was given or attempted. We trust -that this spirit is not yet extinguished among us; and that it will -<span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>speedily assert itself, by trampling under foot that base system of -mean and malignant defamation, by which our Periodical Press has -recently been polluted and disgraced. We would avoid naming -works that desire nothing so much as notoriety; but it is but too -well known, that the work of intimidation and deceit, of cruel -personality and audacious fabrication, has been carried on, for several -years, in various periodical publications, daily, weekly, monthly, and -quarterly,—that it has been urged with unrelenting eagerness in the -metropolis, in spite of the public discountenance of the leaders of the -party which it disgraces by its pretended support; and then propagated -into various parts of the country, for purposes of local -annoyance. It is equally well known and understood too, that this -savage system of bullying and assassination is no longer pursued from -the impulse of angry passions or furious prejudices, but on a cold-blooded -mercenary calculation of the profits which idle curiosity, and -the vulgar appetite for slander, may enable its authors to derive from -it. Where this is to stop, we do not presume to conjecture,—unless -the excess leads to the remedy, and the distempered appetite of the -public be surfeited, and so die. This is by no means an unlikely, -and, we hope, may be a speedy consummation. In the mean time, -the extent and extravagance of the abuse has already had the effect, -not only of making individual attacks less painful or alarming, but -even, in many cases, of pointing out to the judicious the proper -objects of their gratitude and respect. For ourselves, at least, we do -not hesitate to acknowledge, that, when we find an author savagely -and perseveringly attacked by this gang of literary retainers, we -immediately feel assured, not only that he is a good writer, but an honest -man; and if a statesman is once selected as the butt of outrageous -abuse in the same quarter, we consider it as a satisfactory proof that -he has lately rendered some signal service to his country, or aimed a -deadly blow at corruption.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We have put ourselves out of breath with this long lecture on the -great opprobrium of our periodical literature,—and dare not now go on -to the ticklish chapter of <cite>Reviews</cite>. We do not, however, by any -means renounce the design; and hope one day to be enabled to -resume it, and to astonish our readers with a full and ingenuous -account of our own merits and demerits, and those of our rivals.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span> - <h3 class='c008'>LANDOR’S IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS</h3> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Vol. xl.</span>]      [<em>March 1824.</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>This work is as remarkable an instance as we have lately met with of -the strength and weakness of the human intellect. It displays considerable -originality, learning, acuteness, terseness of style, and force -of invective—but it is spoiled and rendered abortive throughout by an -utter want of temper, of self-knowledge, and decorum. Mr. Landor’s -mind is far from barren in feeling or in resources; but over the -natural, and (what might be) the useful growth of these, there every -where springs up a luxuriant crop of caprice, dogmatism, extravagance, -intolerance, quaintness, and most ludicrous arrogance,—like the red -and blue flowers in corn, that, however they may dazzle the -passenger’s eye, choke up the harvest, and mock the hopes of the -husbandman. We are not ignorant of the school to which our author -belongs; and could name other writers who, in the course of a -laborious life, and in productions numerous and multiform—some -recent and suited to the times, some long and luckily forgotten,—in -odes, inscriptions, madrigals, epics,—in essays, histories and reviews,—have -run into as many absurdities, and as many extremes: But -never did we see, bound up in the same volume, close-packed, and -pointed with all the significance of style, the same number of contradictions, -staring one another in the face, and quarrelling for the -precedence. Mr. Landor’s book is a perfect ‘institute and digest’ -of inconsistency: it is made up of mere antipathies in nature and in -reasoning. It is a <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chef-d’œuvre</span></i> of self-opinion and self-will, strangling -whatever is otherwise sound and excellent in principle, defacing -whatever is beautiful in style and matter.</p> - -<p class='c010'>If it be true (as has been said) that</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Great wits to madness nearly are allied,’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>we know few writers that have higher or more unequivocal pretensions -in this way than the author of the ‘Imaginary Conversations.’ -Would it be believed, that, trampling manfully on all history and -tradition, he speaks of Tiberius as a <em>man of sentiment</em>, who retired to -Capri merely to indulge a tender melancholy on the death of a beloved -wife: and will have it that Nero was a most humane, amiable, and -deservedly popular character—not arguing the points as doubtful or -susceptible of question, but assuming them, <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en passant</span></i>, as most -absolute and peremptory conclusions—as if whatever was contrary to -common sense and common feeling carried conviction on the face of -it? In the same page he assures us, with the same oracular tranquillity, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>that the conflagration of Rome, and the great fire of London, -were both wise and voluntary measures, arising from the necessity of -purifying the cities after sickness, and leaving no narrow streets in -their centres! and on turning the leaf, it is revealed to us, that ‘there -is nothing in Rome, <em>or in the world</em>, equal to—the circus in Bath!’ -He spells the words <em>foreign</em> and <em>sovereign</em>, ‘foren’ and ‘sovran,’ and -would go to the stake, or send others there, to prove the genuineness -of these orthographies, which he adopts on the authority of Milton; -and yet he abuses Buonaparte for being the ape of Antiquity, and -talking about Miltiades. He cries up Mr. Locke as ‘the most -<em>elegant</em> of English prose writers,’ for no other reason (as we apprehend) -than that he has often been considered as the least so; and compares -Dr. Johnson’s style to ‘that article of dress which the French -have lately made peace with’ (a pair of pantaloons), ‘divided into -two parts, equal in length, breadth, and substance, with a protuberance -before and behind.’ He pronounces sentence upon the lost -works of two ancient writers, Democritus and Menander, that the -former would be worth all the philosophical remains of antiquity, and -the latter not be worth having,—precisely because he can know -nothing about the matter; the will to decide superseding the necessity -of any positive ground of opinion, and the spirit of contradiction -standing him in lieu of all other conviction. Boileau, according to -our critic, had not a particle of sense, wit, or taste: Pope, to be sure, -was of a different opinion—and we take it to be just possible that -Boileau would have thought himself indemnified by the homage of -the one for the scorn of the other! He speaks of Pitt as a poor -creature, who did not see an inch before him, and of Fox as a -charlatan; and says modestly in reference to some history he is -writing, that he trusts ‘Posterity will not confound him with the -Coxes and the Foxes of the age.’ It would be rather too much in his -own manner perhaps to say, that no one who could write this sentence, -will ever write a history—but we hazard the conjecture notwithstanding—and -leave it to time to decide. He announces that Alfieri -was the greatest man in Europe, though his greatness has not yet -been generally acknowledged. This, however, is exactly the reason -that Mr. Landor vouches for it, because whether he was so or not, -rests solely on his <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">ipse dixit</span></i>. It is a fine thing to be one of the -oracles of Fame! With equal modesty and candour he declares -literary men to be as much superior to lords and kings as these last -are to the meanest of their vassals. In a dialogue between Prince -Maurocordato and General Colocotroni, he wishes the Greeks to -substitute the bow for the use of fire-arms; and to this experimental -crotchet, we suspect, he would sacrifice the Greek cause,—or any -<span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>other. He has a hit at Lord Byron, and another at Mr. Thomas -Moore, and a compliment to Lady Morgan. It is hard to say which -he hates most—the English Government or the French people—Buonaparte -or the Bourbons. He considers Buonaparte as a miracle, -only because no man with so little talent ever gained such an -ascendancy; and certainly with the qualifications our author allows -him, he must have dealt with the Devil to do what he did; and, as -if determined to conciliate no party and have all the world against -him, he takes care to inform the reader at the same time, that in the -most remarkable English victory in the last fifty years, ‘the prudence -and skill of the commander (Wellington) were altogether wanting.’ -He brings it as a proof of Buonaparte’s stupidity, that ‘he knew -nothing of judicial astrology, <em>which hath certain laws assigned to it</em>, -and fancied he could unite it with atheism, as easily as the iron crown -with the lilies.’ He tells us, that ‘he did his utmost in pursuing this -tyrant to death, recommending and insisting on nothing less:’ but -that now he is dead, ‘he is sorry for it.’ So hot, indeed, is he on -this scent, that he is for bringing Louis <span class='fss'>XIV.</span> to life, in order to have -him ‘carted to condign punishment in the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Place de Grêve</span></i>, or at -Tyburn.’ We cannot understand this coincidence in the proposed -fate of two persons so different; nor how Mr. Landor should call -‘the battle of Waterloo the most glorious to the victors since that of -Leuctra,’ while he recommends a resort to tyrannicide, and points -out its objects, to get rid of the legitimate consequences of that -battle; nor why he should strike ‘his marble table with his palm,’ or -call his country names—‘degenerate Albion,’—‘recreant slave,’ &c. -&c. for not aiding ‘in the cause of freedom in Greece,’ when she has -his thanks and praise for putting down the principle, at one blow, all -over the world! Kings and nations, however, do not change like -whiffling politicians. The one are governed by their prejudices, the -other by their interests;—Mr. Landor and his friends by the opinion -of the moment, by a fit of the spleen, by the first object that stirs -their vanity or their resentment.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The work before us is an edifying example of the spirit of Literary -Jacobinism,—flying at all game, running <em>a-muck</em> at all opinions, and -at continual cross-purposes with its own. To avoid misconstruction, -however, we should add, that we mean by this term, that despotism -of the mind, which only emancipates itself from authority and prejudice, -to grow impatient of every thing like an appearance of -opposition, and to domineer over and dictate its sudden, crude, violent, -and varying opinions, to the rest of the world. This spirit admits -neither of equal nor superior, follower nor precursor: ‘it travels in a -road so narrow where but one goes abreast.’ It claims a monopoly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>of sense, wit, and wisdom. To agree with it is an impertinence: -to differ from it a crime. It tramples on old prejudices: it is jealous -of new pretensions. It seizes with avidity on all that is startling or -obnoxious in opinions, and when they are countenanced by any one -else, discards them as no longer fit for its use. Thus persons of this -temper affect atheism by way of distinction; and if they can succeed -in bringing it into fashion, become orthodox again, in order not to be -with the vulgar. Their creed is at the mercy of every one who -assents to, or who contradicts it. All their ambition, all their -endeavour is, to seem wiser than the whole world besides. If they -are forced to adopt a <em>common-place</em>, they exaggerate it into a paradox, -by their manner of stating it. So, in the ‘Imaginary Conversations,’ -we learn, that ‘for every honest Italian, there are,’ not ten, or a -hundred, but ‘a hundred thousand honest Englishmen.’ They hate -whatever falls short of, whatever goes beyond, their favourite theories. -In the one case they hurry on before to get the start of you; in the -other, they suddenly turn back, to hinder you, and defeat themselves. -It is not the love of truth, or of mankind, that urges them on—but -the love of distinction; and they run into every extreme, and every -folly, in order to indulge their overweening self-complacency and -affected singularity.</p> - -<p class='c010'>An inordinate, restless, incorrigible self-love, is the key to all their -actions and opinions, extravagancies, and meannesses, servility and -arrogance. Whatever sooths and pampers this they applaud; whatever -wounds or interferes with it they utterly and vindictively abhor. -If an author is read and admired, they decry him; and if he is -obscure or forgotten, or unintelligible, they extol him to the skies. -But if they should succeed in bringing him into notice, and fixing -him in the firmament of fame, they soon find out that there are spots -in the sun, and draw the cloud of envy over his merits. A general -is with them a hero, if he is unsuccessful or a traitor; if he is a conqueror -in the cause of liberty, or a martyr to it, he is a poltroon. -Whatever is doubtful, remote, visionary in philosophy, or wild and -dangerous in politics, they fasten upon eagerly, ‘recommending and -insisting on nothing less;’—reduce the one to demonstration, the -other to practice, and they turn their backs upon their own most -darling schemes, and leave them in the lurch immediately. With -them everything is <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">in posse</span></i>, nothing <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">in esse</span></i>. The reason is, that they -would have others take all their opinions implicitly from their infallibility: -if a thing has grounds or evidence of its own to rest upon, so -that they are no longer called in like prophets, to vouch for its truth, -this is a sufficient excuse for them to discard it, and to look out for -new <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">terræ incognitæ</span></i> to exercise their quackery and second-sight upon. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>So they cry up a <em>protegé</em> of their own, that nobody has ever heard -of, as a prodigious genius, while he does nothing to justify the -character they give of him, and exists only through the breath of -their nostrils;—let him come forward in his own person, encouraged -by their applause, and convince the world that he has something in -him, and they immediately set to work to prove that he has borrowed -all his ideas from them,—and is besides a person of bad moral character! -They are of the church-militant; they pull down, but they -will not build up, nor let any one else do it. They devote themselves -to a cause, to a principle while it is in doubt or struggling for -existence;—let it succeed, and they become jealous of it, and revile -and hate the man by whom it has risen, or by whom it stands, like a -triumphal arch over the ruins of barbaric thrones! For any one to -do more for a cause than they have done, to be more talked of than -they are, is a piece of presumption not hastily to be forgiven.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We consider the spirit which we have here attempted to analyze, -as maintained in a state of higher concentration in this work than in -any other we have for some time seen. Some of Mr. Southey’s -lucubrations contain pretty good samples of it; but in him it is -‘dashed and brewed’ with other elements. He has been to court, -is one of a <em>firm</em>, and mixes something of the cant of methodism with -his effusions. But Mr. Landor keeps a <em>private still</em> of his own, -where the unrectified spirit remains in its original vigour and purity,—cold -indeed, and without the frothy effervescence of its first running, -but unabated in activity, strength and virulence. We have pointed -out what we regard as the ‘damning sin’ of this work; and having -thus entered our protest, and guarded the reader against its mischievous -tendency, we hold ourselves at liberty to extract what -amusement or instruction we can from it. We are far from wishing -to represent our author as ‘to every good word and work reprobate.’ -On the contrary, we think he is naturally prone to what is right, but -diverted from it by the infirmity we speak of. He has often much -strength of thought, and vigour and variety of style; and we should -be mortified, indeed, and deserving of mortification, if the petty -provocation he has attempted to give us, could deter us from doing -him that justice. He is excellent, whenever excellence is compatible -with singularity. It is the fault of the school to which he belongs, -not that they are blind to truth, or indifferent to good—but truth to -be welcome must be a rare discovery of their own; they only woo -her as a youthful bride; and are too soon satiated with the possession -of what they desire, out of fickleness, or as the gloss of novelty wears -off—or sue out a divorce from jealousy, and a dread of rivals in the -favour of their former mistress!</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>This was the reason, whatever might be the pretext, why the same -set of persons raised such an outcry against Buonaparte, and <em>alone</em> -insisted on his assassination. They had no great objection to what -he was doing—but they could not bear to think that he had done -more than they had ever dreamt of. While they were building -castles in the air, he gave law to Europe. He carved out with the -sword, what they had only traced with the pen. ‘Never,’ says -Mr. Landor, ‘had been such good laws so well administered over a -considerable portion of Europe. The services he rendered to society -were great, manifold, and extensive.’ But these services were hateful -in their eyes—because he aggrandized himself in performing them. -The power he wielded, the situation he occupied, excited their envy, -much more than the stand he made against the common enemy, their -gratitude. They were ready enough at all times to pull down kings, -but they hated him worse who trampled, by his own might, on their -necks—as more rivals to themselves, as running in the same race, -and going farther in it. Any service, in short, any triumph is odious -in their eyes, be it over whom, or in favour of what it will. Their -great idol now is Washington; but this is because he acted upon -comparatively a narrow theatre, and belongs to a people whose greatness -is rather prospective than present; and also, because there is -something in his mechanical habits and cold formality that appeases -their irritable spleen.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The Dialogues are thirty-six in number, and on a great variety of -curious and interesting topics. The style of the period is sometimes -well imitated, without being mimicked; and a good deal of character, -and sometimes of humour, is thrown into the tone of the different -speakers. We give the following, between Roger Ascham and Lady -Jane Gray, as one of the most pleasing, and as a relief to the severity -and harshness of our introductory speculation.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Ascham.</em> Thou art going, my dear young lady, into a most awful -state: thou art passing into matrimony and great wealth. God hath -willed it so: submitt<a id='r15' /><a href='#f15' class='c014'><sup>[15]</sup></a> in thankfulness. Thy affections are rightly -placed and well distributed. Love is a secondary passion in those -who love most, a primary in those who love least. He who is inspired -by it in a great degree, is inspired by honour in a greater: it never -reaches its plenitude of growth and perfection, but in the most exalted -minds.... Alas! alas!</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Jane.</em> What aileth my virtuous Ascham? what is amiss? why do -I tremble?</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Ascham.</em> I see perils on perils which thou dost not see, although -<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>thou art wiser than thy poor old master. And it is not because Love -hath blinded thee, for that surpasseth his supposed omnipotence, but it -is because thy tender heart having always leaned affectionately upon -good, hath felt and known nothing of evil. I once persuaded thee to -reflect much; let me now persuade thee to avoid the habitude of reflection, -to lay aside books, and to gaze carefully and steadfastly on -what is under and before thee.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Jane.</em> I have well bethought me of all my duties: O how extensive -they are! what a goodly and fair inheritance! But tell me, -wouldst thou command me never more to read Cicero and Epictetus -and Polybius? the others I do resign unto thee: they are good for -the arbour and for the gravel walk: but leave unto me, I beseech -thee, my friend and father, leave unto me, for my fire-side and for my -pillow, truth, eloquence, courage, constancy.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Ascham.</em> Read them on thy marriage-bed, on thy childbed, on -thy death-bed! Thou spotless, undrooping lily, they have fenced -thee right well! These are the men for men: these are to fashion -the bright and blessed creatures, O Jane, whom God one day shall -smile upon in thy chaste bosom.... Mind thou thy husband.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Jane.</em> I sincerely love the youth who hath espoused me; I love -him with the fondest, the most solicitous affection. I pray to the -Almighty for his goodness and happiness, and do forget, at times, -unworthy supplicant! the prayers I should have offered for myself. -O never fear that I will disparage my kind religious teacher, by disobedience -to my husband in the most trying duties.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Ascham.</em> Gentle is he, gentle and virtuous; but time will harden -him: time must harden even thee, sweet Jane! Do thou, complacently -and indirectly, lead him from ambition.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Jane.</em> He is contented with me and with home.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Ascham.</em> Ah, Jane, Jane! men of high estate grow tired of -contentedness.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Jane.</em> He told me he never liked books unless I read them to -him. I will read them to him every evening: I will open new worlds -to him, richer than those discovered by the Spaniard: I will conduct -him to treasures.... O what treasures!... On which he may sleep -in innocence and peace.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Ascham.</em> Rather do thou walk with him, ride with him, play -with him, be his faery, his page, his every thing that love and poetry -have invented; but watch him well, sport with his fancies; turn -them about like the ringlets round his cheeks; and if ever he meditate -on power, go, toss up thy baby to his brow, and bring back his -thoughts into his heart by the music of thy discourse. Teach him to -live unto God and unto thee: and he will discover that women, like -<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>the plants in woods, derive their softness and tenderness from the -shade.’ II. 54.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We must say we think this Dialogue is written <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">con amore</span></i>. It is -imbued with the very spirit of some of those old writers, where ‘all -is conscience and tender heart.’ Mr. Landor’s over-anxious mind -reposes on the innocence of youth and beauty, on the simplicity of his -subject, on the reverence due and willingly paid, because silently -exacted, to age and antiquity! Even the quaintness, the abruptness, -the wanderings and the puerility, are delightful, and happily characteristic. -While we are in good humour with our author, we will extract -another conversation of the same period, and distinguished by the -same vein of felicitous imitation, in the sentiment of which we also go -along with him heart and hand,—that between Elizabeth and Burleigh, -on the trite subject of Spenser’s pension.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Elizabeth.</em> I advise thee again, Churlish Cecil, how that our -Edmund Spenser, whom thou calledst most uncourteously a whining -whelp, hath good and solid reason for his complaint. God’s blood! -shall the lady that tieth my garter and shuffleth the smock over my -head, or the lord that steddieth my chair’s back while I eat, or the -other that looketh to my buck-hounds lest they be mangy, be holden -by me in higher esteem and estate than he who hath placed me -among the bravest of past times, and will as safely and surely set me -down among the loveliest in the future?</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Cecil.</em> Your highness must remember he carouseth fully for such -deserts.... A hundred pounds a year of unclipt monies, and a butt -of canary wine.<a id='r16' /><a href='#f16' class='c014'><sup>[16]</sup></a></p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Elizabeth.</em> The monies are not enow to sustain a pair of grooms -and a pair of palfreys, and more wine hath been drunken in my -presence at a feast. The monies are given to such men, that they -may not incline nor be obligated to any vile or lowly occupation; and -the canary, that they may entertain such promising Wits as court -their company and converse; and that in such manner there may be -<span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>alway in our land a succession of these heirs of Fame. He hath -written, not indeed with his wonted fancifulness, nor in learned and -majestical language, but in homely and rustic wise, some verses which -have moved me; and haply the more so, inasmuch as they demonstrate -to me that his genius hath been dampened by his adversities. Read -them.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'>‘<em>Cecil.</em> How much is lost when neither heart nor eye</div> - <div class='line'>Rose-winged Desire or fabling Hope deceives;</div> - <div class='line'>When boyhood with quick throb hath ceased to spy</div> - <div class='line'>The dubious apple in the yellow leaves;</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘When, springing from the turf where youth reposed,</div> - <div class='line'>We find but deserts in the far-sought shore;</div> - <div class='line'>When the huge book of Faery-land lies closed,</div> - <div class='line'>And those strong brazen clasps will yield no more.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Elizabeth.</em> The said Edmund hath also furnished unto the weaver -at Arras, John Blaquieres, on my account, a description for some of -his cunningest wenches to work at, supplied by mine own self, indeed -as far as the subject-matter goes, but set forth by him with figures -and fancies, and daintily enough bedecked. I could have wished he -had thereunto joined a fair comparison between Dian ... no -matter ... he might perhaps have fared the better for it ... -but poet’s wits, God help them! when did they ever sit close about -them? Read the poesy, not over-rich, and concluding very awkwardly -and meanly.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'>‘<em>Cecil.</em> Where forms the lotus, with its level leaves</div> - <div class='line'>And solid blossoms, many floating isles,</div> - <div class='line'>What heavenly radiance swift-descending cleaves</div> - <div class='line'>The darksome wave! unwonted beauty smiles</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘On its pure bosom, on each bright-eyed flower,</div> - <div class='line'>On every nymph, and twenty sate around....</div> - <div class='line'>Lo! ’twas Diana ... from the sultry hour</div> - <div class='line'>Hither she fled, nor fear’d she sight nor sound.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Unhappy youth, whom thirst and quiver-reeds</div> - <div class='line'>Drew to these haunts, whom awe forbade to fly,</div> - <div class='line'>Three faithful dogs before him rais’d their heads,</div> - <div class='line'>And watched and wonder’d at that fixed eye.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Forth sprang his favorite ... with her arrow-hand</div> - <div class='line'>Too late the Goddess hid what hand may hide,</div> - <div class='line'>Of every nymph and every reed complain’d,</div> - <div class='line'>And dashed upon the bank the waters wide.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>‘On the prone head and sandal’d feet they flew—</div> - <div class='line'>Lo! slender hoofs and branching horns appear!</div> - <div class='line'>The last marred voice not even the favorite knew,</div> - <div class='line'>But bayed and fastened on the upbraiding deer.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Far be, chaste Goddess, far from me and mine,</div> - <div class='line'>The stream that tempts thee in the summer noon!</div> - <div class='line'>Alas, that ‘vengeance dwells with charms divine....</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Elizabeth.</em> Psha! give me the paper: I forwarned thee how it -ended ... pitifully, pitifully.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Cecil.</em> I cannot think otherwise than that the undertaker of the -aforecited poesy hath choused your Highness; for I have seen -painted, I know not where, the identically same Dian, with full as -many nymphs, as he calls them, and more dogs. So small a matter -as a page of poesy shall never stir my choler, nor twitch my -purse-string.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Elizabeth.</em> I have read in Plinius and Mela of a runlet near -Dodona, which kindled by approximation an unlighted torch, and -extinguished a lighted one. Now, Cecil, I desire no such a jetty -to be celebrated as the decoration of my court: in simpler words, -which your gravity may more easily understand, I would not, from -the fountain of Honour, give lustre to the dull and ignorant, deadening -and leaving in ‘cold obstruction’ the lamp of literature and -genius. I ardently wish my reign to be remembered: if my actions -were different from what they are, I should as ardently wish it to be -forgotten. Those are the worst of suicides, who voluntarily and -prepensely stab or suffocate their fame, when God has commanded -them to stand up on high for an ensample. We call him parricide -who destroys the author of his existence: tell me, what shall we call -him who casts forth to the dogs and birds of prey, its most faithful -propagator and most firm support? The parent gives us few days -and sorrowful; the poet many and glorious: the one (supposing him -discreet and kindly) best reproves our faults; the other best -remunerates our virtues. A page of poesy is a little matter—be it so—but -of a truth I do tell thee, Cecil, it shall master full many a bold -heart that the Spaniard cannot trouble—it shall win to it full many a -proud and flighty one, that even chivalry and manly comeliness -cannot touch. I may shake titles and dignities by the dozen from -my breakfast-board—but I may not save those upon whose heads I -shake them from rottenness and oblivion. This year they and their -sovran dwell together, next year they and their beagle. Both have -names, but names perishable. The keeper of my privy seal is an earl—what -then? The keeper of my poultry-yard is a Cæsar. In -<span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>honest truth, a name given to a man is no better than a skin given to -him: what is not natively his own, falls off and comes to nothing. -I desire in future to hear no contempt of penmen, unless a depraved -use of the pen shall have so cramped them, as to incapacitate them -for the sword and for the council-chamber. If Alexander was the -Great, what was Aristoteles who made him so? who taught him -every art and science he knew, except three, those of drinking, of -blaspheming, and of murdering his bosom-friends. Come along: I -will bring thee back again nearer home. Thou mightest toss and -tumble in thy bed many nights, and never eke out the substance of a -stanza; but Edmund, if perchance I should call upon him for his -counsel, would give me as wholesome and prudent as any of you. -We should indemnify such men for the injustice we do unto them in -not calling them about us, and for the mortification they must suffer -at seeing their inferiors set before them. Edmund is grave and gentle,—he -complains of Fortune, not of Elizabeth,—of courts, not of Cecil. -I am resolved, so help me God, he shall have no further cause -for his repining. Go, convey unto him these twelve silver-spoons, -with the apostols on them, gloriously gilded; and deliver into his -hand these twelve large golden pieces, sufficing for the yearly -maintenance of another horse and groom;—besides which, set open -before him with due reverence this bible, wherein he may read the -mercies of God towards those who waited in patience for his -blessing; and this pair of cremisin silken hosen, which thou knowest -I have worne only thirteen months, taking heed that the heelpiece -be put into good and sufficient restauration at my sole charges, by the -Italian woman at Charing-Cross.’ <span class='fss'>I.</span> 91.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We think that this is very pleasant and brave ‘fooling,’ and that -our author has hit off the familiar pedantic tone of the Maiden Queen -well. The sentiment with which Elizabeth seems in the foregoing -Dialogue, to regard the Muses as among her Maids of Honour, and -the patronage she is ready to extend to poets as the most agreeable -and permanent class of court-chroniclers, must be considered as -characteristic of the person and the age, and not attributed to the -author. <em>His</em> literary <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fierté</span></i> is quite in the tone of the present age, nor -can he be suspected of representing poets as destined to nothing higher -than to be danglers upon the great. He has put his opinion on this -subject beyond a doubt. In a very different style, he makes Salomon, -the Florentine Jew, thus address Alfieri, the tragic poet.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Be contented, Signor Conte, with the glory of our first great -dramatist, and neglect altogether any inferior one. Why vex and -torment yourself about the French? They buzz and are troublesome -while they are swarming; but the master will soon hive them. <em>Is -<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>the whole nation worth the worst of your tragedies?</em> All the present -race of them, all the creatures in the world which excite your -indignation, will lie in the grave, while young and old are clapping -their hands or beating their bosoms at your <i><span lang="pt" xml:lang="pt">Bruto Primo</span></i>. Consider, -to make one step further, that kings and emperours should, in your -estimation, be but as grasshoppers and beetles,—let them consume -a few blades of your clover, without molesting them, without bringing -them to crawl on you and claw you. The difference between them -and men of genius is almost as great, as between men of genius and -those higher Intelligences who act in immediate subordination to the -Almighty. Yes, I assert it, without flattery and without fear, the -Angels are not higher above mortals, than you are above the proudest -that trample on them.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>We think Mr. Landor’s friend, the poet-laureate, cannot do better -than turn this passage into hexameter verse, and present it as his next -Birth-day Ode. The author’s dislike of the French has here inspired -him with a contempt for emperors and kings, and with an admiration -for men of genius. He sets out with a fit of the spleen, rises to the -sublime, and ends in the mock-heroic. We do not soar so high. -Without pretending to settle the precedence between poets and any -higher order of Intelligences, we certainly think they have something -better to do than to varnish over state-puppets, and hold them up to -the gaze of posterity. Yet this menial use of their talents seems to -have been the highest which even persons like Elizabeth formerly -contemplated in their patronage of them. If Spenser had merely -distinguished himself by his flattering and fanciful portraits of his -royal mistress, we should think no more of him now than of ‘the -lady that tied on her garter.’ He has entitled himself to our -gratitude, by introducing us into the presence of his mistress, Fancy, -the true Faery Queen, ‘the fairest princess under sky;’ and showing -us the purple lights of Love and Beauty reflected in his tremulous -page, like evening skies in pure and still waters. What is it that the -poets of elder times have indeed done for us, besides paying awkward -compliments and writing fulsome dedications to their patrons? They -spread out a brighter heaven above our heads, a softer and a greener -earth beneath our feet. They do in truth ‘paint the lily,’ they -‘throw a perfume on the violet, and add another hue unto the rainbow.’ -From them the murmuring stream borrows its thoughtful -music; they steep the mountain’s head in azure, and the nodding -grove waves in visionary grandeur in their page. Solitude becomes -more solitary, silence eloquent, joy extatic; they lend wings to Hope, -and put a heart into all things. Poetry hangs its lamp on high, -shedding sweet influence; and not an object in nature is seen, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>unaccompanied by the sound of ‘famous poets’ verse.’ They add -another spring to man’s life, breathe the balm of immortality into the -soul, and by their aid, a dream and a glory is ever around us. Queen -Elizabeth ordered Shakespear to <em>continue</em> Falstaff. He has indeed -been <em>continued</em>; for he has come down to us, and is living to this day! -Otway would have thought it a great thing to have had <cite>Venice -Preserved</cite> patronised, and a box taken by a dutchess on the night of -its first appearance. But is this ‘the spur that the clear spirit doth -raise?’ Is it for this that we envy him, or that so many would have -wished like him to live, even though doomed as the consequence, like -him to die? No, but for the sake of those thousand hearts that have -melted with Belvidera’s sorrows, for those tears that have streamed -from bright eyes, and that young and old have shed so many thousand -times over her fate! This is the spur to Fame, this is the boast of -letters, that they are the medium through which whatever we feel and -think (that we take most pride and interest in) is imparted and lives -in the brain, and throbs in the bosoms of a countless multitude. We -breathe the thoughts of others as they breathe ours, like common air, -in spite of the distance of place, and the lapse of time. Mind converses -everywhere with mind, and we drink of knowledge as of a -river. We ourselves (Mr. Landor will excuse the egotism of the -transition) once took shelter from a shower of rain in a ruined hovel -in the Highlands, where we found an old shepherd apparently -regardless of the storm and of his flock, reading a number of the -Edinburgh Review! Need we own that this little incident inspired -us with a feeling of almost poetical vanity? From that time the blue -and yellow covers seemed to take a tinge from the humid arch, that -spanned the solitude before us, and our thoughts were commingled -with the elements!</p> - -<p class='c010'>The <cite>Conversation between Oliver Cromwell and Walter Noble</cite> on the -beheading of Charles <span class='fss'>I.</span>, displays a good deal of the blunt knavery of -old Nol, and a mixture of honour and honesty in the old Roundhead. -We here also find some touches that illustrate Mr. Landor’s political -views. Thus Cromwell is made to say, ‘I abominate and detest -kingship;’—to which Noble answers—‘I abominate and detest hangmanship; -but in certain stages of society, both are necessary. Let -them go together, we want neither now.’ The same dramatic -appreciation of the intellect of the speakers, and of the literary tone -of the age, appears in the <cite>Eighth Conversation, between King James I. -and Isaac Casaubon</cite>; and in many of the others, whether relating to -ancient or modern times. The verisimilitude does not arise from a -studied use of peculiar phrases, or an exaggeration of peculiar opinions, -but the writer seems to be well versed in the productions and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>characters of the individuals he brings upon the stage, and the -adaptation takes place unconsciously and without any apparent effort. -A remarkable instance of this occurs in the dialogue between Ann -Boleyn and Henry <span class='fss'>VIII.</span>, into which the rough, boisterous, voluptuous, -cruel and yet gamesome character of that monarch, whose gross and -pampered selfishness has but one parallel in the British annals, is -transfused with all the truth and spirit of history—or of the Author of -Waverley! In the <cite>Fourth Dialogue</cite> ‘between Professor Porson and -Mr. Southey,’ we meet with an assertion which we think Mr. Landor -would hardly have hazarded in the lifetime of the former, and to -which we cannot assent, even to show our candour. ‘Take up,’ -says the Laureate, ‘a poem of Wordsworth’s, <em>and read it</em>; I would -rather say, read them all; and knowing that a mind like yours must -grasp closely what comes within it, I will then appeal to you whether -any poet of our country, since Shakespear, has exerted a greater -variety of powers, with less strain and less ostentation.’ Some -persons (we do not know whether the poet himself is of the number) -have, we understand, compared Mr. Wordsworth to Milton; but we -did not expect ever to see a resemblance suggested between him and -Shakespeare. If ever two men were the antipodes of each other, -they are so; and even this we think is paying compliment enough to -Mr. Wordsworth. We are also of opinion, in the very teeth of the -<i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">dictum</span></i> of the brother bard, that let his other merits be what they -may, no English writer of any genius has shown <em>less</em> variety of powers, -with <cite>more</cite> effort and more significance of pretension. Mr. Southey, -in the <cite>Imaginary Conversation</cite>, goes on to lay before the Professor ‘an -unpublished and incomplete poem’ of the same author, the <cite>Laodamia</cite>, -and recites it, but only <em>in imagination</em>; after which some ingenious -verbal criticisms are made on one or two particular passages. This -poem has since been published; and we have no hesitation in saying, -that it is a poem the greater part of which might be read aloud in -Elysium, and that the spirits of departed heroes and sages might -gather round and listen to it! It is sweet and solemn; and, though -there is some poorness in the diction, and some indistinctness in the -images, it breathes of purity and tenderness, in very genuine and lofty -measures. We have great pleasure in saying this—but we must be -permitted to add, that we are firmly persuaded Mr. Wordsworth -would never have written this classical and manly composition, but -for those remarks on his former style, for which we have the misfortune -to fall under the lash of Mr. Landor’s pen.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The <cite>Ninth Conversation</cite> (‘<cite>Marchese Pallavicini and Walter Landor</cite>‘) -contains <em>scandal</em> against the English Government—<cite>Conversation X.</cite> -(‘<cite>General Kleber and some French Officers</cite>‘) <cite>scandal</cite> against the French—<cite>Conversation XI.</cite> -<span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>(‘<cite>Buonaparte and the President of the Senate</cite>’) -<em>scandal</em> against good taste and common decency. Let Mr. Landor -cancel it—let his publishers strike their asterisks through it. It is -short, and not sweet. These fabulous stories about the expedition -into Egypt, these low-minded and scurrilous aspersions on Buonaparte, -which the Tories palmed upon the credulity of their gulls, the -Jacobin poets, have been long discarded by the inventors, and linger -only in the pages, rankle only in the hearts of their converts. We -would recommend to Mr. Landor, before he writes on this subject -again, to read over the allegory of his friend Spenser, describing -<cite>Occasion</cite> and <cite>Furor</cite>, and not to be refreshing his groundless and -mischievous resentments every moment with a ‘Cymocles, oh! I -burn!’ It is by no means a sufficient reason to believe a thing that -it provokes our anger, or excites our disgust; nor is it wise or -decorous to bay the moon, and then quarrel with the echo of our own -voice. Mr. Landor keeps up a clamour raised by the worst men to -answer the worst purposes, only to persuade himself, if possible, that -he has not been its dupe. This is the worst of our author’s style—it -continually explodes and <em>detonates</em>—one cannot read him in security, -for fear of springing a mine, if any of his prejudices are touched, or -passions roused. He is made of combustible materials—sits hatching -treason, like the Guy Faux of letters, and is equally ready to blow -up a Legitimate Despot, or pounce upon an usurper! Let us turn to -Humphrey Hardcastle and Bishop Burnet,—in which the garrulous, -credulous, acute, vulgar, and yet graphic style of the latter, is very -pleasingly caricatured.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Hardcastle.</em> The pleasure I have taken in the narration of your -Lordship is for the greater part independent of what concerns my -family. I never knew that my uncle was a poet, and could hardly -have imagined that he approached near enough to Mr. Cowley for -jealousy or competition.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Bishop Burnet.</em> Indeed, they who discoursed on such matters -were of the same opinion, excepting some few, who see nothing before -them, and every thing behind. These declared that Hum would -overtop Abraham, if he could only drink rather less, think rather -more, and feel rather rightlier; that he had great spunk and spirit, -and that not a fan was left on a lap when any one sang his airs. -Poets, like ministers of state, have their parties; and it is difficult to -get at truth upon questions not capable of demonstration, nor founded -on matter of fact. To take any trouble about them, is an unwise -thing: it is like mounting a wall covered with broken glass: you -cut your fingers before you reach the top, and you only discover -at last that it is within a span or two of equal height on both -<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>sides. Who would have imagined that the youth who was carried to -his long home the other day, I mean my Lord Rochester’s reputed -child, Mr. George Nelly, was for several seasons a great poet? -Yet I remember the time when he was so famous an one that he ran -after Mr. Milton up Snow Hill, as the old gentleman was leaning on -his daughter’s arm, from the Poultry, and treading down the heel of -his shoe, called him a rogue and a liar, while another poet sprang -out from a grocer’s shop, clapping his hands, and crying, “<em>Bravely -done! by Belzebub! the young cock spurs the blind buzzard gallantly.</em>” -On some neighbour representing to Mr. George the respectable -character of Mr. Milton, and the probability that at some future time -he might be considered as among our geniuses, and such as would -reflect a certain portion of credit on his ward, and asking him withal -why he appeared to him a rogue and a liar, he replied, “I have -proofs known to few: I possess a sort of drama by him, entitled -Comus, which was composed for the entertainment of Lord Pembroke, -who held an appointment under the King; and this very John has -since changed sides, and written in defence of the Commonwealth.”—Mr. -George began with satirizing his father’s friends, and confounding -the better part of them with all the hirelings and nuisances -of the age, with all the scavengers of lust and all the linkboys of -literature; with Newgate solicitors, the patrons of adulterers and -forgers, who, in the long vocation, turn a penny by puffing a ballad, -and are promised a shilling in silver, for their own benefit, on crying -down a religious tract. He soon became reconciled to the latter, -and they raised him upon their shoulders above the heads of the -wittiest and the wisest. This served a whole winter. Afterwards, -whenever he wrote a bad poem, he supported his sinking fame by -some signal act of profligacy—an elegy by a seduction, an heroic -by an adultery, a tragedy by a divorce. On the remark of a learned -man, that irregularity is no indication of genius, he began to lose -ground rapidly, when on a sudden he cried out at the Haymarket, -<em>There is no God!</em> It was then surmised more generally and more -gravely that there was something in him, and he stood upon his legs -almost to the last. <em>Say what you will</em>, once whispered a friend of -mine, <em>there are things in him strong as poison, and original as sin</em>. -Doubts, however, were entertained by some, on more mature reflection, -whether he earned all his reputation by that witticism: for -soon afterwards he declared at the cockpit, that he had purchased a -large assortment of cutlasses and pistols, and that, as he was practising -the use of them from morning to night, it would be imprudent in -persons who were without them either to laugh or boggle at the -Dutch vocabulary with which he had enriched our language.... -<span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>Having had some concern in bringing his reputed father to a sense -of penitence for his offences, I waited on the youth likewise in a -former illness, not without hope of leading him ultimately to a better -way of thinking. I had hesitated too long: I found him far -advanced in his convalescence. My arguments are not worth -repeating. He replied thus: “I change my mistresses as Tom -Southern his shirt, from economy. I cannot afford to keep few: -and I am determined not to be forgotten till I am vastly richer. But -I assure you, Dr. Burnet, for your comfort, that if you imagine I -am led astray by lasciviousness, as you call it, and lust, you are quite -as much mistaken as if you called a book of arithmetic a bawdy -book. I calculate on every kiss I give, modest or immodest, on -lip or paper. I ask myself one question only—what will it bring -me?” On my marvelling, and raising up my hands, “You churchmen,” -he added, with a laugh, “are too hot in all your quarters for -the calm and steddy contemplation of this high mystery.” He spake -thus loosely, Mr. Hardcastle, and I confess, I was disconcerted and -took my leave of him. If I gave him any offence at all, it could -only be when he said, “<em>I should be sorry to die before I have written -my life</em>,” and I replied, “<em>Rather say before you have mended it</em>.”—“But, -doctor,” continued he, “the work I propose may bring me a hundred -pounds;” whereunto I rejoined, “that which I, young gentleman, -suggest in preference will be worth much more to you.” At last he -is removed from among the living: let us hope the best: to wit, -that the mercies which have begun with man’s forgetfulness will be -crowned with God’s forgiveness.’ <span class='fss'>I.</span> 164.</p> - -<p class='c010'>In the <em>Conversation between Peter Leopold and the President du -Paty</em>, there is a good deal of curious local information and sensible -remark; but there is too constant a balance kept up between the -arguments in favour of reform, and the difficulties attending it. Our -author is one of those <em>cats-cradle</em> reasoners who never see a decided -advantage in any thing but indecision, one of those adepts in political -Platonics, who are always in love with the theory of what is right, -till it comes to be put in practice. On the subject of this dialogue, -we have but one remark to repeat, which is, that in such matters to -be <em>nominally</em> humane is to be <em>practically</em> so—that where there is a -disposition in governments to lessen the sum of human misery, there -is the power,—and that the spirit of humanity is the great thing -wanting to society!</p> - -<p class='c010'>We own we like Mr. Landor best when he introduces the great -men of antiquity upon the carpet. He seems then to throw aside -his narrow and captious prejudices, expands his view with the -distance of the objects he contemplates, and infuses a strength, a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>severity, a fervour and sweetness into his style, not unworthy of the -admirable models whom he would be supposed to imitate. Such -in great part is the tone of the observations that pass between -Demosthenes and Eubulides.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Eubulides.</em> In your language, O Demosthenes! there is a resemblance -to the Ilissus, whose waters, as you must have observed, -are in most seasons pure and limpid and equable in their course, yet -abounding in depths, of which when we discern the bottom, we -wonder that we discern it so clearly: the same river at every storm -swells into a torrent, without ford or boundary, and is the stronger -and the more impetuous from resistance.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Demosthenes.</em> Language is part of a man’s character.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Eubulides.</em> It is often artificial.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Demosthenes.</em> Often both are so. I spoke not of such language -as that of Gorgias and Isocrates, and other rhetoricians, but of that -which belongs to eloquence, of that which enters the heart, however -closed against it, of that which pierces like the sword of Perseus, -of that which carries us away upon its point as easily as Medea her -children, and holds the world below in the same suspense and terror.—I -had to form a manner, with great models on one side of me -and Nature on the other. Had I imitated Plato (the writer then -most admired) I must have fallen short of his amplitude and dignity; -and his sentences are seldom such as could be admitted into a -popular harangue. Xenophon is elegant, but unimpassioned, and -not entirely free, I think, from affectation. Herodotus is the most -faultless, and perhaps the most excellent of all. What simplicity! -what sweetness! what harmony! not to mention his sagacity of -inquiry and his accuracy of description: he could not, however, -form an orator for the times in which we live. Aristoteles and -Thucydides were before me: I trembled lest they should lead me -where I might raise a recollection of Pericles, whose plainness and -conciseness and gravity they have imitated, not always with success. -Laying down these qualities as the foundation, I have ventured on -more solemnity, more passion: I have also been studious to bring -the powers of <em>action</em> into play, that great instrument in exciting the -affections, which Pericles disdained. He and Jupiter could strike -my head with their thunderbolts and stand serene and motionless: -I could not.’ <span class='fss'>I.</span> 233.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The Dialogue in the second volume between Pericles and -Sophocles breathes the spirit of patriotism and of antiquity, perhaps -in a still higher strain, with a bastard allusion, we suspect, to recent -politics. The Conversations between Aristotle and Callisthenes, -and between Lord Chatham and Lord Chesterfield, (also in the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>second volume), contain an admirable estimate, equally sound and -acute, of the characters of Aristotle and Plato. Our critic appears -to have studied and to have understood these authors well. In our -opinion, he rates Cicero too high; we do not mean as to style or -oratory, but as a thinker. In this respect, there is little memorable, -or new, or profound, in him; and ‘he was at best’ (as it has been -said) ‘but an elegant reporter of the Greek philosophy.’ Neither -can we agree that his historian, Middleton, is so entirely free from -affectation as our author supposes. It is Lord Chatham who is -made to pronounce the panegyric upon Locke, as ‘the most elegant -of English prose writers,’ which, if our author were not a deliberate -paradox-monger, might seem an uncivil irony. His eulogist does -not mend the matter much by his definition of elegance, which one -would think intended as a test of Lord Chesterfield’s politeness. -He makes it to consist in a mean between too much prolixity and -too much conciseness. Now, (supposing this to be intended -seriously) Mr. Locke was certainly one of the most circuitous and -diffuse of all writers. This distinguished person neither excelled -in the graces of style, according to our author’s singular assertion, -nor was he (according to the common opinion) the founder of the -modern system of metaphysical philosophy. The credit of having -laid the basis of this system, and of having completed the great -outline of the plan, is beyond all question due to the philosopher -of Malmesbury. Mr. Locke’s real <em>forte</em> was great practical good -sense, a determination to look at every question, free from prejudice -and according to the evidence suggested to him, and a patient and -persevering <em>doggedness</em> of understanding in contending with difficulties, -and finding out and weighing arguments of opposite tendency. The -most valuable parts of his celebrated Essay are those which relate -not to the <em>nature</em> but to the <em>conduct</em> of the understanding; and on -that subject, he often proves himself a most sage and judicious -adviser. Mr. Locke’s Treatise on Education (with all its defects, -and an occasional appearance of pedantry), laid the foundation of -the modern improvements in that important branch of study; and -his book upon Government (written in defence of the Revolution -of 1688) remained unimpeached up to the period of the battle of -Waterloo. The author of the <cite>Essay on Human Understanding</cite> -undoubtedly ranks as the third name in English philosophy, after -Newton and Bacon; yet perhaps others, as Hobbes, Berkeley, -Butler, Hume, Hartley, and, even in our own times, Horne Tooke, -have shown a firmer grasp of mind, as well as greater originality and -subtlety of invention, in the same field of inquiry. This opinion -may, however, be thought by some petulant and daring, not to say -<span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>profane; and we may be accused, in forming or delivering it, of -having encroached unawares on the exercise of Mr. Landor’s -exclusive right of private judgment and free inquiry.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The controversy between the Abbé Delille and our author in -person, of which Boileau is the leading subject, is an amusing -specimen of verbal criticism. All that it proves however is, that -this kind of criticism proves nothing but the acuteness of the writer, -and also that those poets who pique themselves on being most -exempt from it are the most liable to it. Pope is an example -among ourselves. Those who are in the habit of attending to the -smallest things, do not see the farthest before them; and, in polishing -and correcting one line, they overlook or fall into some fresh -mistake in another. The altering and retouching, after a lapse of -time, or during the probation of Horace’s ‘nine years,’ is sure to -lead to inconsistency and partial oversights. Mr. Landor, in some -instances, we imagine, confounds humour with blunders. Thus the -truism in the line—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘<span lang="co" xml:lang="co">Que, si sous Adam même, <em>et loin avant Noë</em></span>,’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>we should consider as a mere piece of <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">naïveté</span></i>, in the manner of La -Fontaine. We will give up, however, without scruple, Boileau’s -mock-heroics, as we would some English ones of later date. But -his satire and his sense we cannot relinquish all at once, though he -was a Frenchman, and, what is still worse, a Frenchman of the age -of Louis <span class='fss'>XIV.</span>! It is hard that a people who arrogate all perfections -to themselves should possess none; nor can we think that so vast -and magnificent a reputation as their literature has acquired, could -be raised, as Mr. L. would persuade us, without either art or genius? -The Dialogue between Kosciusko and Poniatowski (a subject -capable of better things) is remarkable for nothing but a mawkish -philanthropy, and a problematical defence of General Pichegru for -betraying the Republic and leaguing with the Bourbons. We have -nothing to say to this; but, as our author has dedicated one of -these volumes to General Mina, will he forgive our recommending -him to write a third, in order to inscribe it to Balasteros?</p> - -<p class='c010'>When our literary dramatist attempts common or vulgar humour, -he fails totally, as in the slang Conversation entitled <cite>Cavaliere Punto -Michino, and Mr. Denis Eusebius Talcranagh</cite>. The interview between -David Hume and John Home is another failure, at least in so far as -relates to character. The author represents the latter as a quiet -contented parish minister,—the fact being, that soon after the -publication of his play, he abandoned the clerical profession, and -went about a fine gentleman, with a blue coat and a pigtail. Horne -<span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>Tooke’s collision with Dr. Johnson produces only some meagre -etymologies and orthographical pedantry, and a tolerably just and -highly pointed character of Junius; that between Washington and -Franklin only a dull recipe for curing the disorders of Ireland. -Prince Maurocordoto and General Colocotroni defend the Greeks, -in the Twelfth Conversation of the second volume, on very new and -learned principles; but as we have no skill in wood craft, nor in -flat-bottomed boats, we pass it over. The last Conversation (supposed -to take place between Marcus Tullius Cicero, and his brother Quintus, -on the night before his death) is full of an eloquent and philosophic -melancholy, which makes it on the whole our favourite:—that between -Lopez Banos and Romero Alpuente, we dare be sworn, is the author’s; -at least it had need, it will be <em>caviare to the multitude</em>. <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Par example.</span></i></p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Banos.</em> At length, Alpuente, the saints of the Holy Alliance have -declared war against us.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Alpuente.</em> I have not heard it until now.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Banos.</em> They have directed a memorial to the king of France, -inviting him to take such measures as his Majesty, in his wisdom, -shall deem convenient, in order to avert the calamities of war, and -the dangers of discord, from his frontier.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Alpuente.</em> God forbid that so great a king should fall upon us! -O Lord, save us from our enemy, who would eat us up quick, so -despitefully and hungrily is he set against us.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Banos.</em> Read the manifesto ... why do you laugh? Is not -this a declaration of hostilities?</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Alpuente.</em> To Spaniards, yes. I laughed at the folly and impudence -of men, who, for the present of a tobacco-box with a fool’s -head upon it, string together these old peeled pearls of diplomatic -eloquence, and foist them upon the world as arguments and truths. -Do kings imagine that they can as easily deceive as they can enslave? -and that the mind is as much under their snaffle, as the body is under -their axe and halter? Show me one of them, Lopez, who has not -violated some promise, who has not usurped some territory, who has -not oppressed and subjugated some neighbour; then I will believe -him, then I will obey him, then I will acknowledge that those -literary heralds who trumpet forth his praises with the newspaper in -their hands, are creditable and upright and uncorrupted. The courage -of Spain delivered these wretches from the cane and drumhead of a -Corsican. Which of them did not crouch before him? which did -not flatter him? which did not execute his orders? which did not -court his protection? which did not solicit his favour? which did -not entreat his forbearance? which did not implore his pardon? which -did not abandon and betray him?’</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span><em>’Tis a pretty picture</em>; and did the author suppose, in his blindness -to the past and to the future, that the august personages of -whom he speaks, after escaping from this state of abject degradation -and subjection to that iron scourge, would voluntarily submit to be -at the beck and nod of every puny pretender who sets up an authority -over them, and undertakes to tutor and <em>cashier</em> kings at his discretion? -But not to interrupt the dialogue, which thus continues:—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘No ties either of blood or of religion, led or restrained these -neophytes in holiness. And now, forsooth, the calamities of war, -and the dangers of discord are to be averted, by arming one part of -our countrymen against the other, by stationing a military force on -our frontier, for the reception of murderers and traitors and incendiaries, -and by pointing the bayonet and cannon in our faces. When -we smiled at the insults of a beaten enemy, they dictated terms and -conditions. At last, his <em>most Christian Majesty</em> tells his army, that -the nephew of Henry the fourth shall march against us ... with -his feather!</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Banos.</em> Ah! that weighs more. The French army will march -over fields which cover French armies, and over which the oldest -and bravest part of it fled in ignominy and dismay, before our -shepherd boys and hunters. What the veterans of Napoleon failed -to execute, the household of Louis will accomplish. Parisians! -let your comic opera-house lie among its ruins; it cannot be wanted -this season.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Alpuente.</em> Shall these battalions which fought so many years for -freedom, so many for glory, be supplementary bands to barbarians -from Caucasus and Imaus? Shall they shed the remainder of their -blood to destroy a cause, for the maintenance of which they offered up -its first libation? Time will solve this problem, the most momentous -in its solution that ever lay before man. If we are conquered, of -which at present I have no apprehension, Europe must become the -theatre of new wars, and be divided into three parts, afterwards into -two, and the next generation will see all her states and provinces the -property of one autocrat, and governed by the most ignorant and -lawless of her nations.<a id='r17' /><a href='#f17' class='c014'><sup>[17]</sup></a></p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Banos.</em> Never was there a revolution, or material change in -government, effected with so little bloodshed, so little opposition, so -little sorrow or disquietude, as ours. Months had passed away, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>years were rolling over us, institutions were consolidating, superstition -was relaxing, ingratitude and perfidy were as much forgotten by us, -as our services and sufferings were forgotten by Ferdinand, when -emissaries, and gold and arms, and <span class='fss'>FAITH</span>, inciting to discord and -rebellion, crossed our frontier ... and our fortresses were garnished -with the bayonets of France, and echoed with the watchwords of the -Vatican. If Ferdinand had regarded his oath, and had acceded, in -<em>our</em> sense of the word <em>faith</em>, to the constitution of his country, from -which there was hardly a dissentient voice among the industrious and -the unambitious, among the peaceable and the wise, would he have -eaten one dinner with less appetite, or have embroidered one petticoat -with less taste? Would the saints along his chapel-walls have smiled -upon him less graciously, or would thy tooth, holy Dominic, have -left a less pleasurable impression on his lips? His most Christian -Majesty demands <em>that Ferdinand the seventh may give his people those -institutions which they can have from him only</em>! Yes, these are his -expressions, Alpuente; these the doctrines, for the propagation of -which our country is to be invaded with fire and sword; this is -government, this is order, this is faith! Ferdinand <em>was</em> at liberty to -give us his institutions: he gave them: what were they? The -inquisition in all its terrors, absolute and arbitrary sway, scourges and -processions, monks and missionaries, and a tooth of St. Dominic to -crown them all.... To support the throne that crushes us, and the -altar that choaks us, march forward the warlike Louis and the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">preux</span></i> -Chateaubriant, known among his friends to be as firm in belief as -Hobbes, Talleyrand, or Spinoza; and behold them advancing, side -by side, against the calm opponents of Roman bulls and French -charts. Although his Majesty be brave as Maximin at a breakfast, -he will find it easier to eat his sixty-four cutlets than to conquer -Spain. I doubt whether the same historian shall have to commemorate -both exploits.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Alpuente.</em> In wars the least guilty are the sufferers. In these, -as in everything, we should contract as much as possible the circle -of human misery. The deluded and enslaved should be so far spared -as is consistent with security: the most atrocious of murderers and -incendiaries, the purveyors and hirers of them, should be removed -at any expense or hazard. If we show little mercy to the robber -who enters a house by force, and if less ought to be shown to him who -should enter it in the season of distress and desolation, what portion -of it ought to be extended towards those who assail every house in -our country? How much of crime and wretchedness may often be -averted, how many years of tranquillity may sometimes be ensured to -the world <em>by one well-chosen example</em>! Is it not better than to witness -<span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>the grief of the virtuous for the virtuous, and the extinction of those -bright and lofty hopes, for which the best and wisest of every age -contended? Where is the man, worthy of the name, who would be -less affected at the lamentation of one mother for her son, slain in -defending his country, than at <em>the extermination of some six or seven -usurpers</em>, commanding or attempting its invasion? National safety -legitimates every mean employed upon it. Criminals have been -punished differently in different countries: but all enlightened, all -honest, all civilised men, must agree <em>who</em> are criminals. The -Athenians were perhaps as well-informed and intelligent as the -people on lake Ladoga: they knew nothing of the <em>knout</em>, I confess; -and no family amongst them boasted a succession of <em>assassins</em>, in -wives, sons, fathers, and husbands: but he who endangered or -injured his country was condemned to the draught of hemlock! -They could punish the offence in another manner: if any nation -cannot, shall that nation therefore leave it unpunished? And shall -the guiltiest of men enjoy impunity, from a consideration of modes -and means? Justice is not to be neglected, because what is preferable -is unattainable. A house-breaker is condemned to die, a city-breaker -is celebrated by an inscription over the gate. The murder -of thousands, soon perpetrated and past, is not the greatest mischief -he does: it is followed by the baseness of millions, deepening for -ages. Every virtuous man in the universe is a member of that grand -Amphictyonic council, which should pass sentence on the too -powerful, and provide that it be duly executed. It is just, and -it is necessary, that those who pertinaciously insist on so unnatural -a state of society, should suffer by the shock things make in recovering -their equipoise.’ <span class='fss'>II.</span> 269.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We have given this <em>tirade</em>, not with any view to comment on the -sentiments it conveys, but to justify what we have said of the outrageous -spirit that so frequently breaks out in the present work, and -that might reasonably ‘condemn the author to the draught of hellebore.’ -We believe the attempt to revive the exploded doctrine of tyrannicide -is peculiar to the reformed Jacobins. We remember a long and well-timed -article in the <span class='sc'>Friend</span>, some years ago, on this subject; nor do -the strong allusions to the same remedy, in a celebrated journal, form -an exception to this remark, at a time when a renegado from the -same school directed its attacks upon the Corsican hero. These -modern monks and literary jesuits, who would fain set up their own -fanatic notions against law and reason, and dictate equally to legitimate -kings and revolutionary usurpers, find fault with Napoleon for having -thrown his sword into the scale of opinion; and now, finding the -want of it, sooner than be baulked of their fancy, would (as far as -<span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>we can understand their meaning) substitute the dagger. We cannot -applaud their expedients; nor sympathize with that ‘final hope’ -which seems ‘flat despair.’ If these pragmatical persons could have -every thing their own way—if they could confer power and take -away the abuse of it—if they could put down tyrants with the -sword, and give the law to conquerors with the pen—we should not -despair of seeing some good result from this new theocracy. The -worst we could fear would be from their fickleness, rashness, and -inconsiderate thirst for novelty; but they would not, by their ill-timed -servility and gratuitous phrensy, help to bring down the iron -hand of power upon us, or enclose us in the dungeons of prejudice -and superstition! As it is, they have contrived to throw open the -flood-gates of despotism—‘to shut exceeds their power:’ they have -got rid of one tyrant, to establish the principle in perpetuity, and to -root out the very name of Freedom. Those of them who are -sincere, who are not bribed to silence by places and pensions obtained -by their momentary complaisance and seeming inconsistency, speak -out, and are sorry for the part they have taken, now that it is too -late. They strike ‘the marble table with their palm’—they call -their country recreant and base—they invoke the shade of Leonidas—they apostrophize the spirit of Bolivar—they polish their style like a -steel breastplate—they point their sentences like daggers against the -bloated apathy of legitimacy—they publish satires on the constitution, -and print libels on departed ministers in asterisks—they invent new -modes of warfare, and recommend new modes of extermination -against despots;—and, in return for all this, the Holy Allies laugh -at them, their credulity, their rage, their helplessness, and disappointment. -There was one man whom they did not laugh at, but whom -they feared and hated; and they persuaded Mr. Landor and others -that what they feared and hated above all other things, was out of -love to Liberty and Humanity!</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Landor has interspersed some pieces of poetry through these -volumes. His muse still retains her <em>implicit</em> and inextricable style. -The author, some five-and-twenty years ago, published a poem under -the title of Gebir, in Latin and English, and equally unintelligible -in both, but of which we have heard two lines quoted by his -admirers.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Pleas’d they remember their august abodes,</div> - <div class='line'>And murmur as the ocean murmurs there.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>This relates to the sound which sea-shells make if placed close to -the ear, and is beautiful and mystic, like something composed in a -dream. His tragedy of Count Julian we have not seen.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span> - <h3 class='c008'>SHELLEY’S POSTHUMOUS POEMS</h3> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Vol. xl.</span>]      [<em>July 1824.</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Shelley’s style is to poetry what astrology is to natural science—a -passionate dream, a straining after impossibilities, a record of fond -conjectures, a confused embodying of vague abstractions,—a fever of -the soul, thirsting and craving after what it cannot have, indulging its -love of power and novelty at the expense of truth and nature, associating -ideas by contraries, and wasting great powers by their application -to unattainable objects.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Poetry, we grant, creates a world of its own; but it creates it out -of existing materials. Mr. Shelley is the maker of his own poetry—out -of nothing. Not that he is deficient in the true sources of -strength and beauty, if he had given himself fair play (the volume -before us, as well as his other productions, contains many proofs to -the contrary): But, in him, fancy, will, caprice, predominated over -and absorbed the natural influences of things; and he had no respect -for any poetry that did not strain the intellect as well as fire the -imagination—and was not sublimed into a high spirit of metaphysical -philosophy. Instead of giving a language to thought, or lending the -heart a tongue, he utters dark sayings, and deals in allegories and -riddles. His Muse offers her services to clothe shadowy doubts -and inscrutable difficulties in a robe of glittering words, and to turn -nature into a brilliant paradox. We thank him—but we must be -excused. Where we see the dazzling beacon-lights streaming over -the darkness of the abyss, we dread the quicksands and the rocks -below. Mr. Shelley’s mind was of ‘too fiery a quality’ to repose -(for any continuance) on the probable or the true—it soared ‘beyond -the visible diurnal sphere,’ to the strange, the improbable, and the -impossible. He mistook the nature of the poet’s calling, which -should be guided by involuntary, not by voluntary impulses. He -shook off, as an heroic and praiseworthy act, the trammels of sense, -custom, and sympathy, and became the creature of his own will. He -was ‘all air,’ disdaining the bars and ties of mortal mould. He -ransacked his brain for incongruities, and believed in whatever was -incredible. Almost all is effort, almost all is extravagant, almost all -is quaint, incomprehensible, and abortive, from aiming to be more -than it is. Epithets are applied, because they do not fit: subjects -are chosen, because they are repulsive: the colours of his style, for -their gaudy, changeful, startling effect, resemble the display of fireworks -in the dark, and, like them, have neither durability, nor -keeping, nor discriminate form. Yet Mr. Shelley, with all his faults, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>was a man of genius; and we lament that uncontrollable violence of -temperament which gave it a forced and false direction. He has -single thoughts of great depth and force, single images of rare beauty, -detached passages of extreme tenderness; and, in his smaller pieces, -where he has attempted little, he has done most. If some casual -and interesting idea touched his feelings or struck his fancy, he -expressed it in pleasing and unaffected verse: but give him a larger -subject, and time to reflect, and he was sure to get entangled in a -system. The fumes of vanity rolled volumes of smoke, mixed with -sparkles of fire, from the cloudy tabernacle of his thought. The -success of his writings is therefore in general in the inverse ratio of -the extent of his undertakings; inasmuch as his desire to teach, his -ambition to excel, as soon as it was brought into play, encroached -upon, and outstripped his powers of execution.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Shelley was a remarkable man. His person was a type and -shadow of his genius. His complexion, fair, golden, freckled, -seemed transparent with an inward light, and his spirit within him</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in10'>——‘so divinely wrought,</div> - <div class='line'>That you might almost say his body thought.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>He reminded those who saw him of some of Ovid’s fables. His -form, graceful and slender, drooped like a flower in the breeze. But -he was crushed beneath the weight of thought which he aspired to -bear, and was withered in the lightning-glare of a ruthless philosophy! -He mistook the nature of his own faculties and feelings—the lowly -children of the valley, by which the skylark makes its bed, and the -bee murmurs, for the proud cedar or the mountain-pine, in which the -eagle builts its eyry, ‘and dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun.’—He -wished to make of idle verse and idler prose the frame-work -of the universe, and to bind all possible existence in the visionary -chain of intellectual beauty—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘More subtle web Arachne cannot spin,</div> - <div class='line'>Nor the fine nets, which oft we woven see</div> - <div class='line'>Of scorched dew, do not in th’ air more lightly flee.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>Perhaps some lurking sense of his own deficiencies in the lofty walk -which he attempted, irritated his impatience and his desires; and -urged him on, with winged hopes, to atone for past failures by more -arduous efforts, and more unavailing struggles.</p> - -<p class='c010'>With all his faults, Mr. Shelley was an honest man. His unbelief -and his presumption were parts of a disease, which was not combined -in him either with indifference to human happiness, or contempt for -human infirmities. There was neither selfishness nor malice at the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>bottom of his illusions. He was sincere in all his professions; and -he practised what he preached—to his own sufficient cost. He -followed up the letter and the spirit of his theoretical principles in his -own person, and was ready to share both the benefit and the penalty -with others. He thought and acted logically, and was what he -professed to be, a sincere lover of truth, of nature, and of human -kind. To all the rage of paradox, he united an unaccountable candour -and severity of reasoning: in spite of an aristocratic education, he -retained in his manners the simplicity of a primitive apostle. An -Epicurean in his sentiments, he lived with the frugality and -abstemiousness of an ascetick. His fault was, that he had no -deference for the opinions of others, too little sympathy with their -feelings (which he thought he had a right to sacrifice, as well as his -own, to a grand ethical experiment)—and trusted too implicitly to -the light of his own mind, and to the warmth of his own impulses. -He was indeed the most striking example we remember of the two -extremes described by Lord Bacon as the great impediments to -human improvement, the love of Novelty, and the love of Antiquity. -‘The first of these (impediments) is an extreme affection of two -extremities, the one Antiquity, the other Novelty; wherein it -seemeth the children of time do take after the nature and malice of -the father. For as he devoureth his children, so one of them seeketh -to devour and suppress the other; while Antiquity envieth there -should be new additions, and Novelty cannot be content to add, but -it must deface. Surely the advice of the Prophet is the true direction -in this matter: <em>Stand upon the old ways, and see which is the right and -good way, and walk therein</em>. Antiquity deserveth that reverence, -that men should make a stand thereupon, and discover what is the best -way; but when the discovery is well taken, then to take progression. -And to speak truly, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Antiquitas seculi Juventus mundi</span></i>. These times -are the ancient times, when the world is ancient, and not those which -we count ancient, <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">ordine retrogrado</span></i>, by a computation backwards from -ourselves.’ (<span class='sc'>Advancement of Learning</span>, Book I. p. 46.)—Such is -the text: and Mr. Shelley’s writings are a splendid commentary on -one half of it. Considered in this point of view, his career may not be -uninstructive even to those whom it most offended; and might be -held up as a beacon and warning no less to the bigot than the sciolist. -We wish to speak of the errors of a man of genius with tenderness. -His nature was kind, and his sentiments noble; but in him the rage -of free inquiry and private judgment amounted to a species of madness. -Whatever was new, untried, unheard of, unauthorized, exerted a -kind of fascination over his mind. The examples of the world, the -opinion of others, instead of acting as a check upon him, served but -<span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>to impel him forward with double velocity in his wild and hazardous -career. Spurning the world of realities, he rushed into the world of -nonentities and contingencies, like air into a <em>vacuum</em>. If a thing was -old and established, this was with him a certain proof of its having no -solid foundation to rest upon: if it was new, it was good and right. -Every paradox was to him a self-evident truth; every prejudice an -undoubted absurdity. The weight of authority, the sanction of ages, -the common consent of mankind, were vouchers only for ignorance, -error, and imposture. Whatever shocked the feelings of others, -conciliated his regard; whatever was light, extravagant, and vain, -was to him a proportionable relief from the dulness and stupidity of -established opinions. The worst of it however was, that he thus -gave great encouragement to those who believe in all received -absurdities, and are wedded to all existing abuses: his extravagance -seeming to sanction their grossness and selfishness, as theirs were a -full justification of his folly and eccentricity. The two extremes in -this way often meet, jostle,—and confirm one another. The infirmities -of age are a foil to the presumption of youth; and ‘there -the antics sit,’ mocking one another—the ape Sophistry pointing with -reckless scorn at ‘palsied eld,’ and the bed-rid hag. Legitimacy, -rattling her chains, counting her beads, dipping her hands in blood, -and blessing herself from all change and from every appeal to common -sense and reason! Opinion thus alternates in a round of contradictions: -the impatience or obstinacy of the human mind takes part -with, and flies off to one or other of the two extremes ‘of affection’ -and leaves a horrid gap, a blank sense and feeling in the middle, -which seems never likely to be filled up, without a total change in -our mode of proceeding. The martello-towers with which we are to -repress, if we cannot destroy, the systems of fraud and oppression -should not be castles in the air, or clouds in the verge of the horizon, -but the enormous and accumulated pile of abuses which have arisen -out of their continuance. The principles of sound morality, liberty -and humanity, are not to be found only in a few recent writers, who -have discovered the secret of the greatest happiness to the greatest -numbers, but are truths as old as the creation. To be convinced of -the existence of wrong, we should read history rather than poetry: -the levers with which we must work out our regeneration are not -the cobwebs of the brain, but the warm, palpitating fibres of the -human heart. It is the collision of passions and interests, the -petulance of party-spirit, and the perversities of self-will and self-opinion -that have been the great obstacles to social improvement—not -stupidity or ignorance; and the caricaturing one side of the -question and shocking the most pardonable prejudices on the other, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>is not the way to allay heats or produce unanimity. By flying to the -extremes of scepticism, we make others shrink back, and shut themselves -up in the strongholds of bigotry and superstition—by mixing -up doubtful or offensive matters with salutary and demonstrable -truths, we bring the whole into question, fly-blow the cause, risk the -principle, and give a handle and a pretext to the enemy to treat all -philosophy and all reform as a compost of crude, chaotic, and -monstrous absurdities. We thus arm the virtues as well as the vices -of the community against us; we trifle with their understandings, and -exasperate their self-love; we give to superstition and injustice all -their old security and sanctity, as if they were the only alternatives of -impiety and profligacy, and league the natural with the selfish prejudices -of mankind in hostile array against us. To this consummation, it -must be confessed that too many of Mr. Shelley’s productions -pointedly tend. He makes no account of the opinions of others, or -the consequences of any of his own; but proceeds—tasking his -reason to the utmost to account for every thing, and discarding every -thing as mystery and error for which he cannot account by an effort -of mere intelligence—measuring man, providence, nature, and even -his own heart, by the limits of the understanding—now hallowing -high mysteries, now desecrating pure sentiments, according as they -fall in with or exceeded those limits; and exalting and purifying, -with Promethean heat, whatever he does not confound and -debase.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Shelley died, it seems, with a volume of Mr. Keats’s poetry -grasped with one hand in his bosom! These are two out of four -poets, patriots and friends, who have visited Italy within a few years, -both of whom have been soon hurried to a more distant shore. Keats -died young; and ‘yet his infelicity had years too many.’ A canker -had blighted the tender bloom that o’erspread a face in which youth -and genius strove with beauty; the shaft was sped—venal, vulgar, -venomous, that drove him from his country, with sickness and penury -for companions, and followed him to his grave. And yet there are -those who could trample on the faded flower—men to whom breaking -hearts are a subject of merriment—who laugh loud over the silent -urn of Genius, and play out their game of venality and infamy with -the crumbling bones of their victims! To this band of immortals a -third has since been added!—a mightier genius, a haughtier spirit, -whose stubborn impatience and Achilles-like pride only Death could -quell. Greece, Italy, the world, have lost their poet-hero; and his -death has spread a wider gloom, and been recorded with a deeper -awe, than has waited on the obsequies of any of the many great who -have died in our remembrance. Even detraction has been silent at -<span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>his tomb; and the more generous of his enemies have fallen into the -rank of his mourners. But he set like the sun in his glory; and his -orb was greatest and brightest at the last; for his memory is now -consecrated no less by freedom than genius. He probably fell a -martyr to his zeal against tyrants. He attached himself to the cause -of Greece, and dying, clung to it with a convulsive grasp, and has -thus gained a niche in her history; for whatever <em>she</em> claims as hers is -immortal, even in decay, as the marble sculptures on the columns of -her fallen temples!</p> - -<p class='c010'>The volume before us is introduced by an imperfect but touching -Preface by Mrs. Shelley, and consists almost wholly of original -pieces, with the exception of <cite>Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude</cite>, which -was out of print; and the admirable Translation of the <cite>May-day -Night</cite>, from Goethe’s Faustus.</p> - -<p class='c010'><cite>Julian and Maddalo</cite> (the first Poem in the collection) is a Conversation -or Tale, full of that thoughtful and romantic humanity, but -rendered perplexing and unattractive by that veil of shadowy or of -glittering obscurity, which distinguished Mr. Shelley’s writings. -The depth and tenderness of his feelings seems often to have interfered -with the expression of them, as the sight becomes blind with tears. -A dull, waterish vapour, clouds the aspect of his philosophical poetry, -like that mysterious gloom which he has himself described as hanging -over the Medusa’s Head of Leonardo da Vinci. The metre of this -poem, too, will not be pleasing to every body. It is in the antique -taste of the rhyming parts of Beaumont and Fletcher and Ben Jonson—blank -verse in its freedom and unbroken flow, falling into rhymes -that appear altogether accidental—very colloquial in the diction—and -sometimes sufficiently prosaic. But it is easier showing than -describing it. We give the introductory passage.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘I rode one evening with Count Maddalo</div> - <div class='line'>Upon the bank of land which breaks the flow</div> - <div class='line'>Of Adria towards Venice: a bare strand</div> - <div class='line'>Of hillocks, heaped from ever-shifting sand,</div> - <div class='line'>Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds,</div> - <div class='line'>Such as from earth’s embrace the salt ooze breeds,</div> - <div class='line'>Is this: an uninhabited sea-side,</div> - <div class='line'>Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried,</div> - <div class='line'>Abandons; and no other object breaks</div> - <div class='line'>The waste, but one dwarf tree and some few stakes</div> - <div class='line'>Broken and unrepaired, and the tide makes</div> - <div class='line'>A narrow space of level sand thereon,</div> - <div class='line'>Where ’twas our wont to ride while day went down.</div> - <div class='line'>This ride was my delight. I love all waste</div> - <div class='line'>And solitary places; where we taste</div> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>The pleasure of believing what we see</div> - <div class='line'>Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be:</div> - <div class='line'>And such was this wide ocean, and this shore</div> - <div class='line'>More barren than its billows; and yet more</div> - <div class='line'>Than all, with a remember’d friend I love</div> - <div class='line'>To ride as then I rode;—for the winds drove</div> - <div class='line'>The living spray along the sunny air</div> - <div class='line'>Into our faces; the blue heavens were bare,</div> - <div class='line'>Stripped to their depths by the awakening North;</div> - <div class='line'>And, from the waves, sound like delight broke forth</div> - <div class='line'>Harmonising with solitude, and sent</div> - <div class='line'>Into our hearts aerial merriment.</div> - <div class='line'>So, as we rode, we talked; and the swift thought,</div> - <div class='line'>Winging itself with laughter, lingered not,</div> - <div class='line'>But flew from brain to brain,—such glee was ours,</div> - <div class='line'>Charged with light memories of remembered hours,</div> - <div class='line'>None slow enough for sadness: till we came</div> - <div class='line'>Homeward, which always makes the spirit tame.’ &c.</div> - <div class='line in2'>‘Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should alight</div> - <div class='line'>O’er the horizon of the mountains—Oh!</div> - <div class='line'>How beautiful is sunset, when the glow</div> - <div class='line'>Of heaven descends upon a land like thee,</div> - <div class='line'>Thou paradise of exiles, Italy!</div> - <div class='line'>Thy mountains, seas, and vineyards, and the towers</div> - <div class='line'>Of cities they encircle!—It was ours</div> - <div class='line'>To stand on thee, beholding it: and then,</div> - <div class='line'>Just where we had dismounted, the Count’s men</div> - <div class='line'>Were waiting for us with the gondola.</div> - <div class='line'>As those who pause on some delightful way,</div> - <div class='line'>Tho’ bent on pleasant pilgrimage, we stood,</div> - <div class='line'>Looking upon the evening and the flood,</div> - <div class='line'>Which lay between the city and the shore,</div> - <div class='line'>Paved with the image of the sky; the hoar</div> - <div class='line'>And aery Alps, towards the North, appeared,</div> - <div class='line'>Thro’ mist, an heaven-sustaining bulwark, reared</div> - <div class='line'>Between the east and west; and half the sky</div> - <div class='line'>Was roofed with clouds of rich emblazonry,</div> - <div class='line'>Dark purple at the zenith, which still grew</div> - <div class='line'>Down the steep west into a wondrous hue</div> - <div class='line'>Brighter than burning gold, even to the rent</div> - <div class='line'>Where the swift sun yet paused in his descent</div> - <div class='line'>Among the many-folded hills—they were</div> - <div class='line'>Those famous Euganean hills, which bear,</div> - <div class='line'>As seen from Lido thro’ the harbour piles,</div> - <div class='line'>The likeness of a clump of peaked isles—</div> - <div class='line'>And then, as if the earth and sea had been</div> - <div class='line'>Dissolv’d into one lake of fire, were seen</div> - <div class='line'>Those mountains towering, as from waves of flame,</div> - <div class='line'>Around the vaporous sun, from which there came</div> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>The inmost purple spirit of light, and made</div> - <div class='line'>Their very peaks transparent. “Ere it fade,”</div> - <div class='line'>Said my companion, “I will show you soon</div> - <div class='line'>A better station.” So, o’er the lagune</div> - <div class='line'>We glided; and from that funereal bark</div> - <div class='line'>I leaned, and saw the city, and could mark</div> - <div class='line'>How from their many isles, in evening’s gleam,</div> - <div class='line'>Its temples and its palaces did seem</div> - <div class='line'>Like fabrics of enchantment piled to Heaven.</div> - <div class='line'>I was about to speak, when—“We are even</div> - <div class='line'>Now at the point I meant”—said Maddalo,</div> - <div class='line'>And bade the gondolieri cease to row.</div> - <div class='line'>“Look, Julian, on the west, and listen well</div> - <div class='line'>If you hear not a deep and heavy bell.”</div> - <div class='line'>I looked, and saw between us and the sun</div> - <div class='line'>A building on an island, such an one</div> - <div class='line'>As age to age might add, for uses vile—</div> - <div class='line'>A windowless, deformed, and dreary pile;</div> - <div class='line'>And on the top an open tower, where hung</div> - <div class='line'>A bell, which in the radiance swayed and swung,</div> - <div class='line'>We could just hear its hoarse and iron tongue:</div> - <div class='line'>The broad sun sank behind it, and it tolled</div> - <div class='line'>In strong and black relief. “What you behold</div> - <div class='line'>Shall be the madhouse and its belfry tower,”—</div> - <div class='line'>Said Maddalo, “and even at this hour,</div> - <div class='line'>Those who may cross the water hear that bell,</div> - <div class='line'>Which calls the maniacs, each one from his cell,</div> - <div class='line'>To vespers,” &c.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in26'>‘The broad star</div> - <div class='line'>Of day meanwhile had sunk behind the hill;</div> - <div class='line'>And the black bell became invisible;</div> - <div class='line'>And the red tower looked grey; and all between,</div> - <div class='line'>The churches, ships, and palaces, were seen</div> - <div class='line'>Huddled in gloom. Into the purple sea</div> - <div class='line'>The orange hues of heaven sunk silently.</div> - <div class='line'>We hardly spoke, and soon the gondola</div> - <div class='line'>Conveyed me to my lodging by the way.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>The march of these lines is, it must be confessed, slow, solemn, -sad: there is a sluggishness of feeling, a dearth of imagery, an -unpleasant glare of lurid light. It appears to us, that in some poets, -as well as in some painters, the organ of colour (to speak in the -language of the adepts) predominates over that of form; and Mr. -Shelley is of the number. We have everywhere a profusion of -dazzling hues, of glancing splendours, of floating shadows, but the -objects on which they fall are bare, indistinct, and wild. There is -something in the preceding extract that reminds us of the arid style -<span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>and matter of Crabbe’s versification, or that apes the labour and throes -of parturition of Wordsworth’s blank verse. It is the preface to a -story of Love and Madness—of mental anguish and philosophic -remedies—not very intelligibly told, and left with most of its -mysteries unexplained, in the true spirit of the modern metaphysical -style—in which we suspect there is a due mixture of affectation and -meagreness of invention.</p> - -<p class='c010'>This poem is, however, in Mr. Shelley’s best and <cite>least mannered</cite> -manner. If it has less brilliancy, it has less extravagance and confusion. -It is in his stanza-poetry, that his Muse chiefly runs riot, -and baffles all pursuit of common comprehension or critical acumen. -The <cite>Witch of Atlas</cite>, the <cite>Triumph of Life</cite>, and <cite>Marianne’s Dream</cite>, are -rhapsodies or allegories of this description; full of fancy and of fire, -with glowing allusions and wild machinery, but which it is difficult to -read through, from the disjointedness of the materials, the incongruous -metaphors and violent transitions, and of which, after reading them -through, it is impossible, in most instances, to guess the drift or the -moral. They abound in horrible imaginings, like records of a ghastly -dream;—life, death, genius, beauty, victory, earth, air, ocean, the -trophies of the past, the shadows of the world to come, are huddled -together in a strange and hurried dance of words, and all that appears -clear, is the passion and paroxysm of thought of the poet’s spirit. -The poem entitled the <cite>Triumph of Life</cite>, is in fact a new and terrific -<cite>Dance of Death</cite>; but it is thus Mr. Shelley transposes the appellations -of the commonest things, and subsists only in the violence of contrast. -How little this poem is deserving of its title, how worthy it is of its -author, what an example of the waste of power, and of genius ‘made -as flax,’ and devoured by its own elementary ardours, let the reader -judge from the concluding stanzas.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in28'>... ‘The grove</div> - <div class='line'>Grew dense with shadows to its inmost covers,</div> - <div class='line'>The earth was grey with phantoms, and the air</div> - <div class='line'>Was peopled with dim forms; as when there hovers</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>A flock of vampire-bats before the glare</div> - <div class='line'>Of the tropic sun, bringing, ere evening,</div> - <div class='line'>Strange night upon some Indian vale;—thus were</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Phantoms diffused around; and some did fling</div> - <div class='line'>Shadows of shadows, yet unlike themselves,</div> - <div class='line'>Behind them; some like eaglets on the wing</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Were lost in the white day; others like elves</div> - <div class='line'>Danced in a thousand unimagined shapes</div> - <div class='line'>Upon the sunny streams and grassy shelves;</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>And others sate chattering shrill like restless apes</div> - <div class='line'>On vulgar hands, * * * * *</div> - <div class='line'>Some made a cradle of the ermined capes</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Of kingly mantles; some across the tire</div> - <div class='line'>Of pontiffs rode, like demons; others played</div> - <div class='line'>Under the crown which girded with empire</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>A baby’s or an idiot’s brow, and made</div> - <div class='line'>Their nests in it. The old anatomies</div> - <div class='line'>Sate hatching their bare broods under the shade</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Of demon wings, and laughed from their dead eyes</div> - <div class='line'>To reassume the delegated power,</div> - <div class='line'>Array’d in which those worms did monarchize,</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Who make this earth their charnel. Others more</div> - <div class='line'>Humble, like falcons, sate upon the fist</div> - <div class='line'>Of common men, and round their heads did soar;</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Or like small gnats and flies, as thick as mist</div> - <div class='line'>On evening marshes, thronged about the brow</div> - <div class='line'>Of lawyers, statesmen, priest and theorist;—</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>And others, like discoloured flakes of snow,</div> - <div class='line'>On fairest bosoms and the sunniest hair,</div> - <div class='line'>Fell, and were melted by the youthful glow</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Which they extinguished * * * * *</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>The marble brow of youth was cleft</div> - <div class='line'>With care; and in those eyes where once hope shone,</div> - <div class='line'>Desire, even like a lioness bereft</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Of her last cub, glared ere it died; each one</div> - <div class='line'>Of that great crowd sent forth incessantly</div> - <div class='line'>These shadows, numerous as the dead leaves blown</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>In autumn evening from a poplar tree.</div> - <div class='line'>Each like himself, and like each other were</div> - <div class='line'>At first; but some, distorted, seemed to be</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Obscure clouds, moulded by the casual air;</div> - <div class='line'>And of this stuff the car’s creative ray</div> - <div class='line'>Wrapt all the busy phantoms that were there,</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>As the sun shapes the clouds, &c.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>Any thing more filmy, enigmatical, discontinuous, unsubstantial than -this, we have not seen; nor yet more full of morbid genius and -vivifying soul. We cannot help preferring <cite>The Witch of Atlas</cite> to -<cite>Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude</cite>; for, though the purport of each -is equally perplexing and undefined, (both being a sort of mental -<span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>voyage through the unexplored regions of space and time), the execution -of the one is much less dreary and lamentable than that of -the other. In the ‘Witch,’ he has indulged his fancy more than his -melancholy, and wantoned in the felicity of embryo and crude conceits -even to excess.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘And there lay Visions, swift, and sweet, and quaint,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Each in its thin sheath like a chrysalis;</div> - <div class='line'>Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint</div> - <div class='line in2'>With the soft burthen of intensest bliss;</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘And odours in a kind of aviary</div> - <div class='line in2'>Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept,</div> - <div class='line'>Clipt in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy</div> - <div class='line in2'>Had woven from dew-beams while the moon yet slept;</div> - <div class='line'>As bats at the wired window of a dairy,</div> - <div class='line in2'>They beat their vans; and each was an adept,</div> - <div class='line'>When loosed and missioned, making wings of winds,</div> - <div class='line'>To stir sweet thoughts or sad in destined minds.’ p. 34.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>We give the description of the progress of the ‘Witch’s’ boat as -a slight specimen of what we have said of Mr. Shelley’s involved -style and imagery.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘And down the streams which clove those mountains vast,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Around their inland islets, and amid</div> - <div class='line'>The panther-peopled forests, whose shade cast</div> - <div class='line in2'>Darkness and odours, and a pleasure hid</div> - <div class='line'>In melancholy gloom, the pinnace past:</div> - <div class='line in2'>By many a star-surrounded pyramid</div> - <div class='line'>Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky,</div> - <div class='line'>And caverns yawning round unfathomably.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'> · · · · ·</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘And down the earth-quaking cataracts which shiver</div> - <div class='line in2'>Their snow-like waters into golden air,</div> - <div class='line'>Or under chasms unfathomable ever</div> - <div class='line in2'>Sepulchre them, till in their rage they tear</div> - <div class='line'>A subterranean portal for the river,</div> - <div class='line in2'>It fled—the circling <em>sunbows</em> did upbear</div> - <div class='line'>Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray,</div> - <div class='line'>Lighting it far upon its lampless way.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>This we conceive to be the very height of wilful extravagance and -mysticism. Indeed it is curious to remark every where the proneness -to the marvellous and supernatural, in one who so resolutely set his -face against every received mystery, and all traditional faith. Mr. -Shelley must have possessed, in spite of all his obnoxious and indiscreet -<span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>scepticism, a large share of credulity and wondering curiosity in -his composition, which he reserved from common use, and bestowed -upon his own inventions and picturesque caricatures. To every other -species of imposture or disguise he was inexorable; and indeed it is -only his antipathy to established creeds and legitimate crowns that -ever tears the veil from his <em>ideal</em> idolatries, and renders him clear and -explicit. Indignation makes him pointed and intelligible enough, and -breathes into his verse a spirit very different from his own boasted -spirit of Love.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The <cite>Letter to a Friend in London</cite> shows the author in a pleasing -and familiar, but somewhat prosaic light; and his <cite>Prince Athanase, a -Fragment</cite>, is, we suspect, intended as a portrait of the writer. It is -amiable, thoughtful, and not much overcharged. We had designed -to give an extract, but from the apparently personal and doubtful -interest attached to it, perhaps it had better be read altogether, or not -at all. We rather choose to quote a part of the <cite>Ode to Naples</cite>, during -her brief revolution,—in which immediate and strong local feelings -have at once raised and pointed Mr. Shelley’s style, and made of -light-winged “toys of feathered cupid,” the flaming ministers of -Wrath and Justice.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'> · · · · ·</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Naples! thou Heart of men which ever pantest</div> - <div class='line in2'>Naked, beneath the lidless eye of heaven!</div> - <div class='line'>Elysian City which to calm enchantest</div> - <div class='line in2'>The mutinous air and sea: they round thee, even</div> - <div class='line in2'>As sleep round Love, are driven!</div> - <div class='line in2'>Metropolis of a ruined Paradise</div> - <div class='line in4'>Long lost, late won, and yet but half regained!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'> · · · · ·</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘What though Cimmerian Anarchs dare blaspheme</div> - <div class='line in2'>Freedom and thee! thy shield is as a mirror</div> - <div class='line'>To make their blind slaves see, and with fierce gleam</div> - <div class='line in2'>To turn his hungry sword upon the wearer.</div> - <div class='line in10'>A new Acteon’s error</div> - <div class='line'>Shall their’s have been—devoured by their own hounds!</div> - <div class='line in2'>Be thou like the imperial Basilisk</div> - <div class='line'>Killing thy foe with unapparent wounds!</div> - <div class='line in2'>Gaze on oppression, till at that dead risk</div> - <div class='line in2'>Aghast she pass from the Earth’s disk,</div> - <div class='line'>Fear not, but gaze—for freemen mightier grow,</div> - <div class='line'>And slaves more feeble, gazing on their foe;</div> - <div class='line in2'>If Hope and Truth and Justice may avail,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Thou shalt be great—All hail!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'> · · · · ·</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in4'><span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>‘Didst thou not start to hear Spain’s thrilling pæan</div> - <div class='line in6'>From land to land re-echoed solemnly,</div> - <div class='line in4'>Till silence became music? From the Æean<a id='r18' /><a href='#f18' class='c014'><sup>[18]</sup></a></div> - <div class='line in14'>To the cold Alps, eternal Italy</div> - <div class='line in14'>Starts to hear thine! The Sea</div> - <div class='line in4'>Which paves the desart streets of Venice, laughs</div> - <div class='line in6'>In light and music; widowed Genoa wan</div> - <div class='line in4'>By moonlight spells ancestral epitaphs,</div> - <div class='line in6'>Murmuring, where is Doria? fair Milan,</div> - <div class='line in14'>Within whose veins long ran</div> - <div class='line in4'>The vipers<a id='r19' /><a href='#f19' class='c014'><sup>[19]</sup></a> palsying venom, lifts her heel</div> - <div class='line in4'>To braise his head. The signal and the seal</div> - <div class='line in6'>(If Hope and Truth and Justice can avail)</div> - <div class='line in6'>Art Thou of all these hopes.—O hail!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in14'>‘Florence! beneath the sun,</div> - <div class='line in14'>Of cities fairest one,</div> - <div class='line in4'>Blushes within her bower for Freedom’s expectation;</div> - <div class='line in14'>From eyes of quenchless hope</div> - <div class='line in14'>Rome tears the priestly cope,</div> - <div class='line in4'>As ruling once by power, so now by admiration</div> - <div class='line in14'>An athlete stript to run</div> - <div class='line in14'>From a remoter station</div> - <div class='line in4'>For the high prize lost on Philippi’s shore:—</div> - <div class='line in6'>As then Hope, Truth, and Justice did avail,</div> - <div class='line in6'>So now may Fraud and Wrong!—O hail!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'>‘Hear ye the march as of the Earth-born Forms</div> - <div class='line in4'>Arrayed against the everliving Gods?</div> - <div class='line in2'>The crash and darkness of a thousand storms</div> - <div class='line in4'>Bursting their inaccessible abodes</div> - <div class='line in10'>Of crags and thunder-clouds?</div> - <div class='line'>See ye the banners blazoned to the day,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Inwrought with emblems of barbaric pride?</div> - <div class='line'>Dissonant threats kill Silence far away,</div> - <div class='line in2'>The serene Heaven which wraps our Eden, wide</div> - <div class='line in8'>With iron light is dyed!</div> - <div class='line'>The Anarchs of the North lead forth their legions,</div> - <div class='line in8'>Like Chaos o’er creation, uncreating;</div> - <div class='line'>An hundred tribes nourished on strange religions</div> - <div class='line in2'>And lawless slaveries,—down the aërial regions</div> - <div class='line in8'>Of the white Alps, desolating,</div> - <div class='line in8'>Famished wolves that bide no waiting,</div> - <div class='line'>Blotting the glowing footsteps of old glory,</div> - <div class='line'>Trampling our columned cities into dust,</div> - <div class='line in8'>Their dull and savage lust</div> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>On Beauty’s corse to sickness satiating—</div> - <div class='line'>They come! The fields they tread look black and hoary</div> - <div class='line'>With fire—from their red feet the streams run gory!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in8'>‘Great Spirit, deepest Love!</div> - <div class='line in8'>Which rulest and dost move</div> - <div class='line'>All things which live and are, within the Italian shore;</div> - <div class='line in8'>Who spreadest heaven around it,</div> - <div class='line in8'>Whose woods, rocks, waves, surround it:</div> - <div class='line'>Who sittest in thy star, o’er Ocean’s western floor,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Spirit of beauty! at whose soft command</div> - <div class='line in2'>The sunbeams and the showers distil its foison</div> - <div class='line in8'>From the Earth’s bosom chill;</div> - <div class='line'>O bid those beams be each a blinding brand</div> - <div class='line'>Of lightning! bid those showers be dews of poison!</div> - <div class='line in8'>Bid the Earth’s plenty kill!</div> - <div class='line in8'>Bid thy bright heaven above,</div> - <div class='line in8'>Whilst light and darkness bound it,</div> - <div class='line in8'>Be their tomb who planned</div> - <div class='line in8'>To make it ours and thine!</div> - <div class='line'>Or with thine harmonising ardours fill</div> - <div class='line'>And raise thy sons, as o’er the prone horizon</div> - <div class='line'>Thy lamp feeds every twilight wave with fire—</div> - <div class='line'>Be man’s high hope and unextinct desire</div> - <div class='line'>The instrument to work thy will divine!</div> - <div class='line'>Then clouds from sunbeams, antelopes from leopards,</div> - <div class='line in2'>And frowns and fears from Thee</div> - <div class='line in2'>Would not more swiftly flee</div> - <div class='line'>Than Celtic wolves from the Ausonian shepherds.</div> - <div class='line in2'>Whatever, Spirit, from thy starry shrine</div> - <div class='line in2'>Thou yieldest or withholdest, O let be</div> - <div class='line in2'>This city of thy worship ever free!’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>This Ode for Liberty, though somewhat turbid and overloaded in -the diction, we regard as a fair specimen of Mr. Shelley’s highest -powers—whose eager animation wanted only a greater sternness and -solidity to be sublime. The poem is dated <em>September 1820</em>. Such -were then the author’s aspirations. He lived to see the result,—and -yet Earth does not roll its billows over the heads of its oppressors! -The reader may like to contrast with this the milder strain of the -following stanzas, addressed to the same city in a softer and more -desponding mood.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'>‘The sun is warm, the sky is clear,</div> - <div class='line in4'>The waves are dancing fast and bright,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Blue isles and snowy mountains wear</div> - <div class='line in4'>The purple noon’s transparent light</div> - <div class='line in2'><span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>Around its unexpanded buds;</div> - <div class='line in4'>Like many a voice of one delight,</div> - <div class='line in2'>The winds, the birds, the ocean floods,</div> - <div class='line'>The City’s voice itself is soft, like Solitude’s.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'>‘I see the Deep’s untrampled floor</div> - <div class='line in4'>With green and purple seaweeds strown;</div> - <div class='line in2'>I see the waves upon the shore,</div> - <div class='line in4'>Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:</div> - <div class='line in2'>I sit upon the sands alone,</div> - <div class='line in4'>The lightning of the noon-tide ocean</div> - <div class='line in2'>Is flashing round me, and a tone</div> - <div class='line in4'>Arises from its measured motion,</div> - <div class='line'>How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'>‘Yet now despair itself is mild,</div> - <div class='line in4'>Even as the winds and waters are;</div> - <div class='line in2'>I could lie down like a tired child,</div> - <div class='line in4'>And weep away the life of care</div> - <div class='line in2'>Which I have borne and yet must bear,</div> - <div class='line in4'>Till death like sleep might steal on me,</div> - <div class='line in2'>And I might feel in the warm air</div> - <div class='line in4'>My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea</div> - <div class='line in6'>Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'>‘Some might lament that I were cold,</div> - <div class='line in4'>As I, when this sweet day is gone,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,</div> - <div class='line in4'>Insults with this untimely moan;</div> - <div class='line in2'>They might lament—for I am one</div> - <div class='line in4'>Whom men love not,—and yet regret,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Unlike this day, which, when the sun</div> - <div class='line in4'>Shall on its stainless glory set,</div> - <div class='line'>Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>We pass on to some of Mr. Shelley’s smaller pieces and translations, -which we think are in general excellent and highly interesting. -His <cite>Hymn of Pan</cite> we do not consider equal to Mr. Keats’s sounding -lines in the Endymion. His <cite>Mont Blanc</cite> is full of beauties and of -defects; but it is akin to its subject, and presents a wild and gloomy -desolation. <span class='sc'>Ginevra</span>, a fragment founded on a story in the first -volume of the ‘<cite>Florentine Observer</cite>,’ is like a troublous dream, -disjointed, painful, oppressive, or like a leaden cloud, from which the -big tears fall, and the spirit of the poet mutters deep-toned thunder. -We are too much subject to these voluntary inflictions, these ‘moods -of mind,’ these effusions of ‘weakness and melancholy,’ in the perusal -of modern poetry. It has shuffled off, no doubt, its old pedantry and -formality; but has at the same time lost all shape or purpose, except -<span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>that of giving vent to some morbid feeling of the moment. The -writer thus discharges a fit of the spleen or a paradox, and expects -the world to admire and be satisfied. We are no longer annoyed at -seeing the luxuriant growth of nature and fancy clipped into armchairs -and peacocks’ tails; but there is danger of having its stately -products choked with unchecked underwood, or weighed down with -gloomy nightshade, or eaten up with personality, like ivy clinging -round and eating into the sturdy oak! The <cite>Dirge</cite>, at the conclusion -of this fragment, is an example of the manner in which this craving -after novelty, this desire ‘to elevate and surprise,’ leads us to ‘overstep -the modesty of nature,’ and the bounds of decorum.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Ere the sun through heaven once more has roll’d</div> - <div class='line'><em>The rats in her heart</em></div> - <div class='line'><em>Will have made their nest</em>,</div> - <div class='line'>And the worms be alive in her golden hair,</div> - <div class='line'>While the spirit that guides the sun,</div> - <div class='line'>Sits throned in his flaming chair,</div> - <div class='line in2'>She shall sleep.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>The ‘worms’ in this stanza are the old and traditional appendages -of the grave;—the ‘rats’ are new and unwelcome intruders; but a -modern artist would rather shock, and be disgusting and extravagant, -than produce no effect at all, or be charged with a want of genius and -originality. In the unfinished scenes of Charles <span class='fss'>I.</span>, (a drama on -which Mr. Shelley was employed at his death) the <em>radical</em> humour of -the author breaks forth, but ‘in good set terms’ and specious oratory. -We regret that his premature fate has intercepted this addition to our -historical drama. From the fragments before us, we are not sure -that it would be fair to give any specimen.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The <span class='sc'>Translations</span> from Euripides, Calderon, and Goethe in this -Volume, will give great pleasure to the scholar and to the general -reader. They are executed with equal fidelity and spirit. If the -present publication contained only the two last pieces in it, the -<cite>Prologue in Heaven</cite>, and the <cite>May-day Night</cite> of the Faust (the first of -which Lord Leveson Gower has omitted, and the last abridged, in -his very meritorious translation of that Poem), the intellectual world -would receive it with an <em>All Hail!</em> We shall enrich our pages with -a part of the <cite>May-day Night</cite>, which the Noble Poet has deemed -untranslateable.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'>‘<em>Chorus of Witches.</em> The stubble is yellow, the corn is green,</div> - <div class='line'>Now to the brocken the witches go;</div> - <div class='line'>The mighty multitude here may be seen</div> - <div class='line'>Gathering, witch and wizard, below.</div> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>Sir Urean is sitting aloft in the air;</div> - <div class='line'>Hey over stock; and hey over stone!</div> - <div class='line'>’Twixt witches and incubi, what shall be done?</div> - <div class='line'>Tell it who dare! tell it who dare!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>A Voice.</em> Upon a snow-swine, whose farrows were nine,</div> - <div class='line'>Old Baubo rideth alone.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Chorus.</em> Honour her to whom honour is due,</div> - <div class='line'>Old mother Baubo, honour to you!</div> - <div class='line'>An able sow, with old Baubo upon her,</div> - <div class='line'>Is worthy of glory, and worthy of honour!</div> - <div class='line'>The legion of witches is coming behind,</div> - <div class='line'>Darkening the night, and outspeeding the wind.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>A Voice.</em> Which way comest thou?</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>A Voice.</em> Over Ilsenstein;</div> - <div class='line'>The owl was awake in the white moonshine;</div> - <div class='line'>I saw her at rest in her downy nest,</div> - <div class='line'>And she stared at me with her broad, bright eye.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Voices.</em> And you may now as well take your course on to Hell,</div> - <div class='line'>Since you ride by so fast, on the headlong blast.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>A Voice.</em> She dropt poison upon me as I past.</div> - <div class='line'>Here are the wounds—</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Chorus of Witches.</em> Come away! come along!</div> - <div class='line'>The way is wide, the way is long,</div> - <div class='line'>But what is that for a Bedlam throng?</div> - <div class='line'>Stick with the prong, and scratch with the broom!</div> - <div class='line'>The child in the cradle lies strangled at home,</div> - <div class='line'>And the mother is clapping her hands—</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Semi-Chorus of Wizards I.</em> We glide in</div> - <div class='line'>Like snails when the women are all away;</div> - <div class='line'>And from a house once given over to sin</div> - <div class='line'>Woman has a thousand steps to stray.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Semi-Chorus II.</em> A thousand steps must a woman take,</div> - <div class='line'>Where a man but a single spring will make.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Voices above.</em> Come with us, come with us, from Felunsee.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Voices below.</em> With what joy would we fly, through the upper sky!</div> - <div class='line'>We are washed, we are ’nointed, stark naked are we:</div> - <div class='line'>But our toil and our pain is forever in vain.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Both Chorusses.</em> The wind is still, the stars are fled,</div> - <div class='line'>The melancholy moon is dead;</div> - <div class='line'>The magic notes, like spark on spark,</div> - <div class='line'>Drizzle, whistling through the dark.</div> - <div class='line in10'>Come away!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Voices below.</em> Stay, oh stay!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Meph.</em> What thronging, dashing, raging, rustling;</div> - <div class='line'>What whispering, babbling, hissing, bustling;</div> - <div class='line'>What glimmering, spurting, stinking, burning,</div> - <div class='line'>As Heaven and Earth were overturning.</div> - <div class='line'>There is a true witch-element about us.</div> - <div class='line'>Take hold on me, or we shall be divided—</div> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>Where are you?</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Faust (from a distance).</em> Here.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Meph.</em> What!</div> - <div class='line'>I must exert my authority in the house.</div> - <div class='line'>Place for young Voland! Pray make way, good people.</div> - <div class='line'>Take hold on me, Doctor, and with one step</div> - <div class='line'>Let us escape from this unpleasant crowd:</div> - <div class='line'>They are too mad for people of my sort.</div> - <div class='line'>I see young witches naked there, and old ones</div> - <div class='line'>Wisely attired with greater decency.</div> - <div class='line'>Be guided now by me, and you shall buy</div> - <div class='line'>A pound of pleasure with a drachm of trouble.</div> - <div class='line'>I hear them tune their instruments—one must</div> - <div class='line'>Get used to this damned scraping. Come, I’ll lead you</div> - <div class='line'>Among them; and what there you do and see</div> - <div class='line'>As a fresh compact ’twixt us two shall be.</div> - <div class='line'>How say you now? This space is wide enough—</div> - <div class='line'>Look forth, you cannot see the end of it—</div> - <div class='line'>An hundred bonfires burn in rows, and they</div> - <div class='line'>Who throng around them seem innumerable:</div> - <div class='line'>Dancing and drinking, jabbering, making love,</div> - <div class='line'>And cooking are at work. Now tell me, friend,</div> - <div class='line'>What is there better in the world than this?</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Faust.</em> In introducing us, do you assume</div> - <div class='line'>The character of wizzard or of devil?</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Meph.</em> In truth, I generally go about</div> - <div class='line'>In strict incognito: and yet one likes</div> - <div class='line'>To wear one’s orders upon gala days.</div> - <div class='line'>I have no ribbon at my knee; but here</div> - <div class='line'>At home, the cloven foot is honourable.</div> - <div class='line'>See you that snail there?—she comes creeping up,</div> - <div class='line'>And with her feeling eyes hath smelt out something.</div> - <div class='line'>I could not, if I would, mask myself here.</div> - <div class='line'>Come now, we’ll go about from fire to fire:</div> - <div class='line'>I’ll be the pimp and you shall be the lover.’ p. 409.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>The preternatural imagery in all this medley is, we confess, (comparatively -speaking) meagre and monotonous; but there is a squalid -nudity, and a fiendish irony and scorn thrown over the whole, that is -truly edifying. The scene presently after proceeds thus.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'>‘<em>Meph.</em> Why do you let that fair girl pass from you,</div> - <div class='line'>Who sung so sweetly to you in the dance?</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Faust.</em> A red mouse in the middle of her singing</div> - <div class='line'>Sprung from her mouth!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Meph.</em> That was all right, my friend;</div> - <div class='line'>Be it enough that the mouse was not grey.</div> - <div class='line'>Do not disturb your hour of happiness</div> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>With close consideration of such trifles.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Faust.</em> Then saw I—</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Meph.</em> What?</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Faust.</em> Seest thou not a pale</div> - <div class='line'>Fair girl, standing alone, far, far away?</div> - <div class='line'>She drags herself now forward with slow steps,</div> - <div class='line'>And seems as if she moved with shackled feet;</div> - <div class='line'>I cannot overcome the thought that she</div> - <div class='line'>Is like poor Margaret!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Meph.</em> Let it be—pass on—</div> - <div class='line'>No good can come of it—it is not well</div> - <div class='line'>To meet it.—It is an enchanted phantom,</div> - <div class='line'>A lifeless idol; with its numbing look</div> - <div class='line'>It freezes up the blood of man; and they</div> - <div class='line'>Who meet its ghastly stare are turned to stone,</div> - <div class='line'>Like those who saw Medusa.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Faust.</em> Oh, too true!</div> - <div class='line'>Her eyes are like the eyes of a fresh corpse</div> - <div class='line'>Which no beloved hand has closed, alas!</div> - <div class='line'>That is the heart which Margaret yielded to me—</div> - <div class='line'>Those are the lovely limbs which I enjoyed!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Meph.</em> It is all magic, poor deluded fool;</div> - <div class='line'>She looks to every one like his first love.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Faust.</em> Oh, what delight! what woe! I cannot turn</div> - <div class='line'>My looks from her sweet piteous countenance.</div> - <div class='line'>How strangely does a single blood-red line,</div> - <div class='line'>Not broader than the sharp edge of a knife,</div> - <div class='line'>Adorn her lovely neck!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'><em>Meph.</em> Aye, she can carry</div> - <div class='line'>Her head under her arm upon occasion;</div> - <div class='line'>Perseus has cut it off for her! These pleasures</div> - <div class='line'>End in delusion!’—</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>The latter part of the foregoing scene is to be found in both -translations; but we prefer Mr. Shelley’s, if not for its elegance, for -its simplicity and force. Lord Leveson Gower has given, at the end -of his volume, a translation of Lessing’s Faust, as having perhaps -furnished the hint for the larger production. There is an old tragedy -of our own, founded on the same tradition, by Marlowe, in which the -author has treated the subject according to the spirit of poetry, and -the learning of his age. He has not evaded the main incidents of the -fable (it was not the fashion of the dramatists of his day), nor sunk -the chief character in glosses and episodes (however subtle or -alluring), but has described Faustus’s love of learning, his philosophic -dreams and raptures, his religious horrors and melancholy fate, with -appropriate gloom or gorgeousness of colouring. The character of -the old enthusiastic inquirer after the philosopher’s stone, and dealer -<span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>with the Devil, is nearly lost sight of in the German play: its bold -development forms the chief beauty and strength of the old English -one. We shall not, we hope, be accused of wandering too far from -the subject, if we conclude with some account of it in the words of a -contemporary writer. ‘The <cite>Life and Death of Dr. Faustus</cite>, though -an imperfect and unequal performance, is Marlowe’s greatest work. -Faustus himself is a rude sketch, but is a gigantic one. This character -may be considered as a personification of the pride of will and -eagerness of curiosity, sublimed beyond the reach of fear and remorse. -He is hurried away, and, as it were, devoured by a tormenting desire -to enlarge his knowledge to the utmost bounds of nature and art, and -to extend his power with his knowledge. He would realize all the -fictions of a lawless imagination, would solve the most subtle speculations -of abstruse reason; and for this purpose, sets at defiance all -mortal consequences, and leagues himself with demoniacal power, -with “fate and metaphysical aid.” The idea of witchcraft and -necromancy, once the dread of the vulgar, and the darling of the -visionary recluse, seems to have had its origin in the restless tendency -of the human mind, to conceive of, and aspire to, more than it can -achieve by natural means; and in the obscure apprehension, that the -gratification of this extravagant and unauthorized desire can only be -attained by the sacrifice of all our ordinary hopes and better prospects, -to the infernal agents that lend themselves to its accomplishment. -Such is the foundation of the present story. Faustus, in his impatience -to fulfil at once, and for a few short years, all the desires and conceptions -of his soul, is willing to give in exchange his soul and body -to the great enemy of mankind. Whatever he fancies, becomes by -this means present to his sense: whatever he commands, is done. -He calls back time past, and anticipates the future: the visions of -antiquity pass before him, Babylon in all its glory, Paris and Œnone: -all the projects of philosophers, or creations of the poet, pay tribute -at his feet: all the delights of fortune, of ambition, of pleasure and of -learning, are centred in his person; and, from a short-lived dream of -supreme felicity and drunken power, he sinks into an abyss of darkness -and perdition. This is the alternative to which he submits; the -bond which he signs with his blood! As the outline of the character -is grand and daring, the execution is abrupt and fearful. The -thoughts are vast and irregular, and the style halts and staggers under -them.’<a id='r20' /><a href='#f20' class='c014'><sup>[20]</sup></a></p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span> - <h3 class='c008'>LADY MORGAN’S LIFE OF SALVATOR</h3> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Vol. xl.</span>]      [<em>July 1824.</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>We are not among the devoted admirers of Lady Morgan. She is a -clever and lively writer—but not very judicious, and not very natural. -Since she has given up making novels, we do not think she has added -much to her reputation—and indeed is rather more liable than before -to the charge of tediousness and presumption. There is no want, -however, either of amusement or instruction in her late performances—and -we have no doubt she would write very agreeably, if she was -only a little less ambitious of being always fine and striking. But -though we are thus clear-sighted to her defects, we must say, that -we have never seen anything more utterly unjust, or more disgusting -and disgraceful, than the abuse she has had to encounter from some -of our Tory journals—abuse, of which we shall say no more at -present, than that it is incomparably less humiliating to the object -than to the author.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Common justice seemed to require this observation from us—nor -will it appear altogether out of place when we add, that we cannot -but suspect that it is to a feeling connected with that subject that we -are indebted for the work now before us. Salvator Rosa was, like -his fair biographer, in hostility with the High-church and High-monarchy -men of his day; and the enemy of the Holy Alliance, in -the nineteenth century, must have followed with peculiar interest the -fortunes of an artist who was so obnoxious to the suspicions of the -Holy Office in the seventeenth.</p> - -<p class='c010'>There are few works more engaging than those which reveal to us -the private history of eminent individuals; the lives of painters seem -to be even more interesting than those of almost any other class of -men; and, among painters, there are few names of greater note, or -that have a more powerful attraction, than that of Salvator Rosa. -We are not sure, however, that Lady Morgan’s work is not, upon the -whole, more calculated to dissolve than to rivet the spell which these -circumstances might, at first, throw over the reader’s mind. The -great charm of biography consists in the individuality of the details, -the familiar tone of the incidents, the bringing us acquainted with the -persons of men whom we have formerly known only by their works -or names, the absence of all exaggeration or pretension, and the -immediate appeal to facts instead of theories. We are afraid, that, if -tried by these rules, Lady Morgan will be found <em>not</em> to have written -<em>biography</em>. A great part of the work is, accordingly, very fabulous -and apocryphal. We are supplied with few anecdotes or striking -<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span><em>traits</em>, and have few <em>data</em> to go upon, during the early and most -anxious period of Salvator’s life; but a fine opportunity is in this way -afforded to <em>conjecture</em> how he did or did not pass his time; in what -manner, and at what precise era, his peculiar talents first developed -themselves; and how he must have felt in certain situations, supposing -him ever to have been placed in them. In one place, for example, -she employs several pages in describing Salvator’s being taken by his -father from his village-home to the College of Somasco, with a -detailed account of the garments in which he and his father may be -presumed to have been dressed; the adieus of his mother and sisters; -the streets, the churches by which they passed; in short, with an -admirable panoramic view of the city of Naples and its environs, as it -would appear to any modern traveller; and an assurance at the end, -that ‘Such was the scenery of the Vomiro in the beginning of the -seventeenth century; such is it now!’ Added to all which, we -have, at every turn, pertinent allusions to celebrated persons who -visited Rome and Italy in the same century, and perhaps wandered in -the same solitudes, or were hid in the recesses of the same ruins; -and learned dissertations on the state of the arts, sciences, morals, and -politics, from the earliest records up to the present day. On the -meagre thread of biography, in short, Lady Morgan has been -ambitious to string the flowers of literature and the pearls of philosophy, -and to strew over the obscure and half-forgotten origin of poor -Salvator the colours of a sanguine enthusiasm and a florid imagination! -So fascinated indeed is she with the splendour of her own style, that -whenever she has a simple fact or well-authenticated anecdote to -relate, she is compelled to apologize for the homeliness of the -circumstance, as if the flat realities of her story were unworthy -accompaniments to the fine imaginations with which she has laboured -to exalt it.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We could have wished, certainly, that she had shown less pretension -in this respect. Women write well, only when they write -naturally: And therefore we could dispense with their inditing prize-essays -or solving <em>academic questions</em>;—and should be far better pleased -with Lady Morgan if she would condescend to a more ordinary style, -and not insist continually on playing the diplomatist in petticoats, and -strutting the little Gibbon of her age!</p> - -<p class='c010'>Another circumstance that takes from the interest of the present -work is, that the subject of it was both an author and an artist, or, as -Lady Morgan somewhat affectedly expresses it, a painter-poet. It is -chiefly in the latter part of this compound character, or as a satirist, -comic writer and actor, that he comes upon the stage in these volumes; -and the enchantment of the scene is hurt by it.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span>The great secret of our curiosity respecting the lives of painters is, -that they seem to be a different race of beings, and to speak a different -language from ourselves. We want to see what is the connecting -link between pictures and books, and how colours will translate into -words. There is something mystical and anomalous to our conceptions -in the existence of persons who talk by natural signs, and express -their thoughts by pointing to the objects they wish to represent. -When they put pen to paper, it is as if a dumb person should stammer -out his meaning for the first time, or as if the bark of a tree (repeating -the miracle in Virgil) should open its lips and discourse. We have -no notion how Titian could be witty, or Raphael learned; and we -wait for the solution of the problem, as for the result of some curious -experiment in natural history. Titian’s acquitting himself of a -compliment to Charles V., or Raphael’s writing a letter to a friend, -describing his idea of the Galatea, excites our wonder, and holds us -in a state of breathless suspense, more than the first having painted all -the masterpieces of the Escurial, or than the latter’s having realized -the divine idea in his imagination. Because they have a language -which we want, we fancy they must want, or cannot be at home in -ours;—we start and blush to find, that, though few are painters, all -men are, and naturally must be, orators and poets. We have a -stronger desire to see the autographs of artists than of authors or -emperors; for we somehow cannot imagine in what manner they -would form their tottering letters, or sign their untaught names. We -in fact exercise a sort of mental superiority and imaginary patronage -over them (delightful in proportion as it is mixed up with a sense of -awe and homage in other respects); watch their progress like that of -grown children; are charmed with the imperfect glimmerings of wit -or sense; and secretly expect to find them,—or express all the -impertinence of an affected surprise if we do not—what Claude -Lorraine is here represented to have been out of his painting room, -little better than natural changelings and drivellers. It pleases us -therefore to be told, that Gaspar Poussin, when he was not painting, -rode a hunting; that Nicolas was (it is pretended) a miser and a -pedant—that Domenichino was retired and modest, and Guido and -Annibal Caracci unfortunate! This is as it should be, and flatters our -self-love. Their works stand out to ages bold and palpable, and -dazzle or inspire by their beauty and their brilliancy;—That is -enough—the rest sinks into the ground of obscurity, or is only -brought out as something odd and unaccountable by the patient efforts -of good-natured curiosity. But all this fine theory and flutter of -contradictory expectations is balked and knocked on the head at once, -when, instead of a dim and shadowy figure in the back-ground, a mere -<span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span>name, of which nothing is remembered but its immortal works, a poor -creature performing miracles of art, and not knowing how it has performed -them, a person steps forward, bold, gay, <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">gaillard</span></i>, with all his -faculties about him, master of a number of accomplishments which he -is not backward to display, mingling with the throng, looking defiance -around, able to answer for himself, acquainted with his own merits, -and boasting of them, not merely having the gift of speech, but a -celebrated <em>improvisatore</em>, musician, comic actor and buffoon, patriot and -cynic, reciting and talking equally well, taking up his pen to write -satires, and laying it down to paint them. There is a vulgarity in all -this practical bustle and restless stage-effect, that takes away from that -abstracted and simple idea of art which at once attracts and baffles -curiosity, like a distinct element in nature. ‘Painting,’ said Michael -Angelo, is jealous, and requires the whole man to herself.’ And there -is some thing sacred and privileged in the character of those heirs of -fame, and their noiseless reputation, which ought not, we think, to be -gossipped to the air, babbled to the echo, or proclaimed by beat of drum -at the corners of streets, like a procession or a puppet-show. We may -peep and pry into the ordinary life of painters, but it will not do to strip -them stark-naked. A speaking portrait of them—an anecdote or -two—an expressive saying dropped by chance—an incident marking -the bent of their genius, or its fate, are delicious; but here we should -draw the curtain, or we shall profane this sort of image-worship. -Least of all do we wish to be entertained with private brawls, or -professional squabbles, or multifarious pretensions. ‘The essence of -genius,’ as Lady Morgan observes, ‘is concentration.’ So is that of -enthusiasm. We lay down the ‘Life and Times of Salvator Rosa,’ -therefore, with less interest in the subject than when we took it up. -We had rather not read it. Instead of the old and floating traditions -on the subject,—instead of the romantic name and romantic pursuits -of the daring copyist of Nature, conversing with her rudest forms, or -lost in lonely musing,—eyeing the clouds that roll over his head, or -listening to the waterfal, or seeing the fresh breeze waving the -mountain-pines, or leaning against the side of an impending rock, or -marking the bandit that issues from its clefts, ‘housing with wild men, -with wild usages,’ himself unharmed and free,—and bequeathing the -fruit of his uninterrupted retirement and out-of-doors studies as the -best legacy to posterity,—we have the Coviello of the Carnival, the -<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">causeur</span></i> of the saloons, the political malecontent, the satirist, sophist, -caricaturist, the trafficker with Jews, the wrangler with courts and -academies, and, last of all, the painter of history, despising his own -best works, and angry with all who admired or purchased them.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The worst fault that Lady Morgan has committed is in siding -<span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>with this infirmity of poor Salvator, and pampering him into a second -Michael Angelo. The truth is, that the judgment passed upon him -by his contemporaries was right in this respect. He was a great -landscape painter; but his histories were comparatively forced and -abortive. If this had been merely the opinion of his enemies, it -might have been attributed to envy and faction; but it was no less -the deliberate sentiment of his friends and most enthusiastic partisans; -and if we reflect on the nature of our artist’s genius or his temper, we -shall find that it could not well have been otherwise. This from a -child was wayward, indocile, wild and irregular, unshackled, impatient -of restraint, and urged on equally by success or opposition into a state -of jealous and morbid irritability. Those who are at war with others, -are not at peace with themselves. It is the uneasiness, the turbulence, -the acrimony within that recoils upon external objects. Barry abused -the Academy, because he could not paint himself. If he could have -painted up to his own <em>idea</em> of perfection, he would have thought this -better than exposing the ill-directed efforts or groundless pretensions -of others. Salvator was rejected by the Academy of St. Luke, and -excluded, in consequence of his hostility to reigning authorities, and -his unlicensed freedom of speech, from the great works and public -buildings in Rome; and though he scorned and ridiculed those by -whose influence this was effected, yet neither the smiles of friends and -fortune, nor the flatteries of fame, which in his lifetime had spread -his name over Europe, and might be confidently expected to extend -it to a future age, could console him for the loss, which he affected -to despise, and would make no sacrifice to obtain. He was indeed -hard to please. He denounced his rivals and maligners with -bitterness; and with difficulty tolerated the enthusiasm of his disciples, -or the services of his patrons. He was at all times full of indignation, -with or without cause. He was easily exasperated, and not willing -soon to be appeased, or to subside into repose and good humour again. -He slighted what he did best; and seemed anxious to go out of himself. -In a word, irritability rather than sensibility, was the category -of his mind: he was more distinguished by violence and restlessness -of will, than by dignity or power of thought. The truly great, on -the contrary, are sufficient to themselves, and so far satisfied with the -world. ‘Their mind to them is a kingdom,’ from which they look -out, as from a high watchtower or noble fortress, on the passions, the -cabals, the meannesses and follies of mankind. They shut themselves -up ‘in measureless content;’ or soar to the great, discarding the -little; and appeal from envious detraction or ‘unjust tribunals under -change of times,’ to posterity. They are not satirists, cynics, nor -the prey of these; but painters, poets, and philosophers.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>Salvator was the victim of a too morbid sensibility, or of early -difficulty and disappointment. He was always quarrelling with the -world, and lay at the mercy of his own piques and resentments. But -antipathy, the spirit of contradiction, captious discontent, fretful -impatience, produce nothing fine in character, neither dwell on beauty, -nor pursue truth, nor rise into sublimity. The splenetic humourist is -not the painter of humanity. Landscape painting is the obvious resource -of misanthropy. Our artist, escaping from the herd of knaves and -fools, sought out some rude solitude, and found repose there. Teased -by the impertinence, stung to the quick by the injustice of mankind, -the presence of the works of nature would be a relief to his mind, -and would, by contrast, stamp her striking features more strongly -there. In the coolness, in the silence, in the untamed wildness of -mountain scenery, in the lawless manners of its inhabitants, he would -forget the fever and the anguish, and the artificial restraints of society. -We accordingly do not find in Salvator’s rural scenes either natural -beauty or fertility, or even the simply grand; but whatever seizes -attention by presenting a barrier to the will, or scorning the power of -mankind, or snapping asunder the chain that binds us to the kind—the -barren, the abrupt, wild steril regions, the steep rock, the -mountain torrent, the bandit’s cave, the hermit’s cell,—all these, -while they released him from more harassing and painful reflections, -soothed his moody spirit with congenial gloom, and found a sanctuary -and a home there. Not only is there a corresponding determination -and singleness of design in his landscapes (excluding every approach -to softness, or pleasure, or ornament), but the strength of the -impression is confirmed even by the very touch and mode of -handling; he brings us in contact with the objects he paints; and the -sharpness of a rock, the roughness of the bark of a tree, or the -ruggedness of a mountain path are marked in the freedom, the boldness, -and firmness of his pencilling. There is not in Salvator’s scenes -the luxuriant beauty and divine harmony of Claude, nor the amplitude -of Nicolas Poussin, nor the gorgeous richness of Titian—but there is -a deeper seclusion, a more abrupt and total escape from society, more -savage wildness and grotesqueness of form, a more earthy texture, a -fresher atmosphere, and a more obstinate resistance to all the effeminate -refinements of art. Salvator Rosa then is, beyond all question, the -most <em>romantic</em> of landscape painters; because the very violence and -untractableness of his temper threw him with instinctive force upon -those objects in nature which would be most likely to sooth and -disarm it; while, in history, he is little else than a caricaturist (we -mean compared with such men as Raphael, Michael Angelo, &c.), -because the same acrimony and impatience have made him fasten on -<span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>those subjects and aspects of the human mind which would most -irritate and increase it; and he has, in this department, produced -chiefly distortion and deformity, sullenness and rage, extravagance, -squalidness, and poverty of appearance. But it is time to break off -this long and premature digression, into which our love of justice and -of the arts (which requires, above all, that no more than justice -should be done to any one) had led us, and return to the elegant but -somewhat fanciful specimen of biography before us. Lady Morgan -(in her flattery of the dead, the most ill-timed and unprofitable, but -least disgusting of all flattery) has spoken of the historical compositions -of Salvator in terms that leave no distinction between him and -Michael Angelo; and we could not refrain from entering our protest -against such an inference, and thus commencing our account of her -book with what may appear at once a piece of churlish criticism and -a want of gallantry.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The materials of the first volume, containing the account of -Salvator’s outset in life, and early struggles with fortune and his art, -are slender, but spun out at great length, and steeped in very brilliant -dyes. The contents of the second volume, which relates to a period -when he was before the public, was in habits of personal intimacy -with his future biographers, and made frequent mention of himself in -letters to his friends which are still preserved, are more copious and -authentic, and on that account—however Lady Morgan may wonder -at it—more interesting. Of the artist’s infant years, little is known, -and little told; but that little is conveyed with all the ‘pride, pomp, -and circumstance of glorious’ authorship. It is said, that the whole -matter composing the universe might be compressed in a nutshell, -taking away the porous interstices and flimsy appearances: So, we -apprehend, that all that is really to be learnt of the subject of these -Memoirs from the first volume of his life, might be contained in a -single page of solid writing.</p> - -<p class='c010'>It appears that our artist was born in 1615, of poor parents, in the -Borgo de Renella, near Naples. His father, Vito Antonio Rosa, -was an architect and landsurveyor, and his mother’s name was Giulia -Grecca, who had also two daughters. Salvator very soon lost his -full baptismal name for the nickname of Salvatoriello, in consequence -of his mischievous tricks and lively gesticulations when a boy, or, -more probably, this was the common diminutive of it given to all -children. He was intended by his parents for the church, but early -showed a truant disposition, and a turn for music and drawing. He -used to scrawl with burnt sticks on the walls of his bed-room, and -contrived to be caught in the fact of sketching outlines on the chapel-walls -of the Certosa, when some priests were going by to mass, for -<span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span>which he was severely whipped. He was then sent to school at the -monastery of the <em>Somasco</em> in Naples, where he remained for two -years, and laid in a good stock of classical learning, of which he made -great use in his after life, both in his poems and pictures. Salvator’s -first knowledge of painting was imbibed in the workshop of Francesco -Francanzani (a painter at that time of some note in Naples), who -had married one of his sisters, and under whose eye he began his -professional studies. Soon after this he is supposed to have made a -tour through the mountains of the Abruzzi, and to have been detained -a prisoner by the banditti there. On the death of his father, he -endeavoured to maintain his family by sketches in landscape or history, -which he sold to the brokers in Naples, and one of these (his <cite>Hagar -in the Wilderness</cite>), was noticed and purchased by the celebrated -Lanfranco, who was passing the broker’s shop in his carriage. -Salvator finding it in vain to struggle any longer with chagrin and -poverty in his native place, went to Rome, where he met with little -encouragement, and fell sick, and once more returned to Naples. An -accident, or rather the friendship of an old school-fellow, now introduced -him into the suite of the Cardinal Brancaccia, and his picture -of Prometheus brought him into general notice, and recalled him to -Rome. About the same time, he appeared in the Carnival with -prodigious <em>eclat</em> as an <em>improvisatore</em> and comic actor; and from this -period may be dated the commencement of his public life as a painter, -a satirist, and a man of general talents.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Except on these few tangible points the Manuscript yawns dreadfully; -but Lady Morgan, whose wit or courage never flags, fills up -the hollow spaces, and ‘skins and films the <em>missing</em> part,’ with an -endless and dazzling profusion of digressions, invectives, and -hypotheses. It is with pleasure that we give a specimen of the way -in which she thus magnifies trifles, and enlarges on the possibilities of -her subject. Salvator was born in 1615. As the birth of princes is -announced by the discharge of artillery and the exhibition of fireworks, -her ladyship thinks proper to usher in the birth of her hero -with the following explosion of imagery and declamation.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The sweeping semicircle which the most fantastic and singular -city of Naples marks on the shore of its unrivalled bay, from the -Capo di Pausilippo to the Torrione del Carmine, is dominated by -a lofty chain of undulating hills, which take their distinctive appellations -from some local peculiarity or classical tradition. The high -and insulated rock of St. Elmo, which overtops the whole, is crowned -by that terrible fortress to which it gives its name—a fearful and -impregnable citadel, that, since the first moment when it was raised -by an Austrian conqueror to the present day, when it is garrisoned -<span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>by a Bourbon with Austrian troops, has poured down the thunder of -its artillery to support the violence, or proclaim the triumphs of -foreign interference over the rights and liberties of a long-suffering -and oft-resisting people.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Swelling from the base of the savage St. Elmo, smile the lovely -heights of <em>San Martino</em>, where, through chestnut woods and vineyards, -gleam the golden spires of the monastic palace of the Monks -of the Certosa.<a id='r21' /><a href='#f21' class='c014'><sup>[21]</sup></a> A defile cut through the rocks of the <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Monte -Donzelle</span></i>, and shaded by the dark pines which spring from their -crevices, forms an umbrageous pathway from this superb convent to -the <em>Borgeo di Renella</em>, the little capital of a neighbouring hill, which, -for the peculiar beauty of its position, and the views it commands, is -still called “<i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">l’ameno villaggio</span></i>.” At night the fires of Vesuvius -almost bronze the humble edifices of Renella; and the morning sun, -as it rises, discovers from various points, the hills of Vomiro and -Pausilippo, the shores of Puzzuoli and of Baiæ, the islets of Nisiti, -Capri, and Procida, till the view fades into the extreme verge of the -horizon, where the waters of the Mediterranean seem to mingle with -those clear skies whose tint and lustre they reflect.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In this true “<i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">nido paterno</span></i>” of genius, there dwelt, in the year -1615, an humble and industrious artist called Vito Antonia Rosa—a -name even then not unknown to the arts, though as yet more known -than prosperous. Its actual possessor, the worthy Messire Antonio, -had, up to this time, struggled with his good wife Giulia Grecca and -two daughters still in childhood, to maintain the ancient respectability -of his family. Antonio was an architect and landsurveyor of some -note, but of little gains; and if, over the old architectural portico of -the Casaccia of Renella might be read,</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“<i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Vito Antonio Rosa, Agremensore ed Architecto</span></i>;”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>the intimation was given in vain! Few passed through the decayed -Borgo of Renella, and still fewer, in times so fearful, were able to -profit by the talents and profession which the inscription advertised. -The family of Rosa, inconsiderable as it was, partook of the pressure -of the times; and the pretty Borgo, like its adjacent scenery, (no -longer the haunt of Consular voluptuaries, neither frequented by -the great nor visited by the curious) stood lonely and beautiful—unencumbered -by those fantastic <em>belvideras</em> and grotesque pavilions, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span>which in modern times rather deform than beautify a site, for which -Nature has done all, and Art can do nothing.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The cells of the Certosa, indeed, had their usual complement of -lazy monks and “<i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Frati conversi</span></i>.” The fortress of St. Elmo, then -as now, manned by Austrian troops, glittered with foreign pikes. -The cross rose on every acclivity, and the sword guarded every pass: -but the villages of Renella and San Martino, of the Vomiro and of -Pausilippo, were thinned of their inhabitants to recruit foreign armies; -and this earthly paradise was dreary as the desert, and silent as the -tomb.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The Neapolitan barons, those restless but brave feudatories, -whose resistance to their native despots preserved something of the -ancient republican spirit of their Greek predecessors, now fled from -the capital. They left its beautiful environs to Spanish viceroys, -and to their official underlings; and sullenly shut themselves up in -their domestic fortresses of the Abruzzi or of Calabria. “<span lang="it" xml:lang="it">La -Civiltà</span>,” a class then including the whole of the middle and professional -ranks of society of Naples, was struggling for a bare -existence in the towns and cities. Beggared by taxation levied at -the will of their despots, and collected with every aggravation of -violence, its members lived under the perpetual <em>surveillance</em> of foreign -troops and domestic <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">sbirri</span></i>, whose suspicions their brooding discontents -were well calculated to nourish.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The people—the debased, degraded people—had reached that -maximum of suffering beyond which human endurance cannot go. -They were famished in the midst of plenty, and, in regions the most -genial and salubrious, were dying of diseases, the fearful attendants -on want. Commerce was at a stand, agriculture was neglected, and -the arts, under the perpetual dictatorship of a Spanish court-painter, -had no favour but for the <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Seguaci</span></i> of Lo Spagnuoletto.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In such times of general distress and oppression, when few had -the means or the spirit to build, and still fewer had lands to measure -or property to transfer, it is little wonderful that the humble architect -and landsurveyor of Renella,’ &c.</p> - -<p class='c010'>And so she gets down to the humble parentage of her hero; and -after telling us that his father was chiefly anxious that he should <em>not</em> -be an artist, and that both parents resolved to dedicate him to religion, -she proceeds to record, that he gave little heed to his future vocation, -but manifested various signs of a disposition for all the fine arts. -This occasioned considerable uneasiness and opposition on the part -of those who had destined him to something very different; and ‘the -cord of paternal authority, drawn to its extreme tension, was naturally -snapped.’—And upon this her volatile pen again takes <em>its roving flight</em>.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_286'>286</span>‘The truant Salvatoriello fled from the restraints of an uncongenial -home, from Albert Le Grand and Santa Caterina di Sienna, and -took shelter among those sites and scenes whose imagery soon became -a part of his own intellectual existence, and were received as impressions -long before they were studied as subjects. Sometimes he was -discovered by the <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Padre Cercatore</span></i> of the convent of Renella, among -the rocks and caverns of Baiæ, the ruined temples of Gods, and the -haunts of Sibyls. Sometimes he was found by a gossip of Madonna -Giulia, in her pilgrimage to a “<em>maesta</em>,” sleeping among the wastes -of the Solfatara, beneath the scorched branches of a blasted tree, his -head pillowed by lava, and his dream most probably the vision of an -infant poet’s slumbers. For even then he was</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in12'>“the youngest he</div> - <div class='line'>That sat in shadow of Apollo’s tree,”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>seeing Nature with a poet’s eye, and sketching her beauties with a -painter’s hand.’ p. 45.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Now this is well imagined and quaintly expressed; it pleases the -fair writer, and should offend nobody else. But we cannot say quite -so much of the note which is appended to it, and couched in the -following terms.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Rosa drew his first impressions from the magnificent scenery of -Pausilippo and Vesuvius; Hogarth found his in a pot-house at -Highgate, where a drunken quarrel and a broken nose “first woke -the God within him.” Both, however, reached the sublime in their -respective vocations—Hogarth in the grotesque, and Salvator in the -majestic!’</p> - -<p class='c010'>Really these critics who have crossed the Alps do take liberties -with the rest of the world,—and do not recover from a certain giddiness -ever after. In the eagerness of partisanship, the fair author here -falsifies the class to which these two painters belonged. Hogarth did -<em>not</em> excel in the ‘grotesque,’ but in the ludicrous and natural,—nor -Salvator in the ‘majestic,’ but in the wild and gloomy features of man -or nature; and in talent Hogarth had the advantage—a million to -one. It would not be too much to say, that he was probably the -greatest observer of manners, and the greatest comic genius, that ever -lived. We know no one, whether painter, poet, or prose-writer, not -even Shakspeare, who, in his peculiar department, was so teeming -with life and invention, so over-informed with matter, so ‘full to overflowing,’ -as Hogarth was. We shall not attempt to calculate the -quantity of pleasure and amusement his pictures have afforded, for it -is quite incalculable. As to the distinction between ‘high and low’ -<span class='pageno' id='Page_287'>287</span>in matters of genius, we shall leave it to her Ladyship’s other critics. -But shall Hogarth’s world of truth and nature (his huge total farce -of human life) be reduced to ‘a drunken quarrel and a broken nose?’ -We will not retort this sneer by any insult to Salvator; he did not -paint his pictures in opposition to Hogarth. There is an air about -his landscapes sacred to our imaginations, though different from the -close atmosphere of Hogarth’s scenes; and not the less so, because -the latter could paint something better than ‘a broken nose.’ Nothing -provokes us more than these exclusive and invidious comparisons, -which seek to raise one man of genius by setting down another, and -which suppose that there is nothing to admire in the greatest talents, -unless they can be made a foil to bring out the weak points or nominal -imperfections of some fancied rival.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We might transcribe, for the entertainment of the reader, the -passage to which we have already referred, describing Salvator’s -departure, in the company of his father, for the college of the <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Congregazione -Somasco</span></i>; but we prefer one which, though highly coloured -and somewhat dramatic, is more to our purpose—the commencement -of Salvator’s studies as an artist under his brother-in-law Francanzani. -We cannot, however, do this at once: for, in endeavouring to lay our -hands upon the passage, we were as usual intercepted by showers of -roses and clouds of perfume. Lady Morgan’s style resembles ‘another -morn risen on mid-noon.’ We must make a career therefore with the -historian, and reach the temple of painting through the sounding -portico of music. It appears that Salvator, after he left the brotherhood -of the <em>Somasco</em>, with more poetry than logic in his head, devoted -himself to music; and Lady Morgan preludes her narration with the -following eloquent passage.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘All Naples—(where even to this day love and melody make a part -of the existence of the people)—all Naples was then resounding to -guitars, lutes and harps, accompanying voices, which forever sang the -fashionable <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">canzoni</span></i> of Cambio Donato, and of the Prince di Venusa.<a id='r22' /><a href='#f22' class='c014'><sup>[22]</sup></a> -Neither German phlegm, nor Spanish gloom, could subdue spirits so -tuned to harmony, nor silence the passionate <i><span lang="es" xml:lang="es">serenatas</span></i> which floated -along the shores, and reverberated among the classic grottoes of -Pausilippo. Vesuvius blazed, St. Elmo thundered from its heights, -conspiracy brooded in the caves of Baiæ, and tyranny tortured its -victim in the dungeons of the Castello Nuovo; yet still the ardent -<span class='pageno' id='Page_288'>288</span>Neapolitans, amidst all the horrors of their social and political <em>position</em>,<a id='r23' /><a href='#f23' class='c014'><sup>[23]</sup></a> -could snatch moments of blessed forgetfulness, and, reckless of their -country’s woes and their own degradation, could give up hours to love -and music, which were already numbered in the death-warrants of their -tyrants.... It was at this moment, when peculiar circumstances -were awakening in the region of the syrens “the hidden soul of -harmony,” when the most beautiful women of the capital and the court -gave a public exhibition of their talents and <em>their charms</em>, and glided -in their feluccas on the moonlight midnight seas, with harps of gold -and hands of snow, that the contumacious students of the <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Padri -Somaschi</span></i> escaped from the restraints of their cloisters, and the horrid -howl of their <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">laude spirituali</span></i>, to all the intoxication of sound and sight, -with every sense in full accordance with the musical passion of the -day. It is little wonderful, if, at this epoch of his life, Salvator gave -himself up unresistingly to the pursuit of a science, which he cultivated -with ardour, even when time had preached his tumultuous pulse to -rest; or if the floating capital of genius, which was as yet unappropriated, -was in part applied to that species of composition, which, in the -youth of man as of nations, precedes deeper and more important -studies, and for which, in either, there is but one age. All poetry -and passion, his young Muse “dallied with the innocence of love;” -and inspired strains, which, though the simple breathings of an ardent -temperament, the exuberance of youthful excitement, and an overteeming -sensibility, were assigning him a place among the first Italian -lyrists of his age. Little did he then dream that posterity would -apply the rigid rules of criticism to the “idle visions” of his boyish -fancy; or that his bars and basses would be conned and analyzed by -the learned umpires of future ages—declared “not only admirable for -a <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">dilettante</span></i>, but, in point of melody, superior to that of most of the -masters of his time.”<a id='r24' /><a href='#f24' class='c014'><sup>[24]</sup></a></p> - -<hr class='c013' /> - -<p class='c010'>‘It happened at this careless, gay, but not idle period of Salvator’s -life, than an event occurred which hurried on his vocation to that art, -to which his parents were so determined that he should <em>not</em> addict -<span class='pageno' id='Page_289'>289</span>himself, but to which Nature had so powerfully directed him. His -probation of adolescence was passed: his hour was come; and he was -about to approach that temple whose threshold he modestly and -poetically declared himself unworthy to pass.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“<span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Del immortalide al tempio augusto</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dove serba la gloria e i suoi tesori.</span>”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘At one of the popular festivities annually celebrated at Naples in -honour of the Madonna, the beauty of Rosa’s elder sister captivated -the attention of a young painter, who, though through life unknown to -“fortune,” was not even then “unknown to fame.” The celebrated -and unfortunate Francesco Francanzani, the inamorata of La Signorina -Rosa, was a distinguished pupil of the Spagnuoletto school; and his -picture of San Giuseppe, for the Chiesa Pellegrini, had already -established him as one of the first painters of his day. Francanzani, -like most of the young Neapolitan painters of his time, was a turbulent -and factious character, vain and self-opinionated; and, though there -was in his works a certain grandeur of style, with great force and depth -of colouring, yet the impatience of his disappointed ambition, and indignation -at the neglect of his acknowledged merit, already rendered -him reckless of public opinion.<a id='r25' /><a href='#f25' class='c014'><sup>[25]</sup></a></p> - -<p class='c010'>‘It was the peculiar vanity of the painters of that day to have -beautiful wives. Albano had set the example’—[as if any example -need be set, or the thing had been done in concert]—‘Domenichino -followed it to his cost; Rubens turned it to the account of his profession; -and Francanzani, still poor and struggling, married the portionless -daughter of the most indigent artist in Naples, and thought -perhaps more of the model than the wife. This union, and, still -more, a certain sympathy in talent and character between the brothers-in-law, -frequently carried Salvator to the <em>stanza</em> or work-room of -Francesco. Francesco, by some years the elder, was then deep in -the faction and intrigues of the Neapolitan school; and was endowed -with that bold eloquence, which, displayed upon bold occasions, is -always so captivating to young auditors. It was at the foot of his -kinsman’s easel, and listening to details which laid perhaps the foundation -of that contemptuous opinion he cherished through life for schools, -academies, and all incorporated pedantry and pretension,<a id='r26' /><a href='#f26' class='c014'><sup>[26]</sup></a> that Salvator -occasionally amused himself in copying, on any scrap of <em>board</em> or paper -<span class='pageno' id='Page_290'>290</span>which fell in his way, whatever pleased him in Francesco’s pictures. -His long-latent genius thus accidentally awakened, resembled the -<i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">acqua buja</span></i>, whose cold and placid surface kindles like spirits on the -contact of a spark. In these first, rude, and hasty sketches, Francanzani, -as Passeri informs us, saw “<i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">molti segni d’un indole spirituosa</span></i>” -(great signs of talent and genius); and he frequently encouraged, and -sometimes corrected, the copies <em>which so nearly approached the originals</em>. -But Salvator, who was destined to imitate none, but to be imitated by -many, soon grew impatient of repeating another’s conceptions, and of -following in an art in which he already perhaps felt, with prophetic -throes, that he was born to lead. His visits to the workshop of -Francanzani grew less frequent; his days were given to the scenes of -his infant wanderings; he departed with the dawn, laden with his -portfolio filled with primed paper, and a pallet covered with oil -colours; and it is said, that even then he not only sketched, but -coloured from nature. When the pedantry of criticism (at the -suggestion of envious rivals) accused him of having acquired, in his -colouring, too much of the <em>impasting</em> of the <em>Spagnuoletto</em> school, it -was not aware that his faults, like his beauties, were original; and -that he sinned against the rules of art, only because he adhered too -faithfully to nature.’—[Salvator’s flesh colour is as remarkably dingy -and <em>Spagnuolettish</em>, as the tone of his landscapes is fresh and clear.]—‘Returning -from these arduous but not profitless rambles, through -wildernesses and along precipices, impervious to all save the enterprise -of fearless genius, he sought shelter beneath his sister’s roof, -where a kinder welcome awaited him than he could find in that -home where it had been decreed from his birth that <em>he should not be -a painter</em>.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Francanzani was wont, on the arrival of his brother-in-law, to -rifle the contents of his portfolio; and he frequently found there -compositions hastily thrown together, but selected, drawn, and -coloured with a boldness and a breadth, which indicated the confidence -of a genius sure of itself. The first accents of “the thrilling -melody of sweet renown” which ever vibrated to the heart of -Salvator, came to his ear on these occasions in the Neapolitan <em>patois</em> -of his relation, who, in glancing by lamp-light over his labours, would -pat him smilingly on the head, and exclaim, “<i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Fruscia, fruscia, -Salvatoriello—che va buono</span></i>,” (“Go on, go on, this is good”)—simple -plaudits! but frequently remembered in after-times (when the -dome of the Pantheon had already rung with the admiration extorted -by his Regulus) as the first which cheered him in his arduous -progress.’ p. 94.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The reader cannot fail to observe here how well every thing is -<span class='pageno' id='Page_291'>291</span>made out: how agreeably every thing is assumed: how difficulties -are smoothed over, little abruptnesses rounded off: how each circumstance -falls into its place just as it should, and answers to a -preconceived idea, like the march of a verse or the measure of a -dance: and how completely that imaginary justice is everywhere -done to the subject, which, according to Lord Bacon, gives poetry -so decided an advantage over history! Yet this is one of our fair -authoress’s most severe and literal passages. Her prose-Muse is -furnished with wings; and the breeze of Fancy carries her off her -feet from the plain ground of matter-of-fact, whether she will or no. -Lady Morgan, in this part of her subject, takes occasion to animadvert -on an opinion of Sir Joshua’s respecting our artist’s choice of a -particular style of landscape painting.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Salvator Rosa</em>,’ says Sir J. Reynolds, ‘<em>saw the necessity of trying -some new source of pleasing the public in his works. The world were -tired of Claude Lorraine’s and G. Poussin’s long train of imitators.</em>’</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Salvator therefore struck into a wild, savage kind of nature, which -was new and striking.</em>’</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The first of these paragraphs contains a strange anachronism. -When Salvator <em>struck into a new line</em>, Poussin and Claude, who, -though his elders, were his contemporaries, had as yet no train of -imitators. The one was struggling for a livelihood in France, the -other was cooking and grinding colours for his master at Rome. -Salvator’s early attachment to Nature in her least imitated forms, was -not the result of speculation having any reference to the public: it -was the operation of original genius, and of those particular tendencies -which seemed to be breathed into his soul at the moment it first -quickened. From his cradle to his tomb he was the creature of -impulse, and the slave of his own vehement volitions.’—<em>Note</em>, p. 97–8.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We think this is spirited and just. Sir Joshua, who borrowed -from almost all his predecessors in art, was now and then a little too -ready to detract from them. We dislike these attempts to explain -away successful talent into a species of studied imposture—to attribute -genius to a plot, originality to a trick. Burke, in like manner, -accused Rousseau of the same kind of <em>malice prepense</em> in bringing -forward his paradoxes—as if he did it on a theory, or to astonish the -public, and not to give vent to his peculiar humours and singularity of -temperament.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We next meet with a poetical version of a picturesque tour undertaken -by Salvator among the mountains of the Abruzzi, and of his -detention by the banditti there. We have much fine writing on the -subject; but after a world of charming theories and romantic conjectures, -it is left quite doubtful whether this last event ever took -<span class='pageno' id='Page_292'>292</span>place at all—at least we could wish there was some better confirmation -of it than a vague rumour, and an etching by Salvator of a ‘<cite>Youth -taken captive by banditti, with a female figure pleading his cause</cite>,’ which -the historian at once identifies with the adventures of the artist himself, -and ‘moralizes into a thousand similes.’ We are indemnified for -the dearth of satisfactory evidence on this point by animated and -graceful transitions to the history and manners of the Neapolitan -banditti, their physiognomical distinctions and political intrigues, to -the grand features of mountain scenery, and to the character of -Salvator’s style, founded on all these exciting circumstances, real or -imaginary. On the death of his father, Vito Antonio, which happened -when he was about seventeen, the family were thrown on his hands -for support, and he struggled for some time with want and misery, -which he endeavoured to relieve by his hard bargains with the -<i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">rivenditori</span></i> (picture-dealers) in the <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Strada della Carità</span></i>, till necessity -and chagrin forced him to fly to Rome. The purchase of his <cite>Hagar</cite> -by Lanfranco is the only bright streak in this period of his life, -which cheered him for a moment with faint delusive hope.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The art of writing may be said to consist in thinking of nothing but -one’s subject: the art of book-making, on the contrary, can only -subsist on the principle of laying hands on everything that can supply -the place of it. The author of the ‘Life and Times of Salvator -Rosa,’ though devoted to her hero, does not scruple to leave him -sometimes, and to occupy many pages with his celebrated contemporaries, -Domenichino, Lanfranco, Caravaggio, and the sculptor -Bernini, the most splendid coxcomb in the history of art, and the -spoiled child of vanity and patronage. Before we take leave of -Naples, we must introduce our readers to some of this good company, -and pay our court in person. We shall begin with Caravaggio, one -of the <em>characteristic</em> school both in mind and manners. The account -is too striking in many respects to be passed over, and affords a fine -lesson on the excesses and untamed irregularities of men of genius.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In the early part of the seventeenth century, the manner of the -Neapolitan school was purely <em>Caravaggesque</em>. Michael Angelo -Amoreghi, better known as <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Il Caravaggio</span></i> (from the place of his -birth in the Milanese, where his father held no higher rank than -that of a stone mason), was one of those powerful and extraordinary -geniuses which are destined by their force and originality to influence -public taste, and master public opinion, in whatever line they start. -The Roman School, to which the almost celestial genius of Raphael -had so long been as a tutelary angel, sinking rapidly into degradation -and feebleness, suddenly arose again under the influence of a new -chief, whose professional talent and personal character stood opposed -<span class='pageno' id='Page_293'>293</span>in the strong relief of contrast to that of his elegant and poetical -predecessor.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The influence of this “<i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">uomo intractabile e brutale</span></i>,” this <em>passionate -and intractable man</em>, as he is termed by an Italian historian of the arts, -sprang from the depression of the school which preceded him. -Nothing less than the impulsion given by the force of contrast, and -the shock occasioned by a violent change, could have produced an -effect on the sinking art such as proceeded from the strength and -even coarseness of Caravaggio. He brought back nature triumphant -over mannerism—nature, indeed, in all the exaggeration of strong -motive and overbearing volition; but still it <em>was</em> nature; and his bold -example dissipated the languor of exhausted imitation, and gave -excitement even to the tamest mediocrity and the feeblest conception.... -When on his first arrival in Rome (says Bellori) the cognoscenti -advised him to study from the antiques, and take Raphael as his -model, he used to point to the promiscuous groups of men and -women passing before him, and say, “those were the models and the -masters provided him by Nature.” Teased one day by a pedant on -the subject, he stopped a gipsey-girl who was passing by his window, -called her in, placed her near his easel, and produced his splendid -<cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Zingara in atto di predire l’avventure</span></cite>, his well-known and exquisite -Egyptian Fortune-teller. His <cite>Gamblers</cite> was done in the same -manner.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The temperament which produced this peculiar genius was necessarily -violent and gloomy. Caravaggio tyrannized over his school, -and attacked his rivals with other arms than those of his art. He -was a professed duellist; and having killed one of his antagonists in -a rencontre, he fled to Naples, where an asylum was readily granted -him. His manner as a painter, his character as a man, were both -calculated to succeed with the Neapolitan school; and the <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">maniera -Caravaggesca</span></i> thenceforward continued to distinguish its productions, -till the art, there, as throughout all Europe, fell into utter degradation, -and became lost almost as completely as it had been under the -Lower Empire.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In a warm dispute with one of his own young friends in a tennis-court, -he had struck him dead with a racket, having been himself -severely wounded. Notwithstanding the triumphs with which he -was loaded in Naples, where he executed some of his finest pictures, -he soon got weary of his residence there, and went to Malta. His -superb picture of the Grand Master obtained for him the cross -of Malta, a rich golden chain, placed on his neck by the Grand -Master’s own hands, and two slaves to attend him. But all these -honours did not prevent the new knight from falling into his old -<span class='pageno' id='Page_294'>294</span>habits. <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Il suo torbido ingegno</span></i>, says Bellori, plunged him into new -difficulties; he fought and wounded a noble cavalier, was thrown into -prison by the Grand Master, escaped most miraculously, fled to -Syracuse, and obtained the suffrages of the Syracusans by painting his -splendid picture of the <cite>Santa Morte</cite>, for the church of Santa Lucia. -In apprehension of being taken by the Maltese knights, he fled to -Messina, from thence to Palermo, and returned to Naples, where -hopes were given him of the Pope’s pardon. Here, picking a quarrel -with some military men at an inn door, he was wounded, took -refuge on board a felucca, and set sail for Rome. Arrested by a -Spanish guard, at a little port (where the felucca cast anchor), by -mistake, for another person, when released he found the felucca -gone, and in it all his property. Traversing the burning shore under -a vertical sun, he was seized with a brain-fever, and continued to -wander through the deserts of the Pontine Marshes, till he arrived at -Porto Ercoli, when he expired in his fortieth year.’ p. 139.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We have seen some of the particulars differently related; but this -account is as probable as any; and it conveys a startling picture of -the fate of a man led away by headstrong passions and the pride -of talents,—an intellectual outlaw, having no regard to the charities of -life, nor knowledge of his own place in the general scale of being. -How different, how superior, and yet how little more fortunate, was -the amiable and accomplished Domenichino (the ‘most sensible of -painters’), who was about this time employed in painting the dome -of St. Januarius!</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Domenichino reluctantly accepted the invitation (1629); and he -arrived in Naples with the zeal of a martyr devoted to a great cause, -but with a melancholy foreboding, which harassed his noble spirit, -and but ill prepared him for the persecution he was to encounter. -Lodged under the special protection of the <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Deputati</span></i>, in the <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Palazzo -dell’ Arcivescovato</span></i>, adjoining the church, on going forth from his -sumptuous dwelling the day after his arrival, he found a paper -addressed to him sticking in the key-hole of his anteroom. It -informed him, that if he did not instantly return to Rome, he should -never return there with life. Domenichino immediately presented -himself to the Spanish viceroy, the <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Conte Monterei</span></i>, and claimed protection -for a life then employed in the service of the church. The -piety of the count, in spite of his partiality to the faction [of Spagnuoletto], -induced him to pledge the word of a grandee of Spain, that -Domenichino should not be molested; and from that moment a life, -no longer openly assailed, was embittered by all that the littleness of -malignant envy could invent to undermine its enjoyments and blast its -hopes. Calumnies against his character, criticisms on his paintings, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_295'>295</span>ashes mixed with his colours, and anonymous letters, were the miserable -means to which his rivals resorted; and to complete their work -of malignity, they induced the viceroy to order pictures from him -for the Court of Madrid; and when these were little more than laid -in in dead colours, they were carried to the viceregal palace, and -placed in the hands of Spagnuoletto to retouch and alter at pleasure. -In this disfigured and mutilated condition, they were despatched to -the gallery of the King of Spain. Thus drawn from his great works -by despotic authority, for the purpose of effecting his ruin, enduring -the complaints of the <em>Deputati</em>, who saw their commission neglected, -and suffering from perpetual calumnies and persecutions, Domenichino -left the superb picture of the <cite>Martyrdom of San Gennaro</cite>, which is -now receiving the homage of posterity, and fled to Rome; taking -shelter in the solemn shades of Frescati, where he resided some time -under the protection of Cardinal Ippolito Aldobrandini. It was at -this period that Domenichino was visited by his biographer Passeri, -then an obscure youth, engaged to assist in the repairs of the pictures -in the cardinal’s chapel. “When we arrived at Frescati,” says -Passeri in his simple style, “Domenichino received me with much -courtesy; and hearing that I took a singular delight in the belles-lettres, -it increased his kindness to me. I remember me, that I -gazed on this man as though he were an angel. I remained till the -end of September, occupied in restoring the chapel of St. Sebastian, -which had been ruined by the damp. Sometimes Domenichino -would join us, singing delightfully to recreate himself as well as he -could. When night set in we returned to our apartment, while he -most frequently remained in his own, occupied in drawing, and permitting -none to see him. Sometimes, however, to pass the time, he -drew caricatures of us all, and of the inhabitants of the villa; and when -he succeeded to his satisfaction, he was wont to indulge in immoderate -fits of laughter; and we, who were in the adjoining room, would run -in to know his reason, and then he showed us his spirited sketches -(<i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">spiritose galanterie</span></i>). He drew a caricature of me with a guitar, one -of Canini the painter, and one of the guarda roba, who was lame with -the gout, and of the subguarda roba, a most ridiculous figure. To -prevent our being offended, he also caricatured himself. These portraits -are now preserved by Signor Giovanni Pietro Bellori in his study.” -<cite><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Vita di Domenichino.</span></cite>—Obliged, however, at length, to return to Naples -to fulfil his fatal engagements, overwhelmed both in mind and body by -the persecutions of his <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">soi-disant</span></i> patrons and his open enemies, he died, -says Passeri, “<i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">fra mille crepacuori</span></i>,” amidst a <em>thousand heart-breakings</em>, -with some suspicion of having been poisoned, in 1641.’ p. 150.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We could wish Lady Morgan had preserved more of this <em>simple -<span class='pageno' id='Page_296'>296</span>style of Passeri</em>. We confess we prefer it to her own more brilliant -and artificial one; for instance, to such passages as the following, -describing Salvator’s first entrance into the city of Rome.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In entering the greatest city of the world at the Ave Maria, the -hour of Italian recreation’—(Why must he have entered it at this -hour, except for the purpose of giving the author an apology for the -following eloquent reflections?)—‘in passing from the silent desolate -suburbs of San Giovanni to the Corso (then a place of crowded and -populous resort), where the princes of the Conclave presented themselves -in all the pomp and splendour of Oriental satraps, the feelings -of the young and solitary stranger must have suffered a revulsion, in -the consciousness of his own misery. Never, perhaps, in the deserts -of the Abruzzi, in the solitudes of Otranto, or in the ruins of Pæstum, -did Salvator experience sensations of such utter loneliness, as in the -midst of this gaudy and multitudinous assemblage; for in the history -of melancholy <em>sensations</em> there are few comparable to that <em>sense</em> of -<em>isolation</em>, to that <em>desolateness</em> of soul, which accompanies the first -entrance of the friendless on a world where all, save they, have ties, -pursuits, and homes.’ p. 174.</p> - -<p class='c010'>When we come to passages like this, so buoyant, so airy, and so -brilliant, we wish we could forget that history is not a pure voluntary -effusion of sentiment, and that we could fancy ourselves reading a -page of Mrs. Radcliffe’s Italian, or Miss Porter’s Thaddeus of -Warsaw! Presently after, we learn, that ‘Milton and Salvator, -who, in genius, character, and political views, bore no faint resemblance -to each other, though living at the same time both in Rome -and Naples, remained mutually unknown. The obscure and indigent -young painter had, doubtless, no means of presenting himself to the -great republican poet of England;—if, indeed, he had then ever -heard of one so destined to illustrate the age in which both flourished.’—p. -176. This is the least apposite of all our author’s critical -juxtapositions; if we except the continual running parallel between -Salvator, Shakspeare, and Lord Byron, as the three demons of the -imagination personified. Modern critics can no more confer rank in -the lists of fame, than modern heralds can confound new and old -nobility.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Salvator’s first decided success at Rome, or in his profession, was -in his picture of Prometheus, exhibited in the Pantheon, when he -was little more than twenty, and which stamped his reputation as an -artist from that time forward, though it did not lay the immediate -foundation of his fortune. In this respect, his rejection by the -Academy of St. Luke, and the hostility of Bernini, threw very -considerable obstacles in his way. Lady Morgan celebrates the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_297'>297</span>success of this picture at sufficient length, and with enthusiastic -sympathy, and accompanies the successive completion of his great -historical efforts afterwards, the <cite>Regulus</cite>, the <cite>Purgatory</cite>, the <cite>Job</cite>, -the <cite>Saul</cite>, and the <cite>Conspiracy of Catiline</cite>, with appropriate comments; -but, as we are tainted with heresy on this subject, we shall decline -entering into it, farther than to say generally, that we think the -colouring of Salvator’s flesh dingy, his drawing meagre, his expressions -coarse or violent, and his choice of subjects morose and -monotonous. The figures in his landscape-compositions are admirable -for their spirit, force, wild interest, and daring character; but, -in our judgment, they cannot stand alone as high history, nor, by -any means, claim the first rank among epic or dramatic productions. -His landscapes, on the contrary, as we have said before, have a -boldness of conception, a unity of design, and felicity of execution, -which, if it does not fill the mind with the highest sense of beauty -or grandeur, assigns them a place by themselves, which invidious -comparison cannot approach or divide with any competitor. They -are original and <em>perfect</em> in their kind; and that kind is one that -the imagination requires for its solace and support; is always glad -to return to, and is never ashamed of, the wild and abstracted scenes -of nature. Having said thus much by way of explanation, we hope -we shall be excused from going farther into the details of an -obnoxious hypercriticism, to which we feel an equal repugnance as -professed worshippers of fame and genius! Our readers will prefer, -to our sour and fastidious (perhaps perverse) criticism, the lively -account which is here given of Salvator’s first appearance in a -new character—one of the masks of the Roman carnival—which -had considerable influence in his subsequent pursuits and success -in life.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Towards the close of the Carnival in 1639, when the spirits of -the revellers (as is always the case in Rome) were making a brilliant -rally for the representations of the last week, a car, or stage, highly -ornamented, drawn by oxen, and occupied by a masked troop, -attracted universal attention by its novelty and singular representations. -The principal personage announced himself as a certain Signor -Formica, a Neapolitan actor, who, in the character of Coviello, a -charlatan, displayed so much genuine wit, such bitter satire, and -exquisite humour, rendered doubly effective by a Neapolitan accent -and national gesticulations, that other representations were abandoned; -and gipsies told fortunes, and Jews hung in vain. The whole population -of Rome gradually assembled round the novel, the inimitable -Formica. The people relished his flashes of splenetic humour aimed -at the great; the higher orders were delighted with an <em>improvisatore</em>, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_298'>298</span>who, in the intervals of his dialogues, sung to the lute, of which he -was a perfect master, the Neapolitan ballads, then so much in vogue. -The attempts made by his fellow-revellers to obtain some share of -the plaudits he so abundantly received, whether he spoke or sung, -asked or answered questions, were all abortive; while he, (says -Baldinucci), “at the head of every thing by his wit, eloquence, and -brilliant humour, drew half Rome to himself.” The contrast -between his beautiful musical and poetical compositions, and those -Neapolitan gesticulations in which he indulged, when, laying aside -his lute, he presented his vials and salves to the delighted audience, -exhibited a versatility of genius, which it was difficult to attribute to -any individual then known in Rome. Guesses and suppositions were -still vainly circulating among all classes, when, on the close of the -Carnival, Formica, ere he drove his triumphal car from the Piazza -Navona, which, with one of the streets in the Trasevere, had been -the principal scene of his triumph, ordered his troop to raise their -masks, and, removing his own, discovered that Coviello was the -sublime author of the Prometheus, and his little troop the “Partigiani” -of Salvator Rosa. All Rome was from this moment (to use a phrase -which all his biographers have adopted) “<em>filled with his fame</em>.” That -notoriety which his high genius had failed to procure for him, was -obtained at once by those lighter talents which he had nearly -suffered to fall into neglect, while more elevated views had filled -his mind.’ p. 253.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Lady Morgan then gives a very learned and sprightly account of -the characters of the old Italian comedy, with a notice of Moliere, -and sprinklings of general reading, from which we have not room for -an extract. Salvator, after this event, became the rage in Rome; -his society and conversation were much sought after, and his <em>improvisatore</em> -recitations of his own poetry, in which he sketched the -outline of his future Satires, were attended by some of the greatest -wits and most eminent scholars of the age. He on one occasion -gave a burlesque comedy in ridicule of Bernini, the favourite court-artist. -This attack drew on him a resentment, the consequences of -which, ‘like a wounded snake, dragged their slow length’ through -the rest of his life. Those who are the loudest and bitterest in -their complaints of persecution and ill-usage are the first to provoke -it. In the warfare waged so fondly and (as it is at last discovered) -so unequally with the world, the assailants and the sufferers will -be generally found to be the same persons. We would not, by this -indirect censure of Salvator, be understood to condemn or discourage -those who have an inclination to go on the same <em>forlorn hope</em>: we -merely wish to warn them of the nature of the service, and that they -<span class='pageno' id='Page_299'>299</span>ought not to prepare for a triumph, but a martyrdom! If they are -ambitious of that, let them take their course.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Salvator’s success in his new attempt threw him in some measure, -from this time forward, into the career of comedy and letters: -painting, however, still remained his principal pursuit and strongest -passion. His various talents and agreeable accomplishments procured -him many friends and admirers, though his hasty temper and violent -pretensions often defeated their good intentions towards him. He -wanted to force his Histories down the throats of the public and of -private individuals, who came to purchase his pictures, and turned -from, and even insulted those who praised his landscapes. This -jealousy of a man’s self, and quarrelling with the favourable opinion -of the world, because it does not exactly accord with our own view -of our merits, is one of the most tormenting and incurable of all -follies. We subjoin the two following remarkable instances of it.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The Prince Francesco Ximenes having arrived in Rome, found -time, in the midst of the honours paid to him, to visit Salvator Rosa; -and, being received by the artist in his gallery, he told him frankly, -that he had come for the purpose of seeing and purchasing some of -those beautiful small landscapes, whose manner and subjects had -delighted him in many foreign galleries.—“Be it known then to your -Excellency,” interrupted Rosa impetuously, “that <em>I know nothing of -landscape-painting</em>! Something indeed I do know of painting <em>figures</em> -and <em>historical subjects</em>, which I strive to exhibit to such eminent judges -as yourself, in order that once for all I may banish from the public -mind that fantastic humour of supposing I am a landscape, and not an -historical painter.”</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Shortly after, a very rich cardinal, whose name is not recorded, -called on Salvator to purchase some pictures; and as his Eminence -walked up and down the gallery, he always paused before some -certain <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">quadretti</span></i>, and never before the historical subjects, while -Salvator muttered from time to time between his clenched teeth, -“<i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Sempre, sempre, pæsi piccoli</span></i>.” When at last the Cardinal glanced -his eye over some great historical picture, and carelessly asked the -price as a sort of company question, Salvator bellowed forth “<i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Un -milione</span></i>.” His Eminence, stunned or offended, hurried away, and -returned no more.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>Other stories are told of the like import. And yet if Salvator had -been more satisfied in his own mind of the superiority of his historical -pictures, he would have been less anxious to make others converts to -his opinion. So shrewd a man ought to have been aware of the force -of the proverb about <em>nursing the ricketty child</em>.</p> - -<p class='c010'>One of the most creditable <em>traits</em> in the character of Salvator is the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_300'>300</span>friendship of Carlo Rossi, a wealthy Roman citizen, who raised his -prices and built a chapel to his memory; and one of the most pleasant -and flattering to his talents is the rivalry of Messer Agli, an old -Bolognese merchant, who came all the way to Florence (while -Salvator was residing there) to enter the lists with him as the clown -and quack-doctor of the <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">commedia della arte</span></i>.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We loiter on the way with Lady Morgan—which is a sign that -we do not dislike her company, and that our occasional severity is -less real than affected. She opens many pleasant vistas, and calls up -numerous themes of never-failing interest. Would that we could -wander with her under the azure skies and golden sunsets of Claude -Lorraine, amidst classic groves and temples, and flocks, and herds, -and winding streams, and distant hills and glittering sunny vales,</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in14'>——‘Where universal Pan,</div> - <div class='line'>Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance,</div> - <div class='line'>Leads on the eternal spring;’—</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>or repose in Gaspar Poussin’s cool grottos, or on his breezy summits, -or by his sparkling waterfalls!—but we must not indulge too long in -these delightful dreams. Time presses, and we must on. It is -mentioned in this part of the narrative which treats of Salvator’s contemporaries -and great rivals in landscape, that Claude Lorraine, -besides his natural stupidity in all other things, was six-and-thirty -before he began to paint (almost the age at which Raphael died), -and in ten years after was—what no other human being ever was or -will be. The lateness of the period at which he commenced his -studies, render those unrivalled masterpieces which he has left behind -him to all posterity a greater miracle than they would otherwise be. -One would think that perfection required at least a whole life to -attain it. Lady Morgan has described this divine artist very prettily -and poetically; but her description of Gaspar Poussin is as fine, and -might in some places be mistaken for that of his rival. This is not -as it should be; since the distance is immeasurable between the -productions of Claude Lorraine and all other landscapes whatever—with -the single exception of Titian’s backgrounds.<a id='r27' /><a href='#f27' class='c014'><sup>[27]</sup></a> Sir Joshua -Reynolds used to say (such was his opinion of the faultless beauty of -his style), that ‘there would be another Raphael before there was -another Claude!’</p> - -<p class='c010'>The first volume of the present work closes with a spirited account -of the short-lived revolution at Naples, brought about by the celebrated -<span class='pageno' id='Page_301'>301</span>Massaniello. Salvator contrived to be present at one of the meetings -of the patriotic conspirators by torchlight, and has left a fine sketch -of the unfortunate leader. An account of this memorable transaction -will be found in Robertson, and a still more striking and genuine one -in the Memoirs of Cardinal de Retz.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We must hasten through the second volume with more rapid strides. -Salvator, after the failure and death of Massaniello, returned to Rome, -disappointed, disheartened, and gave vent to his feelings on this -occasion by his two poems, <cite><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">La Babilonia</span></cite>, and <cite><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">La Guerra</span></cite>, which are -full of the spirit of love and hatred, of enthusiasm and bitterness.<a id='r28' /><a href='#f28' class='c014'><sup>[28]</sup></a> -About the same time, he painted his two allegorical pictures of -‘Human Frailty,’ and ‘Fortune.’ These were exhibited in the -Pantheon; and from the sensation they excited, and the sinister -comments that were made on them, had nearly conducted Salvator to -the Inquisition. In the picture of ‘Fortune,’ more particularly, ‘the -nose of one powerful ecclesiastic, and the eye of another, were -detected in the brutish physiognomy of the swine who were treading -pearls and flowers under their feet; a Cardinal was recognised in an -ass scattering with his hoof the laurel and myrtle which lay in his -path, and in an old goat reposing on roses. Some there were who -even fancied the infallible lover of Donna Olympia, the Sultana -Queen of the Quirinal! The cry of atheism and sedition—of -contempt of established authorities—was thus raised under the -influence of private pique and long-cherished envy. It soon found an -echo in the painted walls where the Conclave sat “in close divan,” -and it was bandied about from mouth to mouth till it reached the -ears of the Inquisitor, within the dark recesses of his house of -terrors.’ <span class='fss'>II.</span> 20.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The consequence was, that our artist was obliged to fly from -Rome, after waiting a little to see if the storm would blow over, and -to seek an asylum in the court of the Grand Duke of Tuscany at -Florence. Here he passed some of the happiest years of his life, -flattered by princes, feasting nobles, conversing with poets, receiving -the suggestions of critics, painting landscapes or history as he liked -best, composing and reciting his own verses, and making a fortune, -which he flung away again as soon as he had made it, with the -characteristic improvidence of genius. Of the gay, careless, and -friendly intercourse in which he passed his time, the following -passages give a very lively intimation.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_302'>302</span>‘It happened that Rosa, in one of those fits of idleness to which -even his strenuous spirit was occasionally liable, flung down his -pencil, and sallied forth to communicate the infection of his <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">far niente</span></i> -to his friend Lippi. On entering his <em>studio</em>, however, he found him -labouring with great impetuosity on the back-ground of his picture of -the <cite>Flight into Egypt</cite>; but in such sullen vehemence, or in such -evident ill-humour, that Salvator demanded, “<span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Che fai, amico?</span>”—“What -am I about?” said Lippi; “I am going mad with vexation. -Here is one of my best pictures ruined: I am under a spell, and -cannot even draw the branch of a tree, nor a tuft of herbage.”—“Signore -Dio!” exclaimed Rosa, twisting the paletti off his friend’s -thumb, “what colours are here?” and scraping them off, and gently -pushing away Lippi, he took his place, murmuring, “Let me see! -who knows but I may help you out of the scrape?” Half in jest -and half in earnest, he began to touch and retouch, and change, till -nightfall found him at the easel, finishing one of the best back-ground -landscapes he ever painted. All Florence came the next -day to look at his <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chef-d’œuvre</span></i>, and the first artists of the age took it -as a study.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘A few days afterwards, Salvator called upon Lippi, found him -preparing a canvas, while Malatesta read aloud to him and Ludovico -Seranai the astronomer, the MS. of his poem of the Sphynx. -Salvator, with a noiseless step, took his seat in an old Gothic -window, and, placing himself in a listening attitude, with a bright -light falling through stained glass upon his fine head, produced a -splendid study, of which Lippi, without a word of his intention, -availed himself; and executed, with incredible rapidity, the finest -picture of Salvator that was ever painted. Several copies of it were -taken with Lippi’s permission, and Ludovico Seranai purchased the -original at a considerable price. In this picture Salvator is dressed -in a cloth habit, with richly slashed sleeves, turnovers, and a collar. -It is only a head and bust, and the eyes are looking towards the -spectator.’ <span class='fss'>II.</span> 66.</p> - -<p class='c010'>At one time, his impatience at being separated from Carlo Rossi -and other friends was so great, that he narrowly risked his safety to -obtain an interview with them. About three years after he had been -at Florence, he took post-horses, and set off for Rome at midnight. -Having arrived at an inn in the suburbs, he despatched messages to -eighteen of his friends, who all came, thinking he had got into some -new scrape; breakfasted with them, and returned to Florence, -before his Roman persecutors or his Tuscan friends were aware of -his adventure.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Salvator, however, was discontented even with this splendid lot, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_303'>303</span>and sought to embower himself in entire seclusion, and in deeper -bliss, in the palace of the Counts Maffei at Volterra, and in the -solitudes in its neighbourhood. Here he wandered night and morn, -drinking in that slow poison of reflection which his soul loved best—planning -his <cite>Catiline Conspiracy</cite>—preparing his Satires for the press—and -weeding out their Neapolitanisms, in which he was assisted by -the fine taste and quick tact of his friend Redi. This appears to -have been the only part of his life to which he looked back with -pleasure or regret. He however left this enviable retreat soon after, -to return to Rome, partly for family reasons, and partly, no doubt, -because the deepest love of solitude and privacy does not wean the -mind, that has once felt the feverish appetite, from the desire of -popularity and distinction. Here, then, he planted himself on the -Monte Pincio, in a house situated between those of Claude Lorraine -and Nicholas Poussin—and used to walk out of an evening on the -fine promenade near it, at the head of a group of gay cavaliers, -musicians, and aspiring artists; while Nicholas Poussin, the very -genius of antiquity personified, and now bent down with age himself, -led another band of reverential disciples, side by side, with some -learned virtuoso or pious churchman! Meantime, commissions poured -in upon Salvator, and he painted successively his <cite>Jonas</cite> for the King -of Denmark—his <cite>Battle-piece</cite> for Louis <span class='fss'>XIV.</span>, still in the Museum at -Paris—and, lastly, to his infinite delight, an Altar-piece for one of -the churches in Rome. Salvator, about this time, seems to have -imbibed (even before he was lectured on his want of economy by the -<cite>Fool</cite> at the house of his friend Minucci) some idea of making the best -use of his time and talents.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The Constable Colonna (it is reported) sent a purse of gold to -Salvator Rosa on receiving one of his beautiful landscapes. The -painter, not to be outdone in generosity, sent the prince another -picture, as a present,—which the prince insisted on remunerating with -another purse; another present and another purse followed; and -this struggle between generosity and liberality continued, to the -tune of many other pictures and presents, until the prince, finding -himself a loser by the contest, sent Salvator two purses, with an -assurance that he gave in, <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">et lui céda le champ de bataille</span></i>.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>Salvator was tenacious in demanding the highest prices for his -pictures, and brooking no question as to any abatement; but when he -had promised his friend Ricciardi a picture, he proposed to restrict -himself to a subject of one or two figures; and they had nearly a -quarrel about it.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In April 1662,’ says his biographer, ‘and not long after his -return to Rome, his love of wild and mountainous scenery, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_304'>304</span>perhaps his wandering tendencies, revived by his recent journey, -induced him to visit Loretto, or at least to make that holy city the -<em>shrine</em> of a pilgrimage, which it appears was one rather of taste than -of devotion. His feelings on this journey are well described in one -of his own <cite>Letters</cite> inserted in the Appendix. “I could not,” says -Salvator, “give you any account of my return from Loretto, till I -arrived here on the sixth of May. I was for fifteen days in perpetual -motion. The journey was beyond all description curious and -picturesque: much more so than the route from hence to Florence. -There is a strange mixture of savage wildness and domestic scenery, -of plain and precipice, such as the eye delights to wander over. I -can safely swear to you, that the tints of these mountains by far -exceed all I have ever observed under your Tuscan skies; and as for -your Verucola, which I once thought a dreary desert, I shall henceforth -deem it a fair garden, in comparison with the scenes I have -now explored in these Alpine solitudes. O God! how often have -I sighed to possess, how often since called to mind, those solitary -hermitages which I passed on my way! How often wished that -fortune had reserved for me such a destiny! I went by Ancona and -Torolo, and on my return visited Assisa—all sites of extraordinary -interest to the genius of painting. I saw at Terni (four miles out -of the high road) the famous waterfal of Velino; an object to satisfy -the boldest imagination by its terrific beauty—a river dashing down a -mountainous precipice of near a mile in height, and then flinging up its -foam to nearly an equal altitude! Believe, that while in this spot, I -moved not, saw not, without bearing you full in my mind and -memory.” See p. 277.</p> - -<p class='c010'>He begins another letter, of a later date, on his being employed to -paint the altar of San Giovanni de Fiorentini, thus gaily:—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Sonate le campane</span></i>—Ring out the chimes!—At last after thirty -years existence in Rome, of hopes blasted and complaints reiterated -against men and gods, the occasion is accorded me for giving one -altar-piece to the public.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>His anxiety to finish this picture in time for a certain festival, kept -him, he adds, ‘secluded from all commerce of the pen, and from -every other in the world; and I can truly say, that I have forgotten -myself, even to neglecting to eat; and so arduous is my application, -that when I had nearly finished, I was obliged to keep my bed for -two days; and had not my recovery been assisted by emetics, certain -it is it would have been all over with me in consequence of some -obstruction in the stomach. Pity me then, dear friend, if for the -glory of my pencil, I have neglected to devote my pen to the service -of friendship.’—<cite>Letter to the Abate Ricciardi.</cite></p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_305'>305</span>Passeri has left the following particulars recorded of him on the -day when this picture (<cite>the Martyrdom of Saint Damian and Saint -Cosmus</cite>) was first exhibited.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘He (Salvator) had at last exposed his picture in the San Giovanni -de’ Fiorentini; and I, to recreate myself, ascended on that evening -to the heights of <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Monte della Trinità</span></i>, where I found Salvator walking -arm in arm with Signor Giovanni Carlo dei Rossi, so celebrated for -his performance on the harp of three strings, and brother to that Luigi -Rossi, who is so eminent all over the world for his perfection in -musical composition. And when Salvator (who was my intimate -friend) perceived me, he came forward laughingly, and said to me -these precise words:—“Well, what say the malignants now? Are -they at last convinced that I <em>can</em> paint on the great scale? Why, if -not, then e’en let Michael Angelo come down, and do something -better. Now at least I have stopped their mouths, and shown the -world what I am worth.” I shrugged my shoulders. I and the -Signor Rossi changed the subject to one which lasted us till nightfall; -and from this (continues Passeri in his rambling way<a id='r29' /><a href='#f29' class='c014'><sup>[29]</sup></a>) it may -be gathered how <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">gagliardo</span></i> he (Salvator) was in his own opinion. -Yet it may not be denied but that he had all the endowments of a -marvellous great painter! one of great resources and high perfection; -and had he no other merit, he had at least that of being the originator -of his own style. He spoke, this evening, of Paul Veronese more -than of any other painter, and praised the Venetian school greatly. -<em>To Raphael he had no great leaning</em>, for it was the fashion of the -Neapolitan School to call him hard, <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">di pietra</span></i>, dry,’ &c. p. 172.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Our artist’s constitution now began to break, worn out perhaps by -the efforts of his art, and still more by the irritation of his mind. In -a letter dated in 1666, he complains,</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘I have suffered two months of agony, even with the abstemious -regimen of chicken broth! My feet are two lumps of ice, in spite of -the woollen hose I have imported from Venice. I never permit the -fire to be quenched in my own room, and am more solicitous than -even the Cavalier Cigoli,’ (who died of a cold caught in painting a -fresco in the Vatican). ‘There is not a fissure in the house that -I am not daily employed in diligently stopping up, and yet with all -this I cannot get warm; nor do I think the torch of love, or the -caresses of Phryne herself, would kindle me into a glow. For the -rest, I can talk of any thing but my pencil: my canvass lies turned -to the wall; my colours are dried up now, and for ever; nor can I -give my thoughts to any subject whatever, but chimney-corners, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_306'>306</span>brasiers, warming-pans, woollen gloves, woollen caps, and such sort of -gear. In short, dear friend, I am perfectly aware that I have lost -much of my original ardour, and am absolutely reduced to pass entire -days without speaking a word. Those fires, once mine and so -brilliant, are now all spent, or evaporating in smoke. Woe unto me, -should I ever be reduced to exercise my pencil for bread!’</p> - -<p class='c010'>Yet after this, he at intervals produced some of his best pictures. -The scene, however, was now hastening to a close; and the account -here given of his last days, though containing nothing perhaps -very memorable, will yet, we think, be perused with a melancholy -interest.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘A change in his complexion was thought to indicate some derangement -of the liver, and he continued in a state of great languor and -depression during the autumn of 1672; but in the winter of 1673, -the total loss of appetite, and of all power of digestion, reduced him -almost to the last extremity; and he consented, at the earnest -request of Lucrezia and his numerous friends, to take more medical -advice. He now passed through the hands of various physicians, -whose ignorance and technical pedantry come out with characteristic -effect in the simple and matter-of-fact details which the good Padre -Baldovini has left of the last days of his eminent friend. Various -cures were suggested by the Roman faculty for a disease which none -had yet ventured to name. Meantime the malady increased, and -showed itself in all the life-wearing symptoms of sleeplessness, loss of -appetite, intermitting fever, and burning thirst. A French quack -was called in to the sufferer; and his prescription was, that he -should drink water abundantly, and nothing but water. While, -however, under the care of this Gallic Sangrado, a confirmed dropsy -unequivocally declared itself; and Salvator, now acquainted with the -nature of his disease, once more submitted to the entreaties of his -friends; and, at the special persuasion of the Padre Francesco -Baldovini, placed himself under the care of a celebrated Italian -empiric, then in great repute in Rome, called Dr. Penna.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Salvator had but little confidence in medicine. He had already, -during this melancholy winter, discarded all his physicians, and -literally <em>thrown physic to the dogs</em>. But hope, and spring, and love of -life, revived together; and, towards the latter end of February he -consented to receive the visits of Penna, who had cured Baldovini -(on the good father’s own word) of a confirmed dropsy the year -before. When the doctor was introduced, Salvator, with his wonted -manliness, called on him to answer the question he was about to -propose with honesty and frankness, viz. <em>Was his disorder curable?</em> -Penna, after going through certain professional forms, answered, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_307'>307</span>“that his disorder was a simple, and not a complicated dropsy, and -that therefore it was curable.”</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Salvator instantly and cheerfully placed himself in the doctor’s -hands, and consented to submit to whatever he should subscribe. -“The remedy of Penna,” says Baldovini, “lay in seven little vials, -of which the contents were to be swallowed every day.” But it -was obvious to all, that as the seven vials were emptied, the disorder -of Rosa increased; and on the seventh day of his attendance, the -doctor declared to his friend Baldovini, that the malady of his patient -was beyond his reach and skill.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The friends of Salvator now suggested to him their belief that his -disease was brought on and kept up by his rigid confinement to the house, -so opposed to his former active habits of life; but when they urged -him to take air and exercise, he replied significantly to their -importunities, “I take exercise! I go out! if this is your counsel, -how are you deceived!” At the earnest request, however, of Penna, -he consented to see him once more; but the moment he entered his -room he demanded of him, “if he <em>now</em> thought that he was curable?” -Penna, in some emotion, prefaced his verdict by declaring solemnly, -“that he should conceive it no less glory to restore so illustrious a -genius to health, and to the society he was so calculated to adorn, -than to save the life of the Sovereign Pontiff himself; but that, as far -as his science went, the case was now beyond the reach of human -remedy.” While Penna spoke, Salvator, who was surrounded by his -family and many friends, fixed his penetrating eyes on the physician’s -face, with the intense look of one who sought to read his sentence in -the countenance of his judge ere it was verbally pronounced;—but -that sentence was now passed! and Salvator, who seemed more -struck by surprise than by apprehension, remained silent and in a fixed -attitude! His friends, shocked and grieved, or awed by the expression -of his countenance, which was marked by a stern and hopeless -melancholy, arose and departed silently one by one. After a long -and deep reverie, Rosa suddenly left the room, and shut himself up -alone in his study. There in silence, and in unbroken solitude, he -remained for two days, holding no communication with his wife, his son -or his most intimate friends; and when at last their tears and lamentations -drew him forth, he was no longer recognisable. Shrunk, feeble, -attenuated, almost speechless, he sunk on his couch, to rise no more!</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Life was now wearing away with such obvious rapidity, that his -friends, both clerical and laical, urged him in the most strenuous -manner to submit to the ceremonies and forms prescribed by the -Roman Catholic church in such awful moments. How much the -solemn sadness of those moments may be increased, even to terror -<span class='pageno' id='Page_308'>308</span>and despair, by such pompous and lugubrious pageants all who have -visited Italy—all who still visit it, can testify. Salvator demanded -what they required of him. They replied, “in the first instance to -receive the sacrament as it is administered in Rome to the dying.”—“To -receiving the sacrament,” says his confesser Baldovini, “he -showed no repugnance (<i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">non se mostrò repugnante</span></i>); but he vehemently -and positively refused to allow the host, with all the solemn pomp of -its procession, to be brought to his house, which he deemed unworthy -of the divine presence.”</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The rejection of a ceremony which was deemed in Rome indispensably -necessary to salvation, and by one who was already stamped -with the church’s reprobation, soon took air; report exaggerated the -circumstance into a positive expression of infidelity; and the gossipry -of the Roman Anterooms was supplied for the time with a subject of -discussion, in perfect harmony with their slander, bigotry, and idleness. -“As I went forth from Salvator’s door,” relates the worthy Baldovini, -“I met the <em>Canonica Scornio</em>, a man who has taken out a license to -speak of all men as he pleases. ‘And how goes it with Salvator?’ -demands of me this Canonico. ‘Bad enough, I fear.’—‘Well, a few -nights back, happening to be in the anteroom of a certain great prelate, -I found myself in the centre of a circle of disputants, who were busily -discussing whether the aforesaid Salvator would die a schismatic, a -Huguenot, a Calvinist, or a Lutheran?’—‘He will die, Signor -Canonico,’ I replied, ‘when it pleases God, a better Catholic than -any of those who now speak so slightingly of him!’—and so I pursued -my way.”</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘On the 15th of March Baldovini entered the patient’s chamber. -But, to all appearance, Salvator was suffering great agony. “How -goes it with thee, Rosa?” asked Baldovini kindly, as he approached -him. “Bad, bad!” was the emphatic reply. While writhing with -pain, the sufferer after a moment added:—“To judge by what I now -endure, the hand of death grasps me sharply.”</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In the restlessness of pain, he now threw himself on the edge of -the bed, and placed his head on the bosom of Lucrezia, who sat -supporting and weeping over him. His afflicted son and friend took their -station at the other side of his couch, and stood watching the issue of -these sudden and frightful spasms in mournful silence. At that moment -a celebrated Roman physician, the Doctor Catanni, entered the apartment. -He felt the pulse of Salvator, and perceived that he was fast -sinking. He communicated his approaching dissolution to those most -interested in the melancholy intelligence, and it struck all present with -unutterable grief. Baldovini, however, true to his sacred calling, even -in the depth of his human affliction, instantly despatched the young -<span class='pageno' id='Page_309'>309</span>Agosto to the neighbouring Convent <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">della Trinità</span></i>, for the holy -Viaticum. While life was still fluttering at the heart of Salvator, the -officiating priest of the day arrived, bearing with him the holy -apparatus of the last mysterious ceremony of the church. The -shoulders of Salvator were laid bare, and anointed with the consecrated -oil: some prayed fervently, others wept, and all even still -hoped; but the taper which the Doctor Catanni held to the lips of -Salvator, while the Viaticum was administered, burned brightly and -steadily! Life’s last sigh had transpired, as Religion performed her -last rite.’ p. 205.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Salvator left a wife and son, (a boy of about thirteen), who -inherited a considerable property, in books, prints, and bills of -exchange, which his father had left in his banker’s hands for pictures -painted in the last few years of his life.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We confess we close these volumes with something of a melancholy -feeling. We have, in this great artist, another instance added to the -list of those who, being born to give delight to others, appear to -have lived only to torment themselves, and, with all the ingredients -of happiness placed within their reach, to have derived no benefit -either from talents or success. Is it, that the outset of such persons -in life (who are raised by their own efforts from want and obscurity) -jars their feelings and sours their tempers? Or that painters, being -often men without education or general knowledge, overrate their -own pretensions, and meet with continual mortifications in the rebuffs -they receive from the world, who do not judge by the same individual -standard? Or is a morbid irritability the inseparable concomitant of -genius? None of these suppositions fairly solves the difficulty; for -many of the old painters (and those the greatest) were men of mild -manners, of great modesty, and good temper. Painting, however, -speaks a language known to few, and of which all pretend to judge; -and may thus, perhaps, afford more occasion to pamper sensibility into -a disease, where the seeds of it are sown too deeply in the constitution, -and not checked by proportionable self-knowledge and reflection. -Where an artist of genius, however, is not made the victim of his own -impatience, or of idle censures, or of the good fortune of others, we -cannot conceive of a more delightful or enviable life. There is none -that implies a greater degree of thoughtful abstraction, or a more entire -freedom from angry differences of opinion, or that leads the mind more -out of itself, and reposes more calmly on the grand and beautiful, or -the most casual object in nature. Salvator died young. He had -done enough for fame; and had he been happier, he would perhaps -have lived longer. We do not, in one sense, feel the loss of painters -so much as that of other eminent men. They may still be said -<span class='pageno' id='Page_310'>310</span>to be present with us bodily in their works: we can revive their -memory by every object we see; and it seems as if they could never -wholly die, while the ideas and thoughts that occupied their minds -while living survive, and have a palpable and permanent existence in -the forms of external nature.</p> - -<h3 class='c008'>AMERICAN LITERATURE—DR. CHANNING</h3> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Vol. i.</span>]      [<em>October 1829.</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Of the later American writers, who, besides Dr. Channing, have -acquired some reputation in England, we can only recollect Mr. -Washington Irving, Mr. Brown, and Mr. Cooper. To the first of -these we formerly paid an ample tribute of respect; nor do we wish -to retract a tittle of what we said on that occasion, or of the praise -due to him for brilliancy, ease, and a faultless equability of style. -Throughout his polished pages, no thought shocks by its extravagance, -no word offends by vulgarity or affectation. All is gay, but guarded,—heedless, -but sensitive of the smallest blemish. We cannot deny -it—nor can we conceal it from ourselves or the world, if we would—that -he is, at the same time, deficient in nerve and originality. -Almost all his sketches are like patterns taken in silk paper from our -classic writers;—the traditional manners of the last age are still kept -up (stuffed in glass cases) in Mr. Irving’s modern version of them. -The only variation is in the transposition of dates; and herein the -author is chargeable with a fond and amiable anachronism. He takes -Old England for granted as he finds it described in our stock-books -of a century ago—gives us a Sir Roger de Coverley in the year -1819, instead of the year 1709; and supposes old English hospitality -and manners, relegated from the metropolis, to have taken refuge -somewhere in Yorkshire, or the fens of Lincolnshire. In some -sequestered spot or green savannah, we can conceive Mr. Irving -enchanted with the style of the wits of Queen Anne;—in the bare, -broad, straight, mathematical streets of his native city, his busy fancy -wandered through the blind alleys and huddled zig-zag sinuosities of -London, and the signs of Lothbury and East-Cheap swung and -creaked in his delighted ears. The air of his own country was too -poor and thin to satisfy the pantings of youthful ambition; he gasped -for British popularity,—he came, and found it. He was received, -caressed, applauded, made giddy: the national politeness owed him -some return, for he imitated, admired, deferred to us; and, if his -notions were sometimes wrong, yet it was plain he thought of nothing -else, and was ready to sacrifice every thing to obtain a smile or a look -<span class='pageno' id='Page_311'>311</span>of approbation. It is true, he brought no new earth, no sprig of laurel -gathered in the wilderness, no red bird’s wing, no gleam from crystal -lake or new-discovered fountain, (neither grace nor grandeur plucked -from the bosom of this Eden-state like that which belongs to cradled -infancy); but he brought us <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">rifaciméntos</span></i> of our own thoughts—copies -of our favourite authors: we saw our self admiration reflected in an -accomplished stranger’s eyes; and the lover received from his mistress, -the British public, her most envied favours.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Brown, who preceded him, and was the author of several -novels which made some noise in this country, was a writer of a -different stamp. Instead of hesitating before a scruple, and aspiring -to avoid a fault, he braved criticism, and aimed only at effect. He -was an inventor, but without materials. His strength and his efforts -are convulsive throes—his works are a banquet of horrors. The hint -of some of them is taken from Caleb Williams and St. Leon, but -infinitely exaggerated, and carried to disgust and outrage. They are -full (to disease) of imagination,—but it is forced, violent, and shocking. -This is to be expected, we apprehend, in attempts of this kind -in a country like America, where there is, generally speaking, no -<em>natural imagination</em>. The mind must be excited by overstraining, by -pulleys and levers. Mr. Brown was a man of genius, of strong -passion, and active fancy; but his genius was not seconded by early -habit, or by surrounding sympathy. His story and his interests are -not wrought out, therefore, in the ordinary course of nature; but -are, like the monster in Frankenstein, a man made by art and determined -will. For instance, it may be said of him, as of Gawin -Douglas, ‘Of Brownies and Bogilis full is his Buik.’ But no ghost, -we will venture to say, was ever seen in North America. They do -not walk in broad day; and the night of ignorance and superstition -which favours their appearance, was long past before the United -States lifted up their head beyond the Atlantic wave. The inspired -poet’s tongue must have an echo in the state of public feeling, or -of involuntary belief, or it soon grows harsh or mute. In America, -they are ‘so well policied,’ so exempt from the knowledge of fraud -or force, so free from the assaults of <em>the flesh and the devil</em>, that in -pure hardness of belief they hoot the <cite>Beggar’s Opera</cite> from the stage: -with them, poverty and crime, pickpockets and highwaymen, the -lock-up-house and the gallows, are things incredible to sense! In -this orderly and undramatic state of security and freedom from -natural foes, Mr. Brown has provided one of his heroes with a -demon to torment him, and fixed him at his back;—but what is to -keep him there? Not any prejudice or lurking superstition on the -part of the American reader: for the lack of such, the writer is -<span class='pageno' id='Page_312'>312</span>obliged to make up by incessant rodomontade, and face-making. -The want of genuine imagination is always proved by caricature: -monsters are the growth, not of passion, but of the attempt forcibly -to stimulate it. In our own unrivalled Novelist, and the great -exemplar of this kind of writing, we see how ease and strength are -united. Tradition and invention meet half way; and nature scarce -knows how to distinguish them. The reason is, there is here an -old and solid ground in previous manners and opinion for imagination -to rest upon. The air of this bleak northern clime is filled with -legendary lore: Not a castle without the stain of blood upon its -floor or winding steps: not a glen without its ambush or its feat of -arms: not a lake without its Lady! But the map of America is -not historical; and, therefore, works of fiction do not take root in -it; for the fiction, to be good for any thing, must not be in the -author’s mind, but belong to the age or country in which he lives. -The genius of America is essentially mechanical and modern.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Cooper describes things to the life, but he puts no motion -into them. While he is insisting on the minutest details, and explaining -all the accompaniments of an incident, the story stands still. The -elaborate accumulation of particulars serves not to embody his imagery, -but to distract and impede the mind. He is not so much the master -of his materials as their drudge: He labours under an epilepsy of -the fancy. He thinks himself bound in his character of novelist to -tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Thus, if -two men are struggling on the edge of a precipice for life or death, -he goes not merely into the vicissitudes of action or passion as the -chances of the combat vary; but stops to take an inventory of the -geography of the place, the shape of the rock, the precise attitude -and display of the limbs and muscles, with the eye and habits of a -sculptor. Mr. Cooper does not seem to be aware of the infinite -divisibility of mind and matter; and that an ‘abridgment’ is all that -is possible or desirable in the most individual representation. A -person who is so determined, may write volumes on a grain of sand -or an insect’s wing. Why describe the dress and appearance of an -Indian chief, down to his tobacco-stopper and button-holes? It is -mistaking the province of the artist for that of the historian; and it -is this very obligation of painting and statuary to fill up all the details, -that renders them incapable of telling a story, or of expressing more -than a single moment, group, or figure. Poetry or romance does -not descend into the particulars, but atones for it by a more rapid -march and an intuitive glance at the more striking results. By -considering truth or matter-of-fact as the sole element of popular -fiction, our author fails in massing and in impulse. In the midst -<span class='pageno' id='Page_313'>313</span>of great vividness and fidelity of description, both of nature and -manners, there is a sense of jejuneness,—for half of what is described -is insignificant and indifferent; there is a hard outline,—a little -manner; and his most striking situations do not tell as they might -and ought, from his seeming more anxious about the mode and -circumstances than the catastrophe. In short, he anatomizes his -subjects; and his characters bear the same relation to living beings -that the botanic specimens collected in a portfolio do to the living -plant or tree. The sap does not circulate kindly; nor does the -breath of heaven visit, or its dews moisten them. Or, if Mr. Cooper -gets hold of an appalling circumstance, he, from the same tenacity -and thraldom to outward impressions, never lets it go: He repeats it -without end. Thus, if he once hits upon the supposition of a wild -Indian’s eyes glaring through a thicket, every bush is from that time -forward furnished with a pair; the page is studded with them, and -you can no longer look about you at ease or in safety. The high -finishing we have spoken of is particularly at variance with the -rudeness of the materials. In Richardson it was excusable, where -all was studied and artificial; but a few dashes of red ochre are -sufficient to paint the body of a savage chieftain; nor should his -sudden and frantic stride on his prey be treated with the precision -and punctiliousness of a piece of <em>still life</em>. There are other American -writers, (such as the historiographer of <em>Brother Jonathan</em>,) who -carry this love of veracity to a pitch of the marvellous. They run -riot in an account of the dishes at a boarding-house, as if it were -a banquet of the Gods; and recount the overturning of a travelling -stage-waggon with as much impetuosity, turbulence, and exaggerated -enthusiasm, as if it were the fall of Phaeton. ’ In the absence of -subjects of real interest, men make themselves an interest out of -nothing, and magnify mole-hills into mountains. This is not the -fault of Mr. Cooper: He is always true, though sometimes tedious; -and correct, at the expense of being insipid. His <cite>Pilot</cite> is the best -of his works; and truth to say, we think it a masterpiece in its -kind. It has great unity of purpose and feeling. Every thing in it -may be said</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>——‘To suffer a <em>sea-change</em></div> - <div class='line'>Into something new and strange.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>His Pilot never appears but when the occasion is worthy of him; -and when he appears, the result is sure. The description of his -guiding the vessel through the narrow strait left for her escape, the -sea-fight, and the incident of the white topsail of the English man-of-war -appearing above the fog, where it is first mistaken for a cloud, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_314'>314</span>are of the first order of graphic composition; to say nothing of the -admirable episode of Tom Coffin, and his long figure coiled up like -a rope in the bottom of the boat. The rest is <em>common-place</em>; but -then it is American common-place. We thank Mr. Cooper he does -not take every thing from us, and therefore we can learn something -from him. He has the saving grace of originality. We wish we -could impress it, ‘line upon line, and precept upon precept,’ especially -upon our American brethren, how precious, how invaluable <em>that</em> is. -In art, in literature, in science, the least bit of nature is worth all the -plagiarism in the world. The great secret of Sir Walter Scott’s -enviable, but unenvied success, lies in his transcribing from nature -instead of transcribing from books.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Anterior to the writers above mentioned, were other three, who -may be named as occupying (two of them at least) a higher and -graver place in the yet scanty annals of American Literature. These -were Franklin, the author (whoever he was) of the <cite>American Farmer’s -Letters</cite>, and Jonathan Edwards.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Franklin, the most celebrated, was emphatically an American. -He was a great experimental philosopher, a consummate politician, -and a paragon of common sense. His <cite>Poor Robin</cite> was an absolute -manual for a country in leading-strings, making its first attempts to -go alone. There is nowhere compressed in the same compass so -great a fund of local information and political sagacity, as in his -<cite>Examination before the Privy Council</cite> in the year 1754. The fine -<cite>Parable against Persecution</cite>, which appears in his miscellaneous works, -is borrowed from Bishop Taylor. Franklin is charged by some -with a want of imagination, or with being a mere prosaic, practical -man; but the instinct of the true and the useful in him, had more -genius in it than all the ‘metre-ballad-mongering’ of those who take -him to task.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The <cite>American Farmer’s Letters</cite>, (published under a feigned name<a id='r30' /><a href='#f30' class='c014'><sup>[30]</sup></a> -a little before the breaking out of the American war,) give us a -tolerable idea how American scenery and manners may be treated -with a lively, poetic interest. The pictures are sometimes highly coloured, -but they are vivid and strikingly characteristic. He gives -not only the objects, but the feelings, of a new country. He -describes himself as placing his little boy in a chair screwed to the -plough which he guides, (to inhale the scent of the fresh furrows,) -while his wife sits knitting under a tree at one end of the field. -He recounts a battle between two snakes with an Homeric gravity -and exuberance of style. He paints the dazzling, almost invisible -flutter of the humming-bird’s wing: Mr. Moore’s airiest verse is not -<span class='pageno' id='Page_315'>315</span>more light and evanescent. His account of the manners of the -Nantucket people, their frank simplicity, and festive rejoicings after -the perils and hardships of the whale-fishing, is a true and heartfelt -picture. There is no fastidious refinement or cynical contempt: -He enters into their feelings and amusements with the same alacrity -as they do themselves; and this is sure to awaken a fellow-feeling in -the reader. If the author had been thinking of the effect of his -description in a London drawing-room, or had insisted on the most -disagreeable features in the mere littleness of national jealousy, he -would have totally spoiled it. But health, joy, and innocence, are -good things all over the world, and in all classes of society; and, to -impart pleasure, need only be described in their genuine characters. -The power to sympathize with nature, without thinking of ourselves -or others, if it is not a definition of genius, comes very near to it. -From this liberal unaffected style, the Americans are particularly cut -off by habitual comparisons with us, or upstart claims of their own;—by -the dread of being thought vulgar, which necessarily makes -them so, or the determination to be fine, which must for ever prevent -it. The most interesting part of the author’s work is that where he -describes the first indications of the breaking out of the American -war—the distant murmur of the tempest—the threatened inroad of -the Indians like an inundation on the peaceful back-settlements: -his complaints and his auguries are fearful. But we have said -enough of this <em>Illustrious Obscure</em>; for it is the rule of criticism to -praise none but the over-praised, and to offer fresh incense to the -idol of the day.</p> - -<p class='c010'>It is coming more within canonical bounds, and approaching nearer -the main subject of this notice, to pay a tribute to the worth and -talents of Jonathan Edwards; the well-known author of the <cite>Treatise -on the Will</cite>, who was a Massachusetts divine and most able logician. -Having produced <em>him</em>, the Americans need not despair of their -metaphysicians. We do not scruple to say, that he is one of the -acutest, most powerful, and, of all reasoners, the most conscientious -and sincere. His closeness and candour are alike admirable. Instead -of puzzling or imposing on others, he tries to satisfy his own mind. -We do not say whether he is right or wrong; we only say that his -method is ‘an honest method:’ there is not a trick, a subterfuge, -a verbal sophism in his whole book. Those who compare his -arguments with what Priestley or Hobbes have written on the same -question, will find the one petulant and the other dogmatical. Far from -taunting his adversaries, he endeavours with all his might to explain -difficulties; and acknowledges that the words <em>Necessity</em>, <em>Irresistible</em>, -<em>Inevitable</em>, &c., which are applied to external force, acting in spite -<span class='pageno' id='Page_316'>316</span>of the will, are misnomers when applied to acts, or a necessity -emanating from the will itself; and that the repugnance of his -favourite doctrine to common sense and feeling, (in which most of -his party exult as a triumph of superior wisdom over vulgar prejudice,) -is an unfortunate stumbling-block in the way of truth, arising -out of the structure of language itself. His anxiety to clear up the -scruples of others, is equal, in short, to his firmness in maintaining his -own opinion.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We could wish that Dr. Channing had formed himself upon this -manly and independent model, instead of going through the circle of -reigning topics, to strike an affected balance between ancient prejudice -and modern paradox; to trim to all opinions, and unite all suffrages; -to calculate the vulgar clamour, or the venal sophistry of the British -press, for the meridian of Boston. Dr. Channing is a great tactician -in reasoning; and reasoning has nothing to do with tactics. We do -not like to see a writer constantly trying to steal a march upon -opinion without having his retreat cut off—full of pretensions, and -void of offence. It is as bad as the opposite extreme of outraging -decorum at every step; and is only a more covert mode of attracting -attention, and gaining surreptitious applause. We never saw any -thing more guarded in this respect than Dr. Channing’s <cite>Tracts</cite> and -<cite>Sermons</cite>—more completely suspended between heaven and earth. -He keeps an eye on both worlds; kisses hands to the reading public -all round; and does his best to stand well with different sects and -parties. He is always in advance of the line, in an amiable and -imposing attitude, but never far from succour. He is an Unitarian; -but then he disclaims all connexion with Dr. Priestley, as a materialist; -he denounces Calvinism and the Church of England; but to show -that this proceeds from no want of liberality, makes the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">amende -honorable</span></i> to Popery and Popish divines;—is an American Republican -and a French Bourbonist—abuses Bonaparte, and observes a profound -silence with respect to Ferdinand—likes wit, provided it is serious—and -is zealous for the propagation of the Gospel and the honour of -religion; but thinks it should form a coalition with reason, and be -surrounded with a halo of modern lights. We cannot combine such -a system of checks and saving clauses. We are dissatisfied with the -want not only of originality of view, but of moral daring. And here -we will state a suspicion, into which we have been led by more than -one American writer, that the establishment of civil and religious -liberty is not quite so favourable to the independent formation, and -free circulation of opinion, as might be expected. Where there is a -perfect toleration—where there is neither Censorship of the press nor -Inquisition, the public take upon themselves the task of <em>surveillance</em>, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_317'>317</span>and exercise the functions of a literary police, like so many familiars -of the <em>Holy Office</em>. In a monarchy, or mixed government, there is an -appeal open from the government to the people; there is a natural -opposition, as it were, between prejudice, or authority, and reason: -but when the community take the power into their own hands, and -there is but one body of opinion, and one voice to express it, there -can be no <em>reaction</em> against it; and to remonstrate or resist, is not only -a public outrage, but sounds like a personal insult to every individual -in the community. It is differing from the company; you become a -<em>black sheep in the flock</em>. There is no excuse or mercy for it. Hence -the too frequent cowardice, jesuitism, and sterility, produced by this -republican discipline and drilling. Opinions must march abreast—must -keep in rank and file, and woe to the caitiff thought that -advances before the rest, or turns aside! This uniformity, and equal -purpose on all sides, leads (if not checked) to a monstrous Ostracism -in public opinion. Whoever outstrips, or takes a separate path to -himself, is considered as usurping an unnatural superiority over the -whole. He is treated not with respect or indulgence, but indignity.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We like Dr. Channing’s Sermons best; his Criticisms less; his -Politics least of all. We think several of his Discourses do great -honour to himself and his profession, and are highly respectable -models of pulpit-composition. We would instance more particularly, -and recommend to the perusal of our readers, that <cite>On the Duties of -Children</cite>. The feeling, the justness of observation, the tenderness, -and the severity, are deserving of all praise. The author here -appears in a truly amiable and advantageous light. This composition -alone makes us believe, that he is a good, and might, with proper -direction and self-reliance, have been even a great man. We shall -give a long extract with the more pleasure, as we are assuredly -actuated by no ill-will towards the reverend author, and only wish to -point out how very considerable ability, and probable uprightness of -intention, may be warped and injured by a wrong bias, and candidateship -for false and contradictory honours.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>First</em>, You are required to view and treat your parents with -respect. Your tender, inexperienced age requires that you think of -yourselves with humility, and conduct yourselves with modesty; that -you respect the superior age, and wisdom, and improvements of your -parents, and observe towards them a submissive deportment. Nothing -is more unbecoming you; nothing will render you more unpleasant in -the eyes of others, than froward or contemptuous conduct towards -your parents. There are children, and I wish I could say there are -only a few, who speak to their parents with rudeness, grow sullen at -their rebukes, behave in their presence as if they deserved no -<span class='pageno' id='Page_318'>318</span>attention, hear them speak without noticing them, and rather ridicule -than honour them. There are many children at the present day who -think more highly of themselves than of their elders; who think that -their own wishes are first to be gratified; who abuse the condescension -and kindness of their parents, and treat them as servants rather than -superiors. Beware, my young friends, lest you grow up with this -assuming and selfish spirit. Regard your parents as kindly given you -by God, to support, direct, and govern you in your present state of -weakness and inexperience. Express your respect for them in your -manner and conversation. Do not neglect those outward signs of -dependence and inferiority which suit your age. You are young, and -you should therefore take the lowest place, and rather retire than -thrust yourselves forward into notice. You have much to learn, and -you should therefore hear, instead of seeking to be heard. You are -dependent, and you should therefore ask instead of demanding what -you desire, and you should receive every thing from your parents as a -favour, and not as a debt. I do not mean to urge upon you a slavish -fear of your parents. Love them, and love them ardently; but -mingle a sense of their superiority with your love. Feel a confidence -in their kindness; but let not this confidence make you rude and -presumptuous, and lead to indecent familiarity. Talk to them with -openness and freedom; but never contradict with violence; never -answer with passion or contempt.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<em>Secondly</em>, You should be grateful to your parents. Consider how -much you owe them. The time has been, and it was not a long time -past, when you depended wholly on their kindness,—when you had -no strength to make a single effort for yourselves,—when you could -neither speak nor walk, and knew not the use of any of your powers. -Had not a parent’s arm supported you, you must have fallen to the -earth, and perished. Observe with attention the infants which you -often see, and consider that a little while ago you were as feeble as -they are: you were only a burden and a care, and you had nothing -with which you could repay your parents’ affection. But did they -forsake you? How many sleepless nights have they been disturbed -by your cries! When you were sick, how tenderly did they hang -over you! With what pleasure have they seen you grow up in -health to your present state; and what do you now possess which -you have not received from their hands? God, indeed, is your -great parent, your best friend, and from him every good gift descends; -but God is pleased to bestow every thing upon you through the -kindness of your parents. To your parents you owe every comfort: -you owe to them the shelter you enjoy from the rain and cold, the -raiment which covers, and the food which nourishes you. While -<span class='pageno' id='Page_319'>319</span>you are seeking amusements, or are employed in gaining knowledge -at school, your parents are toiling that you may be happy, that your -wants may be supplied, that your minds may be improved, that you -may grow up and be useful in the world. And when you consider -how often you have forfeited all this kindness, and yet how ready -they have been to forgive you, and to continue their favours, ought -not you to look upon them with the tenderest gratitude? What -greater monster can there be than an unthankful child, whose heart is -never warmed by the daily expressions of parental solicitude; who, -instead of requiting his best friend by his affectionate conduct, is -sullen and passionate, and thinks his parents will do nothing for him, -because they will not do all he desires? Consider how much better -they can decide for you than you can for yourselves. You know but -little of the world in which you live. You hastily catch at every -thing which promises you pleasure; and unless the authority of a -parent should restrain you, you would soon rush into ruin, without a -thought or a fear. In pursuing your own inclinations, your health -would be destroyed, your minds would run to waste, you would grow -up slothful, selfish, a trouble to others, and burdensome to yourselves. -Submit, then, cheerfully to your parents. Have you not experienced -their goodness long enough to know, that they wish to make you -happy, even when their commands are most severe? Prove, then, -your sense of this goodness by doing cheerfully what they require. -When they oppose your wishes, do not think that you have more -knowledge than they. Do not receive their commands with a sour, -angry, sullen look, which says, louder than words, that you obey -only because you dare not rebel. If they deny your requests, do not -persist in urging them, but consider how many requests they have -already granted you. Do not expect that your parents are to give -up every thing to you, but study to give up every thing to them. Do -not wait for them to threaten, but when a look tells you what they -want, fly to perform it. This is the way in which you can best -reward them for all their pains and labours. In this way you will -make their house pleasant and cheerful. But if you are disobedient, -perverse, and stubborn, you will make home a place of contention, -noise, and anger, and your best friends will have reason to wish that -you had never been born. A disobedient child almost always grows -up ill-natured and disobliging to all with whom he is connected. -None love him, and he has no heart to love any but himself. If you -would be amiable in your temper and manner, and desire to be -beloved, let me advise you to begin your life with giving up your wills -to your parents.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Again, You must express your respect for your parents, by -<span class='pageno' id='Page_320'>320</span>placing unreserved confidence in them. This is a very important part -of your duty. Children should learn to be honest, sincere, open-hearted -to their parents. An artful, hypocritical child is one of the -most unpromising characters in the world. You should have no -secrets which you are unwilling to disclose to your parents. If you -have done wrong, you should openly confess it, and ask that -forgiveness which a parent’s heart is so ready to bestow. If you -wish to undertake any thing, ask their consent. Never begin any -thing in the hope you can conceal your design. If you once strive -to impose on your parents, you will be led on, from one step to -another, to invent falsehoods, to practise artifice, till you will become -contemptible and hateful. You will soon be detected, and then none -will trust you. Sincerity in a child will make up for many faults. -Of children, he is the worst who watches the eyes of his parents, -pretends to obey as long as they see him, but as soon as they have -turned away, does what they have forbidden. Whatever else you do, -never deceive. Let your parents learn your faults from your own -lips, and be assured they will never love you the less for your openness -and sincerity.’—(<cite>Sermons and Tracts</cite>, p. 233.)</p> - -<p class='c010'>The whole discourse is prettily turned, and made out with great -simplicity and feeling. There is a want neither of heart nor head. -Dr. Channing here does well, for he trusts to his own observations -and convictions. We may also give what he says in answer to -Fenelon, on the subject of <em>self-annihilation</em>, as another favourable -specimen of free enquiry, and of a higher or more philosophical cast.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘We have said that self-crucifixion and love to God are, in -Fenelon’s system, the two chief constituents, or elements, of virtue -and perfection. To these we will give separate attention, although -in truth, they often coalesce, and always imply one another. We -begin with self-crucifixion, or what is often called self-sacrifice, and -on this we chiefly differ from the expositions of our author. Perhaps -the word <em>self</em> occurs more frequently than any other in Fenelon’s -writings, and he is particularly inclined to place it in contrast with, -and in opposition to, God. According to his common teaching, -God and self are hostile influences or attractions, having nothing in -common; the one the concentration of all evil, the other of all good. -Self is the principle and the seat of all guilt and misery. He is -never weary of pouring reproach on self; and, generally speaking, -sets no limits to the duty of putting it to a painful death. Now, -language like this has led men to very injurious modes of regarding -themselves and their own nature, and made them forgetful of what -they owe to themselves. It has thrown a cloud over man’s condition -and prospects. It has led to self-contempt, a vice as pernicious as -<span class='pageno' id='Page_321'>321</span>pride. A man, when told perpetually to crucify <em>himself</em>, is apt to -include under this word his whole nature; and we fear that, under -this teaching, our nature is repressed, its growth stinted, its free -movements chained, and, of course, its beauty, grace, and power -impaired. We mean not to charge on Fenelon this error of which -we have spoken, or to hold him responsible for its effects. But we -do think that it finds shelter under his phraseology; and we deem it -so great, so pernicious, as to need a faithful exposition. Men err in -nothing more than in disparaging and wronging their own nature. -None are just to themselves. The truth on this great subject is -indeed so obscured, that it may startle as a paradox. A human -being, justly viewed, instead of being bound to general self-crucifixion, -cannot reverence and cherish himself too much. This position, we -know, is strong; but strong language is needed to encounter strong -delusion. We would teach that great limitations must be set to the -duty of renouncing or denying ourselves, and that no self-crucifixion -is virtuous but that which concurs with, and promotes self-respect. -We will unfold our meaning, beginning with positions which we -presume will be controverted by none.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>Dr. Channing, after showing that the mind, the body, and even -self-love, are parts of our nature which cannot well be dispensed with, -thus proceeds:—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Now, it is not true that self-love is our only principle, or that it -constitutes ourselves any more than other principles; and the wrong -done to our nature by such modes of speech, needs to be resisted. -Our nature has other elements or constituents, and vastly higher ones, -to which self-love was meant to minister, and which are at war with -its excesses. For example, we have reason or intellectual energy -given us for the pursuit and acquisition of truth; and this is essentially -a disinterested principle, for truth, which is its object, is of a -universal, impartial nature. The great province of the intellectual -faculty is to acquaint the individual with the laws and order of the -divine system; a system, which spreads infinitely beyond himself, and -of which he forms a small part; which embraces innumerable beings -equally favoured by God, and which proposes, as its sublime and -beneficent end, the ever-growing good of the whole. Again, human -nature has a variety of affections, corresponding to our domestic and -most common relations; affections, which in multitudes overpower -self-love, which make others the chief object of our care, which -nerve the arm for ever-recurring toil by day, and strengthen the -wearied frame to forego the slumbers of the night. Then there -belongs to every man the general sentiment of humanity, which -responds to all human sufferings—to a stranger’s tears and groans, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_322'>322</span>and often prompts to great sacrifices for his relief. Above all, there -is the moral principle, that which should especially be called a man’s -self; for it is clothed with a kingly authority over his whole nature, -and was plainly given to bear sway over every desire. This is -evidently a disinterested principle. Its very essence is impartiality. -It has no respect of persons. It is the principle of justice, taking -the rights of all under its protection, and frowning on the least -wrong, however largely it may serve ourselves. This moral nature -especially delights in, and enjoins a universal charity, and makes the -heart thrill with exulting joy, at the sight or hearing of magnanimous -deeds, of perils fronted, or death endured in the cause of humanity. -Now, these various principles, and especially the last, are as truly -ourselves as self-love. When a man thinks of himself, these ought to -occur to him as his chief attributes. He can hardly injure himself -more than by excluding these from his conception of himself, and by -making self-love the great constituent of his nature.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘We have urged these remarks on the narrow sense often given to -the word <em>self</em>, because we are persuaded that it leads to degrading -ideas of human nature, and to the pernicious notion that we practise -a virtuous self-sacrifice in holding it in contempt. We would have it -understood, that high faculties form this despised self, as truly as low -desires; and we would add, that when these are faithfully unfolded, -this self takes rank among the noblest beings in the universe. To -illustrate this thought, we ask the reader’s attention to an important, -but much-neglected, view of virtue and religion. These are commonly -spoken of in an abstract manner, as if they were distinct from ourselves—as -if they were foreign existences, which enter the human -mind, and dwell there in a kind of separation from itself. Now, -religion and virtue, wherever they exist, are the mind itself, and -nothing else. A good man’s piety and virtue are not distinct -possessions; they are himself, and all the glory which belongs to -them, belongs to himself. What is religion? Not a foreign -inhabitant—not something alien to our nature, which comes and takes -up its abode in the soul. It is the soul itself, lifting itself up to its -Maker. What is virtue? It is the soul listening to, and revering -and obeying a law which belongs to its very essence—the law of -duty. We sometimes smile when we hear men decrying human -nature, and in the same breath extolling religion to the skies, as if -religion were any thing more than human nature acting in obedience -to its chief law. Religion and virtue, as far as we possess them, are -ourselves; and the homage which is paid to these attributes, is in -truth a tribute to the soul of man. Self-crucifixion, then, should it -exclude self-reverence, would be any thing but virtue.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_323'>323</span>‘We would briefly suggest another train of thought leading to the -same result. Self-crucifixion, or self-renunciation, is a work, and -work requires an agent. By whom, then, is it accomplished? We -answer, by the man himself, who is the subject of it. It is he who -is summoned to the effort. He is called by a voice within, and by -the law of God, to put forth power over himself, to rule his own -spirit, to subdue every passion. Now, this inward power, which -self-crucifixion supposes and demands, is the most signal proof of a -high nature which can be given. It is the most illustrious power -which God confers. It is a sovereignty worth more than that over -outward nature. It is the chief constituent of the noblest order of -virtues; and its greatness, of course, demonstrates the greatness of -the human mind, which is perpetually bound and summoned to put it -forth. But this is not all; self-crucifixion has an object, an end. -And what is it? Its great end is to give liberty and energy to our -nature. Its aim is not to break down the soul, but to curb those -lusts and passions which “war against the soul,” that the moral and -intellectual faculties may rise into new life, and may manifest their -divine original. Self-crucifixion, justly viewed, is the suppression of -the passions, that the power and progress of thought, and conscience, -and pure love, may be unrestrained. It is the destruction of the -brute, that the angel may unfold itself within. It is founded on our -godlike capacities, and the expansion and glory of these is the end. -Thus the very duty, which by some is identified with self-contempt, -implies and imposes self-reverence. It is the belief and the choice of -perfection, as our inheritance and our end.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>This is extremely well meant, and very ably executed. There is -a <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">primâ philosophiâ</span></i> view of the subject, which is, we think, above the -ordinary level of polemical reasoning in our own country. In the -line of argument adopted by our author, there is a strong reflection of -the original and masterly views of the innate capacity of the soul for -piety and goodness, insisted on in Bishop Butler’s <cite>Sermons</cite>—a work -which has fallen into neglect, partly because of the harshness and -obscurity of its style, but more because it contains neither a libel on -human nature, nor a burlesque upon religion. There is much in the -above train of thought silently borrowed from this profound work. -Dr. Channing’s argument is, we think, good and sound against the -misanthropes in philosophy, and the cynics in religion, who alike -maintain the absolute falsity of all human virtue; but the Bishop of -Cambray might say, that, with respect to him, it was not a practical -answer, so much as a verbal evasion; neither meeting his views nor -removing the source of his complaints. Fenelon assuredly, in wishing -to annihilate self, did not wish to extirpate charity and faith, but to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_324'>324</span>crush the old serpent, the great enemy of these. There is no doubt -of the capacity of the soul for good and evil; the only question is, -which principle prevails and triumphs. The satirist and the man -of the world laugh at the pretension to superior sanctity and disinterestedness; -the pious enthusiast may then be excused if he weeps -at the want of them.</p> - -<p class='c010'>How far does that likeness to God, and sympathy with the whole -human race, which Fenelon deprecates the want of, and Dr. Channing -boasts of, as the inseparable attribute and chief ornament of man, really -take place or not in the present state of things, and as a preparation -for another and infinitely more important one? If we regard the -moral capacity of man, <em>self</em> is a unit that counts millions. Its essence -and its glory, says our optimist, is to comprehend the whole human -race in its benevolent regards. Does it do so? The understanding -runs along the whole chain of being; the affections stop, for the -most part, at the first link in the chain. Sense, appetite, pride, -passion, engross the whole of this self, and leave it nearly indifferent, -if not averse, to all other claims on its attention. In order that the -moral attainments should keep pace with the vaunted capacity of man, -knowledge should be identified with feeling. We know that there -are a million of other beings of as much worth, of the same nature, -made in the image of God like ourselves. Have we the same sympathy -with every one of these? Do we feel a million times more -for all of them put together, than for ourselves? The least pain in -our little finger gives us more concern and uneasiness, than the destruction -of millions of our fellow-beings. Fenelon laments bitterly and -feelingly this disparity between duty and inclination, this want of -charity, and eating of self into the soul. What is the consequence of -the disproportionate ratios in which the head and the heart move? -This paltry <em>self</em>, looking upon itself as of more importance than all -the rest of the world, fancies itself the centre of the universe, and -would have every one look upon it in the same light. Not being -able to sympathize with others as it ought, it hates and envies them; -is mad to think of its own insignificance in the general system; cannot -bear a rival or a superior; despises and tramples on inferiors, and -would crush and annihilate all pretensions but its own, that it might -be <em>all in all</em>. The worm puts on the monarch, or the god, in thought -and in secret; and it is only when it can do so in fact, and in public, -and be the tyrant or idol of its fellows, that it is at ease or satisfied -with itself. Fenelon was right in crying out (if it could have done -any good) for the crucifying of this importunate self, and putting a -better principle in its stead.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Dr. Channing’s Essays on Milton and Bonaparte are both done -<span class='pageno' id='Page_325'>325</span>upon the same false principle, of making out a case <em>for</em> or <em>against</em>. -The one is full of common-place eulogy, the other of common-place -invective. They are pulpit-criticisms. An orator who is confined to -expound the same texts and doctrines week after week, slides very -naturally and laudably into a habit of monotony and paraphrase; is -not allowed to be ‘wise above what is written;’ is grave from respect -to his subject, and the authority attached to the truths he interprets; -and if his style is tedious or his arguments trite, he is in no danger of -being interrupted or taken to task by his audience. Such a person is -unavoidably an advocate for certain received principles; often a dull -one. He carries the professional license and character out of the -pulpit into other things, and still fancies that he speaks ‘with authority, -and not as the scribes.’ He may be prolix without suspecting it; -may lay a solemn stress on the merest trifles; repeat truisms, and -apologize for them as startling discoveries; may play the sophist, -and conceive he is performing a sacred duty; and give what turn -or gloss he pleases to any subject,—forgetting that the circumstances -under which he declares himself, and the audience which he addresses, -are entirely changed. If, as we readily allow, there are instances of -preachers who have emancipated themselves from these professional -habits, we can hardly add Dr. Channing to the number.</p> - -<p class='c010'>His notice of Milton is elaborate and stately, but neither new nor -discriminating. One of the first and most prominent passages is a -defence of poetry:—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Milton’s fame rests chiefly on his poetry; and to this we naturally -give our first attention. By those who are accustomed to speak of -poetry as light reading, Milton’s eminence in this sphere may be considered -only as giving him a high rank among the contributors to -public amusement. Not so thought Milton. Of all God’s gifts of -intellect, he esteemed poetical genius the most transcendent. He -esteemed it in himself as a kind of inspiration, and wrote his great -works with something of the conscious dignity of a prophet. We -agree with Milton in his estimate of poetry. It seems to us the -divinest of all arts; for it is the breathing or expression of that sentiment -which is deepest and sublimest in human nature; we mean, of -that thirst or aspiration, to which no mind is wholly a stranger, -after something purer and lovelier, something more powerful, lofty, -and thrilling, than ordinary and real life affords. No doctrine is -more common among Christians than that of man’s immortality; but -it is not so generally understood, that the germs or principles of his -whole future being are <em>now</em> wrapped up in his soul, as the rudiments -of the future plant in the seed. As a necessary result of this constitution, -the soul, possessed and moved by these mighty though infant -<span class='pageno' id='Page_326'>326</span>energies, is perpetually stretching beyond what is present and visible, -struggling against the bounds of its earthly prison-house, and seeking -relief and joy in imaginings of unseen and ideal being. This view of -our nature, which has never been fully developed, and which goes -farther towards explaining the contradictions of human life than all -others, carries us to the very foundation and sources of poetry. He -who cannot interpret by his own consciousness what we have now -said, wants the true key to works of genius. He has not penetrated -those sacred recesses of the soul, where poetry is born and nourished, -and inhales immortal vigour, and wings herself for her heavenward -flight. In an intellectual nature, framed for progress and for higher -modes of being, there must be creative energies, powers of original -and ever-growing thought; and poetry is the form in which these -energies are chiefly manifested. It is the glorious prerogative of this -art, that it “makes all things new” for the gratification of a divine -instinct. It indeed finds its elements in what it actually sees and -experiences, in the worlds of matter and mind; but it combines and -blends these into new forms and according to new affinities; breaks -down, if we may so say, the distinctions and bounds of nature; -imparts to material objects life, and sentiment, and emotion, and -invests the mind with the powers and splendours of the outward -creation; describes the surrounding universe in the colours which the -passions throw over it, and depicts the mind in those moods of repose -or agitation, of tenderness or sublime emotion, which manifest its -thirst for a more powerful and joyful existence. To a man of a -literal and prosaic character, the mind may seem lawless in these -workings; but it observes higher laws than it transgresses, the laws -of the immortal intellect; it is trying and developing its best faculties; -and in the objects which it describes, or in the emotions which it -awakens, anticipates those states of progressive power, splendour, -beauty, and happiness, for which it was created.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>There is much more to the same purpose: The whole, to speak -freely, is a laboured and somewhat tumid paraphrase on Lord Bacon’s -definition of poetry, (which has been often paraphrased before,) -where he prefers it to history, ‘as having something divine in it, and -representing characters and objects not as they are, but as they ought -to be.’ This is the general feature of our author’s writings; they -cannot be called mere common-place, but they may be fairly termed -<em>ambitious</em> common-place: That is, he takes up the newest and most -plausible opinion at the turn of the tide, or just as it is getting into -vogue, and would fain arrogate both the singularity and the popularity -of it to himself. He hits the public between what they are tired of -hearing, and what they never heard before. He has here, however, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_327'>327</span>put the seal of orthodoxy on poetry, and we are not desirous to take -it off. If he is inclined to stand sponsor to the Muses, and confirm -their offspring at the Fount, he is welcome to do so. It is curious to -see strict Professors for a long time denouncing and excommunicating -Poetry as a wanton, and then, when they can no longer help it, clasping -hands with her as the handmaid of truth; and instead of making -her the daughter of ‘the father of lies,’ identifying her with the vital -spirit of religion and our happiest prospects.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Dr. Channing is aware, however, that poetry is sometimes liable to -abuse, and has given a handle to the ungodly; and as a set-off and -salvo to this objection, has a fling at Lord Byron, as the demon who -scatters ‘poison and death;’ while Sir Walter Scott is the beneficent -genius of poetry, unfolding and imparting new energies and the most -delightful impulses to the human breast. In pronouncing the latter -sentence, he bows to popular opinion; in the former he considers just -as properly what he owes to his profession.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The bulk of the account of Milton, both as a poet and a prose-writer, -is, we are constrained to say, mere imitation or amplification -of what has been said by others. He observes, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">ex cathedrâ</span></i>, and with -due gravity, that the <em>forte</em> of Milton is sublimity—that the two first -books of <cite>Paradise Lost</cite> are unrivalled examples of that quality. He -then proceeds to show, that he is not without tenderness or beauty, -though he has not the graphic minuteness of Cowper or of Crabbe; -he next praises his versification in opposition to the critics—dwells -on the freshness and innocence of the picture of Adam and Eve in -Paradise—maintains that our sympathy with Satan is nothing but the -admiration of moral strength of mind—acknowledges the harshness -and virulence of Milton’s controversial writings, but blames Dr. -Johnson for doing so. All this we have heard or said before. We -are not edified at all, nor are we greatly flattered by it. It is as if -we should convey a letter to a friend in America, and should find it -transcribed and sent back to us with a heavy postage.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We do not, then, set much store by our author’s criticisms, because -they sometimes seem to be, in a great measure, borrowed from our -own lucubrations. We set still less store by his politics, for they are -borrowed from others. We have no objection to the most severe or -caustic probing of the character of the late ruler of France; but we -<em>do</em> object, in the name both of history and philosophy, to misrepresentations -and falsehoods, as the groundwork of such remarks. When -England has exploded them, half in shame, and half in anger, the -harpy echo lingers in America. The ugly mask has been taken off; -but Dr. Channing chooses to lecture on the mask in preference to the -head. It would serve no useful purpose, however, to follow him in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_328'>328</span>the details of his <cite>Analysis of the Character of Bonaparte</cite>. But we -shall extract one of his most elaborate passages, in which he favours -us with his opinion of the victors at Waterloo and Trafalgar:—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The conqueror of Napoleon, the hero of Waterloo, undoubtedly -possesses great military talents; but we have never heard of his -eloquence in the senate, or of his sagacity in the cabinet; and we venture -to say, that he will leave the world without adding one new thought -on the great themes, on which the genius of philosophy and legislature -has meditated for ages. We will not go down for illustration to such -men as Nelson, a man great on the deck, but debased by gross vices, -and who never pretended to enlargement of intellect. To institute a -comparison, in point of talent and genius, between such men and -Milton, Bacon, and Shakspeare, is almost an insult to these illustrious -names. Who can think of these truly great intelligences; of the -range of their minds through heaven and earth; of their deep intuition -into the soul; of their new and glowing combinations of thought; of -the energy with which they grasped and subjected to their main -purpose the infinite materials of illustration which nature and life -afford; who can think of the forms of transcendent beauty and -grandeur which they created, or which were rather emanations -of their own minds; of the calm wisdom, and fervid, impetuous -imagination which they conjoined; of the dominion which they have -exercised over so many generations, and which time only extends and -makes sure; of the voice of power, in which, though dead, they still -speak to nations, and awaken intellect, sensibility, and genius, in both -hemispheres;—who can think of such men, and not feel the immense -inferiority of the most gifted warriors, whose elements of thought -are physical forces and physical obstructions, and whose employment -is the combination of the lowest class of objects on which a powerful -mind can be employed?’</p> - -<p class='c010'>We are here forcibly reminded of Fielding’s character of Mr. -Abraham Adams. ‘Indeed, if this good man had an enthusiasm, or -what the vulgar call a blind side, it was this: he thought a Schoolmaster -the greatest character in the world, and himself the greatest of -all schoolmasters, neither of which points he would have given up to -Alexander the Great at the head of his army.’ So Dr. Channing -very gravely divides greatness into different sorts, and places himself -at the top among those who <em>talk</em> about things—commanders at the -bottom among those who only <em>do</em> them. He finds fault with -Bonaparte for not coming up to his standard of greatness; but in -order that he may not, raises this standard too high for humanity. -To put it in force would be to leave the ancient and modern world -as bare of great names as the wilds of North America. To make -<span class='pageno' id='Page_329'>329</span>common sense of it, any one great man must be all the others. -Homer only sung of battles, and it was honour enough for Alexander -to place his works in a golden cabinet. Dr. Channing allows -Bonaparte’s supremacy in war; but disputes it in policy. How -many persons, from the beginning of the world, have united the two -in a greater degree, or wielded more power in consequence? If -Bonaparte had not gained a single battle, or planned a single successful -campaign; if he had not scattered Coalition after Coalition, but -invited the Allies to march to Paris; if he had not quelled the -factions, but left them to cut one another’s throats and his own; if -he had not ventured on the <cite>Concordat</cite>, or framed a Code of Laws for -France; if he had encouraged no art or science or man of genius; if -he had not humbled the pride of ‘ancient thrones,’ and risen from -the ground of the people to an equal height with the Gods of the -earth,—showing that the art and the right to reign is not confined to -a particular race; if he had been any thing but what he was, and -had done nothing, he would then have come up to Dr. Channing’s -notions of greatness, and to his boasted standard of a hero! We in -Europe, whether friends or foes, require something beyond this -negative merit: we think that Cæsar, Alexander, and Charlemagne, -were ‘no babies;’ we think that to move the great masses of power -and bind opinions in a spell, is as difficult as the turning a period or -winding up a homily; and we are surprised that stanch republicans, -who complain that the world bow to birth and rank alone, should -turn with redoubled rage against intellect, the instant it became a -match for pride and prejudice, and was the only thing that could be -opposed to them with success, or could extort a moment’s fear or awe -for human genius or human nature.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Dr. Channing’s style is good, though in general too laboured, -formal, and sustained. All is brought equally forward,—nothing is -left to tell for itself. In the attempt to be copious, he is tautological; -in striving to explain every thing, he overloads and obscures his -meaning. The fault is the uniform desire to produce an effect, and -the supposition that this is to be done by main force.</p> - -<p class='c010'>In one sermon, Dr. Channing insists boldly and loudly on the -necessity that American preachers should assume a loftier style, and -put forth energies and pretensions to claim attention in proportion to -the excited tone of public feeling, and the advances of modern -literature and science. He reproaches them with their lukewarmness, -and points out to them, as models, the novels of Scott and the poetry -of Byron. If Dr. Channing expects a grave preacher in a pulpit to -excite the same interest as a tragedy hero on the stage, or a discourse -on the meaning of a text of Scripture to enchain the feelings like one -<span class='pageno' id='Page_330'>330</span>of the Waverley Novels, it will be a long time first. The mere -proposal is <em>putting the will for the deed</em>, and an instance of that -republican assurance and rejection of the idea of not being equal to -any person or thing, which convinces pretenders of this stamp that -there is no reason why they should not do all that others can, and -a great deal more into the bargain.</p> - -<h3 class='c008'>FLAXMAN’S LECTURES ON SCULPTURE</h3> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Vol. i.</span>]      [<em>October 1829.</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>These Lectures were delivered at the Royal Academy in an annual -Course, instituted expressly for that purpose. They are not, on the -whole, ill calculated to promote the object for which they were -originally designed,—to guide the taste, and stimulate the enquiries of -the student; but we should doubt whether there is much in them -that is likely to interest the public. They may be characterised as -the work of a sculptor by profession—dry and hard; a meagre -outline, without colouring or adventitious ornament. The Editor -states, that he has left them scrupulously as he found them: there -are, in consequence, some faults of grammatical construction, of -trifling consequence; and many of the paragraphs are thrown into the -form of notes, or loose memorandums, and read like a table of -contents. Nevertheless, there is a great and evident knowledge of -the questions treated of; and wherever there is knowledge, there is -power, and a certain degree of interest. It is only a pen guided by -inanity or affectation, that can strip such subjects of instruction and -amusement. Otherwise, the body of ancient or of modern Art is -like the loadstone, to which the soul vibrates, responsive, however -cold or repulsive the form in which it appears. We have, however, -a more serious fault to object to the present work, than the mere -defects of style, or mode of composition. It is with considerable -regret and reluctance, we confess, that though it may add to the -student’s knowledge of the art, it will contribute little to the <em>understanding</em> -of it. It abounds in rules rather than principles. The -examples, authorities, precepts, are full, just, and well-selected. The -terms of art are unexceptionably applied; the different styles very -properly designated; the mean is distinguished from the lofty; due -praise is bestowed on the <em>graceful</em>, the <em>grand</em>, the <em>beautiful</em>, the <em>ideal</em>; -but the reader comprehends no more of the meaning of these qualities -at the end of the work than he did at the beginning. The tone of -the Lectures is dogmatical rather than philosophical. The judgment -for the most part is sound, though no new light is thrown on the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_331'>331</span>grounds on which it rests. Mr. Flaxman is contented to take up -with traditional maxims, with adjudged cases, with the acknowledged -theory and practice of art: and it is well that he does so; for when -he departs from the habitual bias of his mind, and attempts to enter -into an explanation or defence of first principles, the reasons which -he advances are often weak, warped, insufficient, or contradictory. -His arguments are neither solid nor ingenious: They are merely -quaint and gratuitous. If we were to hazard a general opinion, we -should be disposed to say that a certain setness and formality, a -certain want of flexibility and power, ran through the character of his -whole mind. His compositions as a sculptor are classical,—cast in -an approved mould; but, generally speaking, they are elegant outlines,—poetical -abstractions converted into marble, yet still retaining -the essential character of words; and the Professor’s opinions and -views of art as here collected, exhibit barely the surface and crust of -commonly-received maxims, with little depth or originality. The -characteristics of his mind were precision, elegance, cool judgment, -industry, and a laudable and exclusive attachment to <em>the best</em>. He -wanted richness, variety, and force. But we shall not dwell farther -on these remarks here; as examples and illustrations of them will -occur in the course of this article.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The first Lecture, on the history of early British Sculpture, will -be found to contain some novel and curious information. At its very -commencement, however, we find two instances of perverse or obscure -reasoning, which we cannot entirely pass over. In allusion to the -original institution and objects of the Royal Academy, the author -observes, that ‘as the study of Sculpture was at that time confined -within narrow limits, so the appointment of a Professorship in that art -was not required, until the increasing taste of the country had given -great popularity to the art itself, and native achievements had called -on the powers of native Sculpture to celebrate British heroes and -patriots.’ Does Mr. Flaxman mean by this to insinuate that Britain -had neither patriots nor heroes to boast of, till after the establishment -of the Royal Academy, and a little before that of the Professorship of -Sculpture? If so, we cannot agree with him. It would be going -only a single step farther to assert that the study of Astronomy had -not been much encouraged in this country, till the discovery of the -<cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Georgium Sidus</span></cite> was thought to call for it, and for the establishment -of an Observatory at Greenwich! In the next page, the Lecturer -remarks, ‘Painting is honoured with precedence, because Design or -Drawing is more particularly and extensively employed in illustration -of history. Sculpture immediately follows in the enumeration, -because the two arts possess the same common principles, expressed -<span class='pageno' id='Page_332'>332</span>by Painting in colour, and by Sculpture in form.’ Surely, there is -here some confusion, either in the thoughts or in the language. First, -Painting takes precedence of Sculpture, because it illustrates history -by design or form, which is common to both; next, Sculpture comes -after Painting, because it illustrates by form, what Painting does not -illustrate by form, but by colour. We cannot make any sense of -this. It is from repeated similar specimens that we are induced to -say, that when Mr. Flaxman reasons, he reasons ill. But to proceed -to something more grateful. The following is a condensed and -patriotic sketch of the rise and early progress of Sculpture in our own -country:</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The Saxons destroyed the works of Roman grandeur in Britain, -burnt the cities from sea to sea, and reduced the country to barbarism -again; but when these invaders were settled in their new possessions, -they erected poor and clumsy imitations of the Roman buildings -themselves had ruined. The Saxon Painting is rather preferable to -their Sculpture, which, whether intended to represent the human or -brutal figure, is frequently both horrible and burlesque. The buildings -erected in England from the settlement of the Saxons to the reign of -Henry <span class='fss'>I.</span>, continued nearly the same plain, heavy repetitions of -columns and arches. So little was Sculpture employed in them, that -no sepulchral statue is known in England before the time of William -the Conqueror.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Immediately after the Roman Conquest, figures of the deceased -were carved, in bas-relief, on their gravestones, examples of which -may be seen in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey, representing two -abbots of that church, and in Worcester Cathedral, those of St. -Oswald and Bishop Wulstan. The Crusaders returned from the -Holy Land; eager to imitate the arts and magnificence of other -countries, they began to decorate the architecture with rich foliage, -and to introduce statues against the columns; as we find in the west -door of Rochester Cathedral, built in the reign of Henry I. Architecture -now improved; Sculpture also became popular. The custom -of carving a figure of the deceased in bas-relief on the tomb, seems -likely to have been brought from France, where it was continued, in -imitation of the Romans. Figures placed against columns might also -be copied from examples in that country, of which one remarkable -instance was a door in the church of St. Germain de Prez, in Paris, -containing several statues of the ancient kings of France, projecting -from columns; a work of the 10th century, of which there are prints -in Montfaucon’s <em>Antiquities</em>.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Sculpture continued to be practised with such zeal and success, -that in the reign of Henry <span class='fss'>III.</span> efforts were made deserving our respect -<span class='pageno' id='Page_333'>333</span>and attention at this day. Bishop Joceline rebuilt the Cathedral -Church of Wells from the pavement, which having lived to finish and -dedicate, he died in the year of our Lord 1242. The west front of -this church equally testifies the piety and comprehension of the -Bishop’s mind; the sculpture presents the noblest, most useful and -interesting subjects possible to be chosen. On the south side, above -the west door, are alto-relievos of the Creation in its different parts, -the Deluge, and important acts of the Patriarchs. Companions to -these on the north side are alto-relievos of the principal circumstances -in the life of our Saviour. Above these are two rows of statues -larger than nature, in niches, of kings, queens, and nobles, patrons of -the church, saints, bishops, and other religious, from its first foundation -to the reign of Henry <span class='fss'>III.</span> Near the pediment is our Saviour -come to judgment, attended by angels and his twelve apostles. The -upper arches on each side, along the whole of the west front, and -continued in the north and south ends, are occupied by figures rising -from their graves, strongly expressing the hope, fear, astonishment, -stupefaction, or despair, inspired by the presence of the Lord and -Judge of the world in that awful moment. In speaking of the execution -of such a work, due regard must be paid to the circumstances -under which it was produced, in comparison with those of our own -times. There were neither prints nor printed books to assist the -artist. The Sculptor could not be instructed in Anatomy, for there -were no Anatomists. Some knowledge of Optics, and a glimmering -of Perspective, were reserved for the researches of so sublime a genius -as Roger Bacon, some years afterwards. A small knowledge of -Geometry and Mechanics was exclusively confined to two or three -learned monks in the whole country; and the principles of those -sciences, as applied to the figure and motion of man and inferior -animals, were known to none! <em>Therefore</em> this work is <em>necessarily ill -drawn</em>, and deficient in principle, and much of the sculpture is rude -and severe; yet in parts there is a beautiful simplicity, an irresistible -sentiment, and sometimes a grace, excelling more modern productions.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘It is very remarkable that Wells Cathedral was finished in 1242, -two years after the birth of Cimabue, the restorer of painting in Italy; -and the work was going on at the same time that Nicolo Pisano, the -Italian restorer of sculpture, exercised the art in his own country: it -was also finished forty-six years before the Cathedral of Amiens, and -thirty-six before the Cathedral of Orvieto was begun; and it seems to -be the first specimen of such magnificent and varied sculpture, united -in a series of sacred history, that is to be found in Western Europe. -It is, therefore, probable that the general idea of the work might be -brought from the East by some of the Crusaders. But there are two -<span class='pageno' id='Page_334'>334</span>arguments strongly in favour of the execution being English: the -family name of the Bishop is English, “Jocelyn Troteman”; and -the style, both of sculpture and architecture, is wholly different from -the tombs of Edward the Confessor and Henry III., which were by -Italian artists.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The reign of Edward <span class='fss'>I.</span> produced a new species of monument. -When Eleanor the beloved wife of that monarch died, who had been -his heroic and affectionate companion in the Holy War, he raised -some crosses of magnificent architecture, adorned with statues of his -departed queen, wherever her corpse rested on the way to its interment -in Westminster Abbey. Three of these crosses still remain, -at Northampton, Geddington, and Waltham. The statues have -considerable simplicity and delicacy; they partake of the character -and grace particularly cultivated in the school of Pisano; and it is -not unlikely, as the sepulchral statue and tomb of Henry <span class='fss'>III.</span> were -executed by Italians, that these statues of Queen Eleanor might be -done by some of the numerous travelling scholars from Pisano’s -school.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The long and prosperous reign of Edward <span class='fss'>III.</span> was as favourable -to literature and liberal arts, as to the political and commercial -interests of the country. So generally were painting, sculpture, and -architecture encouraged and employed, that besides the buildings -raised in this reign, few sacred edifices existed, which did not receive -additions and decorations. The richness, novelty, and beauty of architecture -may be seen in York and Gloucester Cathedrals, and many of -our other churches: besides the extraordinary fancy displayed in various -intricate and diversified figures which form the mullions of windows, -they were occasionally enriched with a profusion of foliage and -historical sculpture, equally surprising for beauty and novelty. In -the chancel of Dorchester Church, near Oxford, are three windows -of this kind, one of which, besides rich foliage, is adorned with -twenty-eight small statues relating to the genealogy of our Saviour; -and the other two with alto-relievos from acts of his life.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Flaxman then proceeds to trace the progress of Sculpture, -and the growing passion for it in this country, through the reign of -Henry <span class='fss'>VII.</span> to the period when its prospects were blighted by the -Reformation, and many of its monuments defaced by the Iconoclastic -fury of the Puritans and zealots in the time of Charles <span class='fss'>I.</span> The -Lecturer seems to be of opinion that the genius of sculpture in our -island was arrested, in the full career of excellence, and when it was -approaching the goal of perfection, by these two events; which drew -aside the public attention, and threw a stigma on the encouragement -of sacred sculpture; whereas, it would perhaps be just as fair to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_335'>335</span>argue, that these events would never have happened, had it not been -for a certain indifference in the national character to mere outward -impressions, and a slowness to appreciate, or form an enthusiastic -attachment to objects that appeal only to the imagination and the -senses. We may be influenced by higher and more solid principles,—reason -and philosophy; but that makes nothing to the question. -Mr. Flaxman bestows great and deserved praise on the monuments -of Aylmer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, and Edmund Crouchback, -in Westminster Abbey, which are by English artists, whose -names are preserved; but speaks slightingly of the tomb of Henry -<span class='fss'>VII.</span> and his wife, in Henry <span class='fss'>VII.</span>’s Chapel, by Torregiano; from -whom, on trivial and insufficient grounds, he withholds the merit of -the other sculptures and ornaments of the chapel. This is prejudice, -and not wisdom. We think the tomb alone will be monument -enough to that artist in the opinion of all who have seen it. We -have no objection to, but on the contrary applaud the Lecturer’s -zeal to repel the imputation of incapacity from British art, and to -detect the lurking traces and doubtful prognostics of it in the records -of our early history; but we are, at the same time, convinced that -tenaciousness on this point creates an unfavourable presumption on the -other side; and we make bold to submit, that whenever the national -capacity bursts forth in the same powerful and striking way in the -Fine Arts that it has done in so many others, we shall no longer -have occasion to praise ourselves for what we either have done, or -what we are to do:—the world will soon be loud in the acknowledgment -of it. Works of ornament and splendour must dazzle and -claim attention at the first sight, or they do not answer their end. -They are not like the deductions of an abstruse philosophy, or even -improvements in practical affairs, which may make their way slowly -and under-ground. They are not a light placed under a bushel, but -like ‘a city set on a hill, that cannot be hid.’ To <em>appear</em> and to <em>be</em>, -are with them the same thing. Neither are we much better satisfied -with the arguments of the learned professor to show that the series of -statuary in Wells Cathedral is of native English workmanship. The -difference of style from the tombs of Edward the Confessor and -Henry <span class='fss'>III.</span> by Italians, can be of little weight at a period when the -principles of art were so unsettled, and each person did the best he -could, according to his own taste and knowledge; and as to the -second branch of the evidence, viz. that ‘the family name of the -Bishop is English, Jocelyn Troteman,’ it sounds too much like a -parody on the story of him who wanted to prove his descent from -the ‘Admirable Crichton,’ by his having a family cup in his possession -with the initials A. C.!</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_336'>336</span>We dwell the longer and more willingly on the details and -recollections of the early works of which the author speaks so -feelingly, as first informed with life and sentiment, because all -relating to that remote period of architecture and sculpture, exercises -a peculiar charm and fascination over our minds. It is not art in its -‘high and palmy state,’ with its boasted refinements about it, that we -look at with envy and wonder, so much as in its first rude attempts -and conscious yearning after excellence. They were, indeed, the -favoured of the earth, into whom genius first breathed the breath of -life; who, born in a night of ignorance, first beheld the sacred dawn -of light—those Deucalions of art, who, after the deluge of barbarism -and violence had subsided, stood alone in the world, and had to sow -the seeds of countless generations of knowledge. We can conceive -of some village Michael Angelo, with a soul too mighty for its -tenement of clay, whose longing aspirations after truth and good were -palsied by the refusal of his hand to execute them,—struggling to -burst the trammels and trying to shake off the load of discouragement -that oppressed him: What must be his exultation to see the speaking -statue, the stately pile, rise up slowly before him,—the idea in his -mind embodied out of nothing, without model or precedent,—to see -a huge cathedral heave its ponderous weight above the earth, or the -solemn figure of an apostle point from one corner of it to the skies; -and to think that future ages would, perhaps, gaze at the work with -the same delight and wonder that his own did, and not suffer his -name to sink into the same oblivion as those who had gone before -him, or as the brutes that perish;—this was, indeed, to be admitted -into the communion, the ‘holiest of holies’ of genius, and to drink -of the waters of life freely! Art, as it springs from the source of -genius, is like the act of creation: it has the same obscurity and -grandeur about it. Afterwards, whatever perfection it attains, it -becomes mechanical. Its strongest impulse and inspiration is derived, -not from what it has done, but from what it has to do. It is not -surprising that from this state of anxiety and awe with which it -regards its appointed task,—the unknown bourne that lies before it, -such startling revelations of the world of truth and beauty are often -struck out when one might least expect it, and that Art has sometimes -leaped at one vast bound from its cradle to its grave! Mr. Flaxman, -however, strongly inculcates the contrary theory, and is for raising up -Art to its most majestic height by the slow and circuitous process of -an accumulation of rules and machinery. He seems to argue that its -advance is on a gradually inclined plane, keeping pace and co-extended -with that of Science; ‘growing with its growth and strengthening -with its strength.’ It appears to us that this is not rightly to weigh -<span class='pageno' id='Page_337'>337</span>the essential differences either of Science or of Art; and that it is -flying in the face both of fact and argument. He says, it took -sculpture nine hundred or a thousand years to advance from its first -rude commencement to its perfection in Greece and Egypt: But we -must remember, that the greatest excellence of the Fine Arts, both -in Greece, Italy, and Holland, was concentrated into little more than -a century; and again, if Art and Science were synonymous, there -can be no doubt that the knowledge of anatomy and geometry is more -advanced in England in the present day than it was at Athens in the -time of Pericles; but is our sculpture therefore superior? The -answer to this is, ‘No; but it ought to be, and it will be.’ Spare -us, good Mr. Prophesier! Art cannot be transmitted by a receipt, or -theorem, like Science; and cannot therefore be improved <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">ad libitum</span></i>: -It has inseparably to do with individual nature and individual genius.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The Second Lecture is on Egyptian Sculpture, and here Mr. -Flaxman displays the same accurate information and diligent research -as before. The Egyptian statues, the Sphinx, the Memnon, &c. -were, as is well known, principally distinguished for their size, and -the immense labour and expense bestowed upon them. The critic -thus justly characterizes their style and merits:</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The Egyptian statues stand equally poised on both legs, having -one foot advanced, the arms either hanging straight down on each -side; or, if one is raised, it is at a right angle across the body. -Some of the statues sit on seats, some on the ground, and some are -kneeling; but the position of the hands seldom varies from the above -description; their attitudes are of course simple, rectilinear, and -without lateral movement; the faces are rather flat, the brows, -eyelids, and mouth formed of simple curves, slightly but sharply -marked, and with little expression; the general proportions are something -more than seven heads high; the form of the body and limbs -rather round and effeminate, with only the most evident projections -and hollows. Their tunics, or rather draperies, are in many instances -without folds. Winckelman has remarked, that the Egyptians -executed quadrupeds better than human figures; for which he gives -the two following reasons: first, that as professions in that country -were hereditary, genius must be wanting to represent the human form -in perfection; secondly, That superstitious reverence for the works -of their ancestors prevented improvements. This is an amusing, but -needless hypothesis: for there are statues in the Capitoline Museum -with as great a breadth, and choice of grand parts proper to the -human form, as ever they represented in their lions, or other inferior -animals. In addition to these observations on Egyptian statues, we -may remark, the forms of their hands and feet are gross; they have -<span class='pageno' id='Page_338'>338</span>no anatomical detail of parts, and are totally deficient in the grace of -motion. This last defect, in all probability, was not the consequence -of a superstitious determination to persist in the practice of their -ancestors; it is accounted for in another and better way.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Pythagoras, after he had studied several years in Egypt, sacrificed -a hundred oxen in consequence of having discovered, that a square of -the longest side of a right-angled triangle is equal to the two squares -of the lesser sides of the same triangle; and thence it follows, that -the knowledge of the Egyptians could not have been very great at -that time in geometry. This will naturally account for that want of -motion in their statues and relievos, which can only be obtained by a -careful observation of nature, assisted by geometry.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>This is, we apprehend, one of the weak points of Mr. Flaxman’s -reasoning. That geometry may be of great use to fix and ascertain -certain general principles of the art, we are far from disputing; but -surely it was no more necessary for the Egyptian sculptor to wait for -the discovery of Pythagoras’s problem before he could venture to -detach the arms from the sides, than it was for the Egyptians themselves -to remain swathed and swaddled up like mummies, without the -power of locomotion, till Pythagoras came with his geometrical -diagram to set their limbs at liberty. If they could do this without -a knowledge of mechanics, the sculptor could not help seeing it, and -imperfectly copying it, if he had the use of his senses or his wits -about him. The greater probability is, that the sepulchral statues -were done from, or in imitation of the mummies; or that as the -imitation of variety of gesture or motion is always the most difficult, -these stiff and monotonous positions were adopted (and subsequently -adhered to from custom) as the safest and easiest. After briefly -noticing the defects of the Hindoo and other early sculpture, -the author proceeds to account for the improved practice of the -Greeks on the same formal and mechanic principles.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘We find,’ he says, ‘upon these authorities (Vitruvius and the -elder Pliny), that geometry and numbers were employed to ascertain -the powers of motion and proportions; optics and perspective (as -known to the ancients) to regulate projections, hollows, keeping, -diminution, curvatures, and general effects in figures, groups, insulated -or in relief, with accompaniments; and anatomy, to represent the -bones, muscles, tendons, and veins, <em>as they appear on the surface of the -human body and inferior animals</em>.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In this enlightened age, when the circle of science is so generally -and well understood—when the connexion and relation of one branch -with another is demonstrated, and their principles applied from -necessity and conviction, wherever possibility allows, in the liberal and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_339'>339</span>mechanical arts, as well as all the other concerns of life—no one can -be weak or absurd enough to suppose it is within the ability and -province of human genius, without the principles of science previously -acquired—by <em>slight observation only</em>—to become possessed of the -forms, characters, and essences of objects, in such a manner as to -represent them with truth, force, and pathos at once! No; we are -convinced by reason and experience, that “life is short and art is -long;” and the perfection of all human productions depends on the -indefatigable accumulation of knowledge and labour through a -succession of ages.’—P. 55.</p> - -<p class='c010'>This paragraph, we cannot but think, proceeds altogether on a -false estimate: it is a misdirection to the student. In following up the -principles here laid down, the artist’s life would not only be short, -but misspent. Is there no medium, in our critic’s view of this matter, -between a ‘slight observation’ of nature, and scientific demonstration? -If so, we will say there can be no fine art at all: For mere abstract -and formal rules cannot produce truth, force, and pathos in individual -forms; and it is equally certain that ‘slight observation’ will not -answer the end, if all but learned pedantry is to be accounted casual -and superficial. This is to throw a slur on the pursuit, and an -impediment in the way of the art itself. Mr. Flaxman seems here to -suppose that our observation is profound and just, not according to the -delicacy, comprehensiveness, or steadiness of the attention we bestow -upon a given object: but depends on the discovery of some other -object which was before hid; or on the intervention of mechanical -rules, which supersede the exercise of our senses and judgments—as -if the outward appearance of things was concealed by a film of -abstraction, which could only be removed by the spectacles of books. -Thus, anatomy is said to be necessary ‘to represent the bones, muscles -tendons, and veins, as they appear on the surface of the human body;’ -so that it is to be presumed, that the anatomist, when he has with his -knife and instruments laid bare the internal structure of the body, sees -at a glance what he did not before see; but that the artist, after -poring over them all his life, is blind to the external appearance of -veins, muscles, &c., till the seeing what is concealed under the skin -enables him for the first time to see what appears through it. We -do not deny that the knowledge of the internal conformation helps to -explain and to determine the <em>meaning</em> of the outward appearance; -what we object to as unwarrantable and pernicious doctrine, is -substituting the one process for the other, and speaking slightly of the -study of nature in the comparison. It shows a want of faith in the -principles and purposes of the Art itself, and a wish to confound and -prop it up with the grave mysteries and formal pretensions of Science; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_340'>340</span>which is to take away its essence and its pride. The student who -sets to work under such an impression, may accumulate a great deal -of learned lumber, and envelope himself in diagrams, demonstrations, -and the whole circle of the sciences; but while he is persuaded that -the study of nature is but a ‘slight’ part of his task, he will never be -able to draw, colour, or <em>express</em> a single object, farther than this can -be done by a rule and compasses. The crutches of science will not -lend wings to genius. Suppose a person were to tell us, that if he -pulled off his coat and laid bare his arm, this would give us (with all -the attention we could bestow upon it) no additional insight into its -form, colour, or the appearance of veins and muscles on the surface, -unless he at the same time suffered us to <em>flay it</em>; should we not laugh -in his face as wanting common sense, or conclude that he was -laughing at us? So the late Professor of Sculpture lays little stress in -accounting for the progress of Grecian art on the perfection which -the human form acquired, and the opportunities for studying its varieties -and movements in the Olympic exercises; but considers the whole -miracle as easily solved, when the anatomist came with his probe and -ploughed up the surface of the flesh, and the geometrician came with -his line and plummet, and demonstrated the centre of gravity. He -sums up the question in these words: ‘In the early times of Greece, -Pausanias informs us the twelve Gods were worshipped in Arcadia, -under the forms of rude stones; and before Dædalus the statues had -eyes nearly shut, the arms attached to their sides, and the legs -close together! but <em>as geometry, mechanics, arithmetic, and anatomy -improved, painting and sculpture acquired action, proportion and detailed -parts</em>.’ As to the slight account that is made in this reasoning of the -immediate observation of visible objects, the point may be settled by -an obvious dilemma: Either the eye sees the whole of any object -before it; or it does not. If it sees and comprehends the whole of it -with all its parts and relations, then it must retain and be able to give -a faithful and satisfactory resemblance, without calling in the aid of -rules or science to prevent or correct errors and defects; just as the -human face or form is perfectly represented in a looking-glass. But -if the eye sees only a small part of what any visible object contains -in it,—has only a glimmering of colour, proportion, expression &c., -then this incipient and imperfect knowledge may be improved to an -almost infinite degree by close attention, by study and practice, and -by comparing a succession of objects with one another; which is the -proper and essential province of the artist, independently of abstract -rules or science. On further observation we notice many details in a -face which escaped us at the first glance; by a study of faces and of -mankind practically, we perceive expressions which the generality do -<span class='pageno' id='Page_341'>341</span>not perceive; but this is not done by rule. The fallacy is in supposing -that all that the first naked or hasty observation does not give, is -supplied by science and general theories, and not by a closer and continued -observation of the thing itself, so that all that belongs to the -latter department is necessarily casual and slight.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Flaxman enforces the same argument by quoting the rules laid -down by Vitruvius, for ascertaining the true principles of form and -motion. This writer says, ‘If a man lies on his back, his arms and -legs may be so extended, that a circle may be drawn round, touching -the extremities of his fingers and toes, the centre of which circle shall -be his navel: also, that, a man standing upright, the length of his -arms when fully extended is equal to his height; thus that the circle -and the square equally contain the general form and motion of the -human figure.’ From these hints, and the profound mathematical -train of reasoning with which Leonardo da Vinci has pursued the -subject, the author adds, that a complete system of the principles -followed by the ancient Greek sculptors may be drawn out: that is -to say, that because all the inflections of figure and motion of which the -human body is susceptible, are contained within the above-mentioned -circle or square, the knowledge of all this formal generality <em>includes</em> a -knowledge of all the subordinate and implied particulars. The contortions -of the Laocoon, the agony of the Children, the look of the Dying -Gladiator, the contours of the Venus, the grace and spirit of the -Apollo, are all, it seems, contained within the limits of the circle -or the square! Just as well might it be contended, that having got a -square or oval frame, of the size of a picture by Titian or Vandyke, -every one is qualified to paint a face within it equal in force or beauty to -Titian or Vandyke.</p> - -<p class='c010'>In the same spirit of a determination to make art a handmaid -attendant upon Science, the author thus proceeds: ‘Pliny says, lib. -xxxiv. c. 8, Leontius, the contemporary of Phidias, first expressed -tendons and veins—<i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">primus nervos et venas expressit</span></i>—which was -immediately after the anatomical researches and improvements of -Hippocrates, Democritus, and their disciples; and we shall find in -the same manner all the improvements in art followed improvements -in science.’ Yet almost in the next page, Mr. Flaxman himself -acknowledges, that even in the best times of Grecian sculpture, and -the era of Phidias and Praxiteles, dissections were rare, and anatomy -very imperfectly understood, and cites ‘the opinion of the learned -Professor of Anatomy, that the ancients artists owed much more to -the study of living than dead bodies.’ Sir Anthony Carlisle, aware -of the deficiencies of former ages in this branch of knowledge, and -yet conscious that he himself would be greatly puzzled to carve the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_342'>342</span>Apollo or the Venus, very naturally and wisely concludes, that the -latter depends upon a course of study, and an acquaintance with forms -very different from any which he possesses. It is a smattering and -affectation of science that leads men to suppose that it is capable of -more than it really is, and of supplying the undefined and evanescent -creations of art with universal and infallible principles. There cannot -be an opinion more productive of presumption and sloth.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The same turn of thought is insisted on in the Fourth Lecture, -<cite>On Science</cite>; and indeed nearly the whole of that Lecture is devoted -to a fuller developement and exemplification of what appears to us -a servile prejudice. It would be unjust, however, to Mr. Flaxman, -to suppose, or to insinuate, that he is without a better sense and better -principles of art, whenever he trusted to his own feelings and experience, -instead of being hoodwinked by an idle theory. Nothing can -be more excellent than the following observations which occur towards -the conclusion of the Lecture on <cite>Composition</cite>:</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘What has been delivered comprises some of the rules for composing, -and observations on composition, the most obvious, and perhaps -not the least useful. They have been collected from the best works -and the best writings, examined and compared with their principles -in nature. Such a comprehensive view may be serviceable to the -younger student, in pointing his way, preventing error, and showing -the needful materials; <em>but after all, he must perform the work himself</em>! -All rules, all critical discourses, can but awaken the intelligence, and -stimulate the will, with advice and directions, for a beginning of that -which is to be done. They may be compared to the scaffolding for -raising a magnificent palace; it is neither the building nor the decoration, -but it is the workman’s indispensable help in erecting the walls -which enclose the apartments, and which may afterwards be enriched -with the most splendid ornaments. Every painter and sculptor feels -a conviction that a considerable portion of science is requisite to the -productions of liberal art; but he will be equally convinced, that -whatever is produced from principles and rules only, added to the -most exquisite manual labour, is no more than a mechanical work. -Sentiment is the life and soul of fine art; without which it is all a -dead letter! Sentiment gives a sterling value, an irresistible charm -to the rudest imagery or most unpractised scrawl. By this quality -a firm alliance is formed with the affections in all works of art. -With an earnest watchfulness for their preservation, we are made to -perceive and feel the most sublime and terrific subjects, following the -course of sentiment, through the current and mazes of intelligence and -passion, to the most delicate and tender ties and sympathies.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>From the account of Grecian sculpture, in the third Lecture, which -<span class='pageno' id='Page_343'>343</span>is done with care and judgment, we select the following descriptions -of the Minerva and Jupiter of Phidias:—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Within the temple (at the Acropolis of Athens) stood the statue -of Minerva, thirty-nine feet high, made by Phidias, of ivory and gold, -holding a victory, six feet high, in her right hand, and a spear in her -left, her tunic reaching to her feet. She had her helmet on, and the -Medusa’s head on her ægis; her shield was adorned with the battle -of the gods and giants, the pedestal with the birth of Pandora. Plato -tells us that the eyes of this statue were precious stones. But the -great work of this chief of sculptors, the astonishment and praise of -after ages, was the Jupiter at Elis, sitting on his throne, his left hand -holding a sceptre, his right extending victory to the Olympian conquerors, -his head crowned with olive, and his pallium decorated with -birds, beasts, and flowers. The four corners of the throne were -dancing victories, each supported by a sphinx, tearing a Theban youth. -At the back of the throne, above his head, were the three horns, or -seasons, on one side, and on the other the three Graces. On the -bar, between the legs of the throne, and the panels, or spaces, between -them, were represented many stories—the destruction of Niobe’s -children, the labours of Hercules, the delivery of Prometheus, the -garden of Hesperides, with the different adventures of the heroic -ages. On the base, the battle of Theseus with the Amazons; on the -pedestal, an assembly of the gods, the sun and moon in their cars, -and the birth of Venus. The height of the work was sixty feet. -The statue was ivory, enriched with the radiance of golden ornaments -and precious stones, and was justly esteemed one of the seven wonders -of the world.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Several other statues of great excellence, in marble and in bronze, -are mentioned among the works of Phidias, particularly a Venus, -placed by the Romans in the forum of Octavia; two Minervas, one -named Callimorphus, from the beauty of its form; and it is likely -that the fine statue of this goddess in Mr. Hope’s gallery is a repetition -in marble of Phidias’s bronze, from its resemblance in attitude, -drapery, and helmet, to the reverse of an Athenian coin. Another -statue by him was an Amazon, called Eutnemon, from her beautiful -legs. There is a print of this in the <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Museum Pium Clementinum</span></i>.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>With the name of Phidias, Mr. Flaxman couples that of Praxiteles, -and gives the following spirited sketch of him and his works:—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Praxiteles excelled in the highest graces of youth and beauty. -He is said to have excelled not only other sculptors, but himself, by -his marble statues in the Ceramicus of Athens; but his Venus was -preferable to all others in the world, and many sailed to Cnidos for -the purpose of seeing it. This sculptor having made two statues of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_344'>344</span>Venus, one with drapery, the other without, the Coans preferred the -clothed figure, on account of its severe modesty, the same price being -set upon each. The citizens of Cnidos took the rejected statue, and -afterwards refused it to King Nicomedes, who would have forgiven -them an immense debt in return; but they were resolved to suffer any -thing, so long as this statue, by Praxiteles, ennobled Cnidos. The -temple was entirely open in which it was placed, because every view -was equally admirable. This Venus was still in Cnidos during the -reign of the Emperor Arcadius, about 400 years after Christ. Among -the known works of Praxiteles are his Satyr, Cupid, Apollo, the -Lizard-killer, and Bacchus leaning on a Faun.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>But we must stop short in this list of famous names and enchanting -works, or we should never have done. This seems to have been the -fabulous age of sculpture, when marble started into life as in a luxurious -dream, and men appeared to have no other employment than ‘to -make Gods in their own image.’ The Lecturer bestows due and -eloquent praise on the horses in the Elgin collection, which he supposes -to have been done under the superintendence, and probably from -designs by Phidias; but we are sorry he has not extended his eulogium -to the figure of the Theseus, which appears to us a world of grace -and grandeur in itself, and to say to the sculptor’s art, ‘<em>Hitherto shalt -thou come, and no farther!</em>’ What went before it was rude in the -comparison; what came after it was artificial. It is the perfection of -<em>style</em>, and would have afforded a much better exemplification of the -force and meaning of that term than the schoolboy definition adopted -in the Lecture on this subject; namely, that as poets and engravers -used a <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">stylos</span></i>, or style, to execute their works, the name of the instrument -was metaphorically applied to express the art itself. <em>Style</em> -properly means the mode of representing nature; and this again arises -from the various character of men’s minds, and the infinite variety of -views which may be taken of nature. After seeing the Apollo, the -Hercules, and other celebrated works of antiquity, we seem to have -exhausted our stock of admiration, and to conceive that there is no -higher perfection for sculpture to attain, or to aspire to. But at the -first sight of the Elgin Marbles, we feel that we have been in a mistake, -and the ancient objects of our idolatry fall into an inferior class -or style of art. They are comparatively, and without disparagement -of their vast and almost superhuman merit, <em>stuck-up</em> gods and goddesses. -But a new principle is at work in the others which we had not seen -or felt the want of before (not a studied trick, or curious refinement, -but an obvious truth, arising from a more intimate acquaintance with, -and firmer reliance on, nature;)—a principle of fusion, of motion, so -that the marble flows like a wave. The common <em>antiques</em> represent -<span class='pageno' id='Page_345'>345</span>the most perfect forms and proportions, with each part perfectly understood -and executed; every thing is brought out; every thing is made -as exquisite and imposing as it can be in itself; but each part seems -to be cut out of the marble, and to answer to a model of itself in the -artist’s mind. But in the fragment of the Theseus, the whole is -melted into one impression like wax; there is all the flexibility, the -malleableness of flesh; there is the same alternate tension and relaxation; -the same sway and yielding of the parts; ‘the right hand knows -what the left hand doeth’; and the statue bends and plays under -the framer’s mighty hand and eye, as if, instead of being a block of -marble, it was provided with an internal machinery of nerves and -muscles, and felt every the slightest pressure or motion from one -extremity to the other. This, then, is the greatest grandeur of style, -from the comprehensive idea of the whole, joined to the greatest simplicity, -from the entire union and subordination of the parts. There -is no ostentation, no stiffness, no overlaboured finishing. Every thing -is in its place and degree, and put to its proper use. The greatest -power is combined with the greatest ease: there is the perfection -of knowledge, with the total absence of a conscious display of it. We -find so little of an appearance of art or labour, that we might be -almost tempted to suppose that the whole of these groups were done -by means of <em>casts</em> from fine nature; for it is to be observed, that the -commonest cast from nature has the same <em>style</em> or character of union -and reaction of parts, being copied from that which has life and motion -in itself. What adds a passing gleam of probability to such a suggestion -is, that these statues were placed at a height where only the -general effect could be distinguished, and that the back and hinder -parts, which are just as scrupulously finished as the rest, and as true -to the mould of nature, were fixed against a wall where they could -not be seen at all; and where the labour (if we do not suppose it to -be in a great measure abridged mechanically) was wholly thrown -away. However, we do not lay much stress on this consideration; -for we are aware that ‘the labour we delight in physics pain,’ and we -believe that the person who <em>could</em> do the statue of the Theseus, <em>would</em> -do it, under all circumstances, and without fee or reward of any kind. -We conceive that the Elgin Marbles settle another disputed point of -vital interest to the arts. Sir Joshua Reynolds contends, among -others, that grandeur of style consists in giving only the <em>masses</em>, and -leaving out the details. The statues we are speaking of repudiate this -doctrine, and at least demonstrate the possibility of uniting the two -things, which had been idly represented to be incompatible, as if they -were not obviously found together in nature. A great number of -parts may be collected into one mass; as, on the other hand, a work -<span class='pageno' id='Page_346'>346</span>may equally want minute details, or large and imposing masses. -Suppose all the light to be thrown on one side of a face, and all -the shadow on the other: the <i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">chiaroscuro</span></i> may be worked up with the -utmost delicacy and pains in the one, and every vein or freckle distinctly -marked on the other, without destroying the general effect—that -is, the two broad masses of light and shade. Mr. Flaxman takes -notice that there were two eras of Grecian art before the time of -Pericles and Phidias, when it was at its height. In the first they gave -only a gross or formal representation of the objects, so that you could -merely say, ‘This is a man, that is a horse.’ To this clumsy concrete -style succeeded the most elaborate finishing of parts, without selection, -grace or grandeur. ‘Elaborate finishing was soon afterwards’ [after -the time of Dædalus and his scholars] ‘carried to excess: undulating -locks and spiral knots of hair like shells, as well as the drapery, were -wrought with the most elaborate care and exactness; whilst the -tasteless and barbarous character of the face and limbs remained -much the same as in former times.’ This was the natural course -of things, to denote first the gross object; then to run into the -opposite extreme, and give none but the detached parts. The difficulty -was to unite the two in a noble and comprehensive idea of -nature.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We are chiefly indebted for the information or amusement we -derive from Mr. Flaxman’s work, to the historical details of his -subject. We cannot say that he has removed any of the doubts or -stumbling-blocks in our way, or extended the landmarks of taste or -reasoning. We turned with some interest to the Lecture on <em>Beauty</em>; -for the artist has left specimens of this quality in several of his works. -We were a good deal disappointed. It sets out in this manner: -‘That beauty is not merely an imaginary quality, but a real essence, -may be inferred from the harmony of the universe; and the perfection -of its wondrous parts we may understand from all surrounding nature; -and in this course of observation we find, that man has more of beauty -bestowed on him as he rises higher in creation.’ The rest is of a -piece with this exordium,—containing a dissertation on the various -gradations of being, of which man is said to be at the top,—on the -authority of Socrates, who argues, ‘that the human form is the most -perfect of all forms, because it contains in it the principles and powers -of all inferior forms.’ This assertion is either a flat contradiction of -the fact, or an <em>antique</em> riddle, which we do not pretend to solve. -Indeed, we hold the ancients, with all our veneration for them, to -have been wholly destitute of philosophy in this department; and -Mr. Flaxman, who was taught when he was young to look up to them -for light and instruction in the philosophy of art, has engrafted too -<span class='pageno' id='Page_347'>347</span>much of it on his Lectures. He defines beauty thus: ‘The most -perfect human beauty is that <em>most free from deformity</em>, either of body -or mind, and may be therefore defined—The most perfect soul is the -most perfect body.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>In support of this truism, he strings a number of quotations -together, as if he were stringing pearls:</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In Plato’s dialogue concerning the beautiful, he shows the power -and influence of mental beauty on corporeal; and in his dialogue, -entitled “The greater Hippias,” Socrates observes in argument, “that -as a beautiful vase is inferior to a beautiful horse, and as a beautiful -horse is not to be compared to a beautiful virgin, in the same manner -a beautiful virgin is inferior in beauty to the immortal Gods; for,” -says he, “there is a beauty incorruptible, ever the same.” It is -remarkable, that, immediately after, he says, “Phidias is skilful in -beauty.” Aristotle, the Scholar of Plato, begins his Treatise on Morals -thus:—“Every art, every method and institution, every action and -council, seems to seek some good; therefore the ancients pronounced -the beautiful to be good.” Much, indeed, might be collected from -this philosopher’s treatises on morals, poetics, and physiognomy, of -the greatest importance to our subject; but for the present we shall -produce only two quotations from Xenophon’s <cite>Memorabilia</cite>, which -contain the immediate application of these principles to the arts -of design. In the dialogue between Socrates and the sculptor Clito, -Socrates concludes, that “Statuary must represent the emotions of the -soul by form;” and in the former part of the same dialogue, Parrhasius -and Socrates agree that, “the good and evil qualities of the soul may -be represented in the figure of man by painting.” In the applications -from this dialogue to our subject, we must remember, philosophy -demonstrates that rationality and intelligence, although connected with -animal nature, rises above it, and properly exists in a more exalted -state. From such contemplations and maxims, the ancient artists -sublimated the sentiments of their works, expressed in the choicest -forms of nature; thus they produced their divinities, heroes, patriots, -and philosophers, adhering to the principle of Plato, that “nothing is -beautiful which is not good;” it was this which, in ages of polytheism -and idolatry, still continued to enforce a popular impression of divine -attributes and perfection.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>If the ancient sculptors had had nothing but such maxims and -contemplations as these to assist them in forming their statues, they -would have been greatly to seek indeed! Take these homilies on -the Beautiful and the Good, together with Euclid’s Elements, into -any country town in England, and see if you can make a modern -Athens of it. The Greek artists did not learn to put expression into -<span class='pageno' id='Page_348'>348</span>their works, because Socrates had said, that ‘statuary must represent the -emotions of the soul by form;’ but he said that they ought to do so, -because he had seen it done by Phidias and others. It was from the -diligent study and contemplation of the ‘choicest forms of nature,’ and -from the natural love of beauty and grandeur in the human breast, -and not from ‘shreds and patches,’ of philosophy, that they drew -their conceptions of Gods and men. Let us not, however, be thought -hard on the metaphysics of the ancients: they were the first to propose -these questions, and to feel the curiosity and the earnest desire to -know what the <em>beautiful</em> and the <em>good</em>, meant. If the will was not -tantamount to the deed, it was scarcely their fault; and perhaps, -instead of blaming their partial success, we ought rather to take shame -to ourselves for the little progress we have made, and the dubious -light that has been shed upon such questions since. If the Professor -of Sculpture had sought for the principles of beauty in the antique -statues, instead of the <em>scholia</em> of the commentators, he probably might -have found it to resolve itself (according, at least, to their peculiar -and favourite view of it) into a certain symmetry of form, answering -in a great measure, to harmony of colouring, or of musical sounds. -We do not here affect to lay down a metaphysical theory, but to -criticise an historical fact. We are not bold enough to say that -beauty in general depends on a regular gradation and correspondence -of lines, but we may safely assert that Grecian beauty does. If we -take any beautiful Greek statue, we shall find that, seen in profile, the -forehead and nose form nearly a perpendicular straight line; and -that finely turned at that point, the lower part of the face falls by -gentle and almost equal curves to the chin. The cheek is full and -round, and the outline of the side of the face a general sloping line. -In front, the eyebrows are straight, or gently curved; the eyelids full -and round to match, answering to that of Belphœbe, in Spenser—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Upon her eyebrows many Graces sat,</div> - <div class='line'>Under the shadow of her even brows:’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>The space between the eyebrows is broad, and the two sides of the -nose straight, and nearly parallel; the nostrils form large and distinct -curves; the lips are full and even, the corners being large; the chin -is round, and rather short, forming, with the two sides of the face, a -regular oval. The opposite to this, the Grecian model of beauty, is -to be seen in the contour and features of the African face, where all -the lines, instead of corresponding to, or melting into, one another, in -a kind of <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">rhythmus</span></i> of form, are sharp, angular, and at cross-purposes. -Where strength and majesty were to be expressed by the Greeks, -they adopted a greater squareness, but there was the same unity and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_349'>349</span>correspondence of outline. Greek grace is harmony of movement. -The <em>ideal</em> may be regarded as a certain predominant quality or -character (this may be ugliness or deformity as well as beauty, as is -seen in the forms of fauns and satyrs) diffused over all the parts of an -object, and carried to the utmost pitch, that our acquaintance with -visible models, and our conception of the imaginary object, will -warrant. It is extending our impressions farther, raising them higher -than usual, from the <em>actual</em> to the <em>possible</em>.<a id='r31' /><a href='#f31' class='c014'><sup>[31]</sup></a> How far we can enlarge -our discoveries from the one of these to the other, is a point of some -nicety. In treating on this question, our author thus distinguishes the -Natural and the Ideal Styles:</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The Natural Style may be defined thus: a representation of the -human form, according to the distinction of sex and age, in action or -repose, expressing the affections of the soul. The same words may -be used to define the Ideal Style, but they must be followed by this -addition—<em>selected from such perfect examples as may excite in our minds -a conception of the preternatural</em>. By these definitions will be understood -that the Natural Style is peculiar to humanity, and the Ideal to -spirituality and divinity.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>We should be inclined to say, that the female divinities of the -ancients were Goddesses because they were <em>ideal</em>, rather than that -they were <em>ideal</em> because they belonged to the class of Goddesses; -‘By their own beauty were they deified.’ Of the difficulty of passing -the line that separates the actual from the imaginary world, some test -may be formed by the suggestion thrown out a little way back; <em>viz.</em> -that the <em>ideal</em> is exemplified in systematizing and enhancing any idea -whether of beauty or deformity, as in the case of the fauns and -satyrs of antiquity. The expressing of depravity and grossness is -produced here by approximating the human face and figure to that of -the brute; so that the mind runs along this line from one to the other, -and carries the wished-for resemblance as far as it pleases. But here -both the extremes are equally well known, equally objects of sight -and observation: insomuch that there might be a literal substitution of -the one for the other; but in the other case, of elevating character -and pourtraying Gods as men, one of the extremes is missing; and -the combining the two, is combining a positive with an unknown -abstraction. To represent a Jupiter or Apollo, we take the best -species, (as it seems to us,) and select the best of that species: -how we are to get beyond that <em>best</em>, without any given form or -visible image to refer to, it is not easy to determine. The <em>ideal</em>, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_350'>350</span>according to Mr. Flaxman, is ‘the scale by which to heaven we do -ascend;’ but it is a hazardous undertaking to soar above reality, by -embodying an abstraction. If the ancients could have seen the -immortal Gods, with their bodily sense, (as it was said that Jupiter -had revealed himself to Phidias,) they might have been enabled to -give some reflection or shadow of their countenances to their human -likenesses of them: otherwise, poetry and philosophy lent their light in -vain. It is true, we may magnify the human figure to any extent we -please, for that is a mechanical affair; but how we are to add to our -ideas of grace or grandeur, beyond any thing we have ever seen, -merely by contemplating grace and grandeur that we have never seen, -is quite another matter. If we venture beyond the highest point of -excellence of which we have any example, we quit our hold of the -natural, without being sure that we have laid our hands on what is -truly divine; for that has no earthly image or representative—nature -is the only rule or ‘legislator.’ We may combine existing qualities, -but this must be consistently, that is, such as are found combined in -nature. Repose was given to the Olympian Jupiter to express -majesty; because the greatest power was found to imply repose, and -to produce its effects with the least effort. Minerva, the Goddess of -Wisdom, was represented young and beautiful; because wisdom was -discovered not to be confined to age or ugliness. Not only the -individual excellencies, but their bond of union, were sanctioned by -the testimony of observation and experience. Bacchus is represented -with full, exuberant features, with prominent lips, and a stern brow, -as expressing a character of plenitude and bounty, and the tamer of -savages and wild beasts. But this <em>ideal</em> conception is carried to the -brink; the mould is full, and with a very little more straining, it -would overflow into caricature and distortion. Mercury has wings, -which is merely a grotesque and fanciful combination of known -images. Apollo was described by the poets (if not represented by -the statuary) with a round jocund face, and golden locks, in allusion -to the appearance and rays of the sun. This was an allegory, and -would be soon turned to abuse in sculpture or painting. Thus we -see how circumscribed and uncertain the province of the <em>ideal</em> is, -when once it advances from ‘the most perfect nature to spirituality -and divinity.’ We suspect the improved Deity often fell short of -the heroic original; and the Venus was only the most beautiful -woman of the time, with diminished charms and a finer name added -to her. With respect to <em>ideal</em> expression, it is superior to common -<em>every-day</em> expression, no doubt; that is, it must be raised to correspond -with lofty characters placed in striking situations; but it is tame and -feeble compared with what those characters would exhibit in the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_351'>351</span>supposed circumstances. The expressions in the <cite><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Incendio del Borgo</span></cite> -are striking and grand; but could we see the expression of terror -in the commonest face in real danger of being burnt to death, it would -put all imaginary expressions to shame and flight.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Flaxman makes an attempt to vindicate the golden ornaments, -and eyes of precious stones, in the ancient statues, as calculated to -add to the awe of the beholder, and inspire a belief in their preternatural -power. In this point of view, or as a matter of religious -faith, we are not tenacious on the subject, any more than we object -to the wonder-working images and moving eyes of the patron saints -in Popish churches. But the question, as it regards the fine arts in -general, is curious, and treated at some length, and with considerable -intricacy and learning, by the Lecturer.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘We certainly know,’ he says, ‘that the arts of painting and -sculpture are different in their essential properties. Painting exists by -colours only, and form is the peculiarity of sculpture; but there is a -principle common to both, in which both are united, and without -which neither can exist—and this is drawing; and in the union of -light, shadow, and colour, sculpture may be seen more advantageously -by the chill light of a winter’s day, or the warmer tints of a midsummer’s -sun, according to the solemnity or cheerfulness of the -subject. These positions will be generally agreed to; but the -question before us is, “How far was Phidias successful in adding -colours to the sculpture of the Athenian Minerva, and the Olympian -Jupiter?”—which examples were followed by succeeding artists.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘We have all been struck by the resemblance of figures in coloured -wax-work to persons in fits, and therefore such a representation is -particularly proper for the similitude of persons in fits, or the deceased: -but the Olympian Jupiter and the Athenian Minerva were intended -to represent those who were superior to death and disease. They -were believed immortal, and therefore the stillness of these statues, -having the colouring of life, during the time the spectator viewed -them, would appear divinity in awful abstraction or repose. Their -stupendous size alone was preternatural; and the colouring of life -without motion increased the sublimity of the statue and the terror of -the pious beholder. The effect of the materials which composed -these statues has also been questioned. The statues themselves -(according to the information of Aristotle, in his book concerning -the world) were made of stone, covered with plates of ivory, so -fitted together, that at the distance requisite for seeing them, they -appeared one mass of ivory, which has much the tint of delicate flesh. -The ornaments and garments were enriched with gold, coloured -metals, and precious stones.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_352'>352</span>‘Gold ornaments on ivory are equally splendid and harmonious, -and in such colossal forms must have added a dazzling glory, like -electric fluid running over the surface: the figure, character, and -splendour must have had the appearance of an immortal vision in the -eyes of the votary.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘But let us attend to the judgment passed on these by the ancients: -we have already quoted Quintilian, who says, “they appear to have -added something to religion, the work was so worthy of the divinity.” -Plato says, “the eyes of Minerva were of precious stones,” and -immediately adds, “Phidias was skilful in beauty.” Aristotle calls -him “the wise sculptor.” An opinion prevailed that Jupiter had -revealed himself to Phidias; and the statue is said to have been -touched by lightning in approbation of the work. After these -testimonies, there seems no doubt remaining of the effect produced by -these coloured statues; but the very reasons that prove that colours -in sculpture may have the effect of supernatural vision, <em>fits</em>, or <em>death</em>, -prove at the same time that such practice is utterly improper for the -general representation of the human figure: <em>because, as the tints of -carnation in nature are consequences of circulation, wherever the colour of -flesh is seen without motion, it resembles only death, or a suspension of the -vital powers</em>.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Let not this application of colours, however, in the instances of -the Jupiter and Minerva, be considered as a mere arbitrary decision -of choice or taste in the sculptor, to render his work agreeable in the -eyes of the beholder. It was produced by a much higher motive. -It was the desire of rendering these stupendous forms<a id='r32' /><a href='#f32' class='c014'><sup>[32]</sup></a> living and -intelligent to the astonished gaze of the votary, and to confound the -sceptical by a flash of conviction, that something of divinity resided -in the statues themselves.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The practice of painting sculpture seems to have been common to -most countries, particularly in the early and barbarous states of society. -But whether we look on the idols of the South Seas, the Etruscan -painted sculpture and <em>terra-cotta</em> monuments, or the recumbent -coloured statues on tombs of the middle ages, we shall generally find -the practice has been employed to enforce superstition, or preserve an -exact similitude of the deceased.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘These, however, are in themselves perverted purposes. The -real ends of painting, sculpture, and all the other arts, are to elevate -the mind to the contemplation of truth, to give the judgment a -rational determination, and to represent such of our fellow-men as -have been benefactors to society, not in the deplorable and fallen -<span class='pageno' id='Page_353'>353</span>state of a lifeless and mouldering corpse, but in the full vigour of their -faculties when living, or in something corresponding to the state of -the good received among the just made perfect.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>All this may be very true and very fine; what the greater part of -it has to do with the colouring of statues, we are at a loss to comprehend. -Whenever Mr. Flaxman gives a reason, it usually makes -against himself; but his faith in his conclusion is proof against contradiction. -He says, that adding flesh-colour to statues gives an -appearance of death to them, <em>because the colour of life without motion -argues a suspension of the vital powers</em>. The same might be said of -pictures which have colour without motion; but who would contend, -that because a chalk-drawing has the tints of flesh (denoting circulation) -superadded to it, this gives it the appearance of a person in fits, -or of death? On the contrary, Sir Joshua Reynolds makes it an -objection to coloured statues, that, as well as wax-work, they were -too much like life. This was always the scope and ‘but-end’ of his -theories and rules on art, that it should avoid coming in too close -contact with nature. Still we are not sure that this is not the true -reason, <em>viz.</em> that the imitation ought not to amount to a deception, -nor be effected by gross or identical means. We certainly hate all -wax-work, of whatever description; and the idea of colouring a -statue gives us a nausea; but as is the case with most bigoted people, -the clearness of our reasoning does not keep pace with the strength of -our prejudices. It is easy to repeat that the object of painting is -colour and form, while the object of sculpture is form alone; and to -ring the changes on the purity, the severity, the abstract truth of -sculpture. The question returns as before; Why should sculpture be -more pure, more severe, more abstracted, than any thing else? The -only clew we can suggest is, that from the immense pains bestowed in -sculpture on mere form, or in giving solidity and permanence, this -predominant feeling becomes an exclusive and unsociable one, and the -mind rejects every addition of a more fleeting or superficial kind as an -excrescence and an impertinence. The form is hewn out of the solid -rock; to tint and daub it over with a flimsy, perishable substance, is -a mockery and a desecration, where the work itself is likely to last -for ever. A statue is the utmost possible developement of form; -and that on which the whole powers and faculties of the artist have -been bent: It has a right then, by the laws of intellectual creation, -to stand alone in that simplicity and unsullied nakedness in which it -has been wrought. <em>Tangible form</em> (the primary idea) is blind, averse -to colour. A statue, if it were coloured at all, ought to be inlaid, -that is, done in mosaic, where the colour would be part of the solid -materials. But this would be an undertaking beyond human strength. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_354'>354</span>Where art has performed all that it can do, why require it to begin -its task again? Or if the addition is to be made carelessly and -slightly, it is unworthy of the subject. Colour is at best the mask of -form: paint on a statue is like paint on a real face,—it is not of a -piece with the work, it does not belong to the face, and justly obtains -the epithet of <em>meretricious</em>.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Flaxman, in comparing the progress of ancient and modern -sculpture, does not shrink from doing justice to the latter. He gives -the preference to scriptural over classical subjects; and, in one -passage, seems half inclined to turn short round on the Greek -mythology and morality, and to treat all those Heathen Gods and -Goddesses as a set of very improper people:—as to the Roman bas-reliefs, -triumphs, and processions, he dismisses them as no better than -so many ‘vulgar, military gazettes.’ He, with due doubt and -deference, places Michael Angelo almost above the ancients. His -statues will not bear out this claim; and we have no sufficient means -of judging of their paintings. In his separate groups and figures in -the <cite>Sistine Chapel</cite>, there is, we indeed think, a conscious vastness of -purpose, a mighty movement, like the breath of Creation upon the -waters, that we see in no other works, ancient or modern. The -forms of his Prophets and Sibyls are like moulds of <em>thought</em>. Mr. -Flaxman is also strenuous in his praises of the <cite>Last Judgment</cite>; but -on that we shall be silent, as we are not converts to his opinion. -Michael Angelo’s David and Bacchus, done when he was young, are -clumsy and unmeaning; even the grandeur of his Moses is confined -to the horns and beard. The only works of his in sculpture which -sustain Mr. Flaxman’s praise, are those in the chapel of Lorenzo de -Medici at Florence; and these are of undoubted force and beauty.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We shall conclude our extracts with a description of Pisa, the -second birth-place of art in modern times; and in speaking of which, -the learned Lecturer has indulged a vein of melancholy enthusiasm, -which has the more striking effect as it is rare with him.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The Cathedral of Pisa, built by Buskettus, an architect from -Dulichium, was the second sacred edifice (St. Mark’s, in Venice, -being the first) raised after the destruction of the Roman power in -Italy. It has received the honour of being allowed by posterity to -have taken the lead in restoring art; and indeed the traveller, on -entering the city gates, is astonished by a scene of architectural -magnificence and singularity not to be equalled in the world. Four -stupendous structures of white marble in one group—the solemn -Cathedral, in the general parallelogram of its form, resembling an -ancient temple, which unites and simplifies the arched divisions of its -exterior; the Baptistry, a circular building, surrounded with arches -<span class='pageno' id='Page_355'>355</span>and columns, crowned with niches, statues, and pinnacles, rising to an -apex in the centre, terminated by a statue of the Baptist; the Falling -Tower, which is thirteen feet out of the perpendicular, a most elegant -cylinder, raised by eight rows of columns surmounting each other, -and surrounding a staircase; the Cemetery, a long square corridor, -400 by 200 feet, containing the ingenious works of the improvers of -painting down to the sixteenth century. This extraordinary scene, -in the evening of a summer’s day, with a splendid red sun setting in -a dark-blue sky, the full moon rising in the opposite side, over a city -nearly deserted, affects the beholder’s mind with such a sensation of -magnificence, solitude, and wonder, that he scarcely knows whether -he is in this world or not.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>After the glossiness, and splendour, and gorgeous perfection of -Grecian art, the whole seems to sink into littleness and insignificance, -compared with the interest we feel in the period of its restoration, -and in the rude, but mighty efforts, it made to reach to its former -height and grandeur;—with more anxious thoughts, and with a more -fearful experience to warn it—with the ruins of the old world -crumbling around it, and the new one emerging out of the gloom of -Gothic barbarism and ignorance—taught to look from the outspread -map of time and change beyond it—and if less critical in nearer -objects, commanding a loftier and more extended range, like the -bursting the bands of death asunder, or the first dawn of light and -peace after darkness and the tempest!</p> - -<h3 class='c008'>WILSON’S LIFE AND TIMES OF DANIEL DEFOE</h3> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Vol. l.</span>]      [<em>January 1830.</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>This is a very good book, but spun out to too great a length. Mr. -Wilson will not bate an inch of his right to be tediously minute on -any of the topics that pass in review before him, whether they relate -to public or private matters, the author’s life and writings, or the -answers to them by Tutchin and Ridpath. He is indeed so well -furnished with materials, and so full of his subject, that instead of -studying to reduce the size of his work, he very probably thinks he -has shown forbearance in not making it longer. We could not wish -a more distinct or honest chronicler. There is scarcely a sentence, -or a sentiment in his work, that we disapprove, unless we were to -quarrel with what is said in dispraise of the <cite>Beggar’s Opera</cite>. In -general, his opinions are sound, liberal, and enlightened, and as clear -and intelligible in the expression as the intention is upright and manly. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_356'>356</span>The style is plain and unaffected, as is usually the case where a -writer thinks more of his subject than of himself. Mr. Wilson -appears as the zealous and consistent friend of civil and religious -liberty; and not only never swerves from, or betrays his principles, -but omits no opportunity of avowing and enforcing them. He has -‘excellent iteration in him.’ If he repeats the old story over again, -that liberty is a blessing, and slavery a curse,—if he depicts persecution -and religious bigotry in the same unvarying and odious colours, -and never sees the phantom of <em>divine right</em> without proceeding to have -a tilting-bout with it,—as honest Hector Macintire could not be -prevented by his uncle, Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck, from encountering a -<em>seal</em> whenever he saw one,—we confess, notwithstanding, that we like -this pertinacity better than some people’s indifference or tergiversation. -The biographer of Defoe, like Defoe himself, is a Whig, and of the -true stamp; that is, he is a staunch and incorruptible advocate of -Whig principles, and of the great aims the leaders of the Revolution -had in view, as opposed to the absurd and mischievous doctrines of -their adversaries; though this does not bribe his judgment, but -rather makes him more anxious in pointing out and lamenting the -follies, weaknesses, and perversity of spirit, which sometimes clogged -their proceedings, defeated their professed objects, and turned the -cause of justice and freedom into a by-word, and the instrument of a -cabal.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Wilson cannot be charged with going too copiously or indiscriminately -into the details of Defoe’s private life. The anecdotes -and references of this kind are ‘thinly scattered to make up a show,’—<i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">rari -nantes in gurgite vasto</span></i>. Little was known before on this head, -and the author, with all his diligence and zeal, has redeemed little -from obscurity and oblivion. But he makes up for the deficiency of -personal matter, by a superabundance of literary and political information. -All that is to be gleaned of Defoe’s individual history might be -stated in a short compass.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Daniel Defoe, or Foe, as the name was sometimes spelt, was born -in London in the year 1661, in the parish of St. Giles’s, Cripplegate. -His father, James Foe, was a butcher; and his grandfather, Daniel, -the first person among his ancestors of whom any thing is positively -known, was a substantial yeoman, who farmed his own estate at -Elton, in Northamptonshire. The old gentleman kept a pack of -hounds, which indicated both his wealth and his principles as a -royalist; for the Puritans did not allow of the sports of the field, -though his grandson (<i><span lang="es" xml:lang="es">contra bonos mores</span></i>) sometimes indulged in them. -In alluding to this circumstance, Defoe says, ‘I remember my grandfather -had a huntsman, who used the same familiarity (that of giving -<span class='pageno' id='Page_357'>357</span>party names to animals) with his dogs; and he had his Roundhead -and his Cavalier, his Goring and his Waller; and all the generals in -both armies were hounds in his pack, till, the times turning, the old -gentleman was fain to scatter his pack, and make them up of more -dog-like sirnames.’ It was probably from this relative that Defoe -inherited a freehold estate, of which he was not a little vain; and -which seems to have influenced his opinions in his theory of the right -of popular election, and of the British constitution. His father was -a person of a different cast—a rigid dissenter; and from him his son -appears to have imbibed the grounds of his opinions and practice. -He was living at an advanced age in 1705. The following curious -memorandum, signed by him at this period, throws some light on his -character, as well as on that of the times:—‘Sarah Pierce lived with -us, about fifteen or sixteen years since, about two years, and behaved -herself so well, that we recommended her to Mr. Cave, that godly -minister, which we should not have done, had not her conversation -been according to the gospel. From my lodgings, at the Bell in -Broad Street, having lately left my house in Throgmorton Street, -October 10, 1705. Witness my hand, <span class='sc'>James Foe</span>.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>Young Defoe was brought up for the ministry, and educated with -this view at the dissenting academy of Mr. Charles Morton, at -Newington-Green, where Mr. Samuel Wesley, the father of the -celebrated John Wesley, and who afterwards wrote against the -dissenters, was brought up with him. Whether from an unsettled -inclination, or his father’s inability to supply the necessary expenses, -he never finished his education here. He not long after joined in -Monmouth’s rebellion in 1685, and narrowly escaped being taken -prisoner with the rest of the Duke’s followers. It is supposed he -owed his safety to his being a native of London, and his person not -being known in the west of England, where that movement chiefly -took place. He now applied himself to business, and became a kind -of hose-factor. He afterwards set up a Dutch tile-manufactory at -Tilbury, in Essex, and derived great profit from it; but his being -sentenced to the pillory for his <cite>Shortest Way with the Dissenters</cite>, (one -of the truest, ablest, and most seasonable pamphlets ever published,) -and the heavy fine and imprisonment that followed, involved him in -distress and difficulty ever after. He occasionally, indeed, seemed to -be emerging from obscurity, and to hold his head above water for a -time, (and at one period had built himself a handsome house at -Stoke-Newington, which is still to be seen there,) but this show of -prosperity was of short continuance; all of a sudden, we find him -immersed in poverty and law as deeply as ever; and it would appear -that, with all his ability and industry, however he might be formed to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_358'>358</span>serve his country or delight mankind, he was not one of those who -are born to make their fortunes,—either from a careless, improvident -disposition, that squanders away its advantages, or a sanguine and -restless temper, that constantly abandons a successful pursuit for some -new and gilded project. Defoe took an active and enthusiastic part -in the Revolution of 1688, and was personally known to King -William, of whom he was a sort of idolater, and evinced a spirit of -knight-errantry in defence of his character and memory whenever it -was attacked. He was released from prison (after lying there two -years) by the interference and friendship of Harley, who introduced -him to Queen Anne, by whom he was employed on several confidential -missions, and more particularly in effecting the Union with -Scotland. His personal obligations to Harley fettered his politics -during the four last years of Queen Anne, and threw a cloud over his -popularity in the following reign, but fixed no stain upon his character, -except in the insinuations and slanders of his enemies, whether of his -own or the opposite party. It was not till after he had retired from -the battle, covered with scars and bruises, but without a single trophy -or reward, in acknowledgment of his indefatigable and undeniable -services in defence of the cause he had all his life espoused—when he -was nearly sixty years of age, and struck down by a fit of apoplexy—that -he thought of commencing novel-writer, for his amusement and -subsistence. The most popular of his novels, <cite>Robinson Crusoe</cite>, was -published in the year 1719, and he poured others from his pen, for -the remaining ten or twelve years of his life, as fast, and with as little -apparent effort, as he had formerly done lampoons, reviews, and -pamphlets.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We are in the number of those who, though we profess ourselves -mightily edified and interested by the researches of biography, are not -always equally gratified by the actual result. Few things, in an -ordinary life, can come up to the interest which every reader of -sensibility must take in the author of <cite>Robinson Crusoe</cite>. ‘Heaven lies -about us in our infancy;’ and it cannot be denied, that the first -perusal of that work makes a part of the illusion:—the roar of the -waters is in our ears,—we start at the print of the foot in the sand, -and hear the parrot repeat the well-known sounds of ‘Poor Robinson -Crusoe! Who are you? Where do you come from; and where -are you going?’—till the tears gush, and in recollection and feeling -we become children again! One cannot understand how the author -of this world of abstraction should have had any thing to do with the -ordinary cares and business of life; or it almost seems that he should -have been fed, like Elijah, by the ravens. What boots it then to -know that he was a hose-factor, and the owner of a tile-kiln in Essex—that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_359'>359</span>he stood in the pillory, was over head and ears in debt, and -engaged in eternal literary and political squabbles? It is, however, -well to be assured that he was a man of worth as well as genius; and -that, though unfortunate, and having to contend all his life with -vexations and disappointments, with vulgar clamour and the hand of -power, yet he did nothing to leave a blot upon his name, or to make -the world ashamed of the interest they must always feel for him. If -there is nothing in a farther acquaintance with his writings to raise -our admiration higher, (which could hardly happen without a miracle,) -there is a great deal to enlarge the grounds of it, and to strengthen -our esteem and confidence in him. To say nothing of the incessant -war he waged with crying abuses, with priestcraft and tyranny, and -the straight line of consistency and principle which he followed from -the beginning to the end of his career,—he was a powerful though -unpolished satirist in verse, (as his <cite>True-born Englishman</cite> sufficiently -proves);—was master of an admirable prose style;—in his <cite>Review</cite>, -(a periodical paper which was published three times a week for nine -years together,) led the way to that class of essay-writing, and those -dramatic sketches of common life and manners, which were afterwards -so happily perfected by Steele and Addison;—in his <cite>Essays on -Trade</cite>, anticipated many of those broad and liberal principles which -are regarded as modern discoveries;—in his Moral Essays, and some -of his Novels, undoubtedly set the example of that minute description -and perplexing casuistry, of which Richardson so successfully -availed himself;—was among the first to advocate the intellectual -equality, and the necessity of improvements in the education of -women;—suggested the project of <cite>Saving Banks</cite>, and an <cite>Asylum for -Idiots</cite>;—among other notable services and claims to attention, by his -thoughts on the best mode of watching and lighting the streets of the -metropolis, might be considered as the author of the modern system -of police;—and even in party matters, and the heats and rancorous -differences of jarring sects, generally seized on that point of view -which displayed most moderation and good sense, and in his favourite -conclusions and arguments, was half a century before his contemporaries, -who, for that reason, made common cause against him.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Defoe ‘was too fond of the right to pursue the expedient;’ and -had much too dry, hard, and concentrated an understanding of the -truth, to allow of any compromise with it from courtesy to the -feelings or opinions of others. This kept him in perpetual hot water. -It was a virtue, but carried to a repeated excess. It set the majority -against him, and turned his dearest friends into his bitterest foes. If -you make no concessions to the world, you must expect no favours -from it. Our author’s blindness and simplicity on this head, amount -<span class='pageno' id='Page_360'>360</span>to the <em>dramatic</em>. He went on censuring and contradicting all sects -and parties, setting them to rights, recommending peace to them, -praying each to give up its darling prejudice and absurdity; and then -he wonders that ‘a man of peace and reason,’ like himself, should be -the butt of universal contumely and hatred. If an individual differs -from you in common with others, you do not so much mind it—it is -the act of a body, and implies no particular assumption of superior -wisdom or virtue; but if he not only differs from you, but from his -own <em>side</em> too, you then can endure the scandal no longer; but join to -hunt him down as a prodigy of unheard-of insolence and presumption, -and to get rid of him and his boasted honesty and independence -together. While, therefore, the author of the <cite>True-born Englishman</cite>, -<cite>The Shortest Way with the Dissenters</cite>, and the <cite>Legion Petition</cite>, thought -he was deserving well of God and his country, he was ‘heaping coals -of fire on his own head.’ Nothing produces such antipathy in others -as a total seeming want of sympathy with them. Defoe was urged -on by a straight-forwardness and sturdiness of feeling, which did not -permit him to give up a single iota of his convictions; but it was -‘stuff of the conscience’ with him; there was nothing of spleen, -malevolence, or the spirit of contradiction in his nature. Still, we -consider him rather as an acute, zealous, and well-informed partisan, -than as a general and dispassionate reasoner. He was a distinguished -polemic, rather than a philosopher. Though he exercised his understanding -powerfully and variously, yet it was always under the -guidance of a certain banner—in support of ‘a foregone conclusion.’ -He was too much in the heat of the battle—too constantly occupied -in attacking or defending one side or the other, to consider fairly -whether both might not be in the wrong. He asked himself, (as he -was obliged to do in his own vindication,)—‘Why am I in the -right?’ and gave admirable reasons for it, supposing it to be so; but -he never thought of asking himself the farther question,—‘Am I in -the right or no?’ This would have been entering on a new and -unexplored tract, and might have led to no very welcome results. -As an example of what we mean—Defoe, though a most strenuous -and persevering advocate for the rights of conscience and toleration to -those dissenters who, in his view, agreed with the church in the -<em>essentials</em> of Christianity, was, notwithstanding, far from being disposed -to extend the same indulgence to Socinians, Anabaptists, or other -heretical persons. Of course, he would conceive that he, and those -with whom he acted in concert, were not criminal in excluding others -from the privilege in question; but he did not enlarge his views -beyond this point, so as to change places with those who entirely -differed with him; and in this respect fell short of the philosophical -<span class='pageno' id='Page_361'>361</span>and liberal opinions of Locke, and even Toland, who placed toleration -on the broad ground of a general principle, whatever exceptions -might arise from particular circumstances, and urgent political -expediency. We should, therefore, hardly be warranted in admitting -Defoe into the class of perfectly free and unshackled speculative -thinkers; though we certainly may rank him among the foremost of -polemical writers for vigour, and ability of execution.</p> - -<p class='c010'>It will be easily conceived, that in the variety of subjects of which -his author treated, and in the number and importance of the events in -which he took part, either in person, or with his pen, Mr. Wilson, -whose industry and patience seem to have increased with the field he -had to traverse, is at no loss for materials either for reflection or -illustration. The only fault is, that the life of Defoe is sometimes -lost in the history of the events of his time, like a petty current in the -ocean. Nevertheless, the writer has traced these events and their -causes so faithfully and clearly, and with such pertinent reflections, -that we readily pass over this fault, and can forgive the slowness of a -pencil that only <em>drags</em> from the weight of truth and good intention.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Wilson has extracted from Defoe’s <cite>Review</cite> (7. p. 296,) his -account of the origin and application of the far-famed terms—Whig -and Tory; and it is so curiously circumstantial, that we shall lay it -before our readers, though some of them, no doubt, are already well -acquainted with it.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The word Tory is Irish, and was first made use of there in the -time of Queen Elizabeth’s wars in Ireland. It signified a kind of -robber, who being listed in neither army, preyed in general upon the -country, without distinction of English or Spaniard. In the Irish -massacre, anno 1641, you had them in great numbers, assisting in -every thing that was bloody and villainous; and particularly when -humanity prevailed upon some of the Papists to preserve Protestant -relations. These were such as chose to butcher brothers and sisters, -fathers and mothers, the dearest friends and nearest relations; these -were called <em>Tories</em>. In England, about the year 1680, a party of -men appeared among us, who, though pretended Protestants, yet -applied themselves to the ruin and destruction of their country. -They began with ridiculing the Popish plot, and encouraging the -Papists to revive it. They pursued their designs, in banishing the -Duke of Monmouth and calling home the Duke of York; then in -abhorring, petitioning, and opposing the bill of exclusion; in giving -up charters, and the liberties of their country, to the arbitrary will -of their prince; then in murdering patriots, persecuting dissenters, -and at last, in setting up a Popish prince, on pretence of hereditary -right, and tyranny on pretence of passive obedience. These men, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_362'>362</span>for their criminal preying upon their country, and their cruel, bloody -disposition, began to show themselves so like the Irish thieves and -murderers aforesaid, that they quickly got the name of Tories. -Their real god-father was Titus Oates, and the occasion of his -giving them the name as follows—the author of this happened to -be present: There was a meeting of some honest people in the city, -upon the occasion of the discovery of some attempt to stifle the -evidence of the witnesses [to the Popish plot], and tampering with -Bedloe and Stephen Dugdale. Among the discourse, Mr. Bedloe -said, he had letters from Ireland, that there were some Tories to be -brought over hither, who were privately to murder Dr. Oates and -the said Bedloe. The Doctor, whose zeal was very hot, could -never after this hear any man talk against the plot, or against the -witnesses, but he thought he was one of these Tories, and called -almost every man a Tory that opposed him in discourse; till at last -the word Tory became popular, and it stuck so close to the party -in all their bloody proceedings, that they had no way to get it -off; so at last they owned it, just as they do now the name of -High-flyer.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘As to the word <em>Whig</em>, it is Scotch. The use of it began there -when the western men, called Cameronians, took arms frequently for -their religion. Whig was a word used in those parts for a kind of -liquor the Western Highlandmen used to drink, whose composition -I do not remember,<a id='r33' /><a href='#f33' class='c014'><sup>[33]</sup></a> and so became common to the people who -drank it. It afterwards became a denomination of the poor harassed -people of that part of the country, who, being unmercifully persecuted -by the government, against all law and justice, thought they had a -civil right to their religious liberties, and therefore frequently resisted -the arbitrary power of their princes. These men, tired with innumerable -oppressions, ravishings, murders, and plunderings, took -up arms about 1681, being the famous insurrection at Bothwell-bridge. -The Duke of Monmouth, then in favour here, was sent -against them by King Charles, and defeated them. At his return, -instead of thanks for the good service, he found himself ill-treated -for using them too mercifully; and Duke Lauderdale told King -Charles with an oath, that the Duke had been so civil to Whigs, -because he was a Whig himself in his heart. This made it a court-word; -and in a little time, all the friends and followers of the Duke -began to be called Whigs; and they, as the other party did by the -word Tory, took it freely enough to themselves.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>The cruelties of this reign, and the sufferings of the people, for -<span class='pageno' id='Page_363'>363</span>conscience and religion, on this and so many other occasions, formed -a striking contrast to the voluptuous effeminacy and callous indifference -of the court; and this insolent and pampered want of sympathy, by -adding wanton insult to intolerable injury, undermined all respect for -the throne in the minds of a numerous class of the community, and -took away all pity for its fall in the succeeding reign. Charles, -however, who seemed to oppress his subjects only for his amusement, -and played the tyrant as an appendage to the character of the fine -gentleman, did not proceed to extremities, or throw off the mask, -whatever his secret wishes or designs might be, by openly attacking -large masses of power and opinion. James was a true monk,—a -blind, narrow, gloomy bigot; and did not stop short in his mad and -obstinate career, till he drove the country to rebellion, and himself -into exile. As the French wit said of him, seeing him coming out -of a Popish chapel abroad, ‘There goes a very honest gentleman, -who gave up a kingdom for a mass.’ By great good luck he -succeeded, for it turned upon a nice point at last. On James’s -accession to the throne, addresses of loyalty and devotion poured in -from all quarters, notwithstanding his well-known principles and -designs. An address from the Middle Temple expressed the sentiments -of that body of scholars and gentlemen, in a strain of fulsome servility. -The University of Oxford promised to obey him ‘without limitations -or restrictions;’ and the king’s promise, in his speech from the -throne, (says Burnet,) passed for a thing so sacred, that those were -looked upon as ill-bred who put into their address, ‘our religion -established by law, excepted.’ The pulpits resounded with thanksgiving -sermons, and the doctrine of passive obedience and non-resistance; -and the clergy were forward in tendering the unconditional -surrender of their rights and liberties for themselves, their fellow-subjects, -and their posterity. If James did not before think himself -<em>God’s vicegerent upon earth</em>, he must have thought so now. But he -no sooner took them at their word, and proceeded to appoint papists -to be heads of colleges, and to induct them to protestant livings, and -to send the bishops to the Tower for refusing to set their seal to his -arbitrary mandates; that is, he no sooner alarmed the clergy for their -authority spiritual, and their revenues temporal,—so that judgment -began, as Dr. Sherlock expressed it, in the house of God,—than -they turned round, and sent their loyalty and their monarch a-packing -together. Had it not been for this attack on the Church of England, -the People of England might have been left to struggle with the -hand of power and oppression how they could; and would have -received plenty of reproofs and taunts from orthodox pulpits, on their -refractory and unnatural behaviour in resisting lawful authority. Mr. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_364'>364</span>Wilson has quoted an eloquent passage from Defoe, in which he -admirably exposes the indifference of the nation, at this period, to -principles, and their short-sightedness as to consequences, till they -actually arrived. We give the passage, both for the sense and style. -It alludes to the favourers of the <cite>Exclusion Bill</cite>.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘How earnestly did those honest men, whose eyes God had -opened to see the danger, labour to prevent the mischiefs of a -Popish tyranny? How did they struggle in Parliament, and out of -Parliament, to exclude a prince that did not mock them, but really -promised them in as plain language as actions could speak, that he -would be a tyrant; that he would erect arbitrary power upon the -foot of our liberties, as soon as he had the reins in his hands? How -were the opposers of this inundation oppressed by power, and borne -down in the stream of it? And when they were massacred by that -bloody generation, how did they warn us at their deaths of the -mischiefs that were coming? Yet all this while, deaf as the adder -to the voice of the charmer, stupid and hard as the nether millstone, -we would not believe, nor put our hand to our deliverance, till that -same Popery, that same tyranny, and that very party we struggled -with, were sent to be our instructors; and then we learnt the lesson -presently. Tyranny taught us the value of liberty; oppression, how -to prize the fence of laws; and Popery showed us the danger of the -Protestant religion. Then passive pulpits beat the ecclesiastical -drum of war; absolute subjection took up arms; and obedience for -conscience-sake resisted divine right. And who taught them this -heterodox lesson? Truly, the same schoolmaster they had hanged -us for telling them of, the same dispensing power they had enacted, -and the same tyranny they had murdered us for opposing.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>Defoe gives a very curious account of the insults offered to -James <span class='fss'>II.</span> after his fall, and of which he was an eyewitness.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The king (after the Prince of Orange had entered London) had -proceeded to the Kentish coast, and embarked on board a vessel -with the intention of going to France; but being detained by the -wind, Sir Edward Hales, one of his attendants, sent his footman -to the post-office at Feversham, where his livery was recognised. -Being traced to the vessel, it was immediately boarded by some -people from the town, who, mistaking the king for a popish priest, -searched his person, and took from him four hundred guineas, with -some valuable seals and jewels. The rank of the individual treated -with so much indignity was not long undiscovered; for, there being -a constable present who happened to know him, he threw himself -at his feet, and, begging him to forgive the rudeness of the mob, -ordered restitution of what had been taken from him. The king, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_365'>365</span>receiving the jewels and seals, distributed the money amongst them. -After this, he was conducted to Feversham, where fresh insults were -heaped upon fallen majesty.’—‘While there, he found himself in -the hands of the rabble, who, upon the noise of the king’s being -taken, thronged from all parts of the country to Feversham, so that -the king found himself surrounded, as it were, with an army of furies; -the whole street, which is very wide and large, being filled, and -thousands of the noisy gentry got together. His majesty, who knew -well enough the temper of the people at that time, but not what they -might be pushed on to do at such a juncture, was very uneasy, and -spoke to some of the gentlemen, who came with more respect, and -more like themselves, to the town on that surprising occasion. The -king told them he was in their hands, and was content to be so, and -they might do what they pleased with him; but whatever they -thought fit to do, he desired they would quiet the people, and not -let him be delivered up to the rabble, to be torn in pieces. The -gentlemen told his majesty they were sorry to see him used so ill, -and would do any thing in their power to protect him; but that it -was not possible to quell the tumult of the people. The king was -distressed in the highest degree; the people shouting and pressing in -a frightful manner to have the door opened. At length, his majesty -observing a forward gentleman among the crowd, who ran from one -party to another, hallooing and animating the people, the king sent to -tell him he desired to speak with him. The message was delivered -with all possible civility, and the little Masaniello was prevailed with -to come up stairs. The king received him with a courtesy rather -equal to his present circumstances than to his dignity; told him, -what he was doing might have an event worse than he intended; that -he seemed to be heating the people up for some mischief; and that as -he had done him no personal wrong, why should he attack him in -this manner; that he was in their hands, and they might do what -they pleased; but he hoped they did not design to murder him. -The fellow stood, as it were, thunderstruck, and said not one word. -The king, proceeding, told him he found he had some influence with -the rabble, and desired he would pacify them; that messengers were -gone to the parliament at London, and that he desired only they -would be quiet till their return. What the fellow answered to the -king I know not; but as I immediately enquired, they told -me he did not say much, but this—“What can I do with them? -and, what would you have me do?” But as soon as the king had -done speaking, he turned short, and made to the door as fast as he -could to go out of the room. As soon as he got fairly to the stairhead, -and saw his way open, he turns short about to the gentlemen, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_366'>366</span>to one of whom he had given the same churlish answer, and raising -his voice, so that the king, who was in the next room, should be sure -to hear him, he says, “<em>I have a bag of money as long as my arm, halloo, -boys, halloo!</em>” The king was so filled with contempt and just -indignation at the low-spirited insolence of the purse-proud wretch, -that it quite took off the horror of the rabble, and only smiling, he -sat down and said, “Let them alone, let them do their worst.”’</p> - -<p class='c010'>It seems the man was a retired grocer; and Defoe, in his <cite>Complete -Tradesman</cite>, (says his biographer,) relates the circumstance, to show, -that to be vain of mere wealth denotes a baseness of soul, and is often -accompanied by a conduct unworthy of a rational creature.</p> - -<p class='c010'>In the midst of his distress, the King, it appears, had applied for -protection to a clergyman, who treated him with cool indifference. -The fact is thus noticed by Defoe:</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘When the king was taken at Sheerness, and had fallen into the -hands of the rabble, he applied himself to a clergyman who was there, -in words to this effect: “Sir, it is men of your cloth who have -reduced me to this condition; I desire you will use your endeavours -to still and quiet the people, and disperse them, that I may be freed -from this tumult.” The gentleman’s answer was cold and insignificant; -and going down to the people, he returned no more to the -king. Several of the gentry and clergy thereabouts,’ adds our author, -‘who had formerly preached and talked up this mad doctrine, -(passive obedience,) never offered the king their assistance in that -distress, which, as a man, whether prince or no, any one would have -done: it therefore to me renders their integrity suspected, when they -pretended to an absolute submission, and only meant that they -expected it from their neighbours, whom they designed to oppress, -but resolved never to practise the least part of it themselves, if ever -it should look towards them.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>In another place, Defoe observes,</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘I never was, I thank God for it, one of those that betrayed him, -or any one else. I was never one that flattered him in his arbitrary -proceedings, or made him believe I would bear oppression and -injustice with a tame Issachar-like temper; those who did so, and -then flew in his face, I believe, as much betrayed him as Judas did -our Saviour; and their crime, whatever the Protestant interest gained -by it, is no way lessened by the good that followed.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>The same spirit of integrity and candour, the same desire to see -fair play, and to do justice to all parties,—in a word, the same spirit -of common sense and common honesty which marks this passage, -runs through all Defoe’s writings; and as it raised him up a host of -enemies among the abettors and abusers of power, so it left him -<span class='pageno' id='Page_367'>367</span>neither friends nor shelter in his own party, to whose faults and errors -he gave as little quarter; thinking himself bound to condemn them -as freely and frankly. Hence he had a life of uneasiness,—an old -age of pain. In reading the above description of James’s situation, -the hand is passed thoughtfully over the brow, and we for a moment -forget the crimes of the monarch in the misfortunes of the man. It -is laid down by Mr. Burke, that none but mild, inoffensive princes, -ever bring themselves to the condition of being objects of insult or -pity to their subjects; and that tyrants, who deserve punishment, -know well how to guard themselves against it, and ‘to keep their -seats firm.’ Let us see how far this doctrine is made good in the -case of James; or how far his own misdeeds brought their rare, but -natural punishment upon his head. We will let Mr. Wilson speak to -this point:—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The fate of James,’ he says, ‘would have been more entitled to -pity, if he had not stained his character by so many acts of wanton -and cold-blooded cruelty. That his merciless character was well -known to the nation, appears by the intrepid retort of Colonel -Ayloffe, who had been condemned to death, but was advised by -James to make some disclosures, it being in his power to pardon. -“I know,” says he, “it is in your power, but it is not in your nature, -to pardon.” That compassion was a total stranger to his breast, no -one can doubt who reads the following affecting narrative: Monsieur -Roussel, a French protestant divine of great learning and integrity, -and minister of the Reformed Church at Montpelier in France, -having witnessed the demolition of his own place of worship, soon -after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, ventured, at the desire -of his people, to preach in the night-time upon its ruins, and was -attended by some thousands of his flock. For this offence he was -condemned, by the intendant of Languedoc, to be broke upon the -wheel; but, having withdrawn from the place, it was ordered that -he should be hanged in effigy. After encountering numerous hazards, -he succeeded in effecting his escape from France; and reaching -Ireland, was chosen pastor of the French church in Dublin. James, -who, for the sake of courting popularity, had formerly affected a -charitable disposition towards the French refugees, threw off the -mask when he landed in that country, and was surrounded by French -counsellors. Being no longer under any temptation to disguise his -natural temper and his hatred to the reformed religion, he committed -one of those breaches of good faith which must for ever consign his -name to infamy. For, instead of protecting a stranger who had been -persecuted in his own country for a conscientious discharge of his -religious duties, and had sought an asylum under the laws of another, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_368'>368</span>where he had lived for some years in peaceable exile, the base wretch -delivered up this unoffending person to the French ambassador, -Count D’Avaux, who sent him in chains to France, there to undergo -the terrible punishment prepared for him by his inhuman murderers.<a id='r34' /><a href='#f34' class='c014'><sup>[34]</sup></a> -Such an action requires no comment; nor can any term of reproach -be too strong to designate the monster who could lend himself to its -perpetration.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>Yet many people, seeing the poor and forlorn figure which the -exiled sovereign made with a few followers in the remote and silent -court of St. Germain’s, wanted to have him back; thinking that, to -curtail him of the power to repeat such acts as that just related, and -to deluge a country with blood, was the last degree of hardship, and -a sad indignity offered to a king! Defoe was not in the number of -these sentimentalists; and he had enough to do after his countrymen’s -‘courage had been screwed to the sticking-place,’ to keep it there, -and warn them against a relapse into Popery and slavery. One of -his first publications had been an Address to the Dissenters, to -caution them against accepting the terms of a general Toleration, -which, on his accession to the throne, James <span class='fss'>II.</span> had insidiously held -out to all parties, and which was to include Papists as well as -Dissenters. This was not a bait for Defoe’s keen jealousy and -strong repugnance to the encroachments of power to be taken in by. -There was, however, some danger that the Dissenters, from their -timidity and love of ease, and their being habitually too much -engrossed by themselves and their own grievances, might be tempted -to purchase the proffered grace at the price of allowing the Papists -the same liberty; which was (at this period), under the barefaced -pretence of liberality, and a tenderness for scrupulous consciences, -to throw open the flood-gates of the most unbounded bigotry and -intolerance. But the hatred and dread of Popery was, at this time, -the ruling passion, in which the Dissenters shared in its utmost -rancour and virulence; and this old grudge and hereditary antipathy -had the effect of counteracting their natural coldness and phlegm, -and a certain narrowness and formality in their views. Some of -the weakest among them were, notwithstanding, for running into the -snare, and did not easily forgive Defoe for pointing it out to them. -The Marquis of Halifax had written a pamphlet on the same side -of the question, called, ‘A Letter to a Dissenter, upon occasion of -his Majesty’s late Declaration of Indulgence, 1687.’ The title of -Defoe’s work is not now known. In speaking of it himself, some -years after, he says,</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The next time I differed with my friends was when King James -<span class='pageno' id='Page_369'>369</span>was wheedling the Dissenters to take off the penal laws and test, -which I could by no means come into. And as in the first I used -to say, I had rather the Popish House of Austria should ruin the -Protestants in Hungary than the infidel House of Ottoman should -ruin both Protestant and Papist by overrunning Germany; so, in -the other, I told the Dissenters I had rather the Church of England -should pull our clothes off by fines and forfeitures, than that the -Papists should fall both upon the Church and the Dissenters, and -pull our skins off by fire and faggot.’<a id='r35' /><a href='#f35' class='c014'><sup>[35]</sup></a></p> - -<p class='c010'>The allusion in the foregoing passage is to an early Piece of -Defoe’s, (not reprinted among his tracts), in which he had drawn -his sword (for his weapon would be out) in defence of the Pope -against the Turks. The occasion was this: The Hungarian -Reformers having been persecuted and proscribed by the Austrian -monarch, had risen in arms against him; and the Turks, availing -themselves of the opportunity, had marched to their assistance, and -laid siege to Vienna. Most of the English Protestants (as men think -the nearest danger greatest, and hate their old enemies most,) were -inclined to rejoice at this tumbling of a Popish despot, and the -success of their Hungarian brethren. But Defoe, who saw farther -than others, (and perhaps took a little pride in doing so,) viewed the -matter in a different light, and deprecated the possible triumph of -the Crescent over the Cross, and the subjugation of all Christendom, -which might be the consequence. Logically speaking, he was right; -but prudentially, he was perhaps wrong. The powers of Europe -took the alarm as well as he, and combined to rescue the Austrian -monarch from the gripe of the Mussulman. They succeeded; but -could obtain no terms for the Hungarian peasants. Had the -Emperor been left to fight his own battles against the Turks, he -might have been frightened into measures of moderation and justice -towards his own subjects; and there was, in the meantime, little -probability of a Mahometan army overrunning Europe.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Defoe’s first publication was a satirical pamphlet, called <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Speculum -Crape-gownorum</span></cite>; intended to ridicule the fopperies and affectation of -the younger clergy, as a set-off to some severe attacks on the mode -of preaching among the Dissenters. This performance bears the -date of 1682, when Defoe was only twenty-one, so that he commenced -author very young. From that period he hardly ever ceased -writing for the rest of his life; and a list of his works would alone -fill a long article. The pasquinade just mentioned is attributed, by -Mr. Godwin, in his <cite>Lives of the Philipses</cite>, to John Philips; but -Mr. Wilson gives it to Defoe, on his own authority; and certainly his -<span class='pageno' id='Page_370'>370</span>report is to be trusted, for he was a person of unchallengeable veracity. -He was always a warm partisan of the Dissenters, (among whom he -was born and bred,) and was ever ready to take up their quarrel -either with wit or argument, for which he got small thanks. He -was not, however, to be put off by their dulness or ingratitude. He -was old enough to remember the times of their persecution and ‘fiery -ordeal;’ and it is at this source that the spirit of liberty is tempered -and steeled to its keenest edge. Defoe’s political firmness may, in -part, also be traced to this union between the feelings of civil and -religious liberty. An attachment to freedom, for the advantages it -holds out to society, may be sometimes overruled by a calculation of -prudence, or of the opposite advantages held out to the individual; -but a resistance to power for conscience-sake, and as a dictate of -religious duty, rests on a positive ground, which is not to be shaken -or tampered with, and has the seeds of permanence and martyrdom -in it. What Mr. Burke calls ‘the <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Hortus Siccus</span></i> of Dissent’ is therefore -the hotbed of resistance to the encroachments of ambition; and -when, by long-continued struggles, the disqualifications of Dissenters -are taken off, and the zeal which had been kept alive by hard usage -and penal laws subsides into indifference or scepticism, we doubt -whether there is any lever left, in mere public opinion, strong enough -to throw off the pressure of unjust and ruinous power.</p> - -<p class='c010'>With these feelings, and, after the fears which he and all good -men must have entertained for the safety of their religion, and the -freedom of their country, it is not to be wondered at if Defoe hailed -the arrival of the Prince of Orange with the greatest joy. He kept -the anniversary of his landing, the 4th of November, all his life after. -We find an account of him as one of those who went in procession -with their Majesties to Guildhall, as a guard of honour, the year -following. Oldmixon, who gives the account, has mixed up with it -some of his unfounded prejudices against our author:</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Their Majesties,’ he says, ‘attended (Oct. 29, 1689,) by their -royal highnesses the Prince and Princesses of Denmark, and by -a numerous train of nobility and gentry, went first to a balcony, -prepared for them at the Angel in Cheapside, to see the show; which, -for the great number of livery-men, the full appearance of the militia -and artillery company, the rich adornments of the pageants, and the -splendour and good order of the whole proceeding, out-did all that -had been seen before upon that occasion; and what deserved to be -particularly mentioned, says a reverend historian, was a royal regiment -of volunteer-horse, made up of the chief citizens, who, being gallantly -mounted and richly accoutred, were led by the Earl of Monmouth, -now Earl of Peterborough, and attended their Majesties from Whitehall. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_371'>371</span>Among these troopers, who were, for the most part, Dissenters, -was Daniel Defoe, at that time a hosier in Freeman’s-yard, Cornhill; -the same who afterwards was pilloried for writing an ironical invective -against the Church; and did after that list in the service of Mr. -Robert Harley, and those brethren of his who broke the confederacy, -and made a shameful and ruinous peace with France.’<a id='r36' /><a href='#f36' class='c014'><sup>[36]</sup></a></p> - -<p class='c010'>Oldmixon evidently singles out his brother author in this gallant -procession with an eye of envy rather than friendship; and the -invidious turn given to his politics only means, that all those were -<em>black sheep</em> who did not go the absurd lengths of Oldmixon and his -party in every thing.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The joy and exultation of Defoe on this great and glorious -occasion was not of long duration, but was soon turned to gall and -bitterness. ‘Though that his joy was joy,’ yet both friends and foes -laboured hard to ‘throw such changes of vexation on it, that it might -lose all colour.’ His admiration of King William was the ruling -passion of his life. He was his hero, his deliverer, his friend: he -was bound to him by the ties of patriotism, of religion, and of personal -obligation. But this ruling passion was also the torment of his -breast, because his well-grounded enthusiasm was not seconded by -the unanimous public voice, and because the services of the great -champion of liberty and of the Protestant cause did not meet with -that glow of gratitude and affection in the minds of the people (when -their immediate danger was blown over) that they richly merited. -Defoe had not only ridden in procession with his Majesty, but he -was afterwards closeted with him, and consulted by him on more -than one question: so that his self-importance, as well as his sense of -truth and justice, was implicated in the attacks which were made -on the person and character of his royal patron and benefactor. -Nothing can, in our opinion, exceed the good behaviour of William, -nor the ill return he received from those he had been sent for, to -deliver them from Popish bondage and darkness. Being no longer -bowed to the earth by a yoke that they could not lift, and having got -a king of their own choosing, they thought they could not exercise -their new-acquired liberty and independence better than by using him -as ill as possible, and reviling him for the very blessings which he -had been the chief means of bestowing on them, and which his -presence was absolutely necessary to continue to them. Having seen -their hereditary, <em>passive-obedience</em> monarch, King James, quietly seated -on the other side of the Channel, and being no longer in bodily fear -of being executed as rebels, or burnt as heretics, the good people of -England began to find a flaw in the title of the new-made monarch, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_372'>372</span>because he was not, and did not pretend to be, absolute; and to -sacrifice to the <em>manes</em> of divine right, by taking every opportunity, -and resorting to every artifice to insult his person, to revile his reputation, -to wound his feelings, and to cramp and thwart his measures -for his own and their common safety. The Tories and high-fliers -lamented that the crown was without its most precious jewel and -ornament, <em>hereditary right</em>; and though they acknowledged the -necessity of the case upon which they themselves had acted, yet they -thought the time might come when this necessity might cease, and -for their lawful King to be brought back again, ‘with conditions.’ -Pulpits, long accustomed to unqualified submission, now echoed the -double-tongued distinction of a king <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">de jure</span></i> and a king <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">de facto</span></i>. -This party, whose old habits were inimical to the new order of -things, but who made a virtue of necessity, tendered their allegiance -to the Prince of Orange reluctantly and ungraciously; while the -Non-jurors bearded him to his face. The Country Gentlemen, (at -that time a formidable party, ‘not pierceable by power of any argument,’) -only felt themselves at a loss from not having the Dissenters -and Nonconformists to hunt down as usual. William they regarded -as an interloper, who had no rights of his own, and who hindered -other people from exercising theirs, in molesting and domineering -over their neighbours. What made matters worse, was his being a -foreigner; his Dutch origin was one of the things constantly thrown -in his teeth, and that staggered the faith and loyalty of many of his -well-meaning subjects, who could not comprehend the relation in -which they stood to a sovereign of alien descent. The phrase, <em>True-born -Englishman</em>, became a watchword in the mouths of the malecontent -party; and at that name, (as often as it was repeated), the -Whig and Protestant interest grew pale. It was to meet, and finally -quell this charge, that Defoe penned his well-known poem of <cite>The -True-born Englishman</cite>—a satire which, if written in doggerel verse, -and without the wit or pleasantry of Butler’s Hudibras, is a masterpiece -of good sense and just reflection, and shows a thorough knowledge -both of English history and of the English character. It is -indeed a complete and unanswerable exposure of the pretence set up -to a purer and loftier origin than all the rest of the world, instead of -our being a mixed race from all parts of Europe, settling down into -one common name and people. Defoe’s satire was so just and true, -that it drove the cant, to which it was meant to be an antidote, out -of fashion; and it was this piece of service that procured the writer -the good opinion and notice of King William. It did not, however, -equally recommend him to the public. If it silenced the idle and -ill-natured clamours of a party, by telling the plain truth,—that truth -<span class='pageno' id='Page_373'>373</span>was not the more welcome for being plain or effectual. Though this -handle was thus taken from malevolence and discontent, the tide of -unpopularity had set in too strong from the first arrival of the king, not -to continue and increase to the end of his reign; so that at last worn -out with rendering the noblest services, and being repaid with the -meanest ingratitude, he thought of retiring to Holland, and leaving -his English crown of thorns to any one who chose to claim it.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The state of parties, at this period of our history, presents a riddle -that has not been solved. It has been referred to the gloom and -discontent of the English character; but other countries have of late -exhibited the same problem, with the same result. It may be -resolved into that propensity in human nature, through which, when -it has got what it wants, it requires something else which it cannot -have. The English people, at the period in question, wanted a contradiction,—that -is, to have James and William on the throne together; -but this they could not have, and so they were contented with neither. -If they had recalled James, they would have sent him back again. -They wanted him back again <em>with conditions</em>, and security for his -future good behaviour. They wanted his title to the throne without -his abuse of power; an absolute sovereign, with a reserve of the -privileges of the people; a Popish prince, with a Protestant church; -a deliverance from chains without a deliverer; and an escape from -tyranny without the stain of resistance to it. They wanted not out -of two things one which they could have, but a third, which was -impossible; and as they could not have all, they were determined to -be pleased with nothing. This greatly annoyed Defoe, who set his -face against so absurd a manifestation of the spirit of the times. It -embittered his satisfaction in the virtues of the sovereign, and the -glories of his reign,—in his exploits abroad,—the moderation and -justice of his administration at home; nor was he consoled for the -malignity of his prince’s enemies or the indifference of his friends, -either by writing <cite>Odes</cite> on his battles and victories, or <cite>Elegies</cite> and -<cite>Epitaphs</cite> on his death.</p> - -<p class='c010'>He was still less fortunate in following up the dictates of what he -thought right, or in what he called ‘speaking a word in season,’ in -the subsequent reign. Queen Anne, who succeeded to the crown -on the death of King William, was placed in no very graceful or -dutiful position, as keeping her brother from the throne, which she -occupied as the next Protestant heir, but to which, in the opinion -of many, and perhaps in her own, he had a prior indefeasible right. -She had been brought up with bigoted notions of religion; and in -proportion as she felt the political ground infirm under her feet, she -wished to stand well with the Church. There was, through her whole -<span class='pageno' id='Page_374'>374</span>reign, therefore, a strong increasing bias to High-Church principles. -The promise of toleration to the dissenters soon sunk into an <em>indulgence</em>, -and ended in the threat and the intention of putting in force the -severest laws against them, under pretence that the Church was in -danger. The Clergy sung the same song as the Queen, adding a -burden of their own to it;—breathing nothing in their sermons but -suspicion and hatred of the dissenters, reviving and inflaming old -animosities, and encouraging their parishioners to proceed even to -open violence against the frequenters of conventicles. Their services -in bringing about the Revolution were forgotten; and nothing was -insisted on but their share in the great Rebellion, and the beheading -of Charles <span class='fss'>I.</span> A university preacher (Sacheverell) talked of -‘hoisting the bloody flag’ against the dissenters, and treated all those -of the Moderate Party and Low Church as false brethren, who did -not enlist under the banner. Another proposed shutting up not -only the dissenters’ Meeting-Houses, but their Academies, and thus -taking from them the education of their children. A third was for -using gentle violence with the Queen to urge her to severe and -salutary measures against Nonconformists; and considered her as -under <i><span lang="fro" xml:lang="fro">duresse</span></i> in not being allowed to give full scope to the sentiments -labouring in her bosom in favour of the Church of England. Defoe -marked all this with quick and anxious eye; he saw the storm of -persecution gathering, and ready to burst with tenfold vengeance, -from its having been so long delayed; he thought it high time to -warn his brethren of the impending mischief, and to point out to the -government, in a terrible and palpable way, the dangerous and mad -career to which the zealots of a party were urging them headlong. -‘So should his anticipation prevent their discovery.’ He collected -all the poisoned missiles and combustible materials he could lay his -hands on, and putting them together in one heap, brought out his -<cite>Shortest Way with the Dissenters</cite>. If it startled his adversaries -and threw a blaze of light upon the subject, the explosion chiefly -hurt himself. What beyond contradiction proved the truth of the -satire was, that it was, at first, taken seriously by many of the -opposite side, who thought it a well-timed and spirited Manifesto -from a true son of the Church; and several young divines in the -country, on perusing it, sent for more copies of it, with high commendations, -as the triumph of their views and party. Their rage, -when they found out their mistake, was proportionable, and no treatment -was bad enough for so vile an incendiary. The book was -forthwith prosecuted by authority, as a malignant slander against the -Church, and a seditious libel on the government. The author, as -before noticed, was sentenced to the pillory, and to a heavy fine, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_375'>375</span>with imprisonment during the queen’s pleasure; which, as already -mentioned, was the immediate and ultimate ruin of his affairs and -prospects in life. Defoe bore his disgrace and misfortunes with -the spirit of a man, and with a sort of grumbling patience peculiar to -himself. He wrote on the occasion a <cite>Hymn to the Pillory</cite>, which -contains some bad poetry and manly feeling; and indeed his apparent -indifference is easily accounted for from a consciousness of the <em>flagrant</em> -rectitude of his case. Pope has made an ungenerous allusion to the -circumstances in the <cite>Dunciad</cite>:—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘See where on high stands unabash’d Defoe!’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Pope’s imagination had too much effeminacy to stomach, under -any circumstances, this kind of petty, squalid martyrdom; nor had -he strength of public principle enough to form to himself the practical -antithesis of ‘dishonour honourable!’ The amiable in private life, -the exalted in rank and station, alone fixed his sympathy, and -engrossed his admiration. The exquisite compliments with which -he has embalmed the memory of some of his illustrious friends, who -stand ‘condemned to everlasting fame,’ are a discredit to his own. -His apostrophe to Harley, beginning,</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Oh soul supreme, in each hard instance tried,</div> - <div class='line'>Above all pain, all passion, and all pride,’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>contrasts strangely with the time-serving, vain, versatile, and unprincipled -character of that minister; and Mr. Wilson ought to have -written a good book, for he has spoiled the effect of some of the -finest lines in the English language. It was a bold step in Pope to -put the author of <cite>Robinson Crusoe</cite> into the <cite>Dunciad</cite> at all; Swift also -has a fling at him as ‘the fellow that was pilloried;’ and Gay is -equally sceptical and pedantic, as to his possessing more than -‘the superficial parts of learning.’ We know of no excuse for the -illiberality of the literary junto with regard to a man like Defoe, but -that he returned the compliment to them; and in fact, if we were to -take the character of men of genius from their judgment of each -other, we must sometimes come to a very different conclusion from -what the world have formed.</p> - -<p class='c010'>That Defoe should have incurred the hatred, and been consigned -to the vengeance, of the High-Church party for thus honestly exposing -their designs against the Dissenters, is but natural; the wonderful -part is, that he equally excited the indignation and reproaches of -the Dissenters themselves; who disclaimed his work as a scandalous -and inflammatory performance, and called loudly (in concert with -their bitterest foes,) for the condign punishment of the author. They -almost with one voice, and as if seized with a contagion of folly, cried -<span class='pageno' id='Page_376'>376</span>shame upon it, as an underhand and designing attempt to make a -premature breach between them and the established church; to sow -the seeds of groundless jealousy and ill-will; and to make them indirectly -participators in, and the sufferers by, a scurrilous attack on -the reverence due to religion and authority. Defoe was made the -scapegoat of this paltry and cowardly policy, and was given up to the -tender mercies of the opposite party without succour or sympathy. -This extreme blindness to their own interests can only be explained -by the consideration that the Dissenters, as a body, were at this time -in a constant state of probation and suffering; they had enough to do -with the evils they actually endured, without ‘flying to others that -they knew not of;’ they stood in habitual awe and apprehension of -their spiritual lords and masters;—would not be brought to suspect -their further designs lest it should provoke them to realise their fears; -and as they had not strength nor spirit to avert the blow, did not wish -to see till they felt it. The alacrity and prowess of Defoe was a -reproach to their backwardness; the truth of his appeal implied a -challenge to meet it; and they answered, with the old excuse, ‘why -troublest thou us before our time?’ The Dissenters too, at this -period, were men of a formal and limited scope of mind, not much -versed in the general march of human affairs; they required literal -and positive proof for every thing, as well as for the points of faith -on which they held out so manfully; and their obstinacy in maintaining -these, and suffering for them, was matched by their timid circumspection -and sluggish impracticability with respect to every thing else. -Their deserting Defoe, who marched on at the head of the battle,—pushed -forward by his keen foresight and natural impatience of wrong,—is -not out of character; though equally repugnant to sound policy -or true spirit. They fixed a stigma on him, therefore, as a breeder -of strife, a false prophet, and a dangerous member of the community; -and, what is certainly inexcusable, when, afterwards, his jest was -turned to melancholy earnest;—when every thing he had foretold -was verified to the very letter, when the whole force of the government -was arrayed against them, and Sacheverell in person unfurled -‘his bloody flag,’ and paraded the streets with a mob at his heels, -pulling down their meeting-houses, burning their private dwellings, -and making it unsafe for a Dissenter to walk the streets,—they did -not take off the stigma they had affixed to the author of <cite>The Shortest -Way with the Dissenters</cite>; did not allow that he was right and they -were wrong, but kept up their unjust and illiberal prejudices, and even -aggravated them in some instances, as if to prove that they were well-founded. -Bodies of men seldom retract or atone for the injuries -they have done to individuals. It will hardly seem credible to the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_377'>377</span>modern reader, that in pursuance of this old sectarian grudge, and in -conformity with the same narrow spirit, some years after this, when -Queen Anne, who, from the death of her son, Prince George, had -no hope of leaving an heir to the crown, turned her thoughts to the -restoration of the Pretender, and when Defoe, in the general alarm -and agitation which this uncertainty of the designs of the Court occasioned, -endeavoured to ridicule and defeat the project, by pointing -out, in his powerful and inimitable way, the incalculable benefits that -would ensue from setting aside the Hanoverian succession, and bringing -in the right line, one William Benson, (a Dissenter, a stanch -friend to the House of Hanover, and the same who had a monument -erected to Milton,) in his absurd prejudice against Defoe,—in his -conviction that he was a renegado and a Marplot, and in his utter -incapacity to conceive the meaning of irony,—actually set on foot a -prosecution against the author as in league with the Pretender; wanted -to have him accused of high treason, and obstinately persisted in, and -returned to the charge; and that it was only through the friendly zeal -and interest of Harley, and his representations to the queen, that he -was pardoned and released from Newgate, whither he had been committed -on the judges’ warrant, for writing something in defence of -his pamphlet, after its presentation by the Grand Jury, and his being -compelled to give bail to appear for trial! ‘The force of <em>dulness</em> -could no farther go.’</p> - -<p class='c010'>Defoe had before this given violent offence to the Dissenters, by -<em>dissenting</em> from and ‘disobliging’ them on a number of technical and -doubtful points—a difference of which they seemed more tenacious -than of the greatest affronts or deadliest injuries. Among others, he -had opposed the principles of <em>occasional conformity</em>; that is, the liberty -practised by some Dissenters, of going to church during their appointment -to any public office, as they were prohibited from attending -their own places of worship in their official costume. Nothing could -be clearer, than that, if it was a point of conscience with these persons -not to conform to the service of the established church, their being -chosen mayor, sheriff, or alderman, did not give them a dispensation -to that purpose. But many of the demure and purse-proud citizens -of London, (among whom Mr. William Benson was a leader and -a shining light,) resented their not being supposed at liberty to appear -at church in their gold chains and robes of office, though contrary to -their usual principles of nonconformity;—as children think they have -a right to visit fine places in their new clothes on holidays. Their -rage against Defoe was at its height, when he had nothing to say -against Harley’s Tory administration, for bringing in <cite>The Occasional -Conformity Bill</cite>, to debar Dissenters of this puerile and contradictory -<span class='pageno' id='Page_378'>378</span>privilege. It was to the kindness and generosity of Harley, on this -as well as on former occasions, in affording our author pecuniary aid, -of which he was in the utmost need, (being without means, friends, -and in prison,) and in rescuing him from the grasp of his own party, -that we owe his silence on political and public questions during the -last years of Queen Anne; and a line of conduct that, in the present -day, seems wavering and equivocal. His gratitude for private benefits -hardly condemned him to withhold his opinions on public matters; -but at that time, personal and private ties bore greater sway over -general and public duties than is the case at present. We entirely -acquit Defoe of dishonest or unworthy motives. He might easily -have gone quite over to the other side, if he had been inclined to make -a market of himself: but of this he never betrayed the remotest intention, -and merely refused to join in the hue and cry against a man who -had twice saved him from starving in a dungeon. Be this as it may, -Defoe never recovered from the slur thus cast upon his political -integrity, and was under a cloud, and discountenanced during the -following reign; though the establishment of this very Protestant -succession had been the object of the labours of his whole life, and -was the wish that lay nearest his heart to his latest breath.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Defoe had, in the former reign, been at various times employed at -her majesty’s desire, and in her service, particularly in accomplishing -the Union with Scotland in 1707. He displayed great activity and -zeal in accommodating the differences of all parties; and his <cite>History</cite> -of that event has been pronounced by good judges to be a masterpiece. -But as to the numerous transactions in which he was concerned, -and his various publications and controversies, we must refer -the reader to Mr. Wilson, who has furnished ample details and instructive -comments. For ourselves, we must ‘hold our hands and -check our pride,’ or we should never have done. Of all Defoe’s -multifarious effusions, the only one in which there is a want of candour -and good faith, or in which he has wilfully blunted and deadened his -<em>moral sense</em>, is his Defence, or (which is the same thing) his Apology -for the Massacre of Glencoe. But King William was his idol, and -he could no more see any faults in him than spots in the sun. Our -old friend Daniel also tries us hard, when he rails at the poor servants, -or ‘fine madams,’ as he calls them, who get a little better clothes and -higher wages when they come up to London, than they had in the -country; when he <em>runs a-muck</em> at stage-plays, and the triumphs of -the mimic scene;—confounding ‘Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, -with Lucifer, Prince of Darkness.’ But these were the follies and -prejudices of the time, aided by a little tincture of vulgarity, and -the sourness of sectarian bigotry.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_379'>379</span>We pass on to his Novels, and are sorry that we must hasten over -them. We owe them to the ill odour into which he had fallen as a -politician. His fate with his party reminds one a little of the reception -which the heroine of the <cite>Heart of Mid-Lothian</cite> met with from her -sister, because she would not tell a lie for her; yet both were faithful -and true to their cause. Being laid aside by the Whigs, as a suspected -person, and not choosing to go over to the other side, he retired to -Stoke-Newington, where, as already mentioned, he had an attack of -apoplexy, which had nearly proved fatal to him. Recovering, however, -and his activity of mind not suffering him to be idle, he turned -his thoughts into a new channel, and, as if to change the scene -entirely, set about writing Romances. The first work that could -come under this title was <cite>The Family Instructor</cite>;—a sort of controversial -narrative, in which an argument is held through three -volumes, and a feverish interest is worked up to the most tragic -height, on ‘the abomination’ (as it was at that time thought by many -people, and among others by Defoe) of letting young people go to -the play. The implied horror of dramatic exhibitions, in connexion -with the dramatic effect of the work itself, leaves a curious impression. -Defoe’s polemical talents are brought to bear to very good purpose in -this performance, which was in the form of Letters; and it is curious -to mark the eagerness with which his pen, after having been taken up -for so many years with dry debates and doctrinal points, flies for -relief to the details and incidents of private life. His mind was -equally tenacious of facts and arguments, and fastened on each, in its -turn, with the same strong and unremitting grasp. <cite>Robinson Crusoe</cite>, -published in 1719, was the first of his performances in the acknowledged -shape of a romance; and from this time he brought out one -or two every year to the end of his life. As it was the first, it was -decidedly the best; it gave full scope to his genius; and the subject -mastered his prevailing bias to religious controversy, and the depravity -of social life, by confining him to the unsophisticated views of nature -and the human heart. His other works of fiction have not been read, -(in comparison)—and one reason is, that many of them, at least, are -hardly fit to be read, whatever may be said to the contrary. We -shall go a little into the theory of this.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We do not think a person brought up and trammelled all his life in -the strictest notions of religion and morality, and looking at the world, -and all that was ordinarily passing in it, as little better than a contamination, -is, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">a priori</span></i>, the properest person to write novels: it is going out -of his way—it is ‘meddling with the unclean thing.’ Extremes meet, -and all extremes are bad. According to our author’s overstrained Puritanical -notions, there were but two choices, God or the Devil—Sinners -<span class='pageno' id='Page_380'>380</span>and Saints—the Methodist meeting or the Brothel—the school of the -press-yard of Newgate, or attendance on the refreshing ministry of some -learned and pious dissenting Divine. As the smallest falling off from -faith, or grace, or the most trifling peccadillo, was to be reprobated -and punished with the utmost severity, no wonder that the worst turn -was given to every thing; and that the imagination having once overstepped -the formidable line, gave a loose to its habitual nervous dread, -by indulging in the blackest and most frightful pictures of the corruptions -incident to human nature. It was as well (in the cant phrase) -‘to be in for a sheep as a lamb,’ as it cost nothing more—the sin -might at least be startling and uncommon; and hence we find, in this -style of writing, nothing but an alternation of religious horrors and -raptures, (though these are generally rare, as being a less tempting -bait,) and the grossest scenes of vice and debauchery: we have either -saintly, spotless purity, or all is rotten to the core. How else can -we account for it, that all Defoe’s characters (with one or two exceptions -for form’s sake) are of the worst and lowest description—the -refuse of the prisons and the stews—thieves, prostitutes, vagabonds, -and pirates—as if he wanted to make himself amends for the -restraint under which he had laboured ‘all the fore-end of his time’ -as a moral and religious character, by acting over every excess of -grossness and profligacy by proxy! How else can we comprehend -that he should really think there was a salutary moral lesson couched -under the history of <cite>Moll Flanders</cite>; or that his romance of <cite>Roxana, -or the Fortunate Mistress</cite>, who rolls in wealth and pleasure from one -end of the book to the other, and is quit for a little death-bed repentance -and a few lip-deep professions of the vanity of worldly joys, -showed, in a striking point of view, the advantages of virtue, and the -disadvantages of vice? It cannot be said, however, that these works -have an <em>immoral</em> tendency. The author has contrived to neutralise -the question; and (as far as in him lay) made vice and virtue equally -contemptible or revolting. In going through his pages, we are inclined -to vary Mr. Burke’s well-known paradox, that ‘vice, by losing -all its grossness, loses half its evil,’ and say that vice, by losing all its -refinement, loses all its attraction. We have in them only the pleasure -of sinning, and the dread of punishment here or hereafter;—gross -sensuality, and whining repentance. The morality is that of the -inmates of a house of correction; the piety, that of malefactors in -the condemned hole. There is no sentiment, no atmosphere of imagination, -no ‘purple light’ thrown round virtue or vice;—all is -either the physical gratification on the one hand, or a selfish calculation -of consequences on the other. This is the necessary effect of -allowing nothing to the frailty of human nature;—of never strewing -<span class='pageno' id='Page_381'>381</span>the flowers of fancy in the path of pleasure, but always looking that -way with a sort of terror as to forbidden ground: nothing is left of -the common and mixed enjoyments and pursuits of human life but the -coarsest and criminal part; and we have either a sour, cynical, sordid -sell-denial, or (in the despair of attaining this) a reckless and unqualified -abandonment of all decency and character alike:—it is hard to -say which is the most repulsive. Defoe runs equally into extremes -in his male characters as in his heroines. <em>Captain Singleton</em> is a -hardened, brutal desperado, without one redeeming trait, or almost -human feeling; and, in spite of what Mr. Lamb says of his lonely -musings and agonies of a conscience-stricken repentance, we find -nothing of this in the text: the captain is always merry and well -if there is any mischief going on; and his only qualm is, after he has -retired from his trade of plunder and murder on the high seas, and is -afraid of being assassinated for his ill-gotten wealth, and does not know -how to dispose of it. Defoe (whatever his intentions may be) is led, -by the force of truth and circumstances, to give the Devil his due—he -puts no gratuitous remorse into his adventurer’s mouth, nor spoils -the <em>keeping</em> by expressing one relenting pang, any more than his hero -would have done in reality. This is, indeed, the excellence of -Defoe’s representations, that they are perfect <em>fac-similes</em> of the characters -he chooses to pourtray; but then they are too often the worst -specimens he can collect out of the dregs and sink of human nature. -<em>Colonel Jack</em> is another instance, with more pleasantry, and a common -vein of humanity; but still the author is flung into the same walk of -flagrant vice and immorality;—as if his mind was haunted by the -entire opposition between grace and nature—and as if, out of the -sphere of spiritual exercise and devout contemplation, the whole -actual world was a necessary tissue of what was worthless and -detestable.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We have, we hope, furnished a clue to this seeming contradiction -between the character of the author and his works; and must proceed -to a conclusion. Of these novels we may, nevertheless, add, for the -satisfaction of the inquisitive reader, that <em>Moll Flanders</em> is utterly vile -and detestable: Mrs. Flanders was evidently born in sin. The best -parts are the account of her childhood, which is pretty and affecting; -the fluctuation of her feelings between remorse and hardened impenitence -in Newgate; and the incident of her leading off the horse from -the inn door, though she had no place to put it in after she had stolen -it. This was carrying the love of thieving to an <em>ideal</em> pitch, and -making it perfectly disinterested and mechanical. <cite>Roxana</cite> is better—soaring -a higher flight, instead of grovelling always in the mire of -poverty and distress; but she has neither refinement nor a heart; we -<span class='pageno' id='Page_382'>382</span>are only dazzled with the outward ostentation of jewels, finery, and -wealth. The scene where she dances in her Turkish dress before -the king, and obtains the name of Roxana, is of the true romantic -cast. The best parts of <cite>Colonel Jack</cite> are the early scenes, where -there is a spirit of mirth and good fellowship thrown over the homely -features of low and vicious life;—as where the hero and his companion -are sitting at the three-halfpenny ordinary, and are delighted, -even more than with their savoury fare, to hear the waiter cry, -‘Coming, gentlemen, coming,’ when they call for a cup of small-beer; -and we rejoice when we are told as a notable event, that ‘about this -time the Colonel took upon him to wear a shirt.’ The <cite>Memoirs of a -Cavalier</cite> are an agreeable mixture of the style of history and fiction. -These Memoirs, as is well known, imposed upon Lord Chatham as a -true history. In his <cite>History of Apparitions</cite>, Defoe discovers a strong -bias to a belief in the marvellous and preternatural; nor is this -extraordinary, for, to say nothing of the general superstition of the -times, his own impressions of whatever he chose to conceive are so -vivid and literal, as almost to confound the distinction between reality -and imagination. He could ‘call spirits from the vasty deep,’ and -they ‘would come when he did call for them.’ We have not room -for an enumeration of even half his works of fiction. We give the -bust, and must refer to Mr. Wilson for the whole length. After -<cite>Robinson Crusoe</cite>, his <cite>History of the Plague</cite> is the finest of all his -works. It has an epic grandeur, as well as heart-breaking familiarity, -in its style and matter.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Notwithstanding the number and success of his publications, Defoe, -we lament to add, had to struggle with pecuniary difficulties, -heightened by domestic afflictions. To the last, when on the brink -of death, he was on the verge of a jail; and the ingratitude and ill-behaviour -of his son in embezzling some property which Defoe had -made over for the benefit of his sisters and mother, completed his -distress. He was supported in these painful circumstances by the -assistance and advice of Mr. Baker, who had married his youngest -daughter, Sophia. The subjoined letter gives a melancholy but very -striking picture of the state of his feelings at this sad juncture:—</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘<span class='sc'>Dear Mr. Baker</span>,—I have yo<sup>r</sup> very kind and affecc’onate Letter -of the 1st: But not come to my hand till y<sup>e</sup> 10th; where it had -been delay’d I kno’ not. As your kind manner, and kinder Thought, -from w<sup>ch</sup> it flows, (for I take all you say to be as I always believed -you to be, sincere and Nathaniel like, without Guile) was a particular -satisfacc’on to me; so the stop of a Letter, however it happened, -deprived me of that cordial too many days, considering how much I -stood in need of it, to support a mind sinking under the weight of an -<span class='pageno' id='Page_383'>383</span>afflicc’on too heavy for my strength, and looking on myself as -abandoned of every Comfort, every Friend, and every Relative, -except such only as are able to give me no assistance.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘I was sorry you should say at y<sup>e</sup> beginning of your Letter, you -were debarred seeing me. Depend upon my sincerity for this, I am -far from debarring you. On y<sup>e</sup> contrary, it would be a greater -comfort to me than any I now enjoy, that I could have yo<sup>r</sup> agreeable -visits w<sup>th</sup> safety, and could see both you and my dearest Sophia, -could it be without giving her y<sup>e</sup> grief of seeing her father <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">in tenebris</span></i>, -and under y<sup>e</sup> load of insupportable sorrows. I am sorry I must open -my griefs so far as to tell her, it is not y<sup>e</sup> blow I rec<sup>d</sup> from a wicked, -perjur’d, and contemptible enemy, that has broken in upon my spirit, -w<sup>ch</sup> as she well knows, has carryed me on thro’ greater disasters than -these. But it has been the injustice, unkindness, and, I must say, -inhuman dealing of my own son, w<sup>ch</sup> has both ruined my family, and, -in a word, has broken my heart; and as I am at this time under a -weight of very heavy illness, w<sup>ch</sup> I think will be a fever, I take this -occasion to vent my grief in y<sup>e</sup> breasts who I know will make a -prudent use of it, and tell you, that nothing but this has conquered, -or could conquer me. <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Et tu! Brute!</span></i> I depended upon him, I -trusted him, I gave up my two dear unprovided children into his -hands; but he has no compassion, and suffers them and their poor -dying mother to beg their bread at his door, and to crave, as if it -were an alms, what he is bound under hand and seal, besides the most -sacred promises, to supply them with; himself, at y<sup>e</sup> same time, -living in a profusion of plenty. It is too much for me. Excuse my -infirmity, I can say no more; my heart is too full. I only ask one -thing of you as a dying request. Stand by them when I am gone, -and let them not be wrong’d, while he is able to do them right. -Stand by them as a brother; and if you have any thing within you -owing to my memory, who have bestow’d on you the best gift I had -to give, let y<sup>m</sup> not be injured and trampled on by false pretences, and -unnatural reflections. I hope they will want no help but that of -comfort and council; but that they will indeed want, being too easie -to be manag’d by words and promises.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘It adds to my grief that it is so difficult to me to see you. I am -at a distance from Lond<sup>n</sup> in Kent; nor have I a lodging in London, -nor have I been at that place in the Old Bailey, since I wrote you I -was removed from it. At present I am weak, having had some fits -of a fever that have left me low. But those things much more.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘I have not seen son or daughter, wife or child, many weeks, and -kno’ not which way to see them. They dare not come by water, -and by land here is no coach, and I kno’ not what to do.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_384'>384</span>‘It is not possible for me to come to Enfield, unless you could find -a retired lodging for me, where I might not be known, and might -have the comfort of seeing you both now and then; upon such a -circumstance, I could gladly give the days to solitude, to have the -comfort of half an hour now and then, with you both, for two or -three weeks. But just to come and look at you, and retire -immediately, tis a burden too heavy. The parting will be a price -beyond the enjoyment.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘I would say, (I hope) with comfort, that ’tis yet well. I am so -near my journey’s end, and am hastening to the place where y<sup>e</sup> weary -are at rest, and where the wicked cease to trouble; be it that the -passage is rough, and the day stormy, by what way soever He please -to bring me to the end of it, I desire to finish life with this temper of -soul in all cases: <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Te Deum Laudamus</span></i>.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘I congratulate you on y<sup>e</sup> occasion of yo<sup>r</sup> happy advance in y<sup>r</sup> -employment. May all you do be prosperous, and all you meet with -pleasant, and may you both escape the tortures and troubles of uneasie -life. May you sail y<sup>e</sup> dangerous voyage of life with <em>a forcing wind</em>, -and make the port of heaven <em>without a storm</em>.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘It adds to my grief that I must never see the pledge of your -mutual love, my little grandson. Give him my blessing, and may he -be to you both your joy in youth, and your comfort in age, and never -add a sigh to your sorrow. But, alas! that is not to be expected. -Kiss my dear Sophy once more for me; and if I must see her no -more, tell her this is from a father that loved her above all his -comforts, to his last breath.—Yo<sup>r</sup> unhappy, D. F.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-l'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘<span class='small'>About two miles from Greenwich, Kent,</span></div> - <div class='line in8'><span class='small'><em>Tuesday, August 12, 1730</em>.</span>’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘From this scene of sorrow,’ says Mr. Wilson, ‘we must now -hasten to an event, that dropped before it the dark curtain of time. -Having received a wound that was incurable, there is too much reason -to fear that the anguish arising from it sunk deep in his spirits, and -hastened the crisis that, in a few months, brought his troubles to a -final close. The time of his death has been variously stated; but it -took place upon the 24th of April, 1731, when he was about seventy -years of age, having been born in the year 1661. Cibber and others -state that he died at his house at Islington; but this is incorrect. -The parish of St. Giles, Cripplegate, in which he drew his first -breath, was also destined to receive his last. This we learn from the -parish register, which has been searched for the purpose; and farther -informs us, that he went off in a lethargy. He was buried from -thence, upon the 26th of April, in Tindall’s Burying-ground, now -<span class='pageno' id='Page_385'>385</span>most known by the name of Bunhill-Fields. The entry in the -register, written probably by some ignorant person, who made a -strange blunder of his name, is as follows: “1731, April 26. Mr. -Dubow. Cripplegate.” His wife did not long survive him.’</p> - -<h3 class='c008'>MR. GODWIN</h3> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Vol. li.</span>]      [<em>April 1830.</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>We find little of the author of Caleb Williams in the present work, -except the name in the title-page. Either we are changed, or Mr. -Godwin is changed, since he wrote that masterly performance. We -remember the first time of reading it well, though now long ago. In -addition to the singularity and surprise occasioned by seeing a romance -written by a philosopher and politician, what a quickening of the -pulse,—what an interest in the progress of the story,—what an -eager curiosity in divining the future,—what an individuality and -contrast in the characters,—what an elevation and what a fall was -that of Falkland;—how we felt for his blighted hopes, his remorse, -and despair, and took part with Caleb Williams as his ordinary and -unformed sentiments are brought out, and rendered more and more -acute by the force of circumstances, till hurried on by an increasing -and incontrollable impulse, he turns upon his proud benefactor and -unrelenting persecutor, and in a mortal struggle, overthrows him on -the vantage-ground of humanity and justice! There is not a moment’s -pause in the action or sentiments: the breath is suspended, the -faculties wound up to the highest pitch, as we read. Page after page -is greedily devoured. There is no laying down the book till we -come to the end; and even then the words still ring in our ears, nor -do the mental apparitions ever pass away from the eye of memory. -Few books have made a greater impression than Caleb Williams on -its first appearance. It was read, admired, parodied, dramatised. -All parties joined in its praise. Those (not a few) who at the time -favoured Mr. Godwin’s political principles, hailed it as a new triumph -of his powers, and as a proof that the stoicism of the doctrines he -inculcated did not arise from any defect of warmth or enthusiasm of -feeling, and that his abstract speculations were grounded in, and -sanctioned by, an intimate knowledge of, and rare felicity in, developing -the actual vicissitudes of human life. On the other hand, his enemies, -or those who looked with a mixture of dislike and fear at the system -of ethics advanced in the <cite>Enquiry concerning Political Justice</cite>, were -disposed to forgive the author’s paradoxes for the truth of imitation -with which he had depicted prevailing passions, and were glad to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_386'>386</span>have something in which they could sympathize with a man of no -mean capacity or attainments. At any rate, it was a new and startling -event in literary history for a metaphysician to write a popular -romance. The thing took, as all displays of unforeseen talent do -with the public. Mr. Godwin was thought a man of very powerful -and versatile genius; and in him the understanding and the imagination -reflected a mutual and dazzling light upon each other. His St. -Leon did not lessen the wonder, nor the public admiration of him, -or rather ‘seemed like another morn risen on mid-noon.’ But from -that time he has done nothing of superlative merit. He has imitated -himself, and not well. He has changed the glittering spear, which -always detected truth or novelty, for a leaden foil. We cannot say -of his last work (Cloudesley),—‘Even in his ashes live his wonted -fires.’ The story is cast indeed something in the same moulds as -Caleb Williams; but they are not filled and running over with molten -passion, or with scalding tears. The situations and characters, though -forced and extreme, are without effect from the want of juxtaposition -and collision. Cloudesley (the elder) is like Caleb Williams, a -person of low origin, and rebels against his patron and employer; -but he remains a characterless, passive, inefficient agent to the last,—forming -his plans and resolutions at a distance,—not whirled from -expedient to expedient, nor driven from one sleepless hiding-place to -another; and his lordly and conscience-stricken accomplice (Danvers) -keeps his state in like manner, brooding over his guilt and remorse -in solitude, with scarce an object or effort to vary the round of his -reflections,—a lengthened paraphrase of grief. The only dramatic -incidents in the course of the narrative are, the sudden metamorphosis -of the Florentine Count Camaldoli into the robber St. Elmo, and -the unexpected and opportune arrival of Lord Danvers in person, -with a coach and four and liveries, at Naples, just in time to save his -ill-treated nephew from a violent death. The rest is a well-written -essay, or theme, composed as an exercise to gain a mastery of style -and topics.</p> - -<p class='c010'>There is, indeed, no falling off in point of style or command of -language in the work before us. Cloudesley is better written than -Caleb Williams. The expression is everywhere terse, vigorous, -elegant:—a polished mirror without a wrinkle. But the spirit of the -execution is lost in the inertness of the subject-matter. There is a -dearth of invention, a want of character and grouping. There are -clouds of reflections without any new occasion to call them forth;—an -expanded flow of words without a single pointed remark. A want -of acuteness and originality is not a fault that is generally chargeable -upon our author’s writings. Nor do we lay the blame upon him -<span class='pageno' id='Page_387'>387</span>now, but upon circumstances. Had Mr. Godwin been bred a monk, -and lived in the good old times, he would assuredly either have been -burnt as a free-thinker, or have been rewarded with a mitre, for a -tenth part of the learning and talent he has displayed. He might -have reposed on a rich benefice, and the reputation he had earned, -enjoying the <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">otium cum dignitate</span></i>, or at most relieving his official cares -by revising successive editions of his former productions, and enshrining -them in cases of sandal-wood and crimson velvet in some cloistered -hall or princely library. He might then have courted</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in12'>——‘retired leisure,</div> - <div class='line'>That in trim gardens takes its pleasure,’—</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>have seen his peaches ripen in the sun; and, smiling secure on -fortune and on fame, have repeated with complacency the motto—<i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Horas -non numero nisi serenas!</span></i> But an author by profession knows -nothing of all this. He is only ‘the iron rod, the torturing hour.’ -He lies ‘stretched upon the rack of restless ecstasy:’ he runs the -everlasting gauntlet of public opinion. He must write on, and if he -had the strength of Hercules and the wit of Mercury, he must in the -end write himself down:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘And like a gallant horse, fallen in first rank,</div> - <div class='line'>Lies there for pavement to the abject rear,</div> - <div class='line'>O’er-run and trampled on.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>He cannot let well done alone. He cannot take his stand on what -he has already achieved, and say, Let it be a durable monument to -me and mine, and a covenant between me and the world for ever! -He is called upon for perpetual new exertions, and urged forward by -ever-craving necessities. The <em>wolf</em> must be kept from the door: the -<em>printer’s devil</em> must not go empty-handed away. He makes a second -attempt, and though equal perhaps to the first, because it does not -excite the same surprise, it falls tame and flat on the public mind. -If he pursues the real bent of his genius, he is thought to grow dull -and monotonous; or if he varies his style, and tries to cater for the -capricious appetite of the town, he either escapes by miracle or breaks -down that way, amidst the shout of the multitude and the condolence -of friends, to see the idol of the moment pushed from its pedestal, -and reduced to its proper level. There is only one living writer who -can pass through this ordeal; and if he had barely written half what -he has done, his reputation would have been none the less. His -inexhaustible facility makes the willing world believe there is not -much in it. Still, there is no alternative. Popularity, like one of -the Danaides, imposes impossible tasks on her votary,—to pour water -<span class='pageno' id='Page_388'>388</span>into sieves, to reap the wind. If he does nothing, he is forgotten; -if he attempts more than he can perform, he gets laughed at for his -pains. He is impelled by circumstances to fresh sacrifices of time, -of labour, and of self-respect; parts with well-earned fame for a newspaper -puff, and sells his birth-right for a mess of pottage. In the -meanwhile, the public wonder why an author writes so badly and so -much. With all his efforts, he builds no house, leaves no inheritance, -lives from hand to mouth, and, though condemned to daily drudgery -for a precarious subsistence, is expected to produce none but works of -first-rate genius. No; learning unconsecrated, unincorporated, unendowed, -is no match for the importunate demands and thoughtless -ingratitude of the reading public.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in2'>——‘O, let not virtue seek</div> - <div class='line'>Remuneration for the thing it was!</div> - <div class='line'>To have done, is to hang,</div> - <div class='line'>Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail</div> - <div class='line'>In monumental mockery;—</div> - <div class='line'>That all, with one consent, praise new-born gaudes,</div> - <div class='line'>Though they are made and moulded of things past;</div> - <div class='line'>And give to dust, that is a little gilt,</div> - <div class='line'>More laud than gilt o’er-dusted.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>If we wished to please Mr. Godwin, we should say that his last -work was his best; but we cannot do this in justice to him or to -ourselves. Its greatest fault is, that (as Mr. Bayes would have -declared) there is nothing ‘to elevate and surprise’ in it. There is a -story, to be sure, but you know it all beforehand, just as well as after -having read the book. It is like those long straight roads that -travellers complain of on the Continent, where you see from one end -of your day’s journey to the other, and carry the same prospect with -you, like a map in your hand, the whole way. Mr. Godwin has -laid no ambuscade for the unwary reader—no picturesque group -greets the eye as you pass on—no sudden turn at an angle places you -on the giddy verge of a precipice. Nevertheless, our author’s courage -never flags. Mr. Godwin is an eminent rhetorician; and he shows -it in this, that he expatiates, discusses, amplifies, with equal fervour, -and unabated ingenuity, on the merest accidents of the way-side, or -common-places of human life. Thus, for instance, if a youth of eleven -or twelve years of age is introduced upon the carpet, the author sets -himself to show, with a laudable candour and communicativeness, -what the peculiar features of that period of life are, and ‘takes an -inventory’ of all the particulars,—such as sparkling eyes, roses in the -cheeks, a smooth forehead, flaxen locks, elasticity of limb, lively -animal spirits, and all the flush of hope,—as if he were describing a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_389'>389</span>novelty, or some <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">terra incognita</span></i>, to the reader. In like manner, when -a young man of twenty is confined to a dungeon as belonging to a -gang of banditti, and going to be hanged, great pains are taken through -three or four pages to convince us, that at that period of life this is -no very agreeable prospect; that the feelings of youth are more acute -and sanguine than those of age; that, therefore, we are to take a due -and proportionate interest in the tender years and blighted hopes of -the younger Cloudesley; and that if any means could be found to -rescue him from his present perilous situation, it would be a great -relief, not only to him, but to all humane and compassionate persons. -Every man’s strength is his weakness, and turns in some way or -other against himself. Mr. Godwin has been so long accustomed to -trust to his own powers, and to draw upon his own resources, that he -comes at length to imagine that he can build a palace of words upon -nothing. When he lavished the colours of style, and the exuberant -strength of his fancy, on descriptions like those of the character of -Margaret, the wife of St. Leon, or of his musings in the dungeon of -Bethlem Gabor, or of his enthusiasm on discovering the philosopher’s -stone, and being restored to youth and the plenitude of joy by drinking -the <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Elixir Vitæ</span></i>;—or when he recounts the long and lasting despair -which succeeded that utter separation from his kind, and that deep -solitude which followed him into crowds and cities,—deeper and -more appalling than the dungeon of Bethlem Gabor,—we were never -weary of being borne along by the golden tide of eloquence, supplied -from the true sources of passion and feeling. But when he bestows -the same elaboration of phrases, and artificial arrangement of sentences, -to set off the most trite and obvious truisms, we confess it has to us a -striking effect of the <em>bathos</em>. Lest, however, we should be thought -to have overcharged or given a false turn to this description, we will -enable our readers to judge for themselves, by giving the passage to -which we have just alluded, as a specimen of this overstrained and -supererogatory style.</p> - -<p class='c010'>—‘The condition in which he was now placed could not fail to -have a memorable effect on the mind of Julian. Shut up in a solitary -dungeon, without exercise or amusement, he had nothing upon which -to occupy his thoughts but the image of his own situation. He had -hitherto lived, particularly during the last twelve months, in a dream. -He grieved most bitterly, most persistingly, for the death of -Cloudesley (the elder). He had been instigated by his grief to -seek the society of the companions he had left in the Apennines. -He did not desire any new connexions; he would have shrunk from -the encounter of new faces.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘All this was well. But the case was different, when he understood -<span class='pageno' id='Page_390'>390</span>from the language and manner of those who had him in custody, -the only persons he saw, that he would probably barely be taken out -of prison to be led to the scaffold. This was a kind of shock, -greatly calculated to awaken a man out of a dream. Julian was -young, and had seen little of the diversified scenes of human life. -Existence is a thing that is regarded in a very different light by the -young and the old. The springs of human nature are of a limited -sort, and lie in a narrow compass; and when we grow old, our -desires are declining, our faculties have lost their sharpness, and we -are reasonably contented “to close our eyes and shut out daylight.” -But to the young it is a very different thing, particularly perhaps at -twenty years of age. We are just come into the possession of all our -faculties, and begin fully to be aware of our own independence. -Every thing is new to us; and the larger half at least of what is new, -is also agreeable. Pleasure spreads before us all its allurements; -knowledge unrolls its ample page. We have every thing to learn, -and every thing to enjoy. Ambition proffers its variegated visions; -and we are at a loss on which side to fix our choice. It is easy to -dally with death. The young man is like the coquette of the other sex: -She has little objection to trifling with a displeasing and superannuated -lover, so long as she is satisfied she is not within his clutches.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘But all these considerations sink into nothing when contrasted -with the horrible death that was prepared for him. Julian had -hitherto been a stranger to adversity and pain. The path of his -juvenile years had been smoothed to him by the exemplary cares of -Cloudesley and Eudocia. To his own apprehension he was the -favourite of fortune. All that he had read of tragic and disastrous in -the annals of mankind seemed like a drama, prepared to make him -wise by the sorrows of others, without costing him a particle of the -bitter price of experience. All that he had encountered of displeasing -was when he was the inmate of Borromeo; and this, though felt by -him as intolerable, he was aware had been planned in a spirit of -kindness. How terrible, therefore, was the reverse that had now -fallen upon him! That he, who had never contemplated the slightest -mischief to a human creature, whose life had been all kindness, and -beneficence, and good humour, should suddenly be treated as the -vilest of criminals, shut up in a dungeon, and destined to the scaffold, -was a thought that overturned all his previous conceptions of human -society and life. It filled him with wildness and horror; it drove -him to frenzy. From time to time he was ready to burst into -paroxysm, and dash out his desperate brains against the bars of his -prison. To exchange the most beautiful scene that Paradise ever -exhibited, for utter desolation and tremendous hurricane, that should -<span class='pageno' id='Page_391'>391</span>tear up rocks from their foundations, and overwhelm the produce of -the earth with rushing and uncontrollable waves, would feebly express -the revolution that took place in his mind. He repented that he had -ever again sought the society of these alluring but pernicious friends.’—Vol. -<span class='fss'>III.</span> p. 288.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Was so much circumlocution necessary to prove that it is a disagreeable -thing to be shut up in a prison, and led out to the gallows? -This is the style of the <em>orator</em>, where the whole object is to turn a -plain moral adage in as many different ways as possible, and not that -of the romance-writer, who has, or ought to have, too many rare and -surprising adventures on his hands, to stoop to this trifling, snail-paced -method. According to the foregoing studied description, it -should seem, that for a man to feel shocked at being immured in a -gaol, or broke on the wheel, is ‘a pass of wit.’ When the author -has conjured up all the aggravations of the particular case, and compared -it to the nicest shade of difference with his former or his -future possible history, he then feels satisfied that his hero would -like it little better than he does, and inflicts a tardy horror and -repentance on him. With submission, this may be the scholastic or -rational process for exciting pity and terror; nature takes a shorter -<em>cut</em>, and jumps at a conclusion without all this formality and cool -calculation of grains and scruples in the scale of misfortune.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We have a graver charge yet to bring against Mr. Godwin on the -score of style, than that it leads him into useless amplification: from -his desire to load and give effect to his descriptions, he runs different -characters and feelings into one another. By not stopping short of -excess and hyperbole, he loses the line of distinction, and ‘o’ersteps -the modesty of nature.’ All his characters are patterns of vice or -virtue. They are carried to extremes,—they are abstractions of -woe, miracles of wit and gaiety,—gifted with every grace and accomplishment -that can be enumerated in the same page; and they are not -only prodigies in themselves, but destined to immortal renown, though -we have never heard of their names before. This is not like a veteran -in the art, but like the raptures of some boarding-school girl in love -with every new face or dress she sees. It is difficult to say which -is the most extraordinary genius,—the improvisatori Bernardino -Perfetti, or his nephew, Francesco, or young Julian. Mr. Godwin -still sees with ‘eyes of youth.’ Irene is a Greek, the model of beauty -and of conjugal faith. Eudocia, her maid, who marries the elder -Cloudesley, is a Greek too, and nearly as handsome and as exemplary -in her conduct. Again, on the same principle, the account of Irene’s -devotion to her father and her husband, is by no means clearly discriminated. -The spiritual feeling is exaggerated till it is confounded -<span class='pageno' id='Page_392'>392</span>with the passionate; and the passionate is spiritualized in the same -incontinence of tropes and figures, till it loses its distinctive character. -Each sentiment, by being overdone, is neutralized into a sort of -platonics. It is obvious to remark, that the novel of Cloudesley has -no hero, no principal figure. The attention is divided, and wavers -between Meadows, who is a candidate for the reader’s sympathy -through the first half volume, and whose affairs and love adventures -at St. Petersburg are huddled up in haste, and broke off in the -middle; Lord Danvers, who is the guilty sufferer; Cloudesley, his -sullen, dilatory Mentor; and Julian, (the supposed offspring of -Cloudesley, but real son of Lord Alton, and nephew of Lord -Danvers,) who turns out the fortunate youth of the piece. The -story is awkwardly told. Meadows begins it with an account of -himself, and a topographical description of the Russian empire, which -has nothing to do with the subject; and nearly through the remainder -of the work, listens to a speech of Lord Danvers, recounting his own -history and that of Julian, which lasts for six hundred pages without -interruption or stop. It is the longest parenthesis in a narrative that -ever was known. Meadows then emerges from his <em>incognito</em> once -more, as if he had been hid behind a curtain, and gives the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">coup-de-grace</span></i> -to his own auto-biography, and the lingering sufferings of his -patron. The plot is borrowed from a real event that took place concerning -a disputed succession in the middle of the last century, and -which gave birth not long after to a novel with the title of <cite>Annesley</cite>. -We should like to meet with a copy of this work, in order to see -how a writer of less genius would get to the end of his task, and -carry the reader along with him without the aid of those subtle -researches and lofty declamations with which Mr. Godwin has -supplied the place of facts and circumstances. The published trial, -we will hazard a conjecture, has more ‘mark and likelihood’ in it. -This is the beauty of Sir Walter Scott: he takes a legend or an -actual character as he finds it, while other writers think they have -not performed their engagements and acquitted themselves with -applause, till they have slobbered over the plain face of nature with -paint and varnish of their own. They conceive that truth is a -plagiarism, and <em>the thing as it happened</em> a forgery and imposition on -the public. They stand right before their subject, and say, ‘Nay, -but hear me first!’ We know no other merit in the Author of -Waverley than that he is never this opaque, obtrusive body, getting -in the way and eclipsing the sun of truth and nature, which shines -with broad universal light through his different works. If we were -to describe the secret of this author’s success in three words, we -should say, that it consists in the <em>absence of egotism</em>.</p> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_393'>393</span>Mr. Godwin, in his preface, remarks, that as Caleb Williams was -intended as a paraphrase of ‘Blue Beard,’ the present work may be -regarded as a paraphrase of the story of the ‘Children in the Wood.’ -<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Multeum abludit imago.</span></i> He has at least contrived to take the sting of -simplicity out of it. It is a very adult, self-conscious set of substitutes -he has given us for the two children, wandering hand-in-hand, the -robin-redbreast, and their leafy bed. The grand eloquence, the epic -march of Cloudesley, is beyond the ballad-style. In a word, the -fault of this and some other of the author’s productions is, that the -critical and didactic part overlays the narrative and dramatic part; -as we see in some editions of the poets, where there are two lines of -original text, and the rest of the page is heavy with the lumber and -pedantry of the commentators. The writer does not call characters -from the dead, or conjure them from the regions of fancy, to paint -their peculiar physiognomy, or tell us their story, so much as (like -the anatomist) to dissect and demonstrate on the insertion of the -bones, the springs of the muscles, and those understood principles of -life and motion which are common to the species. Now, in a novel, -we want the individual, and not the <em>genus</em>. The tale of Cloudesley -is a dissertation on remorse. Besides, this truth of science is often a -different thing from the truth of nature, which is modified by a -thousand accidents, ‘subject to all the skyey influences;’—not a -mechanical principle, brooding over and working every thing out of -itself. Nothing, therefore, gives so little appearance of a resemblance -to reality as this abstract identity and violent continuity of purpose. -Not to say that this cutting up and probing of the internal feelings -and motives, without a reference to external objects, tends, like the -operations of the anatomist, to give a morbid and unwholesome taint -to the surrounding atmosphere.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Godwin’s mind is, we conceive, essentially active, and therefore -may naturally be expected to wear itself out sooner than those -that are passive to external impressions, and receive continual new -accessions to their stock of knowledge and acquirement:—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>——‘A fiery soul that working out its way,</div> - <div class='line'>Fretted the pigmy body to decay,</div> - <div class='line'>And o’er-inform’d its tenement of clay.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>That some of this author’s latter works are (in our judgment) -comparatively feeble, is, therefore, no matter of surprise to us, and -still less is it matter of reproach or triumph. We look upon it as a -consequence incident to that constitution of mind and operation of the -faculties. To quarrel with the author on this account, is to reject -<span class='pageno' id='Page_394'>394</span>all that class of excellence of which he is the representative, and -perhaps stands at the head. A writer who gives us <em>himself</em>, cannot -do this twenty times following. He gives us the best and most -prominent part of himself first; and afterwards ‘but the lees and -dregs remain.’ If a writer takes patterns and <em>fac-similes</em> of external -objects, he may give us twenty different works, each better than the -other, though this is not likely to happen. Such a one makes use of -the universe as his <em>common-place-book</em>; and there is no end of the -quantity or variety. The other sort of genius is his own microcosm, -deriving almost all from within; and as this is different from every -thing else, and is to be had at no other source, so it soon degenerates -into a repetition of itself, and is confined within circumscribed limits. -We do not rank ourselves in the number of ‘those base plebeians,’ as -Don Quixote expresses it, ‘who cry, <em>Long life to the conqueror!</em>’ -And, so far, the author is better off than the warrior, that, ‘after a -thousand victories once foiled,’ he does not remain in the hands of -his enemies,</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘And all the rest forgot, for which he toil’d.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>He is not judged of by his last performance, but his best,—that -which is seen farthest off, and stands out with time and distance; and -in this respect, Mr. Godwin may point to more than one monument -of his powers of no mean height and durability. As we do not look -upon books as fashions, and think that ‘a great man’s memory may -last more than half a year,’ we still look at our author’s talents -with the same respect as ever—on his industry and perseverance -under some discouragements with more; and we shall try to explain -as briefly and as impartially as we can, in what the peculiarity of his -genius consists, and on what his claim to distinction is founded.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Godwin, we suspect, regards his <cite>Political Justice</cite> as his great -work—his passport to immortality; or perhaps he balances between -this and <cite>Caleb Williams</cite>. Now, it is something for a man to have two -works of so opposite a kind about which he and his admirers can be -at a loss to say, in which he has done best. We never heard his -title to originality in either of these performances called in question: -yet they are as distinct as to style and subject-matter, as if two -different persons wrote them. No one in reading the philosophical -treatise would suspect the embryo romance: those who personally -know Mr. Godwin would as little anticipate either. The man differs -from the author, at least as much as the author in this case apparently -did from himself. It is as if a magician had produced some mighty -feat of his art without warning. He is not deeply learned; nor is -he much beholden to a knowledge of the world. He has no passion -<span class='pageno' id='Page_395'>395</span>but a love of fame; or we may add to this another, the love of truth; -for he has never betrayed his cause, or swerved from his principles, -to gratify a little temporary vanity. His senses are not acute: but it -cannot be denied that he is a man of great capacity, and of uncommon -genius. How is this seeming contradiction to be reconciled? Mr. -Godwin is by way of distinction and emphasis an author; he is so -not only by habit, but by nature, and by the whole turn of his mind. -To make a book is with him the prime end and use of creation. His -is the <em>scholastic</em> character handed down in its integrity to the present -day. If he had cultivated a more extensive intercourse with the -world, with nature, or even with books, he would not have been what -he is—he could not have done what he has done. Mr. Godwin in -society is nothing; but shut him up by himself, set him down to -write a book,—it is then that the electric spark begins to unfold -itself,—to expand, to kindle, to illumine, to melt, or shatter all in its -way. With little knowledge of the subject, with little interest in it -at first, he turns it slowly in his mind,—one suggestion gives rise to -another,—he calls home, arranges, scrutinizes his thoughts; he -bends his whole strength to his task; he seizes on some one view -more striking than the rest, he holds it with a convulsive grasp,—he -will not let it go; and this is the clew that conducts him triumphantly -through the labyrinth of doubt and obscurity. Some leading truth, -some master-passion, is the secret of his daring and his success, which -he winds and turns at his pleasure, like Perseus his winged steed. -An idea having once taken root in his mind, grows there like a germ: -‘at first no bigger than a mustard-seed, then a great tree overshadowing -the whole earth.’ The progress of his reflections -resembles the circles that spread from a centre when a stone is thrown -into the water. Everything is enlarged, heightened, refined. The -blow is repeated, and each impression is made more intense than the -last. Whatever strengthens the favourite conception is summoned to -its aid: whatever weakens or interrupts it is scornfully discarded. -All is the effect, not of feeling, not of fancy, not of intuition, but of -one sole purpose, and of a determined will operating on a clear and -consecutive understanding. His <cite>Caleb Williams</cite> is the illustration of -a single passion; his <cite>Political Justice</cite> is the insisting on a single proposition -or view of a subject. In both, there is the same pertinacity -and unity of design, the same agglomeration of objects round a -centre, the same aggrandizement of some one thing at the expense of -every other, the same sagacity in discovering what makes for its -purpose, and blindness to every thing but that. His genius is not -dramatic; but it has something of an heroic cast: he gains new -trophies in intellect, as the conqueror overruns new provinces and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_396'>396</span>kingdoms, by patience and boldness; and he is great because he wills -to be so.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We have said that Mr. Godwin has shown great versatility of -talent in his different works. The works themselves have considerable -monotony; and this must be the case, since they are all -bottomed on nearly the same principle of an uniform <em>keeping</em> and -strict totality of impression. We do not hold with the doctrines or -philosophy of the <em>Enquiry concerning Political Justice</em>; but we should -be dishonest to deny that it is an ingenious and splendid—and we -may also add, useful piece of sophistical declamation. If Mr. Godwin -is not right, he has shown what is wrong in the view of morality he -advocates, by carrying it to the utmost extent with unflinching spirit -and ability.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Mr. Godwin was the first <em>whole-length</em> broacher of the doctrine of -<em>Utility</em>. He took the whole duty of man—all other passions, affections, -rules, weaknesses, oaths, gratitude, promises, friendship, natural -piety, patriotism,—infused them in the glowing cauldron of universal -benevolence, and ground them into powder under the unsparing -weight of the convictions of the individual understanding. The -entire and complicated mass and texture of human society and feeling -was to pass through the furnace of this new philosophy, and to come -out renovated and changed without a trace of its former Gothic -ornaments, fantastic disproportions, embossing, or relief. It was as -if an angel had descended from another sphere to promulgate a new -code of morality; and who, clad in a panoply of light and truth, -unconscious alike of the artificial strength and inherent weakness of -man’s nature,—supposing him to have nothing to do with the flesh, -the world, or the Devil,—should lay down a set of laws and principles -of action for him, as if he were a pure spirit. But such a mere -abstracted intelligence would not require any rules or forms to guide -his conduct or prompt his volitions. And this is the effect of -Mr. Godwin’s book—to absolve a rational and voluntary agent from -all ties, but a conformity to the independent dictates and strict -obligations of the understanding:—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Within his bosom reigns another lord,</div> - <div class='line'><em>Reason</em>, sole judge and umpire of itself.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>We own that if man were this pure, abstracted essence,—if he had -not senses, passions, prejudices,—if custom, will, imagination, -example, opinion, were nothing, and reason were <em>all in all</em>;—if the -author, in a word, could establish as the foundation, what he assumes -as the result of his system, namely, the omnipotence of mind over -matter, and the triumph of truth over every warped and partial bias -<span class='pageno' id='Page_397'>397</span>of the heart—then we see no objection to his scheme taking place, -and no possibility of any other having ever been substituted for it. -But this would imply that the mind’s eye can see an object equally -well whether it is near or a thousand miles off,—that we can take an -interest in the people in the moon, or in ages yet unborn, as if they -were our own flesh and blood,—that we can sympathize with a -perfect stranger, as with our dearest friend, at a moment’s notice,—that -habit is not an ingredient in the growth of affection,—that no -check need be provided against the strong bias of self-love,—that we -can achieve any art or accomplishment by a volition, master all -knowledge with a thought; and that in this well-disciplined intuition -and faultless transparency of soul, we can take cognizance (without -presumption and without mistake) of all causes and consequences, -an equal and impartial interest in the chain of created -beings,—discard all petty feelings and minor claims,—throw down -the obstructions and stumbling-blocks in the way of these grand -cosmopolite views of disinterested philanthropy, and hold the balance -even between ourselves and the universe. It were ‘a consummation -devoutly to be wished;’ and Mr. Godwin is not to be taxed with -blame for having boldly and ardently aspired to it. We meet him -on the ground, not of the desirable, but the practicable. It were -better that a man were an angel or a god than what he is; but he -can neither be one nor the other. Enclosed in the shell of self, he -sees a little way beyond himself, and feels what concerns others still -more slowly. To require him to attain the highest point of perfection, -is to fling him back to grovel in the mire of sensuality and -selfishness. He must get on by the use and management of the -faculties which God has given him, and not by striking more than -one half of these with the dead palsy. To refuse to avail ourselves -of mixed motives and imperfect obligations, in a creature like man, -whose ‘very name is frailty,’ and who is a compound of contradictions, -is to lose the substance in catching at the shadow. It is as if -a man would be enabled to fly by cutting off his legs. If we are not -allowed to love our neighbour better than a stranger, that is, if habit -and sympathy are to make no part of our affections, the consequence -will be, not that we shall love a stranger more, but that we shall love -our neighbour less, and care about nobody but ourselves. These -partial and personal attachments are ‘the scale by which we ascend’ -to sentiments of general philanthropy. Are we to act upon pure -speculation, without knowing the circumstances of the case, or even -the parties?—for it would come to that. If we act from a knowledge -of these, and bend all our thoughts and efforts to alleviate some -immediate distress, are we to take no more interest in it than in a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_398'>398</span>case of merely possible and contingent suffering? This is to put the -known upon a level with the unknown, the real with the imaginary. -It is to say that habit, sense, sympathy, are nonentities. It is a contradiction -in terms. But if man were such a being as Mr. Godwin -supposes, that is, a perfect intelligence, there would be no contradiction -in it; for then he would have the same knowledge of whatever -was possible, as of his gross and actual experience, and would feel -the same interest in it, and act with the same energy and certainty -upon a sheer hypothesis, as now upon a <em>matter-of-fact</em>. We can look -at the clouds, but we cannot stand upon them. Mr. Godwin takes -one element of the human mind, the <em>understanding</em>, and makes it the -whole; and hence he falls into solecisms and extravagances, the -more striking and fatal in proportion to his own acuteness of reasoning, -and honesty of intention. He has, however, the merit of having -been the first to show up the abstract, or <em>Utilitarian</em>, system of -morality in its fullest extent, whatever may have been pretended to -the contrary; and those who wish to study the question, and not to -take it for granted, cannot do better than refer to the <em>first</em> edition of -the <em>Enquiry concerning Political Justice</em>; for afterwards Mr. Godwin, -out of complaisance to the public, qualified, and in some degree -neutralized, his own doctrines.</p> - -<p class='c010'>Our author, not contented with his ethical honours, (for no work -of the kind could produce a stronger sensation, or gain more converts -than this did at the time,) determined to enter upon a new career, -and fling him into the <em>arena</em> once more; thus challenging public -opinion with singular magnanimity and confidence in himself. He -did not stand ‘shivering on the brink’ of his just-acquired reputation, -and fear to tempt the perilous stream of popular favour again. -The success of Caleb Williams justified the experiment. There -was the same hardihood and gallantry of appeal in both. In the -former case, the author had screwed himself up to the most rigid -logic; in the latter, he gave unbounded scope to the suggestions of -fancy. It cannot be denied that Mr. Godwin is, in the pugilistic -phrase, an <em>out-and-outer</em>. He does not stop till he ‘reaches the -verge of all we hate:’ is it to be wondered if he sometimes falls -over? He certainly did not do this in Caleb Williams or St. Leon. -Both were eminently successful; and both, as we conceive, treated -of subjects congenial to Mr. Godwin’s mind. The one, in the -character of Falkland, embodies that love of fame and passionate -respect for intellectual excellence, which is a cherished inmate of the -author’s bosom; (the desire of undying renown breathes through -every page and line of the story, and sheds its lurid light over the -close, as it has been said that the genius of war blazes through the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_399'>399</span>Iliad;)—in the hero of the other, St. Leon, Mr. Godwin has -depicted, as well he might, the feelings and habits of a solitary -recluse, placed in new and imaginary situations: but from the philosophical -to the romantic visionary, there was perhaps but one step. -We give the decided preference to Caleb Williams over St. Leon; -but if it is more original and interesting, the other is more imposing -and eloquent. In the suffering and dying Falkland, we feel the -heart-strings of our human being break; in the other work, we are -transported to a state of fabulous existence, but unfolded with ample -and gorgeous circumstances. The palm-tree waves over the untrodden -path of luxuriant fiction; we tread with tiptoe elevation and throbbing -heart the high hill-tops of boundless existence; and the dawn of -hope and renovated life makes strange music in our breast, like the -strings of Memnon’s harp, touched by the morning’s sun. After -these two works, he fell off; he could not sustain himself at that -height by the force of genius alone, and Mr. Godwin has unfortunately -no resources but his genius. He has no Edie Ochiltree at -his elbow. His <cite>New Man of Feeling</cite> we forget; though we well -remember the old one by our Scottish Addison, Mackenzie. -Mandeville, which followed, is morbid and disagreeable; it is a -description of a man and his ill-humour, carried to a degree of -derangement. The reader is left far behind. Mr. Godwin has -attempted two plays, neither of which has succeeded, nor could -succeed. If a tragedy consisted of a series of soliloquies, nobody -could write it better than our author. But the essence of the drama -depends on the alternation and conflict of different passions, and -Mr. Godwin’s <em>forte</em> is harping on the same string. He is a -reformist, both as it regards the world and himself. If he is told of -a fault, he amends it if he can. His <cite>Life of Chaucer</cite> was objected -to as too romantic and dashing; and in his late <cite>History of the Commonwealth</cite>, -he has gone into an excess the other way. His style creeps, -and hitches in dates and authorities. We must not omit his <cite>Lives of -Edward and John Phillips</cite>, the nephews of Milton—an interesting -contribution to literary history; and his <cite>Observations on Judge Eyre’s -Charge to the Jury in 1794</cite>,—one of the most acute and seasonable -political pamphlets that ever appeared. He some years ago wrote -an <cite>Essay on Sepulchres</cite>, which contained an idle project enough, but -was enriched with some beautiful reflections on old and new countries, -and on the memorials of posthumous fame. It is a singular circumstance -that our author should maintain for twenty years, that Mr. -Malthus’s theory (in opposition to his own) was unanswerable, and -then write an answer to it, which did not much mend the matter. -It is worth knowing (in order to trace the history and progress of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_400'>400</span>the intellectual character) that the author of <cite>Political Justice</cite> and -<cite>Caleb Williams</cite> commenced his career as a dissenting clergyman; -and the bookstalls sometimes present a volume of <cite>Sermons</cite> by him, -and we believe, an <cite>English Grammar</cite>.</p> - -<p class='c010'>We cannot tell whether Mr. Godwin will have reason to be -pleased with our opinion of him; at least, he may depend on our -sincerity, and will know what it is.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_403'>403</span> - <h2 class='c005'>NOTES<br /> <span class='large'>CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE EDINBURGH REVIEW</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='c015'>Hazlitt was a regular, though not a frequent contributor to <cite>The Edinburgh -Review</cite> from 1814 until 1830, the year of his death. How he came to be -introduced so early to Jeffrey’s notice is not known. Possibly the introduction -came through Longman & Co., who had published Hazlitt’s <cite>Reply to Malthus</cite> -(1807), and who had been the London publishers of the <cite>Review</cite> since its foundation -in 1802. Hazlitt at any rate was proud of the connection, and had a high -regard for Jeffrey, whom he called ‘the prince of critics and the king of men.’ -See vol. <span class='fss'>II.</span>, <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Liber Amoris</span></cite>, p. 314 and note, and cf. also vol. <span class='fss'>IV.</span> <cite>The Spirit of the -Age</cite>, pp. 310–318. In <cite>The Atlas</cite> for June 21, 1829, there is a short article, ‘Mr. -Jeffrey’s Resignation of the Editorship of <cite>The Edinburgh Review</cite>,’ which is not -unlike Hazlitt, but cannot be confidently attributed to him.</p> - -<p class='c010'>In the text of the present volume are printed all Hazlitt’s contributions to <cite>The -Edinburgh Review</cite> as to the authorship of which there is no reasonable doubt. In -the following notes two articles are included, Hazlitt’s authorship of which, though -probable, cannot be regarded as certain. In addition to these, the following have -been attributed to him: (1) Wat Tyler and Mr. Southey (1817, vol. <span class='fss'>XXVIII.</span> -p. 151); (2) The History of Painting in Italy (1819, vol. <span class='fss'>XXXII.</span> p. 320); -(3) Byron’s <cite>Sardanapalus</cite> (1822, vol. <span class='fss'>XXXVI.</span> p. 413); and (4) an article or -articles on the Scotch Novels. See Ireland’s <cite>List of the Writings of William -Hazlitt and Leigh Hunt</cite>, p. 75, a letter from Mr. Ireland in <cite>Notes and Queries</cite>, -5th Series, <span class='fss'>XI.</span> 165, and Mr. W. C. Hazlitt’s ‘Chronological Catalogue’ of -Hazlitt’s writings published in the <cite>Memoirs of William Hazlitt</cite>, vol. <span class='fss'>I.</span> pp. xxiv-xxx. -It is almost certain that Hazlitt wrote none of these reviews, and they have -therefore been excluded from the present edition. The first (Wat Tyler and Mr. -Southey) is included in Lord Cockburn’s list of Jeffrey’s contributions to the -<cite>Edinburgh</cite> (<cite>Life of Francis Jeffrey</cite>, 1874 ed. p. 407). This list, it must be -admitted, is not thoroughly trustworthy, but the internal evidence against Hazlitt’s -authorship is very strong. It is incredible that Hazlitt could have written a long -article like this on such a subject (cf. <cite>Political Essays</cite>, vol. <span class='fss'>III.</span> pp. 192 <em>et seq.</em>) -without betraying his identity by a single phrase. The second of these articles, a -review of Stendhal’s <cite>History of Painting in Italy</cite>, Mr. Ireland attributes to Hazlitt on -merely internal evidence. Mr. W. C. Hazlitt does not include it in his Catalogue. -That Hazlitt was acquainted with Stendhal and was fond of writing on -Art are reasons why he might have <em>wished</em> to review the book, but they tell -strongly against his having written this particular article, which is very dull -indeed, and shows not a single trace of Hazlitt’s manner from beginning to end. -The review of Byron’s <cite>Sardanapalus</cite> has been attributed to Hazlitt on the strength, -no doubt, of a letter which he himself wrote to P. G. Patmore on March 30, -1822. In this letter he says, ‘My Sardanapalus is to be in [<em>i.e.</em> in the <cite>Edinburgh</cite>]. -In my judgment Myrrha is most like S. W. [Sarah Walker], only I am not like -<span class='pageno' id='Page_404'>404</span>Sardanapalus.’ See Mr. Le Gallienne’s edition of <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Liber Amoris</span></cite> (1894) p. 212. -Whatever the explanation may be, the review of <cite>Sardanapalus</cite> which <em>did</em> appear in -the <cite>Edinburgh</cite> was written by Jeffrey himself and is included in his <cite>Contributions to -the Edinburgh Review</cite> (1844), vol. <span class='fss'>II.</span> p. 333. There is no evidence that Hazlitt -wrote any of the numerous reviews of the Scotch Novels. According to Patmore -(<cite>My Friends and Acquaintance</cite>, <span class='fss'>III.</span> 155–157), Hazlitt was anxious to review Bulwer -in <cite>The Edinburgh Review</cite>, and proposed the matter, first to Jeffrey, and, on his -retirement, to Napier, personally in London. The subject, however, was, in -Patmore’s phrase, ‘interdicted.’</p> - -<h3 class='c008'>DUNLOP’S HISTORY OF FICTION</h3> - - <dl class='dl_1 c004'> - <dt>PAGE</dt> - <dd> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_5'>5</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite>Dunlop’s History of Fiction.</cite> John Colin Dunlop’s (d. 1842) <cite>The History - of Fiction: being a Critical Account of the most celebrated Prose Fictions, from the - earliest Greek Romances to the novels of the Present Age</cite>, was published in 3 - vols., 1814. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_7'>7</a>.</dt> - <dd><span lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">Νείατον ἐς κενεῶνα.</span> <cite>Iliad</cite>, <span class='fss'>V.</span> 857. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Romulus</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Horace, <cite>Epistles</cite>, <span - class='fss'>II.</span> i. 5–6. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_8'>8</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Bossu.</em> René Le Bossu (1631–1680), author of a <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Traité du poème - épique</span></cite> (1675), referred to in <cite>Tristram Shandy</cite>, <span - class='fss'>III.</span> 12. Dryden calls him ‘the best of modern critics’ (Preface to - <cite>Troilus and Cressida</cite>). - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_9'>9</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Bandello.</em> Matteo Bandello (1480–1562), whose <cite>Tales</cite> appeared in four - volumes, 1554–1573. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Ariosto.</em> Ludovico Ariosto (1474–1533), whose <cite><span lang="es" xml:lang="es">Orlando Furioso</span></cite> - (from which the ‘contrivance’ referred to by Hazlitt was borrowed) was published in - 1516–1532. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_11'>11</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Middleton.</em> Conyers Middleton (1683–1750). See his <cite>Letter from Rome</cite>, - 1729. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Bayes</em>. See the Duke of Buckingham’s <cite>The Rehearsal</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_13'>13</a>.</dt> - <dd><i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Quidlibet audendi, etc.</span></i> Horace, <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Ars Poetica</span></cite>, 10. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_15'>15</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Bell of Antermony.</em> John Bell (1691–1780), whose <cite>Travels from St. - Petersburg in Russia to various parts of Asia</cite> was published in 1763. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_16'>16</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Cumberland’s novels.</em> Richard Cumberland (1732–1811), author of <cite>The - West Indian</cite> (1771), published two novels, <cite>Arundel</cite> (1789) and - <cite>Henry</cite> (1795). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Marianne</em>. By Claude Prosper Jolyot de Marivaux (1688–1763), published between - 1731 and 1741. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_18'>18</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Warburton.</em> Warburton’s argument is summarised by Dunlop (chap. ii.) from - <cite>The Divine Legation of Moses</cite>. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_19'>19</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Bayes’s most expeditious recipe, etc.</em> <cite>The Rehearsal</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_20'>20</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Southey’s translation.</em> Southey’s translation of <cite>Amadis of Gaul</cite> - was published in four vols. 1803. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>M. de St. Palaye.</em> Jean-Baptiste de la Curne de Sainte-Palaye (1697–1781), author - of <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Mémoires sur l’Ancienne Chevalerie</span></cite>, 1759–1781. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_24'>24</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Ellis.</em> Scott’s friend, George Ellis (1753–1815) published his - <cite>Specimens of early English Metrical Romances</cite> in three vols. in 1805. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>D’Urfé.</em> Thomas D’Urfey (1653–1723), the dramatist and song-writer. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Betsy Thoughtless.</em> Eliza Haywood’s (1693?–1756) <cite>The History of Miss Betsy - Thoughtless</cite>, published in 1751. See Dunlop’s <cite>History of Fiction</cite>, - chap. xiv. - </dd> - </dl> - -<h3 class='c008'>STANDARD NOVELS AND ROMANCES</h3> - -<p class='c016'>This is ostensibly a review of Madame D’Arblay’s <cite>The Wanderer</cite>, published in -1814. Nearly the whole of it was incorporated by Hazlitt in his Lecture on the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_405'>405</span>English Novelists. Cf. vol. <span class='fss'>VIII.</span> pp. 106 <em>et seq.</em> and notes. In his Essay ‘A -Farewell to Essay-Writing,’ Hazlitt says that this review was the result of a -discussion at Lamb’s, ‘sharply seasoned and well sustained till midnight.’ Though -the review cannot be considered as harsh towards Madame D’Arblay, it led to -Hazlitt being dropped out of Admiral Burney’s whist parties. See Crabb -Robinson’s <cite>Diary</cite>, chap. xiii. This fact perhaps partly accounts for Hazlitt’s -contemptuous reference to the Burneys in his Essay ‘On the Aristocracy of -Letters,’ where, after praising Madame D’Arblay, he says, ‘The rest have done -nothing, that I know of, but keep up the name.’ See vol. <span class='fss'>VI.</span> (<cite>Table Talk</cite>), -p. 209.</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt>PAGE</dt> - <dd> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_25'>25</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Crebillon.</em> Claude Prosper Jolyot de Crébillon (1707–1777), son of the dramatist. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>The celebrated French philosopher.</em> Hazlitt was perhaps thinking of Diderot’s - well-known eulogy of Richardson (<cite>Œuvres</cite>, <span class='fss'>V.</span> - 212–227). - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_39'>39</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>The Story of Le Febre.</em> See <cite>Tristram Shandy</cite>, Book <span - class='fss'>VI.</span> chap. vi. <em>et seq.</em> - </dd> - </dl> - -<h3 class='c008'>SISMONDI’S LITERATURE OF THE SOUTH.</h3> - -<p class='c016'>Jean Charles Léonard Simonde de Sismondi (1773–1842) published his <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Histoire -des Républiques Italiennes du Moyen-Age</span></cite> in 16 vols, between 1807 and 1818; his -<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Littérature du midi de l’Europe</span></i> (here reviewed and afterwards—in 1823—translated -by Thomas Roscoe) in 4 vols. in 1813; and his <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Histoire des Français</span></cite> in 31 -vols., 1821–1844. Roscoe’s translation forms two volumes of Bohn’s Standard -Library. The translations in the present review are presumably by Hazlitt himself.</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt>PAGE</dt> - <dd> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_45'>45</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Metastasio.</em> Pietro Antonio Bonaventura Trapassi (1698–1782), poet and librettist. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Alfieri.</em> Vittorio, Count Alfieri (1749–1803), the dramatist and poet. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Goldoni.</em> Carlo Goldoni (1707–1793), the comic dramatist. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_46'>46</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Professor Boutterwek.</em> Friedrich Bouterwek (1765–1828), author of - <cite><span lang="de" xml:lang="de">Geschichte der neuern Poesie und Beredsamkeit</span></cite> (1801–1819). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Millot’s History of the Troubadours.</em> <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Histoire Littéraire des - Troubadours</span></cite> (1774), by Claude François Xavier Millot (1726–1785). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Tiraboschi.</em> Girolamo Tiraboschi (1731–1794), author of <cite>Storia della - Letteratura Italiana</cite> (1772–1782). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Velasquez.</em> Louis Joseph Velasquez de Velasco (1722–1772), author of several - works on Spanish poetry and antiquities. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Rose like an exhalation.</em>’ <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span - class='fss'>I.</span> 711. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_56'>56</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Preserved by Cervantes, etc.</em> <cite>Don Quixote</cite>, Part I., Book <span - class='fss'>I.</span>, chap. vi. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_61'>61</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Dante.</em> Cf. <cite>Lectures on the English Poets</cite>, vol. <span - class='fss'>V.</span> pp. 17, 18, and notes. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_62'>62</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>That withering inscription.</em> At the beginning of Canto <span - class='fss'>III.</span> of the <cite>Inferno</cite>. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>The Story of Geneura.</em> It is clear from the note that Hazlitt is referring to the - story of Francesca of Rimini in Canto <span class='fss'>V.</span> of the - <cite>Inferno</cite>. Paolo and Francesca read together the story of Lancelot and - Guinevere. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>Note. ‘<em>And all that day we read no more!</em>’ <cite>Inferno</cite>, Canto <span - class='fss'>V.</span> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_63'>63</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Because on earth</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Hazlitt is fond of quoting these lines, which, - however, do not appear to be Dante’s. Possibly the explanation is to be found in a letter - from Lamb to Bernard Barton (Feb. 17, 1823), where he says: ‘I once quoted two lines from - a translation of Dante, which Hazlitt very greatly admired, and quoted in a book, as - proof of the stupendous power of that poet; but no such lines are to be found in the - translation, which has been searched for the purpose. I must have dreamed them, for I am - quite <span class='pageno' id='Page_406'>406</span>certain I did not forge them knowingly. What a misfortune to have a lying memory!’ - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>I am the tomb</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Inferno</cite>, Canto <span - class='fss'>XI.</span> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>As when Satan is compared, etc.</em> Hazlitt seems to be confusing Dante with Milton. - See <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span class='fss'>IV.</span> 196. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Instinct with life.</em>’ Cf. ‘Instinct with spirit.’ <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, - vi. 752. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Count Ugolino.</em> <cite>Inferno</cite>, Canto <span class='fss'>XXXIII.</span> Lamb - shared Hazlitt’s dislike of Reynolds’s picture. See <cite>Works</cite> (ed. E. V. Lucas), - <span class='fss'>I.</span> 75 and 149. Patmore (<cite>My Friends and - Acquaintance</cite>, <span class='fss'>II.</span> 252) compares Hazlitt with Ugolino. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>By the sole strength</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> See <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Paradiso</span></cite>, Canto - <span class='fss'>I.</span> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_65'>65</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite>The Sonnet of Petrarch.</cite> No. <span class='fss'>CCLI.</span> See - <cite>Sismondi</cite>, chap. <span class='fss'>X.</span> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_68'>68</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>The story of the two holiday lovers.</em> <cite>The Decameron</cite>, 4th Day, Novel - <span class='fss'>VII.</span> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_69'>69</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Pulci.</em> Luigi Pulci (1432–?1484), author of <cite><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Il Morgante - Maggiore</span></cite> (1481). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Boyardo.</em> Matteo Maria Boiardo (1434–1494), whose <cite><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Orlando - Innamorato</span></cite> was published in 1486. Francesco Berni’s (1490?–1536) version appeared - in 1541. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_71'>71</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<i><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Giace l’alta Cartago.</span></i>’ <cite>Jerusalem Delivered</cite>, Canto <span - class='fss'>XV.</span> St. 20. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>The speech of Satan.</em> <cite>Ibid.</cite> Canto <span class='fss'>IV.</span> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_72'>72</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>I rather envied</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Montaigne, <cite>Essays</cite>, Book <span - class='fss'>II.</span>, chap. xii. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_73'>73</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Like the swift Alpine torrent</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> From the final chorus of - <cite><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Il Torrismondo</span></cite>. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_74'>74</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Chaucer and Spenser.</em> Much of what follows was repeated by Hazlitt in his lecture - on Chaucer and Spenser. See vol. <span class='fss'>V.</span>, pp. 19–44, and notes. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_75'>75</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Rousseau’s description of the Elisée.</em> <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La Nouvelle Héloïse</span></cite>, - Partie IV., Lettre <span class='fss'>XI.</span> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_76'>76</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>In looking back, etc.</em> These two concluding paragraphs were lifted into Hazlitt’s - lecture on Shakspeare and Milton. See vol. <span class='fss'>V.</span> pp. 44–46, and - notes. - </dd> - </dl> - -<h3 class='c008'>SCHLEGEL ON THE DRAMA.</h3> - -<p class='c016'>August Wilhelm von Schlegel’s (1767–1845) ‘Lectures on Dramatic Art and -Literature’ were delivered in Vienna in 1808. Hazlitt reviews the English translation, -published in 1815, by John Black (1783–1855), who afterwards became -editor of <cite>The Morning Chronicle</cite>.</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt>PAGE</dt> - <dd> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_79'>79</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>The admirable translator.</em> Schlegel had translated Shakespeare (9 vols. - 1797–1810), and Calderon (<cite>Spanish Theatre</cite>, 2 vols., 1803–1809). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Madame de Staël.</em> Schlegel lived for many years at Madame de Staël’s house at - Coppet. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_81'>81</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Florimel.</em> <cite>The Faerie Queene</cite>, Book III., Canto <span - class='fss'>VII.</span> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_82'>82</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>There was magic in the web.</em>’ <cite>Othello</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 4. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Schlegel somewhere compares, etc.</em> Lectures <span class='fss'>XXV.</span> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>So withered</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Macbeth</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Metaphysical aid.</em>’ <cite>Ibid.</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 5. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_83'>83</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>That she moved with grace</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Possibly Hazlitt was thinking of the - scene in the <cite>Iliad</cite> (<span class='fss'>III.</span> 150, <em>et seq.</em>), - where at the Scaean Gate the Trojan elders see Helen for the first time. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Upon her eyelids</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>The Faerie Queene</cite>, Book II., - Canto <span class='fss'>III.</span>, St. 25. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>All plumed</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Henry IV.</cite>, Part I., Act <span - class='fss'>IV.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>For they are old</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>King Lear</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 4. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_85'>85</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Antres vast</span></i>,’ <em>etc.</em> Othello, Act <span class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Orlando’s enchanted sword, etc.</em> In Ariosto’s <cite><span lang="es" xml:lang="es">Orlando Furioso</span></cite>. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_86'>86</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>New-lighted</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 4. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>The evidence of things seen.</em>’ <cite>Hebrews</cite>, xi. 1. -<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_407'>407</span></div> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_86'>86</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Broods</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span class='fss'>I.</span> - 21–22. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>The ignorant present time.</em>’ <cite>Macbeth</cite>, Act. <span - class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 5. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_88'>88</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Jones.</em> Sir William Jones (1746–1794), the Orientalist. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_98'>98</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Tu y seras, ma fille.</span></i>’ Racine, <cite>Iphigénie</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>The dry chips</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cowley, Ode, <cite>Of Wit</cite>. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_100'>100</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Tries conclusions infinite.</em>’ -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Cf. ‘She hath pursued conclusions infinite</div> - <div class='line in4'>Of easy ways to die.’</div> - <div class='line in22'><cite>Antony and Cleopatra</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>V.</span> Sc. 2.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_106'>106</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>The infant Joaz.</em> <cite>Athalie</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 9. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>The speech of Phædra.</em> <cite>Phèdre</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>IV.</span> Sc. - 6. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_107'>107</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Schlegel speaks highly, etc.</em> See Lecture <span class='fss'>XXI.</span> For - Hazlitt on Molière cf. vol. <span class='fss'>VIII.</span> pp. 28–9 (<cite>English Comic - Writers</cite>), where much of this passage is repeated. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_108'>108</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Extremes meet, etc.</em> Hazlitt quoted this paragraph in <cite>The Round - Table</cite> (vol. <span class='fss'>I.</span> pp. 97–8). - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_111'>111</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Not a jot</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Othello</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Light thickens.</em>’ <cite>Macbeth</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Why stands Macbeth</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Ibid.</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>IV.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_116'>116</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Ethereal mould</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span - class='fss'>II.</span> 139 and <span class='fss'>V.</span> 285. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Stronger Shakespear</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Collins, <cite>Epistle to Sir Thomas - Hanmer</cite>, 64. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_117'>117</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>The scene between Surly and Sir Epicure Mammon.</em> <cite>The Alchemist</cite>, Act - <span class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_118'>118</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>A man walking upon stilts</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Lecture <span - class='fss'>XXVIII.</span> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_119'>119</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>By a singular vicissitude</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Madame de Staël’s <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">De l’ - Allemagne</span></cite>, chap. xxii. - </dd> - </dl> - -<h3 class='c008'><em>LEIGH HUNT’S ‘RIMINI’</em></h3> - -<p class='c016'>The <cite>Edinburgh Review</cite> for June, 1816 (vol. <span class='fss'>XXVI.</span> pp. 476–491) contained a -notice of Leigh Hunt’s <cite>The Story of Rimini</cite>. Lord Cockburn includes this review -in his List of Lord Jeffrey’s articles in the <cite>Edinburgh</cite> (see <cite>Life of Francis Jeffrey</cite>); -Mr. W. C. Hazlitt (<cite>Memoirs</cite>, <span class='fss'>I.</span> pp. xxv. and 225) attributes it to Hazlitt; and -Mr. Ireland, in his Bibliography of Hazlitt and Leigh Hunt, marks it as doubtful. -The Blackwood set regarded or professed to regard Hazlitt as the author, as -appears from a passage in Lockhart’s attack on Hunt in the first number (October -1817) of <cite>Blackwood’s Magazine</cite>: ‘The very culpable manner in which his [Hunt’s] -chief poem was reviewed in the <cite>Edinburgh Review</cite> (we believe it is no secret, at -his own impatient and feverish request, by his partner in the <cite>Round Table</cite>), was -matter of concern to more readers than ourselves.... Mr. Jeffrey does ill when -he delegates his important functions into such hands as those of Mr. Hazlitt.’ -Lockhart, however, knew nothing about Hunt or Hazlitt, and his ‘no secret’ -(which afforded an opportunity for a hit at Jeffrey) does not throw any light on -the question. Hunt denied the insinuation. See <cite>Memoirs of William Hazlitt</cite>, -<span class='fss'>I.</span> 225. The review does not read like Hazlitt, but, from a letter which he afterwards -addressed to Leigh Hunt, it would seem that at the least he had some hand -in it. The letter is dated April 21, 1821 (see <cite>Four Generations of a Literary -Family</cite>, <span class='fss'>I.</span> 133), and contains an account of Hazlitt’s grievances against Leigh -Hunt. In course of it, he says: ‘For instance, I praised you in the <cite>Edinburgh -Review</cite>.’ There does not seem to be any praise of Hunt to which this passage -can refer except this review, which is possibly the result of some rather free -handling of Hazlitt’s <span class='fss'>MS.</span> by Jeffrey.</p> - -<p class='c010'>The review is given below. The long extracts from the poem are roughly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_408'>408</span>indicated by the first and last line, though in a few cases some of the intermediate -lines are omitted in the review.</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The Story of Rimini, a Poem.</cite> By <span class='sc'>Leigh Hunt</span>. pp. 111. - London, Murray, 1816. - </dd> - </dl> - -<p class='c010'>‘There is a great deal of genuine poetry in this little volume; and poetry, too, -of a very peculiar and original character. It reminds us, in many respects, of -that pure and glorious style that prevailed among us before French models and -French rules of criticism were known in this country, and to which we are -delighted to see there is now so general a disposition to recur. Yet its more -immediate prototypes, perhaps, are to be looked for rather in Italy than in -England: at least, if it be copied from any thing English, it is from something -much older than Shakespeare; and it unquestionably bears a still stronger resemblance -to Chaucer than to his immediate followers in Italy. The same fresh, -lively and artless pictures of external objects,—the same profusion of gorgeous but -redundant and needless description,—the same familiarity and even homeliness of -diction,—and, above all, the same simplicity and directness in representing -actions and passions in colours true to nature, but without any apparent attention -to their effect, or any ostentation, or even visible impression as to their moral -operation or tendency. The great distinction between the modern poets and their -predecessors, is, that the latter painted more from the eye and less from the mind -than the former. They described things and actions as they saw them, without -expressing, or at any rate without dwelling on the deep-seated emotions from -which the objects derived their interest, or the actions their character. The -moderns, on the contrary, have brought these most prominently forward, and -explained and enlarged upon them perhaps at excessive length. Mr. Hunt, in the -piece before us, has followed the antient school; and though he has necessarily -gone something beyond the naked notices that would have suited the age of -Chaucer, he has kept himself far more to the delineation of visible, physical -realities, than any other modern poet on such a subject.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Though he has chosen, however, to write in this style, and has done so very -successfully, we are not by any means of opinion, that he either writes or appears -to write it as naturally as those by whom it was first adopted; on the contrary, -we think there is a good deal of affectation in his homeliness, directness, and -rambling descriptions. He visibly gives himself airs of familiarity, and mixes up -flippant, and even cant phrases, with passages that bear, upon the whole, the -marks of considerable labour and study. In general, however, he is very successful -in his attempts at facility, and has unquestionably produced a little poem of -great grace and spirit, and, in many passages and many particulars, of infinite -beauty and delicacy.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘In the subject he has selected, he has ventured indeed upon sacred ground; but -he has not profaned it. The passage in Dante, on which the story of Rimini is -founded, remains unimpaired by the English version, and has even received a new -interest from it. The undertaking must be allowed to have been one of great -nicety. An imitation of the manner of Dante was an impossibility. That extraordinary -author collects all his force into a single blow: His sentiments derive an -obscure grandeur from their being only half expressed; and therefore, a detailed -narrative of this kind, a description of particular circumstances done upon this -ponderous principle, an enumeration of incidents leading to a catastrophe, with all -the pith and conclusiveness of the catastrophe itself, would be intolerable. Mr. -Hunt has arrived at his end by varying his means; and the effect of his poem -coincides with that of the original passage, mainly, because the spirit in which it -is written is quite different. With the personages in Dante, all is over before the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_409'>409</span>reader is introduced to them; their doom is fixed;—and his style is as peremptory -and irrevocable as their fate. But the lovers, whose memory the muse of the -Italian poet had consecrated in the other world, are here restored to earth, with -the graces and the sentiments that became them in their lifetime. Mr. Hunt, in -accompanying them to its fatal close, has mingled every tint of many-coloured life -in the tissue of their story—blending tears with smiles, the dancing of the spirits -with sad forebodings, the intoxication of hope with bitter disappointment, youth -with age, life and death together. He has united something of the voluptuous -pathos of Boccacio with Ariosto’s laughing graces. His court dresses, and gala -processions he has borrowed from Watteau. His sunshine and his flowers are his -own! He himself has explained the design of his poem in the Preface. [<em>A long -passage from the Preface is quoted.</em>]</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The poem opens with the following passage of superb description:—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>[“The sun is up, and ’tis a morn of May,” to</div> - <div class='line'>“And pilgrims, chanting in the morning sun.”]</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘Such is the manner in which the business of the day is ushered in. The rest of -the first canto is taken up in describing the preparations for receiving the bridegroom, -the processions of knights that precede his expected arrival; the dresses, -&c.—There is something in all this part of the poem which gives back the sensation -of the scene and the occasion;—a glancing eye, a busy ear, great bustle and -gaiety, and, where it is required, great grace of description. Perhaps the subject -is too long dwelt upon; and there is, occasionally, a repetition of nearly the same -images and expressions. The reader may take the following as fair specimens:</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>[“And hark! the approaching trumpets, with a start,” to</div> - <div class='line'>“The shift, the tossing, and the fiery tramping.”]</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘After all, the future husband does not appear, but his younger brother, Paulo, -who comes as his proxy to take the bride to Rimini; and it is to the mistaken -impression thus made on her mind that all the subsequent distress is owing. His -person, his dress, the gallantry of Paulo’s demeanour, are very vividly described, -and the effect of his appearance on the surrounding multitude.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>[“And on a milk-white courser, like the air,” to</div> - <div class='line'>“These catch the extrinsic and the common eye.”]</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘The Second Canto gives an account of the bride’s journey to Rimini, in the -company of her husband’s brother, which abounds in picturesque descriptions. -Mr. Hunt has here taken occasion to enter somewhat learnedly into the geography -of his subject; and describes the road between Ravenna and Rimini, with the -accuracy of a topographer, and the liveliness of a poet. There is, however, no -impertinent minuteness of detail; but only those circumstances are dwelt upon, -which fall in with the general interest of the story, and would be likely to strike -forcibly upon the imagination in such an interval of anxiety and suspense. We -have only room for the concluding lines.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>[“Various the trees and passing foliage here,” to</div> - <div class='line'>“Night and a maiden silence wrap the plains.”]</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘We have detained our readers longer than we intended, from that which forms -the most interesting part of the poem, the Third Canto, of which the subject is -the fatal passion between Paulo and Francesca. We shall be ample in our extracts -from this part of the poem, because we have no other way of giving an idea of its -characteristic qualities. Mr. Hunt, as we have already intimated, does not belong -to any of the modern schools of poetry; and therefore we cannot convey our idea -<span class='pageno' id='Page_410'>410</span>of his manner of writing, by reference to any of the more conspicuous models. -His poetry is not like Mr. Wordsworth’s, which is metaphysical; nor like Mr. -Coleridge’s, which is fantastical; nor like Mr. Southey’s, which is monastical. -But it is something which we have already endeavoured to sketch by its general -features, and shall now enable the reader to study in detail in the following -extracts.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The first disappointment of the warm-hearted bride, and the portraits of the -rival brothers, are sketched with equal skill and delicacy.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>[“Enough of this. Yet how shall I disclose,” to</div> - <div class='line'>“And like a morning beam, wake to him every morrow.”]</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘Paulo’s growing passion for Francesca is described with equal delicacy and -insight into the sophistry of the human heart. He is represented as first concealing -his attachment from himself; then struggling with it; then yielding -to it.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>[“Till ’twas the food and habit day by day,” to</div> - <div class='line'>“’Twas but the taste of what was natural.”]</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘But we hasten on to the principal event and the catastrophe of the poem. The -scene of the fatal meeting between the lovers is laid in the gardens of the palace, -which are here described with the utmost elegance and beauty.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>[“So now you walked beside an odorous bed,” to</div> - <div class='line'>“A summer-house so fine in such a nest of green.”]</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘Such is the landscape:—now for the figures.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>[“All the green garden, flower-bed, shade and plot,” to</div> - <div class='line'>“To ask the good King Arthur for assistance.”]</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘We cannot give the whole extract of the story,—only she becomes more -deeply engaged as she comes to the love scenes.—What follows, we think is very -exquisitely written.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>[“Ready she sat with one hand to turn o’er,” to</div> - <div class='line'>“Desperate the joy.—That day they read no more.”]</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘We do not think the execution of the fourth and last Canto quite equal to that -of the third: Yet there are passages in it of the greatest beauty; and an air of -melancholy breathes from the whole with irresistible softness and effect.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘The feelings of Francesca, arising from the consciousness of her melancholy -situation and broken vows, are thus finely represented.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>[“And oh, the morrow, how it used to rise!” to</div> - <div class='line'>“That Heaven would take her, if it pleased, away.”]</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘From the distress and agitation of her mind, she afterwards betrays the secret -of her infidelity to her husband in her sleep. This leads to a rencounter between -the two brothers, which is fatal to Paulo, who runs voluntarily upon his brother’s -sword; and partly from the shock of the news, partly from previous grief preying -on her mind and body, Francesca dies the same day. Her death is profoundly -affecting, and leaves an impression on the imagination, icy, cold, and monumental. -The squire of Paulo is admitted to the side of her sad couch, to tell the dismal -story—and repeats, in the Prince’s own words, how he had been forced to fight -with his brother—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in12'>[“——And that although,” to</div> - <div class='line'>“The gentle sufferer was at peace in death.”]</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_411'>411</span>‘The bodies of the two lovers are sent back, by order of the husband, to -Ravenna, to be buried in one tomb. We shall close our extracts with the account -of the arrival of this mournful procession, so different in every respect from the -former one.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>[“The days were then at close of autumn—still,” to</div> - <div class='line'>“Young hearts betrothed used to go there to pray.”]</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘We have given these extracts at length, that our readers might judge of the story -of Rimini, less on our authority, than its own merits; and we have few remarks -to add to those which we ventured to make at the beginning. The diction of this -little poem is among its chief beauties—and yet its greatest blemishes are faults in -diction.—It is very English throughout—but often very affectedly negligent, and -so extremely familiar as to be absolutely low and vulgar. What, for example, can -be said for such lines as</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“She had stout notions on the marrying score,” or</div> - <div class='line'>“He kept no reckoning with his sweets and sours;—” or</div> - <div class='line'>“And better still—in my idea at least,” or</div> - <div class='line'>“The two divinest things this world has got.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘We see no sort of beauty either in such absurd and unusual phrases as “a clipsome -waist,”—“a scattery light,” or “flings of sunshine,”—nor any charm in such -comparatives as “martialler,” or “tastefuller,” or “franklier,” or in such words as -“whisks,” and “swaling,” and “freaks and snatches,” and an hundred others in the -same taste. We think the author rather heretical too on the subject of versification—though -we have much less objection to his theory than to his practice. But -we cannot spare him a line more on the present occasion—and must put off the -rest of our admonitions till we meet him again.’</p> - -<h3 class='c008'><em>COLERIDGE’S ‘CHRISTABEL’</em></h3> - -<p class='c016'>In the <cite>Edinburgh Review</cite> for September, 1816 (vol. <span class='fss'>XXVII.</span> pp. 58–67), appeared -a review of Coleridge’s <cite>Christabel</cite>, as to the authorship of which there has been a -good deal of discussion. Coleridge himself believed that it was written by -Hazlitt. (See <em>post</em>, note to p. 155.) Hazlitt never acknowledged the authorship, -and there is indeed no external evidence upon the subject. Mr. Dykes Campbell -(<cite>Samuel Taylor Coleridge</cite>, p. 225, note 1) regards the ascription of the review to -Hazlitt as being ‘probably, though not certainly, correct.’ Neither Mr. Ireland -nor Mr. W. C. Hazlitt ascribes it to Hazlitt. Quite recently the question of -Hazlitt’s authorship, determined one way or the other by a consideration of the -internal evidence, has been the subject of a controversy in <cite>Notes and Queries</cite> -(9th Series, <span class='fss'>A.</span> 388, 429: <span class='fss'>XI.</span> 170, 269), to which reference should be made. Mr. -Andrew Lang in his <cite>Life of J. G. Lockhart</cite> (vol. <span class='fss'>I.</span> pp. 139–142) refers to the -review at some length as a kind of set-off against Lockhart’s early indiscretions in -<cite>Blackwood</cite>. Without discussing the authorship of the review, he is indignant -with Jeffrey for having admitted it into the <cite>Edinburgh</cite>. The present editors are -disposed to think that the review is substantially the work of Hazlitt, though, as -in the case of the review of <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Rimini</span></cite>, it may be conjectured that Jeffrey used his -editorial pen pretty freely. Since absolute certainty is not at present attainable, -the review, instead of being printed in the text, is given below.</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Christabel: Kubla Khan, a Vision. The Pains of Sleep.</cite> By <span class='sc'>S. - T. Coleridge</span>, Esq. London. Murray, 1816. - </dd> - </dl> - -<p class='c010'>‘The advertisement by which this work was announced to the publick, carried -in its front a recommendation from Lord Byron,—who, it seems, has somewhere -<span class='pageno' id='Page_412'>412</span>praised Christabel, “as a wild and singularly original and beautiful poem.” Great as -the noble bard’s merits undoubtedly are in poetry, some of his latest <em>publications</em> -dispose us to distrust his authority, where the question is what ought to meet the -public eye; and the works before us afford an additional proof, that his judgment on -such matters is not absolutely to be relied on. Moreover, we are a little inclined to -doubt the value of the praise which one poet lends another. It seems now-a-days -to be the practice of that once irritable race to laud each other without bounds; -and one can hardly avoid suspecting, that what is thus lavishly advanced may be -laid out with a view to being repaid with interest. Mr. Coleridge, however, must -be judged by his own merits.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘It is remarked, by the writers upon the Bathos, that the true <em>profound</em> is surely -known by one quality—its being wholly bottomless; insomuch, that when you -think you have attained its utmost depth in the work of some of its great masters, -another, or peradventure the same, astonishes you, immediately after, by a plunge -so much more vigorous, as to outdo all his former outdoings. So it seems to be -with the new school, or, as they may be termed, the wild or lawless poets. After -we had been admiring their extravagance for many years, and marvelling at the -ease and rapidity with which one exceeded another in the unmeaning or infantine, -until not an idea was left in the rhyme—or in the insane, until we had reached -something that seemed the untamed effusion of an author whose thoughts were -rather more free than his actions—forth steps Mr. Coleridge, like a giant refreshed -with sleep, and as if to redeem his character after so long a silence, (“his poetic -powers having been, he says, from 1808 till very lately, in a state of suspended -animation,” p. v.) and breaks out in these precise words—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“’Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,</div> - <div class='line'>And the owls have awaken’d the crowing cock;</div> - <div class='line'>Tu—whit!——Tu—whoo!</div> - <div class='line'>And hark, again! the crowing cock,</div> - <div class='line'>How drowsily it crew.</div> - <div class='line'>Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,</div> - <div class='line'>Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;</div> - <div class='line'>From her kennel beneath the rock</div> - <div class='line'>She makes answer to the clock,</div> - <div class='line'>Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;</div> - <div class='line'>Ever and aye, moonshine or shower,</div> - <div class='line'>Sixteen short howls, not over loud:</div> - <div class='line'>Some say she sees my lady’s shroud.</div> - <div class='line'>Is the night chilly and dark?</div> - <div class='line'>The night is chilly, but not dark.” Pp. 3,4.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘It is probable that Lord Byron may have had this passage in his eye, when he -called the poem “wild” and “original”: but how he discovered it to be “beautiful,” -is not quite so easy for us to imagine.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Much of the art of the wild writers consists in sudden transitions—opening -eagerly upon some topic, and then flying from it immediately. This indeed is -known to the medical men, who not unfrequently have the care of them, as an -unerring symptom. Accordingly, here we take leave of the Mastiff Bitch, and -lose sight of her entirely, upon the entrance of another personage of a higher -degree,</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“The lovely Lady Christabel,</div> - <div class='line'>Whom her father loves so well”—</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>And who, it seems, has been rambling about all night, having, the night before, -had dreams about her lover, which “made her moan and <em>leap</em>.” While kneeling, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_413'>413</span>in the course of her rambles, at an old oak, she hears a noise on the other side of -the stump, and going round, finds, to her great surprize, another fair damsel in -white silk, but with her dress and hair in some disorder; at the mention of whom, -the poet takes fright, not, as might be imagined, because of her disorder, but on -account of her beauty and her fair attire—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“I guess, ’twas frightful there to see</div> - <div class='line'>A lady so richly clad as she—</div> - <div class='line'>Beautiful exceedingly!”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>Christabel naturally asks who she is, and is answered, at some length, that her -name is Geraldine; that she was, on the morning before, seized by five warriors, -who tied her on a white horse, and drove her on, they themselves following, also -on white horses; and that they had rode all night. Her narrative now gets to be -a little contradictory, which gives rise to unpleasant suspicions. She protests -vehemently, and with oaths, that she has no idea who the men were; only that -one of them, the tallest of the five, took her and placed her under the tree, and that -they all went away, she knew not whither; but how long she had remained there -she cannot tell—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“Nor do I know how long it is,</div> - <div class='line'>For I have lain in fits, I <em>wis</em>;”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>—although she had previously kept a pretty exact account of the time. The two -ladies then go home together, after this satisfactory explanation, which appears to -have conveyed to the intelligent mind of Lady C. every requisite information. -They arrive at the castle, and pass the night in the same bed-room; not to disturb -Sir Leoline, who, it seems, was poorly at the time, and, of course, must have been -called up to speak to the chambermaids, and have the sheets aired, if Lady G. had -had a room to herself. They do not get to their bed, however, in the poem, quite -so easily as we have carried them. They first cross the moat, and Lady C. “took -the key that fitted well,” and opened a little door, “all in the middle of the gate.” -Lady G. then sinks down “belike through pain”; but it should seem more probably -from laziness; for her fair companion having lifted her up, and carried her -a little way, she then walks on “as she were not in pain.” Then they cross the -court—but we must give this in the poet’s words, for he seems so pleased with -them, that he inserts them twice over in the space of ten lines—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“So free from danger, free from fear,</div> - <div class='line'>They crossed the court—right glad they were.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘Lady C. is desirous of a little conversation on the way, but Lady G. will not -indulge her Ladyship, saying, she is too much tired to speak. We now meet our -old friend, the mastiff bitch, who is much too important a person to be slightly -passed by—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“Outside her kennel, the mastiff old</div> - <div class='line'>Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.</div> - <div class='line'>The mastiff old did not awake,</div> - <div class='line'>Yet she an angry moan did make!</div> - <div class='line'>And what can ail the mastiff bitch?</div> - <div class='line'>Never till now she uttered yell</div> - <div class='line'>Beneath the eye of Christabel.</div> - <div class='line'>Perhaps it is the owlet’s scritch:</div> - <div class='line'>For what can ail the mastiff bitch?”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘Whatever it may be that ails the bitch, the ladies pass forward, and take off -their shoes, and tread softly all the way up stairs, as Christabel observes that her -father is a bad sleeper. At last, however, they do arrive at the bed-room, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_414'>414</span>comfort themselves with a dram of some home-made liquor, which proves to be -very old; for it was made by Lady C.’s mother; and when her new friend asks -if she thinks the old lady will take her part, she answers, that this is out of the -question, in as much as she happened to die in childbed of her. The mention of -the old lady, however, gives occasion to the following pathetic couplet.—Christabel -says,</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“O mother dear, that thou wert here!</div> - <div class='line'>I would, said Geraldine, she were!”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘A very mysterious conversation next takes place between Lady Geraldine and -the old gentlewoman’s ghost, which proving extremely fatiguing to her, she again -has recourse to the bottle—and with excellent effect, as appears by these lines.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“Again the wild-flower wine she drank;</div> - <div class='line'>Her fair large eyes ’gan glitter bright,</div> - <div class='line'>And from the floor whereon she sank,</div> - <div class='line'>The lofty Lady stood upright:</div> - <div class='line in2'>She was most beautiful to see,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Like a Lady of a far countrée.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c012'>—From which, we may gather among other points, the exceeding great beauty of -all women who live in a distant place, no matter where. The effects of the -cordial speedily begin to appear; as no one, we imagine, will doubt, that to its -influence must be ascribed the following speech—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“And thus the lofty lady spake—</div> - <div class='line'>All they, who live in the upper sky,</div> - <div class='line'>Do love you, holy Christabel!</div> - <div class='line'>And you love them—and for their sake</div> - <div class='line'>And for the good which me befel,</div> - <div class='line'>Even I in my degree will try,</div> - <div class='line'>Fair maiden, to requite you well.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘Before going to bed, Lady G. kneels to pray, and desires her friend to undress, -and lie down; which she does “in her loveliness”; but being curious, she leans -“on her elbow,” and looks towards the fair devotee,—where she sees something -which the poet does not think fit to tell us very explicitly.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“Her silken robe, and inner vest,</div> - <div class='line'>Dropt to her feet, and full in view,</div> - <div class='line'>Behold! her bosom and half her side——</div> - <div class='line'>A sight to dream of, not to tell!</div> - <div class='line'>And she is to sleep by Christabel.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘She soon rises, however, from her knees; and as it was not a double-bedded -room, she turns in to Lady Christabel, taking only “two paces and a stride.” She -then clasps her tight in her arms, and mutters a very dark spell, which we apprehend -the poet manufactured by shaking words together at random; for it is -impossible to fancy that he can annex any meaning whatever to it. This is -the end of it.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in12'>“But vainly thou warrest,</div> - <div class='line in14'>For this is alone in</div> - <div class='line in12'>Thy power to declare,</div> - <div class='line in14'>That in the dim forest</div> - <div class='line in12'>Thou heard’st a low moaning,</div> - <div class='line'>And found’st a bright lady, surpassingly fair:</div> - <div class='line'>And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity,</div> - <div class='line'>To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'><span class='pageno' id='Page_415'>415</span>‘The consequence of this incantation is, that Lady Christabel has a strange -dream—and when she awakes, her first exclamation is, “Sure I have sinn’d”—“Now -heaven be praised if all be well!” Being still perplexed with the remembrance -of her “too lively” dream—she then dresses herself, and modestly prays to -be forgiven for “her sins unknown.” The two companions now go to the Baron’s -parlour, and Geraldine tells her story to him. This, however, the poet judiciously -leaves out, and only signifies that the Baron recognized in her the daughter of his -old friend Sir Roland, with whom he had had a deadly quarrel. Now, however, -he despatches his tame poet, or laureate, called Bard Bracy, to invite him and his -family over, promising to forgive every thing, and even make an apology for what -had passed. To understand what follows, we own, surpasses our comprehension. -Mr. Bracy, the poet, recounts a strange dream he has just had, of a dove being -almost strangled by a snake; whereupon the Lady Geraldine falls a hissing, and -her eyes grow small, like a serpent’s,—or at least so they seem to her friend; who -begs her father to “send away that woman.” Upon this the Baron falls into a -passion, as if he had discovered that his daughter had been seduced; at least, we -can understand him in no other sense, though no hint of such a kind is given; -but, on the contrary, she is painted to the last moment as full of innocence and -purity.—Nevertheless,</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“His heart was cleft with pain and rage,</div> - <div class='line'>His cheeks they quiver’d, his eyes were wild,</div> - <div class='line'>Dishonour’d thus in his old age;</div> - <div class='line'>Dishonour’d by his only child;</div> - <div class='line'>And all his hospitality</div> - <div class='line'>To th’ insulted daughter of his friend</div> - <div class='line'>By more than woman’s jealousy,</div> - <div class='line'>Brought thus to a disgraceful end——”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘Nothing further is said to explain the mystery; but there follows incontinently, -what is termed “<em>The conclusion of Part the Second</em>.” And as we are pretty confident -that Mr. Coleridge holds this passage in the highest estimation; that he prizes -it more than any other part of “that wild, and singularly original and beautiful -poem Christabel,” excepting always the two passages touching the “toothless mastiff -Bitch;” we shall extract it for the amazement of our readers—premising our own -frank avowal that we are wholly unable to divine the meaning of any portion -of it.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“A little child, a limber elf,</div> - <div class='line'>Singing, dancing to itself,</div> - <div class='line'>A fairy thing with red round cheeks,</div> - <div class='line'>That always finds and never seeks;</div> - <div class='line'>Makes such a vision to the sight</div> - <div class='line'>As fills a father’s eyes with light;</div> - <div class='line'>And pleasures flow in so thick and fast</div> - <div class='line'>Upon his heart, that he at last</div> - <div class='line'>Must needs express his love’s excess</div> - <div class='line'>With words of unmeant bitterness.</div> - <div class='line'>Perhaps ’tis pretty to force together</div> - <div class='line'>Thoughts so all unlike each other;</div> - <div class='line'>To mutter and mock a broken charm,</div> - <div class='line'>To dally with wrong that does no harm.</div> - <div class='line'>Perhaps ’tis tender too, and pretty,</div> - <div class='line'>At each wild word to feel within</div> - <div class='line'>A sweet recoil of love and pity.</div> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_416'>416</span>And what if in a world of sin</div> - <div class='line'>(O sorrow and shame should this be true!)</div> - <div class='line'>Such giddiness of heart and brain</div> - <div class='line'>Comes seldom save from rage and pain,</div> - <div class='line'>So talks as it’s most used to do.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘Here endeth the Second Part, and, in truth, the “singular” poem itself; for the -author has not yet written, or, as he phrases it, “embodied in verse,” the “three -parts yet to come;”—though he trusts he shall be able to do so “in the course of -the present year.”</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘One word as to the metre of Christabel, or, as Mr. Coleridge terms it, “<em>the</em> -Christabel”—happily enough; for indeed we doubt if the peculiar force of the -definite article was ever more strongly exemplified. He says, that though the -reader may fancy there prevails a great <em>irregularity</em> in the metre, some lines being -of four, others of twelve syllables, yet in reality it is quite regular; only that it -is “founded on a new principle, namely, that of counting in each line the accents, -not the syllables.” We say nothing of the monstrous assurance of any man -coming forward coolly at this time of day, and telling the readers of English -poetry, whose ear has been tuned to the lays of Spenser, Milton, Dryden, and -Pope, that he makes his metre “on a new principle!” but we utterly deny the -truth of the assertion, and defy him to show us <em>any</em> principle upon which his -lines can be conceived to tally. We give two or three specimens, to confound -at once this miserable piece of coxcombry and shuffling. Let our “wild, and -singularly original and beautiful” author, show us how these lines agree either in -number of accents or of feet.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in8'>“Ah wel-a-day!”—</div> - <div class='line in8'>“For this is alone in”—</div> - <div class='line'>“And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity”—</div> - <div class='line in8'>“I pray you drink this cordial wine”—</div> - <div class='line in8'>“Sir Leoline”—</div> - <div class='line in8'>“And found a bright lady surpassingly fair”—</div> - <div class='line in8'>“Tu—whit!——Tu—whoo!”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘<cite>Kubla Khan</cite> is given to the public, it seems, “at the request of a poet of great -and deserved celebrity;”—but whether Lord Byron the praiser of “the Christabel,” -or the Laureate, the praiser of Princes, we are not informed. As far as Mr. -Coleridge’s “own opinions are concerned,” it is published, “not upon the ground of -any <em>poetic</em> merits,” but “as a <span class='fss'>PSYCHOLOGICAL CURIOSITY</span>!” In these opinions of -the candid author, we entirely concur; but for this reason we hardly think it was -necessary to give the minute detail which the Preface contains, of the circumstances -attending its composition. Had the question regarded “<cite>Paradise Lost</cite>,” or -“<cite>Dryden’s Ode</cite>” we could not have had a more particular account of the circumstances -in which it was composed. It was in the year 1797, and the summer -season. Mr. Coleridge was in bad health;—the particular disease is not given; -but the careful reader will form his own conjectures. He had retired very -prudently to a lonely farm-house; and whoever would see the place which gave -birth to the “psychological curiosity,” may find his way thither without a guide; -for it is situated on the confines of Somerset and Devonshire, and on the Exmoor -part of the boundary; and it is, moreover, between Porlock and Linton. In that -farm-house, he had a slight indisposition, and had taken an anodyne, which threw -him into a deep sleep in his chair, (whether after dinner or not he omits to state), -“at the moment that he was reading a sentence in Purchas’s Pilgrims,” relative to -a palace of Kubla Khan. The effects of the anodyne, and the sentence together, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_417'>417</span>were prodigious: They produced the “curiosity” now before us; for, during his -three-hours sleep, Mr. Coleridge “has the most vivid confidence that he could not -have composed less than from two to three hundred lines.” On awaking, he -“instantly and eagerly” wrote down the verses here published; when he was -(he says “<em>unfortunately</em>”) called out by a “person on business from Porlock, and -detained by him above an hour;” and when he returned, the vision was gone. -The lines here given smell strongly, it must be owned, of the anodyne; and, but -that an under dose of a sedative produces contrary effects, we should inevitably -have been lulled by them into forgetfulness of all things. Perhaps a dozen more -such lines as the following would reduce the most irritable of critics to a state of -inaction.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in4'>“A damsel with a dulcimer</div> - <div class='line in4'>In a vision once I saw:</div> - <div class='line in4'>It was an Abyssinian maid</div> - <div class='line in4'>And on her dulcimer she play’d,</div> - <div class='line in4'>Singing of Mount Abora.</div> - <div class='line in4'>Could I revive within me</div> - <div class='line in4'>Her symphony and song,</div> - <div class='line in4'>To such a deep delight ’twould win</div> - <div class='line'>That with music loud and long,</div> - <div class='line'>I would build that dome in air,</div> - <div class='line'>That sunny dome! those caves of ice!</div> - <div class='line'>And all who heard should see them there,</div> - <div class='line'>And all should cry, Beware! Beware!</div> - <div class='line'>His flashing eyes, his floating hair!</div> - <div class='line'>Weave a circle round him thrice,</div> - <div class='line'>And close your eyes with holy dread:</div> - <div class='line'>For he on honey-dew hath fed.” &c. &c.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘There is a good deal more altogether as exquisite—and in particular a fine -description of a wood, “ancient as the hills;” and “folding sunny spots of -<em>greenery</em>!” But we suppose this specimen will be sufficient.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Persons in this poet’s unhappy condition, generally feel the want of sleep as the -worst of their evils; but there are instances, too, in the history of the disease, of -sleep being attended with new agony, as if the waking thoughts, how wild and -turbulent soever, had still been under some slight restraint, which sleep instantly -removed. Mr. Coleridge appears to have experienced this symptom, if we may -judge from the title of his third poem, “<cite>The Pains of Sleep</cite>;” and, in truth, from -its composition—which is mere raving, without any thing more affecting than a -number of incoherent words, expressive of extravagance and incongruity.—We -need give no specimen of it.</p> - -<p class='c010'>‘Upon the whole, we look upon this publication as one of the most notable pieces -of impertinence of which the press has lately been guilty; and one of the boldest -experiments that has yet been made on the patience or understanding of the public. -It is impossible, however, to dismiss it, without a remark or two. The other -productions of the Lake School have generally exhibited talents thrown away upon -subjects so mean, that no power of genius could ennoble them; or perverted and -rendered useless by a false theory of poetical composition. But even in the worst -of them, if we except the White Doe of Mr. Wordsworth and some of the laureate -odes, there were always some gleams of feeling or of fancy. But the thing now -before us, is utterly destitute of value. It exhibits from beginning to end not a -ray of genius; and we defy any man to point out a passage of poetical merit in -any of the three pieces which it contains, except, perhaps, the following lines -<span class='pageno' id='Page_418'>418</span>in p. 32, and even these are not very brilliant; nor is the leading thought -original—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“Alas! they had been friends in youth;</div> - <div class='line'>But whispering tongues can poison truth;</div> - <div class='line'>And constancy lives in realms above;</div> - <div class='line'>And life is thorny; and youth is vain;</div> - <div class='line'>And to be wroth with one we love,</div> - <div class='line'>Doth work like madness in the brain.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>‘With this one exception, there is literally not one couplet in the publication -before us which would be reckoned poetry, or even sense, were it found in the -corner of a newspaper or upon the window of an inn. Must we then be doomed -to hear such a mixture of raving and driv’ling, extolled as the work of a “<em>wild and -original</em>” genius, simply because Mr. Coleridge has now and then written fine -verses, and a brother poet chooses, in his milder mood, to laud him from courtesy -or from interest? And are such panegyrics to be echoed by the mean tools of a -political faction, because they relate to one whose daily prose is understood to be -dedicated to the support of all that courtiers think should be supported? If it be -true that the author has thus earned the patronage of those liberal dispensers of -bounty, we can have no objection that they should give him proper proofs of their -gratitude; but we cannot help wishing, for his sake, as well as our own, that they -would pay in solid pudding instead of empty praise; and adhere, at least in this -instance, to the good old system of rewarding their champions with places and -pensions, instead of puffing their bad poetry, and endeavouring to cram their -nonsense down the throats of all the loyal and well affected.’</p> - -<h3 class='c008'>COLERIDGE’S LAY SERMON</h3> - -<p class='c016'>The authorship of this review has also been the subject of controversy. See -the authorities cited on p. 411. Mr. Dykes Campbell, in the note there quoted, -says that, as in the case of <cite>Christabel</cite>, the ascription of the review to Hazlitt is -‘probably, though not certainly correct.’ The editors regarded the internal evidence -of Hazlitt’s authorship as so overwhelmingly strong, especially after a comparison -of the article with Hazlitt’s review of the same work in <cite>The Examiner</cite> (see -<cite>Political Essays</cite>, <span class='fss'>III.</span> 143–152), that they decided to include it in the text. It has -not been thought necessary to give references to all Hazlitt’s quotations from -the <cite>Lay Sermon</cite>. References, when they are given, are to the edition in Bohn’s -Standard Library.</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt>PAGE</dt> - <dd> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_120'>120</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Fancies and Good-nights.</em>’ <cite>Henry IV.</cite>, Part II., Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Odd ends of verse, etc.</em> <cite>Hudibras</cite>, I. iii. 1011–2. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Chase his fancy’s rolling speed.</em>’ Cf. <cite>On a Distant Prospect of Eton - College</cite>, 29. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_121'>121</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Babbles of green fields.</em>’ <cite>Henry V.</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Alarmists by trade.</em>’ <cite>A Lay Sermon</cite>, p. 309. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>A gentle Husher</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>The Faerie Queene</cite>, Book I. Canto - <span class='fss'>IV.</span> Stanza 13. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Joanna Southcote.</em> Joanna Southcott (1750–1814), the fanatic and impostor, whose - prophesies had recently caused a good deal of excitement. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_122'>122</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Thick-coming fancies.</em>’ <cite>Macbeth</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>V.</span> - Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_123'>123</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite>The ‘Friend.’</cite> Published in numbers at irregular intervals between June 1809 - and March 1810. Coleridge published a recast—‘a complete Rifacimento’—of <cite>The - Friend</cite> in 1818. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Like the swan’s down feather</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Antony and Cleopatra</cite>, - Act <span class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 2. -<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_419'>419</span></div> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_124'>124</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>They are not sought for</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> These words are quoted by Coleridge - from <cite>Ecclesiasticus</cite>, xxxviii. 33–34. See <cite>A Lay Sermon</cite>, 308–309. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_126'>126</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Twice ten degrees</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span - class='fss'>X.</span> 669–670. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>With jealous leer malign.</em>’ <cite>Ibid.</cite>, <span class='fss'>IV.</span> 503. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_127'>127</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Fraught with potential infidelity.</em>’ <cite>A Lay Sermon</cite>, p. 329. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_131'>131</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite>The Watchman.</cite> <cite>The Watchman</cite> ran from March to May, 1796. - Coleridge gives an account of his tour to procure subscribers. See <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Biographia - Literaria</span></cite>, Chap. <span class='fss'>X.</span> The <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Conciones ad - Populum</span></cite>, originally published in 1795, were reprinted in <cite>Essays on his own - Times</cite> (1850). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>One of Goldsmith’s Essays.</em> See <cite>A Lay Sermon</cite>, p. 319 note. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>As Gulliver did, etc.</em> See <cite>A Voyage to Brobdingnag</cite>, Chap. <span - class='fss'>V.</span> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_132'>132</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>As Alps o’er Alps arise.</em>’ Pope, <cite>An Essay on Criticism</cite>, <span - class='fss'>II.</span> 232. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_134'>134</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>High enthroned</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span - class='fss'>III.</span> 58. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_135'>135</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>It is by means</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> See Hobbes, <cite>Leviathan</cite>, Part I. - Chap. <span class='fss'>IV.</span> 5, 15. - </dd> - </dl> - -<h3 class='c008'>COLERIDGE’S LITERARY LIFE</h3> - -<p class='c016'>This review, though claimed for Jeffrey by Lord Cockburn, and marked doubtful -by Mr. Ireland, is certainly Hazlitt’s. Nearly the whole of the long passage -on Burke (pp. 150–154 of the present volume), after doing duty in <cite>The Champion</cite> -(Oct. 5, 1817), was published by Hazlitt in <cite>Political Essays</cite> as the first of two -‘Characters of Mr. Burke’ which appeared in that volume. See vol. <span class='fss'>III.</span> -pp. 250–253.</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt>PAGE</dt> - <dd> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_135'>135</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>It will be found</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Chap. <span class='fss'>I.</span> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>At school</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Ibid.</cite> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_138'>138</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Bowles’s Sonnets.</em> William Lisle Bowles’s (1762–1850) famous <cite>Fourteen - Sonnets written chiefly on Picturesque Spots during a Journey</cite> appeared anonymously - in 1789. More sonnets were added in later editions. The sonnets of Thomas Warton - (1728–1790) are frequently quoted by Hazlitt, and were eulogised by him in his - <cite>Lectures on the English Poets</cite> (see vol. <span class='fss'>V.</span> pp. - 120–1). See Chap. <span class='fss'>I.</span> of <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Biographia Literaria</span></cite> - for Coleridge’s praise of Bowles. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_138'>138</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Jacob Behmen.</em> Jakob Boehme (1575–1624), the mystic. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>The <cite>Morning Post.</cite> Coleridge’s contributions to <cite>The Morning Post</cite> - (chiefly during 1800) were reprinted in <cite>Essays on his own Times</cite> (1850). - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_139'>139</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>It is not, however</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Note at the end of Chap. <span - class='fss'>III.</span> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The Cannings, the Giffords, and the Freres.</cite> William Gifford (1756–1826) was - the editor of the <cite>Anti-Jacobin</cite> (1797–8), and George Canning (1770–1827) and - <cite>John Hookham Frere</cite> (1769–1846) were the chief contributors. See an article - in <cite>The Athenæum</cite> for May 31, 1890, on ‘Coleridge and <cite>The - Anti-Jacobin</cite>.’ - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_140'>140</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Publicly</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Biographia Literaria</span></cite>, Chap. <span - class='fss'>III.</span> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_142'>142</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Full of wise saws</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>As You Like It</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 7. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>It has been hinted</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Biographia Literaria</span></cite>, - Chap. <span class='fss'>IV.</span> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_143'>143</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Mr. C. thinks fit, etc.</em> Chap. <span class='fss'>V.</span> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_144'>144</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>A series of citations.</em> Hazlitt probably refers to an article in <cite>The - Examiner</cite> for March 31, 1816, which consists to a large extent of quotations from - Hobbes’s <cite>Leviathan</cite>, and which is referred to in a later volume of the - present edition; but he was never tired of proclaiming the greatness and originality of - Hobbes. Cf. the essay or lecture ‘On the writings of Hobbes,’ published in <cite>Literary - Remains</cite>. -<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_420'>420</span></div> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_145'>145</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Sound book-learnedness.</em>’ <cite>A Lay Sermon</cite> (Bohn), p. 327. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Wander down</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span - class='fss'>XI.</span> 282–284. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Towards the close</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Chap. <span class='fss'>X.</span> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_150'>150</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>As our very sign-boards</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Ibid.</cite> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Let the scholar</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Ibid.</cite> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>It is not without reluctance, etc.</em> The greater part of this character of Burke, - down to the foot of p. 154, was repeated in <cite>Political Essays</cite>. See vol. <span - class='fss'>III.</span> pp. 250 <em>et seq.</em>, and notes. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_155'>155</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Any account of it at all.</em> At this point in The Edinburgh Review a long note, - signed F. J., is appended, in which Jeffrey replies to what he describes as ‘averments of - a personal and injurious nature’ against the <cite>Edinburgh Review</cite>. A great part - of the note relates to Coleridge’s attack on Jeffrey in Chap. <span - class='fss'>III.</span> of the <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Biographia Literaria</span></cite> (see Bohn’s - edition, p. 25 note), but part of it concerns Hazlitt. Coleridge had said (Chap. xxiv.): - ‘In the <cite>Edinburgh Review</cite> it [<em>Christabel</em>] was assailed with a - malignity and a personal hatred that ought to have injured only the work in which such a - tirade was suffered to appear: and this review was generally attributed (whether rightly - or no I know not) to a man, who both in my presence and in my absence has repeatedly - pronounced it the finest poem in the language.’ Jeffrey refers to this passage, and - states that when he visited Coleridge at Keswick, there was some talk about the poem. ‘We - spoke,’ he says, ‘of <cite>Christabel</cite>, and I advised him to publish it; but I did - not say it was either the finest poem of the kind, or a fine poem at all; and I am sure - of this, for the best of all reasons, that at this time, and indeed till after it was - published, I never saw or heard more than four or five lines of it, which my friend Mr. - Scott once repeated to me. That eminent person, indeed, spoke favourably of it; and I - rather think I told Mr. C. that I had heard him say, that it was to it he was indebted - for the first idea of that romantic narrative in irregular verse, which he afterwards - exemplified in his <cite>Lay of the Last Minstrel</cite>, and other works. In these - circumstances, I felt a natural curiosity to see this great original; and I can sincerely - say, that no admirer of Mr. C. could be more disappointed or astonished than I was, when - it did make its appearance. I did not review it.’ With regard to <cite>A Lay - Sermon</cite>, Coleridge had said (<cite>Biographia Literaria</cite>, chap. xxiv.): ‘A - long delay occurred between its first annunciation and its appearance; it was reviewed, - therefore, by anticipation with a malignity so avowedly and exclusively personal as is, I - believe, unprecedented even in the present contempt of all common humanity that disgraces - and endangers the liberty of the press. After its appearance, the author of this lampoon - was chosen to review it in the <cite>Edinburgh Review</cite>: and under the single - condition, that he should have written what he himself really thought, and have - criticised the work as he would have done had its author been indifferent to him, I - should have chosen that man myself, both from the vigour and the originality of his mind, - and from his particular acuteness in speculative reasoning, before all others. I - remembered Catullus’s lines [lxxiii.]: -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“<span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Desine de quoquam quicquam bene velle mereri,</span></div> - <div class='line in2'><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Aut aliquem fieri posse putare pium.</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Omnia sunt ingrata: nihil fecisse benigne est:</span></div> - <div class='line in2'><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Immo, etiam taedet, taedet obestque magis.</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Ut mihi, quem nemo gravius nec acerbius urget</span></div> - <div class='line in2'><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Quam modo qui me unum atque unicum amicum habuit.</span>”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>But I can truly say, that the grief with which I read this rhapsody of - <span class='pageno' id='Page_421'>421</span>predetermined insult had the rhapsodist himself for its whole and sole object: and - that the indignant contempt which it excited in me, was as exclusively confined to his - employer and suborner.’ Coleridge here refers to the first of the two reviews of <cite>A - Lay Sermon</cite>, contributed by Hazlitt to <cite>The Examiner</cite> in 1816. See - <cite>Political Essays</cite>, vol. <span class='fss'>III.</span> pp. 138–142. Jeffrey’s - reply is as follows: ‘As to the review of the <cite>Lay Sermon</cite>, I have only to - say, in one word, that I never employed or suborned any body to abuse or extol it or any - other publication. I do not so much as know or conjecture what Mr. C. alludes to as a - malignant lampoon or review by anticipation, which he says had previously appeared - somewhere else. I never saw nor heard of any such publication. Nay, I was not even aware - of the existence of the <cite>Lay Sermon</cite> itself, when a review of it was offered - me by a gentleman in whose judgment and talents I had great confidence, but whom I - certainly never suspected, and do not suspect at this moment, of having any personal or - partial feelings of any kind towards its author. I therefore accepted his offer, and - printed his review, with some retrenchments and verbal alterations, just as I was setting - off, in a great hurry, for London, on professional business, in January last.’ - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_156'>156</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>The dew of Castalie.</em>’ Cf. ‘With verses, dipt in deaw of Castalie.’ Spenser, - <cite>The Ruines of Time</cite>, l. 431. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Sky-tinctured.</em>’ <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span class='fss'>V.</span> 285. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Thoughts that voluntary move</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Ibid.</cite>, <span - class='fss'>III.</span> 37–38. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_157'>157</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>The golden cadences of poesy.</em>’ <cite>Love’s Labour’s Lost</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>IV.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Poets</em> [lovers and madmen] <em>have such seething brains</em>.’ <cite>A - Midsummer Night’s Dream</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>V.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>With Plato.</em> <cite>The Republic</cite>, Book <span class='fss'>X.</span> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_158'>158</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Pleasurable poetic fervour.</em>’ Hazlitt probably had in his mind chap. xviii. of - the <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Biographia Literaria</span></cite>. The words suggest that conception of poetry - which was expressed by Wordsworth in his <cite>Preface to the Lyrical Ballads</cite> - (especially in the extended 1802 form), and which was frequently repeated by Coleridge. - See, in addition to the <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Biographia Literaria</span></cite>, <cite>Lectures on - Shakespere, etc.</cite> (Bohn’s ed.), p. 49. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_158'>158</a>.</dt> - <dd>Note.—Maturin’s <cite>Bertram</cite> was attacked in <cite>The Courier</cite>, ‘the pen - being either wielded or guided by Coleridge,’ but the attack in <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Biographia - Literaria</span></cite> was a different one. See Dykes Campbell’s <cite>Samuel Taylor - Coleridge</cite>, 223 note 1. - </dd> - </dl> - -<h3 class='c008'>LETTERS OF HORACE WALPOLE</h3> - -<p class='c016'>A review of <cite>Letters from the Hon. Horace Walpole to George Montagu, Esq. -From the year 1736 to 1770</cite>, published in 1818. This and other volumes of -Walpole’s correspondence were reprinted in Peter Cunningham’s collected edition -of <cite>Walpole’s Letters</cite> (9 vols., 1857–1859), where the passages quoted by Hazlitt may -be found.</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt>PAGE</dt> - <dd> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_159'>159</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Princess Amelia.</em> George <span class='fss'>II.</span>’s daughter. See Walpole’s - <cite>Letters</cite>, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">passim</span></i>. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>George Selwyn.</em> George Augustus Selwyn (1719–1791), the wit, Walpole’s ‘oldest - acquaintance and friend.’ - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Chute.</em> John Chute (1703–1776), a great friend of Walpole’s. See especially a - letter to Sir Horace Mann, 27 May, 1776. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_160'>160</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Of outward show</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span - class='fss'>VIII.</span> 539. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Pam.</em> The Knave of Clubs, and the best trump at one form of Loo. -<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_422'>422</span></div> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_161'>161</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Balmerino.</em> Arthur Elphinstone, sixth Lord Balmerino (1688–1746), beheaded for - participation in the Rebellion of 1745. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Are kept in ponderous vases.</em>’ Pope, <cite>The Rape of the Lock</cite>, <span - class='fss'>V.</span> 115. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_163'>163</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Have got the start</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Julius Cæsar</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Poor Bentley.</em> Richard Bentley (1708–1782), son of the scholar. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>High fantastical.</em>’ <cite>Twelfth Night</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>I.</span> - Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_164'>164</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Müntz.</em> John Henry Müntz, a Swiss, who painted and copied paintings for Walpole. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>That which he esteemed</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Macbeth</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 7. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Mason.</em> William Mason (1724–1797), the poet and friend of Gray. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_165'>165</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite>The Mysterious Mother.</cite> Walpole’s tragedy (1768). - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_166'>166</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Himself and the universe.</em>’ Hazlitt elsewhere says of Wordsworth (vol. <span - class='fss'>I.</span> p. 113), ‘it is as if there were nothing but himself and the - universe.’ - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Admit no discourse</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_168'>168</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Lord Ferrers.</em> Laurence Shirley (1720–1760), fourth Earl Ferrers, was hanged for - the murder of his steward, John Johnson. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_169'>169</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Sleep no more</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Macbeth</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_172'>172</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Smithson.</em> Sir Hugh Smithson (1715–1786), married in 1740 the heiress of the - Percy estates, succeeded to the title of Earl of Northumberland in 1750, and was created - Duke in 1766. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Pope.</em> Hazlitt refers presumably to ‘Song, by a Person of Quality,’ beginning, - ‘Flutt’ring spread thy purple pinions.’ - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Very chargeable.</em>’ <cite>A New Way to Pay Old Debts</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - </dl> - -<h3 class='c008'>LIFE OF SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS</h3> - -<p class='c016'>Joseph Farington’s (1747–1821) <cite>Memoirs of the Life of Sir Joshua Reynolds</cite> was -published in 1819. This review was republished in <cite>Criticisms on Art</cite> (1843–4), -and in <cite>Essays on the Fine Arts</cite> (1873).</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt>PAGE</dt> - <dd> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_172'>172</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Dispute between their late President, etc.</em> Relating to the election of Joseph - Bonomi as professor of perspective. Reynolds resigned his membership of the Academy in - Feb. 1790, but afterwards withdrew his resignation. Edmond Malone (1741–1812) published a - Memoir of Reynolds in 1797. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_173'>173</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Pleased with a rattle</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Pope, <cite>Essay on Man</cite>, <span - class='fss'>II.</span> 276. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_174'>174</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Richardson.</em> Jonathan Richardson (1665–1745), author of <cite>A Theory of - Painting</cite> (1715). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Hudson.</em> Thomas Hudson (1701–1779), portrait-painter. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_177'>177</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>The French materialists.</em> See Helvétius, <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">De l’Esprit</span></cite>, - Discourse <span class='fss'>III.</span> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_178'>178</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>A greater general capacity</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> See Johnson’s <cite>Life of - Cowley.</cite> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_180'>180</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Hayman.</em> See <span class='sc'>Vol. i.</span> (<cite>The Round Table</cite>) note - to p. 149. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Highmore.</em> <cite>Ibid.</cite> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Darted contagious fire.</em>’ <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span - class='fss'>IX.</span> 1036. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_181'>181</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Gandy.</em> See vol <span class='fss'>VI.</span> (<cite>Table Talk</cite>), note to - p. 21. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_184'>184</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>In the days of Montesquieu.</em> See his <cite><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">De l’ Esprit des Lois</span></cite>. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_185'>185</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Like flowers</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Macbeth, Act <span class='fss'>IV.</span> Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_186'>186</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Says Schlegel.</em> <cite>Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature</cite>, I. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Like the forced pace</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Henry IV.</cite>, Part I. Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>With coy, reluctant</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> ‘And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.’ - <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span class='fss'>IV.</span> 311. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><span class='pageno' id='Page_423'>423</span><i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Terrae filii.</span></i> Cf. Persius, <cite>Satires</cite>, <span - class='fss'>VI.</span> 59. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>The crown which Ariadne</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. <cite>The Faerie Queene</cite>, - Book VI. Canto <span class='fss'>X.</span> St. 13. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Their affections</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_187'>187</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>In that part of the country.</em> Winterslow presumably. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Returning with a choral song</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Wordsworth, <cite>Ruth</cite>, - 53–54. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>We also are not Arcadians!</em>’ Hazlitt frequently quoted the old saying, - attributed to Schidoni, ‘Et ego in Arcadia vixi.’ See, <em>e.g.</em> <cite>Table - Talk</cite>, vol. <span class='fss'>VI.</span> p. 168. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_188'>188</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>The unbought grace of life.</em>’ Burke, <cite>Reflections on the Revolution in - France</cite> (<cite>Select Works</cite>, ed. Payne, <span class='fss'>II.</span> 89). - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_190'>190</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Leo.</em> Leo <span class='fss'>X.</span> (1475–1521), son of Lorenzo de’ Medici. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Piranesi’s drawings.</em> Giambattista Piranesi (1720–1778), engraver of architecture - and ancient ruins. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Winckelman.</em> Johann Joachim Winckelmann (1717–1768), author of - <cite><span lang="de" xml:lang="de">Geschichte der Kunst des Alterthums</span></cite> (1764). - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_191'>191</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>All eyes</em>’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. <cite>Isaiah</cite>, xlv. 22–23, and - <cite>Romans</cite>, xiv. 11. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Amazing brightness</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Otway, <cite>Venice Preserved</cite>, Act - <span class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>A present deity</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Dryden, <cite>Alexander’s Feast</cite>, 35–36. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The Madona of Foligno.</cite> Raphael’s, in the Vatican. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>The ceiling at Parma.</em> Painted by Girolamo Mazzola, a pupil of Correggio. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_192'>192</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite>Leonardo’s Last Supper.</cite> This famous fresco, now almost entirely destroyed, - was at the convent of S. Maria delle Grazie at Milan. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>The institution of Academies, etc.</em> Cf. vol <span class='fss'>I.</span> <cite>The - Round Table</cite>, p. 160 and note, and vol. <span class='fss'>IX.</span> p. 311 <em>et - seq.</em> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_195'>195</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>The cat and canary-bird</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> See <em>ante</em>, p. 193. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Leaving the thing</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Philippians</cite>, iii. 13. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_196'>196</a>.</dt> - <dd><i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">The Catalogue Raisonnée.</span></i> Cf. vol. <span class='fss'>I.</span>, <cite>The - Round Table</cite>, pp. 140 <em>et seq.</em> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>With jealous leer malign.</em>’ <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span - class='fss'>IV.</span> 503. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_197'>197</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Grampound.</em> The borough was disfranchised for corrupt practices in 1821. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>That is true history.</em>’ This was said by Fuseli. See vol. <span - class='fss'>VI.</span> (<cite>Mr. Northcote’s Conversations</cite>), p. 340. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_199'>199</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Mr. West’s pictures.</em> Benjamin West (1738–1820), president of the Royal Academy - from 1792. Cf. vol. <span class='fss'>IX.</span> pp. 318 <em>et seq.</em> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Barry.</em> James Barry (1741–1806). Hazlitt refers to one of the pictures Barry - painted for the Society of Arts in John Street, Adelphi. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_200'>200</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>The bodiless creations</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 4, ll. 136–137. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Like the baseless fabric</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>The Tempest</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>IV.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Haydon.</em> Benjamin Robert Haydon (1786–1846). Mr. W. C. Hazlitt has given an - account of his relations with Hazlitt. See <cite>Memoirs</cite>, <span - class='fss'>I.</span> 209–213, and <cite>Four Generations of a Literary Family</cite>, - <span class='fss'>I.</span> 234–236. At his house Hazlitt met Keats. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>So from the root</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span - class='fss'>V.</span> 479–481. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_201'>201</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>His own Penitent Girl.</em> Hazlitt seems to refer to a figure in the <cite>Christ’s - Entry into Jerusalem</cite>. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>His Christ.</em> Haydon’s picture, <cite>Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem</cite>, was - first exhibited in 1820. At the private view, Haydon says (Tom Taylor’s - <cite>Life</cite>, <span class='fss'>I.</span> 371), ‘the room was full, Keats and - Hazlitt were up in a corner, really rejoicing.’ Hazlitt is introduced into the picture - ‘looking at the Saviour as an investigator.’ The picture is now in America. For Mrs. - Siddons’s opinion of the picture see <cite>Life</cite>, <span class='fss'>I.</span> 372. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Haydon is a devoted, etc.</em> See his letter in <cite>The Examiner</cite>, March - 17, 1816. - </dd> - </dl> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_424'>424</span> - <h3 class='c008'>THE PERIODICAL PRESS</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c016'>This essay is referred to by Brougham, who, on August 18, 1837, wrote to -Macvey Napier (then editor of the <cite>Edinburgh Review</cite>): ‘I wish the <cite>Newspaper -Press</cite> had not been flattered so much; at any rate its glaring faults should have -been pointed out. This was done, and very ill done, in 1823, when it had hardly -any sins to answer for.’ (<cite>Selections from the Correspondence of Macvey Napier</cite>, -p. 199).</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt>PAGE</dt> - <dd> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_204'>204</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>We are</em> [I am] <em>nothing, if not critical</em>. <cite>Othello</cite>, Act - <span class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 1. The words were used by Hazlitt as the motto to - <cite>A View of the English Stage</cite>. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Terra plena, etc.</span></i> <cite>Æneid</cite>, <span class='fss'>I.</span> 460. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Large discourse</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>IV.</span> Sc. 4. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_205'>205</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>The pomp of elder days.</em>’ Thomas Warton’s Sonnet, ‘Written in a blank leaf of - Dugdale’s <cite>Monasticon</cite>.’ - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_206'>206</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Cabin’d</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Macbeth</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>III.</span> - Sc. 4. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_207'>207</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite>The Children of the Mist.</cite> In <cite>The Legend of Montrose</cite>. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>A chemist</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Absalom and Achitophel</cite>, <span - class='fss'>I.</span> 550. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_208'>208</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Sir Thomas Lawrence.</em> President of the Royal Academy from 1820 till his death in - 1830. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Though he should have</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Adapted from <cite>1 Corinthians</cite>, - xiii. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>The toe of the scholar</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Varied from <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act - <span class='fss'>V.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_209'>209</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Take the good</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Dryden, <cite>Alexander’s Feast</cite>, 106. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_210'>210</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Make the age to come her own.</em>’ Cowley, <cite>The Motto</cite>, l. 2. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Mille ornatus habet, etc.</span></i> ‘<span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Mille habet ornatus, mille decenter habet.</span>’ - From the first of the Sulpicia poems which are in Book <span class='fss'>IV.</span> of - the <cite>Elegies of Tibullus</cite>, but the authorship of which is not certainly known. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Now this</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Spenser, <cite>Muiopotmos</cite>, St. 22. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>To beguile the time</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Macbeth</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 5. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_211'>211</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Squeak and gibber.</em>’ <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The St. James’s Chronicle.</cite> Started in 1760 as a tri-weekly, independent Whig - evening paper. It was for a time edited by James Mill. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>212 note. Mrs. Radcliffe, the novelist, was married in 1787 to William Radcliffe, an - Oxford graduate and a student of law, described by Sir Walter Scott (<cite>Lives of the - Novelists</cite>) as ‘afterwards proprietor and editor of the <cite>English - Chronicle</cite>.’ - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_213'>213</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite>The Morning Chronicle.</cite> Founded June 28, 1769. The early notable editors were - William Woodfall (1746–1803), James Perry (1756–1821), who was editor from 1789 to 1817, - and John Black (1783–1855). For Perry cf. vol. <span class='fss'>VI.</span> <cite>Table - Talk</cite>, p. 292. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Porson.</em> Richard Porson (1759–1808) was Perry’s brother-in-law. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Jekyll.</em> Joseph Jekyll (d. 1837) contributed many of his jokes to <cite>The - Morning Chronicle</cite>. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_214'>214</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>The Marquis Marialva.</em> <cite>Gil Blas</cite>, Livre <span class='fss'>VII.</span> - chap x. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_215'>215</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Lord Nugent.</em> Presumably Robert, Earl Nugent (1702–1788), who retired from - parliamentary life in 1784. It is odd that Hazlitt should refer to so well-known a man as - a Lord Nugent. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The Times Newspaper.</cite> John Walter (1739–1812) in 1785 started <cite>The Daily - Universal Register</cite>, the name of which was changed on Jan. 1, 1788 to <cite>The - Times or Daily Universal Register</cite>, and on March 18, 1788 to <cite>The Times</cite>. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>A steam-engine.</em> See vol. <span class='fss'>III.</span> <cite>Political - Essays</cite>, p. 158. -<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_425'>425</span></div> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_216'>216</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Ever strong</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>King John</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Whiff and wind.</em>’ <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Aggravate its voice</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>A Midsummer Night’s Dream</cite>, Act - <span class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_217'>217</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Walter.</em> John Walter the Second (1776–1847). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>A writer in his employ.</em> Hazlitt’s brother-in-law, Dr. (afterwards Sir John) - Stoddart, who left <cite>The Times</cite> in 1817 and started <cite>The Day and New - Times</cite>, called from 1818 onwards <cite>The New Times</cite>. Hazlitt frequently - attacks him. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Champion’s Legitimacy</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. <cite>Macbeth</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_219'>219</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>The late queen.</em> Queen Caroline, George <span class='fss'>IV.</span>’s wife, who - died in 1821, shortly after her trial. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The Courier.</cite> An evening paper bought in 1799 by Coleridge’s friend Daniel - Stuart (1766–1846), under whose management it quickly gained a large circulation. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>The force of dulness</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. ‘The force of nature could no farther - go.’ Dryden, <cite>Lines printed under the engraved portrait of Milton</cite>. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>The ingenious editor.</em> William Mudford (1782–1848) was editor for some years - before 1828. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_220'>220</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite>The Sun.</cite> An evening paper started in 1792 by Pitt’s friend, George Rose. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The Traveller.</cite> Started about 1803 by Edward Quin (d. 1823). It was - amalgamated with <cite>The Globe</cite> in 1823. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The Morning Post.</cite> Founded in 1772. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Cobbett.</em> William Cobbett (1762–1835) who started <cite>The Weekly Political - Register</cite> in 1802. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>We once tried, etc.</em> Jeffrey attacked Cobbett in the <cite>Edinburgh</cite> (July - 1807, vol. <span class='fss'>X.</span> p. 386). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The Examiner.</cite> Founded by John and Leigh Hunt in 1808. Hazlitt had of course - been intimately associated with the paper. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The News.</cite> A Sunday paper started in 1805. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The Observer.</cite> Another Sunday paper first made successful by William Innell - Clement (d. 1852), who afterwards bought <cite>The Morning Chronicle</cite>. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_221'>221</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite>The Weekly Literary Journals, Gazettes.</cite> Of which <cite>The Literary - Gazette</cite>, founded in 1817 and edited for a long time by William Jerdan (1782–1869), - was the chief. Others were <cite>The Literary Journal</cite> (founded by James Mill in - 1803) and <cite>The Literary Chronicle</cite>. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Coming Reviews</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. ‘And coming events cast their shadows - before.’ Campbell, <cite>Lochiel’s Warnings</cite>, l. 56. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The Scotsman.</cite> Started in 1817 by Charles Maclaren (1782–1866), who was - editor from 1820 to 1845. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The Gentleman’s Magazine.</cite> Founded in 1731 by Johnson’s first employer, - Edward Cave (1691–1754). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Blackwood’s.</em> Founded in April 1817 by William Blackwood (1776–1834) as - <cite>The Edinburgh Monthly Magazine</cite>. With the seventh number (Oct. 1, 1817) the - title was changed to ‘Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine.’ The thousandth number appeared in - February, 1899. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The European.</cite> Founded by James Perry in 1782. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The Lady’s.</cite> <cite>The Lady’s Magazine; or entertaining Companion for the - fair sex</cite>, 1717–1818. A new series began in 1820. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The London.</cite> <cite>The London Magazine</cite> was started in January 1820, - with John Scott (1723–1821) as editor, and for some years maintained a very high level of - excellence. See Talfourd’s <cite>Final Memorials of Charles Lamb</cite> (<span - class='fss'>II.</span> 1–9), and Mr. Bertram Dobell’s <cite>Sidelights on Charles - Lamb</cite>. Hazlitt was a regular contributor. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><span class='pageno' id='Page_426'>426</span><cite>The Monthly.</cite> <cite>The Monthly Magazine</cite> founded in 1796 by - Richard (afterwards Sir Richard) Phillips (1767–1840). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The New Monthly.</cite> <cite>The New Monthly Magazine</cite> was started by Henry - Colburn (d. 1855) in 1814, in opposition to Phillips’s magazine. A new series, edited by - Thomas Campbell, began in 1821. Many of Hazlitt’s best-known essays were contributed to - it. The working editor was Cyrus Redding (1785–1870). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>The head of Memnon.</em> Hazlitt might have seen a plate of this in <cite>The London - Magazine</cite> for February, 1821. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Dr. Johnson’s dispute, etc.</em> See Boswell’s <cite>Life of Johnson</cite> (ed. G. - B. Hill), <span class='fss'>I.</span> 154. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_222'>222</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Elia.</em> Lamb wrote many of his <cite>Elia</cite> essays in <cite>The London - Magazine</cite>, chiefly between 1820 and 1823. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>The author of Table Talk.</em> Hazlitt himself. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The Confessions of an Opium-Eater.</cite> Published in <cite>The London - Magazine</cite> for September and October, 1821. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Tales of Traditional Literature.</cite> A series of tales by Allan Cunningham - (1784–1842), republished in 1822 as ‘Traditional Tales of the English and Scottish - Peasantry.’ - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Geoffrey Crayon.</em> Washington Irving (1783–1859), whose <cite>Sketch - Book</cite>, to which Hazlitt probably refers, appeared in New York, 1819–1820. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>With a blush</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Troilus and Cressida</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_223'>223</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>The Editor, we are afraid, etc.</em> Talfourd, in his <cite>Final Memorials of - Charles Lamb</cite>, gives a lively account of Campbell’s fastidious editorship of the - <cite>New Monthly</cite>. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Lively</em>’ [waking], <em>etc.</em> <cite>Coriolanus</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>IV.</span> Sc. 5. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>The sin</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Hebrews</cite>, xii. 1. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_225'>225</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite>The Anti-Jacobin.</cite> Cf. <cite>ante</cite>, p. 139 and note. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>The manna</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Pulci’s <cite>Morgante Maggiore</cite>. See - <em>ante</em>, p. 69. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>The pelting</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>King Lear</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 4. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_227'>227</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>A well-known paper.</em> <cite>John Bull</cite>, Oct. 27, 1822. On the previous - Tuesday (Oct. 22) young Las Cases ‘applied a horsewhip to the shoulders’ of Sir Hudson - Lowe, with a view, as he said, to provoke a duel. Lowe obtained a warrant for the - apprehension of Las Cases, who, however, retired to France. The radical papers made great - fun of the incident. See <cite>The Examiner</cite>, Nov. 3, 1822. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>A man of classical taste, etc.</em> Hazlitt refers to Leigh Hunt and <cite>The Story - of Rimini</cite>. See vol. <span class='fss'>I.</span> (<cite>A Letter to William - Gifford</cite>), pp. 376–378 and notes. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_228'>228</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>A young poet.</em> On Keats and his Critics see vol. <span class='fss'>VI.</span> - (<cite>Table Talk</cite>), p. 98 and note, and vol. <span class='fss'>IV.</span> - (<cite>The Spirit of the Age</cite>), pp. 302–307 and notes. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Author of the Baviad, etc.</em> William Gifford. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_229'>229</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Such a paper was detected, etc.</em> This was <cite>John Bull</cite>, Theodore Hook’s - weekly paper, which on August 18, 1822, accused Mr. Fyshe Palmer, member for Reading, of - having said that ‘he should have a dinner at the Crown on the occasion, with a haunch of - venison, and turtle, and <em>lots of punch</em>.’ The detection was quoted from <cite>The - Times</cite> in <cite>John Bull</cite>, Sep. 15, 1822. - </dd> - </dl> - -<h3 class='c008'>LANDOR’S IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS</h3> - -<p class='c016'>Hazlitt here reviews the first two volumes of Walter Savage Landor’s (1775–1864) -<cite>Imaginary Conversations</cite>, published in 1824. A second edition, ‘corrected and -enlarged,’ appeared in 1826, and vol. <span class='fss'>III.</span> completing the ‘first series,’ in 1828. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_427'>427</span>Vols. <span class='fss'>IV.</span> and <span class='fss'>V.</span> constituting the ‘second series,’ were published in 1829. For an -account of Hazlitt’s visit to Landor at Florence in 1825 see Forster’s <cite>Walter -Savage Landor, a Biography</cite>, <span class='fss'>II.</span> 201–211, where a subsequent letter from Hazlitt to -Landor is quoted, in which he says: ‘I am much gratified that you are pleased -with the <cite>Spirit of the Age</cite>. Somebody ought to like it, for I am sure there will be -plenty to cry out against it. I hope you did not find any sad blunders in the -second volume; but you can hardly suppose the depression of body and mind under -which I wrote some of those articles.’ This review of the <cite>Imaginary Conversations</cite> -seems to have been cut about a good deal by Jeffrey.</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt>PAGE</dt> - <dd> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_231'>231</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Great wits</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Absalom and Achitophel</cite>, <span - class='fss'>I.</span> 163. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_233'>233</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>It travels in a road</em>’ [strait], <em>etc.</em> <cite>Troilus and - Cressida</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_235'>235</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Dashed and brewed.</em> Dryden, <cite>Absalom and Achitophel</cite>, <span - class='fss'>I.</span> 114. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>To every good word</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Epistle to Titus</cite>, <span - class='fss'>I.</span> 16. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_238'>238</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>All in conscience</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Chaucer, <cite>Prologue</cite>, 150. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>Note. <cite><span lang="frp" xml:lang="frp">Tâtar</span>.</cite> Cf., <em>e.g.</em>, -<div class='lg-container-b c011'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘Persian and Copt and Tatar, in one bond</div> - <div class='line'>Of erring faith conjoin’d.’</div> - <div class='line in20'><cite>Roderick, the Last of the Goths</cite>, <span class='fss'>I.</span> 18–19.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>See also <cite>Notes and Queries</cite>, tenth Series, <span class='fss'>I.</span> 11, 12. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_242'>242</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>The fairest princess under sky.</em>’ <cite>The Faerie Queene</cite>, Introductory - Stanzas, <span class='fss'>IV.</span> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Paint the lily</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>King John</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>IV.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_243'>243</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Famous poets’ verse.</em>’ Spenser, <cite>The Faerie Queene</cite>, I. <span - class='fss'>XI.</span> 27, and III. <span class='fss'>IV.</span> 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>The spur</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Lycidas</cite>, 70. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Belvidera’s sorrows.</em> In Otway’s <cite>Venice Preserved</cite>. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_245'>245</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Occasion and Furor.</em> <cite>The Faerie Queene</cite>, Book II. Canto <span - class='fss'>IV.</span> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Cymocles</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Ibid.</cite>, Book II. Canto <span - class='fss'>VI.</span> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>The philosopher of Malmesbury.</em> Hobbes. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_250'>250</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Horace’s ‘nine years.’</em> ‘<span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Nonumque prematur in annum.</span>’ <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Ars - Poetica</span></cite>, 388. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Que, si sous Adam</span></i>,’ <em>etc.</em> A line in Boileau’s tenth satire. See the - Conversation between the Abbé Delille and Walter Landor. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>General Mina.</cite> The second volume of <cite>Imaginary Conversations</cite> was - dedicated to General Espoz y Mina (1784–1835), the Spanish patriot who opposed Napoleon, - and, later, the tyranny of the restored Bourbons. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Balasteros.</em> Francisco Ballasteros (1770–1832), the Spanish general, who had - capitulated to the French invaders in 1823, and been banished for life. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_251'>251</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Caviare to the multitude</em> [general]. <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_254'>254</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite>Articles in The Friend.</cite> See <cite>The Friend</cite>, February 8, 1810. - Coleridge referred to this essay, and quoted passages from it in one of the articles he - wrote in <cite>The Courier</cite> in 1811. See <cite>Essays on his own Times</cite>, - <span class='fss'>III.</span> 829 <em>et seq.</em> These articles are probably alluded to - by Hazlitt when he speaks of ‘strong allusions ... in a celebrated journal.’ - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_255'>255</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Final hope</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span - class='fss'>II.</span> 143. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>To shut</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. ‘She opened; but to shut excelled her power.’ - <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span class='fss'>II.</span> 883–884. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Bolivar.</em> Simon Bolivar (1783–1830), ‘the Liberator’ of South America. Landor - dedicated to him the third volume of his <cite>Imaginary Conversations</cite>. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Gebir.</cite> Published anonymously in 1798. ‘Many parts of it,’ says Landor - (Preface to 1831 edition), ‘were first composed in Latin; and I doubted in which language - to complete it.’ - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Pleased they remember</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. <cite>Gebir</cite>, <span - class='fss'>I.</span> 168–169. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Count Julian.</cite> Published anonymously in 1812. - </dd> - </dl> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_428'>428</span> - <h3 class='c008'>SHELLEY’S POSTHUMOUS POEMS</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c016'>The volume here reviewed was published in 1824 by John and Henry L. Hunt. -Hazlitt had little sympathy with Shelley either as a man or a poet. The grounds -of his distrust of him as a man are given more than once, most fully, perhaps, in -the essay ‘On Paradox and Common-Place’ (<cite>Table Talk</cite>, <span class='fss'>VI.</span> 148–150), which led -to the quarrel between Hazlitt and Leigh Hunt in 1821. See <cite>Memoirs of William -Hazlitt</cite>, <span class='fss'>I.</span> 304–315, and <cite>Four Generations of a Literary Family</cite>, <span class='fss'>I.</span> 130–135. As for -Shelley’s poetry, P. G. Patmore suggests that Hazlitt knew little or nothing of it. -‘Though I have often,’ he says (<em>My Friends and Acquaintance</em>, <span class='fss'>III.</span> 136), ‘heard -him speak disparagingly of Shelley as a poet, I never heard him refer to a single -line or passage of his published writings.’ Hazlitt met Shelley at Leigh Hunt’s, -and the two discussed Monarchy and Republicanism until three in the morning.’ -See Mary Shelley’s journal of 1817, quoted in Professor Dowden’s <cite>Life</cite>, <span class='fss'>II.</span> 103.</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt>PAGE</dt> - <dd> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_256'>256</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Too fiery</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. ‘You know the fiery quality of the duke.’ - <cite>King Lear</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 4. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Beyond the visible</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span - class='fss'>VII.</span> 22. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>All air.</em>’ Cf. ‘He is pure air and fire.’ <cite>Henry V.</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 7. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_257'>257</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>So divinely wrought</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. John Donne, <cite>An Anatomy of the - World, Second Anniversary</cite>, 245–246. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>And dallies</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Richard III.</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>More subtle web</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>The Faerie Queene</cite>, Book II. Canto - <span class='fss'>XII.</span> St. 77. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_259'>259</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>There the antics sit.</em>’ <cite>Richard II.</cite>, Act. <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Palsied eld.</em>’ <cite>Measure for Measure</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_260'>260</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Shelley died, etc.</em> When Shelley’s body was cast ashore near Via Reggio (July - 18, 1822), a volume of Keats’s poems was found in one pocket, and a volume of Sophocles - in the other. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Two out of four poets, patriots, and friends.</em> The four poets were presumably - Shelley, Keats, Byron and Leigh Hunt. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Keats died young, etc.</em> Cf. vol. <span class='fss'>VI.</span> (<cite>Table - Talk</cite>) p. 99. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>A third has since been added, etc.</em> Byron died at Mesolonghi, April 19, 1824. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_261'>261</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Mrs. Shelley.</em> Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin (1797–1851) married to Shelley, Dec. - 30, 1816. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Alastor.</cite> Originally published in 1816. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Translation of the May-day Night.</cite> Published in <cite>The Liberal</cite>. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Julian and Maddalo.</cite> This poem, first published in <cite>Posthumous - Poems</cite>, had been sent to Leigh Hunt in 1819 for publication by Ollier. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_264'>264</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Made as flax.</em>’ Cf. <cite>Judges</cite>, <span class='fss'>XV.</span> 14. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_267'>267</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>The Letter to a Friend in London.</em> The <cite>Letter to Maria Gisborne</cite> - presumably. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Toys of feathered cupid.</em>’ <cite>Othello</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>I.</span> - Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_269'>269</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>The sun is warm</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Stanzas written in dejection near - Naples.</cite> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_270'>270</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Keats’s sounding lines.</em> <cite>Endymion</cite>, Book <span - class='fss'>I.</span> 232 <em>et seq.</em> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Weakness and melancholy.</em>’ Cf. <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_271'>271</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>To elevate and surprise.</em>’ The Duke of Buckingham’s <cite>Rehearsal</cite>, Act - <span class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Overstep the modesty.</em>’ Hamlet, Act <span class='fss'>III.</span>, Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Good set terms.</em>’ <cite>As You Like It</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>II.</span> - Sc. 7. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Lord Leveson Gower.</em> Lord Francis Leveson Gower (1800–1857), son of the second - Marquis of Stafford, inherited a large property from his uncle, Francis Henry Egerton, - Earl of Bridgewater, assumed the name of Egerton, and in 1846 was created Earl of - Ellesmere. His translation of <cite>Faust</cite> appeared in 1823. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_275'>275</a>.</dt> - <dd>Note. See vol. <span class='fss'>V.</span> pp. 202–203, and notes. - </dd> - </dl> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_429'>429</span> - <h3 class='c008'>LADY MORGAN’S LIFE OF SALVATOR</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c016'>This <cite>Life</cite> appeared in 1823. Sydney Owenson (1783?–1859), author of <cite>The Wild -Irish Girl</cite> in (1806), and many other less known books, was the daughter of Robert -Owenson, the actor, and in 1812 married Sir Thomas Charles Morgan, the -physician and philosopher. Cf. <cite>The Spirit of the Age</cite> (vol. <span class='fss'>IV.</span>), p. 308, and <cite>The -Plain Speaker</cite> (vol. <span class='fss'>VII.</span>), p. 220. This review was republished in <cite>Criticisms on -Art</cite> (1843–4) and in <cite>Essays on the Fine Arts</cite> (1873).</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt>PAGE</dt> - <dd> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_278'>278</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>The miracle in Virgil.</em> <cite>Æneid</cite>, <span class='fss'>III.</span> 37–40. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_279'>279</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Housing with wild men</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Coleridge, <cite>Zapolya</cite>, Act - <span class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_280'>280</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Their mind</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Sir Edward Dyer’s poem, beginning ‘My mind to me a - kingdom is.’ - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>In measureless content.</em>’ <cite>Macbeth</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>II.</span> - Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Unjust tribunals</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Samson Agonistes</cite>, 695. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_282'>282</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Pride, pomp</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Othello</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_283'>283</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>The celebrated Lanfranco.</em> Giovanni Lanfranco (1581–1647), the painter. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Skins and films</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 4. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_287'>287</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Another moon</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span - class='fss'>V.</span> 311. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_291'>291</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>According to Lord Bacon</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Advancement of Learning</cite>, - Bk. <span class='fss'>II.</span> iv. p. 2. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Burke, in a like manner</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> See <cite>A Letter to a Member of the - National Assembly</cite>, 1791 (<cite>Works</cite>, Bohn, <span class='fss'>II.</span> p. - 535, <cite>et seq.</cite>) - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_292'>292</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Moralizes</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>As You Like It</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Bernini.</em> Giovanni Lorenzo Bernini (1598–1680), the sculptor. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_296'>296</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Passeri.</em> Giovanni Battista Passeri (1610?–1679), author of <cite><span lang="co" xml:lang="co">Vite - de’Pittori, Scultori, e Architetri</span></cite>, <em>etc.</em> (1772). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Mrs. Radcliffe’s Italian.</em> Ann Radcliffe’s <cite>The Italian</cite>, 1797. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Thaddeus of Warsaw.</cite> By Jane Porter (1776–1850), published in 1803. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_298'>298</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Like a wounded snake</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Pope, <cite>An Essay on Criticism</cite> - (<span class='fss'>II.</span>), 357. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_300'>300</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Where universal Pan</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span - class='fss'>IV.</span> 266–268. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_301'>301</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Massaniello.</em> Tommaso Aniello—called Masaniello—(1623–1647), the fisherman leader - of the Neapolitan revolt against the Spanish viceroy in 1647. - </dd> - </dl> - -<h3 class='c008'>AMERICAN LITERATURE—DR. CHANNING</h3> - -<p class='c016'>This review is stated to be Hazlitt’s in the volume of <cite>Selections from the Correspondence -of the late Macvey Napier</cite>, p. 70 note. Jeffrey writes to Napier, Nov. 23, -1829 (<em>Ibid.</em> pp. 69–70): ‘Your American reviewer is not a first-rate man, a clever -writer enough, but not deep or judicious, or even very fair. I have no notion -who he is. If he is young he may come to good, but he should be trained to a -more modest opinion of himself, and to take a little more pains, and go more -patiently and thoroughly into his subject.’ Carlyle, on the other hand, writes, -Jan. 27. 1830 (<em>Ibid.</em> p. 78): ‘I liked the last [number] very well; the review of -Channing seemed to me especially good.’ It is very strange that Jeffrey should -not have recognised Hazlitt’s manner. Procter (<cite>An Autobiographical Fragment</cite>, -p. 261) quotes a letter from Jeffrey of May 12, 1826, in which he says, ‘Can you -tell me anything of our ancient ally Hazlitt?’</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt>PAGE</dt> - <dd> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_310'>310</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Brown.</em> Charles Brockden Brown (1771–1810), one of the earliest of American - writers, author of <cite>Wieland</cite> (1798), <cite>Ormond</cite> (1799), <cite>Arthur - Mervyn</cite> (1800), <cite>Edgar Huntley</cite> (1801), <cite>Clara Howard</cite> - (1801), and <cite>Jane Talbot</cite> (1804). <span class='pageno' id='Page_430'>430</span>The first four of these are - mentioned by Peacock as amongst the books ‘which took the deepest root in Shelley’s mind, - and had the strongest influence on the formation of his character.’ - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_310'>310</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Cooper.</em> James Fenimore Cooper (1789–1851), whose most famous novel, - <cite>The Last of the Mohicans</cite>, had appeared in 1826. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_311'>311</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>An ample tribute of respect.</em> See reviews in the <cite>Edinburgh</cite> of - <cite>The Sketch Book</cite> (Aug. 1820), and <cite>Bracebridge Hall</cite> (Nov. 1822). - Both were written by Jeffrey. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Frankenstein.</cite> Mrs. Shelley’s novel (1818). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Of Brownies</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> ‘Of Brownies and of bogillis full this buke.’ Gawin - Douglas, <cite>Aeneis</cite>, <span class='fss'>VI.</span> Prol. 18. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>They hoot the Beggar’s Opera, etc.</em> Cf. vol. <span class='fss'>VIII.</span> - (<cite>Dramatic Essays</cite>), p. 473 and note. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_312'>312</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Our own unrivalled novelist.</em> Sir Walter Scott. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_313'>313</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>The historiographer of Brother Jonathan.</em> Hazlitt refers to John Neal’s - <cite>Brother Jonathan: or the New Englanders</cite>. 3 vols. Edinburgh, 1825. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>His Pilot.</cite> 1823. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>To suffer</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>The Tempest</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_314'>314</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Line upon line</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Isaiah</cite>, xxviii. 10. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Franklin.</em> Benjamin Franklin (1706–1790). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Poor Robin.</em> <cite>Poor Richard’s Almanac</cite>, begun by Franklin in 1732, and - continued with great success for twenty-five years. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>1754.</em> This apparently should be 1764. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Metre-ballad-mongering.</em>’ Cf. <cite>Henry IV.</cite>, Part I. Act <span - class='fss'>III</span>. Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_315'>315</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Jonathan Edwards.</em> Jonathan Edwards (1703–1758), whose <cite>Freedom of the - Will</cite> appeared in 1754. Cf. Hazlitt’s philosophical lectures in vol. <span - class='fss'>XI.</span> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>An honest method.</em>’ <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_316'>316</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Dr. Channing.</em> William Ellery Channing (1780–1842), minister of a Congregational - church in Boston from 1803. He had visited England in 1822. Hazlitt is here reviewing - <cite>Sermons and Tracts</cite>: including <cite>Remarks on the Character and Writings of - Milton, and of Fenelon; and an analysis of the Character of Napoleon Bonaparte</cite>, - 1829. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_320'>320</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>In answer to Fenelon.</em> Channing’s ‘Remarks’ were upon a volume of Selections from - Fénelon, published in Boston, 1829. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_323'>323</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite>Bishop Butler’s Sermons.</cite> 1726. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_325'>325</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Wise above what is written.</em>’ Cf. <cite>1 Corinthians</cite>, iv. 6. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>With authority</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>S. Matthew</cite>, vii. 29. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_326'>326</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>As having something</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>The Advancement of Learning</cite>, - Book <span class='fss'>II.</span> iv. 2. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_327'>327</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>The father of lies.</em>’ Cf. Burton, <cite>The Anatomy of Melancholy</cite>, - Partition I. Sec. <span class='fss'>IV.</span> Member i. Subsection 4. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_328'>328</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Fielding’s character of Mr. Abraham Adams.</em> <cite>Joseph Andrews</cite>, Book - <span class='fss'>III.</span> chap. 5. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_329'>329</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>No babies.</em>’ ‘I am no baby.’ <cite>Titus Andronicus</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>V.</span> Sc. 3. - </dd> - </dl> - -<h3 class='c008'>FLAXMAN’S LECTURES ON SCULPTURE</h3> - -<p class='c016'>A review of John Flaxman’s (1755–1826) <cite>Lectures on Sculpture</cite> (1829). The -review was republished in <cite>Criticisms on Art</cite> (1843–4) and in <cite>Essays on the Fine -Arts</cite> (1873). Flaxman had been professor of sculpture at the Royal Academy -from 1810. In his <cite>Memoirs of William Hazlitt</cite> (<span class='fss'>II.</span> 269) Mr. W. C. Hazlitt gives -a number of marginal notes made by Hazlitt upon his copy of Flaxman’s Lectures -probably with a view to this article.</p> - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt>PAGE<span class='pageno' id='Page_431'>431</span></dt> - <dd> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_335'>335</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Torregiano.</em> Pietro Torrigiano (c. 1470–1522), the Florentine sculptor who broke - Michael Angelo’s nose. He came to England in 1509. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>A city</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>S. Matthew</cite>, <span class='fss'>V.</span> 14. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_336'>336</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>High and palmy.</em>’ <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Growing with its growth.</em>’ Pope, <cite>Essay on Man</cite>, <span - class='fss'>II.</span> 136. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_341'>341</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Sir Anthony Carlisle.</em> Sir Anthony Carlisle (1768–1840), the surgeon, studied for - a time at the Royal Academy, and wrote an essay ‘On the Connection between Anatomy and - the Fine Arts,’ to which Hazlitt probably refers. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_344'>344</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>To make Gods</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. <cite>Genesis</cite>, i. 26. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Hitherto</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Job</cite>, xxxviii. 11. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_345'>345</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>The labour</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Macbeth</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_348'>348</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Shreds and patches.</em>’ <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. - 4. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Upon her eyebrows</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>The Faerie Queene</cite>, Book II. - Canto <span class='fss'>III.</span> St. 25. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_349'>349</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>By their own beauty</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. ‘By our own spirits are we deified.’ - Wordsworth, <cite>Resolution and Independence</cite>, 47. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_350'>350</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>The scale</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span - class='fss'>VIII.</span> 591–592. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_351'>351</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Incendio del Borgo.</span></cite> Raphael’s fresco in the Vatican. - </dd> - </dl> - -<h3 class='c008'>WILSON’S LIFE AND TIMES OF DANIEL DEFOE</h3> - -<p class='c016'>Walter Wilson’s (1781–1847) <cite>Memoirs of the Life and Times of Daniel Defoe</cite> was -published in 3 vols. in 1830.</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt>PAGE</dt> - <dd> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_355'>355</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Tutchin and Ridpath.</em> John Tutchin (1661?–1707) and George Ridpath (d. 1726), two - Whig contemporaries of Defoe, successive editors of <cite>The Observator</cite>. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Dispraise of the Beggars’ Opera.</em> See Wilson’s <cite>Memoirs, etc., of - Defoe</cite>, <span class='fss'>III.</span> 595–596. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_356'>356</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Excellent iteration in him.</em>’ Cf. <cite>Henry IV.</cite>, Part I. Act <span - class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>As honest Hector Macintyre, etc.</em> See <cite>The Antiquary</cite>, chap. <span - class='fss'>XX.</span> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Thinly scattered</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Romeo and Juliet</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>V.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Rari nantes, etc.</span></i> <cite>Æneid</cite>, <span class='fss'>I.</span> 118. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_356'>356</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>I remember my grandfather</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Wilson’s <cite>Memoirs, etc., of - Defoe</cite>, <span class='fss'>I.</span> 6, and Defoe’s <cite>Review</cite>, vii. Pref. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_357'>357</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Samuel Wesley.</em> Samuel Wesley the elder (1662–1735), whose attack on the - education of the Dissenters (1703) engaged him in a controversy. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Shortest Way with the Dissenters.</cite>, 1702. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_358'>358</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Harley.</em> Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford (1661–1724). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Heaven lies about us</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Wordsworth, Ode, <cite>Intimations of - Immortality</cite>, 66. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Poor Robinson Crusoe</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Robinson Crusoe</cite>, Section - <span class='fss'>XV.</span> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_358'>358</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite>True-born Englishman.</cite> 1701. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Review.</cite> 1704–1713. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Essays on Trade.</cite> Defoe wrote several tracts on the subject of trade. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_360'>360</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite>Legion Petition.</cite> ‘Legion’s Memorial’ to the House of Commons in reference to - the Kentish Petition of 1701. A second Memorial appeared in the following year. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Heaping coals of fire</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Romans</cite>, xii. 20. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Stuff of the conscience.</em>’ <cite>Othello</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>I.</span> - Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>A foregone conclusion.</em>’ <cite>Othello</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>III.</span> - Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_361'>361</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Toland.</em> John Toland (1670–1722), the deist. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_362'>362</a>.</dt> - <dd>Note. See Wilson’s <cite>Memoirs, etc., of Defoe</cite>, <span class='fss'>I.</span> 73 - note. -<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_432'>432</span></div> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_363'>363</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>There goes a very honest gentleman</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> According to Madame de La - Fayette (<cite>Mémoires de la Cour de France</cite>), it was Louvois’ brother, the - Archbishop of Rheims, who, on seeing James come from Mass, said: ‘Voilà un fort bon - homme, il a quitté trois royaumes pour une messe.’ - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Dr. Sherlock.</em> William Sherlock (1641?–1707), one of the non-jurors for a short - time after the Revolution. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_364'>364</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>An eloquent passage.</em> See Wilson’s <cite>Memoirs, etc., of Defoe</cite>, <span - class='fss'>I.</span> 76–77 and Defoe’s <cite>Review</cite>, <span class='fss'>IV.</span> - 643–644. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The Exclusion Bill.</cite> Passed by the House of Commons and rejected by the House - of Lords, 1680. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>A very curious account.</em> Wilson’s <cite>Memoirs, etc., of Defoe</cite>, <span - class='fss'>I.</span> 156 <em>et seq.</em> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_366'>366</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>His Complete Tradesman.</em> <cite>The Complete English Tradesman</cite>, 1727. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_367'>367</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>To keep their seats firm.</em>’ <cite>Reflections on the Revolution in France</cite> - (<cite>Select Works</cite>, ed. Payne, <span class='fss'>II.</span> 97). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>The fate of James</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Wilson’s <cite>Memoirs, etc., of - Defoe</cite>, <span class='fss'>I.</span> 162–163. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_368'>368</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Courage had been screwed</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. <cite>Macbeth</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 7. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>An Address to the Dissenters.</cite> This pamphlet (1687) seems to have been Bishop - Burnet’s. See Lee’s <cite>Life of Defoe</cite> and <cite>Notes and Queries</cite>, 4th - Ser. <span class='fss'>IV.</span> 253, 307. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>The Marquis of Halifax.</em> George Savile, Marquis of Halifax (1633–1695). The - pamphlet referred to by Hazlitt appeared in 1686. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_369'>369</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>An early Piece.</em> Lee (<cite>Life of Defoe</cite>, <span class='fss'>I.</span> 15) - regards this piece (1683) and <cite>Speculum Crape-gownorum</cite> (1682) as spurious. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Lives of the Philipses.</cite> William Godwin’s <cite>Lives of Edward and John - Philips</cite>, 1815. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>Note. <cite>An Appeal to Honour and Justice.</cite> 1715. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_370'>370</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>The <span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Hortus Siccus</span> of Dissent.</em>’ <cite>Reflections on the Revolution in - France</cite> (<cite>Select Works</cite>, ed. Payne, <span class='fss'>II.</span> 14). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Oldmixon.</em> John Oldmixon (1673–1742), whose <cite>History of England during the - Reign of the Royal House of Stuart</cite> was published in 3 vols. 1729–1739. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_371'>371</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Though that his joy</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Othello</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_372'>372</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Not pierceable</em>‘, <em>etc.</em> Cf. ‘Not perceable with power of any starr.’ - <cite>The Faerie Queene</cite>, Book <span class='fss'>I.</span> Canto <span - class='fss'>I.</span> St. 7. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_373'>373</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Speaking a word</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. <cite>Proverbs</cite>, <span - class='fss'>XV.</span> 23. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_374'>374</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Sacheverell.</em> Henry Sacheverell (1674–1724). The sermon referred to was preached - before the University of Oxford on June 2, 1702. See Wilson’s <cite>Memoirs, etc. of - Defoe</cite>, <span class='fss'>II.</span> 27–28. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>So should his anticipation</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_375'>375</a>.</dt> - <dd><cite>A Hymn to the Pillory.</cite> 1703. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>See where on high</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> ‘Earless on high stood unabash’d De Foe.’ - <cite>The Dunciad</cite>, <span class='fss'>II.</span> 147. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Dishonour, honourable.</em>’ Cf. ‘Honour dishonourable.’ <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, - <span class='fss'>IV.</span> 314. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Condemned to everlasting fame.</em>’ ‘Damned to everlasting fame.’ Pope, <cite>Essay - on Man</cite>, <span class='fss'>IV.</span> 284. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Oh soul supreme</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Pope, <cite>Moral Essays</cite>, Epistle <span - class='fss'>V.</span> 23–24. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>The fellow that was pilloried.</em>’ See Swift’s <cite>A Letter from a Member of the - House of Commons in Ireland, to a Member of the House of Commons in England, concerning - the Sacramental Test</cite> (1709). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>The superficial part of learning.</em>’ Gay, in his <cite>Present State of - Wit</cite> (1711), spoke of Defoe as a ‘fellow, who had excellent natural parts, but - wanted a small foundation of learning.’ - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_376'>376</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Flying to others</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Hamlet, Act <span class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. - 1. -<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_433'>433</span></div> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_376'>376</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Why troublest thou</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. ‘Art thou come hither to torment us - before the time?’ <cite>S. Matthew</cite>, viii, 29. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_377'>377</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>William Benson.</em> William Benson (1682–1754). Defoe was prosecuted and imprisoned - for his anti-Jacobite tracts of 1713, <cite>Reasons against the Succession of the House - of Hanover, etc.</cite> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>The force of dulness</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. Dryden, <cite>Lines printed under the - Engraved Portrait of Milton</cite>, 5. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_378'>378</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>His History of that event.</em> <cite>History of the Union of Great Britain</cite>, - 1709. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Apology for the Massacre of Glencoe.</cite> In Defoe’s <cite>History of the - Union</cite>, 4to. edition, pp. 68–73. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Hamlet, Prince of Denmark</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> See Wilson’s <cite>Memoirs, etc., of - Defoe</cite>, <span class='fss'>II.</span> 457. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_379'>379</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>His novels.</em> Those referred to by Hazlitt are <cite>Moll Flanders</cite>, 1721; - <cite>Roxana</cite>, 1724; <cite>Captain Singleton</cite>, 1720; <cite>Colonel - Jack</cite>, 1722; and <cite>Memoirs of a Cavalier</cite>, 1720. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>The Family Instructor.</cite> 1715–1718. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Meddling with the unclean thing.</em>’ Cf. <cite>2 Corinthians</cite>, <span - class='fss'>VI.</span> 17. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_380'>380</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>All the fore-end of his time.</em>’ <cite>Cymbeline</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Vice, by losing</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Burke, <cite>Reflections on the Revolution in - France</cite> (<cite>Select Works</cite>, ed. Payne, <span class='fss'>II.</span> 89). - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Purple light.</em>’ Cf. ‘The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.’ Gray, - <cite>The Progress of Poesy</cite>, 41. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_381'>381</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>What Mr. Lamb says, etc.</em> See Lamb’s ‘Estimate of De Foe’s Secondary Novels,’ - written for Wilson’s <cite>Life of Defoe</cite> (<span class='fss'>III.</span> 636). The - paper is reprinted in <cite>The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb</cite>, ed. E. V. Lucas, - <span class='fss'>I.</span> 325–327. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_382'>382</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Imposed upon Lord Chatham.</em> See Wilson’s <cite>Memoirs, etc., of Defoe</cite>, - <span class='fss'>III.</span> 509. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>History of Apparitions.</cite> <cite>An Essay on the History and Reality of - Apparitions</cite>, 1727. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Call spirits</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Henry IV.</cite>, Part I., Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>History of the Plague.</cite> <cite>Journal of the Plague Year</cite>, 1722. - </dd> - </dl> - -<h3 class='c008'>MR. GODWIN</h3> - -<p class='c016'>This was ostensibly a review of <cite>Cloudesley</cite>, published in 1830. Some years -previously Sir James Mackintosh had suggested that Hazlitt should be asked to -review Godwin’s novels. Towards the end of 1823 he wrote to Godwin: ‘I see -your novels advertised to-day. Could you ask Mr. Hazlitt to review them in the -<cite>Edinburgh Review</cite>. He is a very original thinker, and notwithstanding some -singularities which appear to me faults, a very powerful writer. I say this, though -I know he is no panegyrist of mine. His critique might serve all our purposes, -and would, I doubt not, promote the interests of literature also.’ (C. Kegan Paul, -<cite>William Godwin: His Friends and Contemporaries</cite>, <span class='fss'>II.</span> 289.) The <cite>Edinburgh</cite> had -reviewed Godwin’s <cite>Fleetwood</cite> (vol. <span class='fss'>VI.</span> p. 182), and had praised <cite>Caleb Williams</cite> -very highly in a review of the <cite>Lives of Edward and John Philips</cite> (<span class='fss'>XXV.</span> p. 485). -Cf. Hazlitt’s sketch of Godwin in <cite>The Spirit of the Age</cite>, vol. <span class='fss'>IV.</span> pp. 200 <em>et seq.</em>, -and notes.</p> - - <dl class='dl_1'> - <dt>PAGE</dt> - <dd> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_385'>385</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Dramatised.</em> <cite>Caleb Williams</cite> was dramatised by George Colman the - younger as <cite>The Iron Chest</cite>. See vol. <span class='fss'>VIII.</span> (<cite>A - View of the English Stage</cite>), p. 342. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_386'>386</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Seemed like another morn</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span - class='fss'>V.</span> 310–311. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Even in his ashes</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. Gray, <cite>Elegy written in a Country - Church-Yard</cite>, 92. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_387'>387</a>.</dt> - <dd><i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Otium cum dignitate.</span></i> Cicero, <cite><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Pro Sestio</span></cite>, <span - class='fss'>XLV.</span> 98. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Retired leisure</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Il Penseroso</span></cite>, 49–50. -<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_434'>434</span></div> - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_387'>387</a>.</dt> - <dd><i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Horas non numero, etc.</span></i> The motto of a sun-dial near Venice. See Hazlitt’s - essay ‘On a Sun-Dial.’ - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>The iron rod</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Vaguely quoted from <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, - <span class='fss'>II.</span> 90–92. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Stretched upon the rack</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. <cite>Macbeth</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>And like a gallant horse</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Troilus and Cressida</cite>, Act - <span class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>There is only one living writer.</em> Scott, no doubt. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_388'>388</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>O let not virtue</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Loosely quoted from <cite>Troilus and - Cressida</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>To elevate and surprise.</em>’ The Duke of Buckingham’s <cite>The Rehearsal</cite>, - Act <span class='fss'>I.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Takes an inventory.</em>’ Ben Jonson, <cite>The Alchemist</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_391'>391</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>A pass of wit.</em>’ Cf. ‘Wit shall not go unrewarded while I am king of this - country. “Steal by line and level” is an excellent pass of pate.’ <cite>The - Tempest</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>IV.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>O’ersteps</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_392'>392</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Annesley.</em> Hazlitt refers to the well-known case of James Annesley (1715–1760), - who claimed to be the legitimate son and heir of Lord Altham. The story will be found in - Howell’s <cite>State Trials</cite> (vols. <span class='fss'>XVI.</span> and <span - class='fss'>XVII.</span>), and has been used by other novelists besides Godwin. See - <cite>Peregrine Pickle</cite> (chap. 98) and Charles Reade’s <cite>The Wandering - Heir</cite>. Godwin, in the advertisement to <cite>Cloudesley</cite>, says: ‘It is but - just that the reader should be informed that a novel has been already written on this - theme, and printed in the year 1743, under the title of “Memoirs of an unfortunate young - Nobleman, Returned from a Thirteen Years’ Slavery in America.”’ This is presumably the - work referred to by Hazlitt as ‘a novel with the title of <cite>Annesley</cite>.’ In 1756 - appeared <cite>The Case of the Honourable J. A., humbly offered to all lovers of truth - and justice</cite>. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Mark and likelihood.</em>’ <cite>Henry IV.</cite>, Part I., Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_393'>393</a>.</dt> - <dd><i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Multum abludit imago.</span></i> Horace, <cite>Satires</cite>, <span - class='fss'>II.</span> 3, 320. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>Subject</em> [servile] <em>to all</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Measure for - Measure</cite>, Act <span class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>A fiery soul</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Dryden, <cite>Absalom and Achitophel</cite>, <span - class='fss'>I.</span> 156–158. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_394'>394</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>But the lees</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Loosely quoted from <cite>Macbeth</cite>, Act - <span class='fss'>II.</span> Sc. 3. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>After a thousand victories</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Shakespeare, Sonnet <span - class='fss'>XXV.</span> - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>A great man’s memory</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 2. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_395'>395</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>At first no bigger</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. <cite>S. Matthew</cite>, xiii. 31. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_397'>397</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>A consummation</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Act <span - class='fss'>III.</span> Sc. 1. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd>‘<em>The scale by which we ascend.</em>’ Cf. <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, <span - class='fss'>VIII.</span> 591–592. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_398'>398</a>.</dt> - <dd>‘<em>Reaches the verge</em>,’ <em>etc.</em> Cf. Pope, <cite>Moral Essays</cite>, <span - class='fss'>II.</span> 52. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_399'>399</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>His New Man of Feeling.</em> <cite>Fleetwood; or, The New Man of Feeling</cite>, 1805. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Mandeville.</cite> 1817. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Life of Chaucer.</cite> 1803. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>Essay on Sepulchres.</cite> 1809. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><em>Mr. Malthus’s theory.</em> See vol. <span class='fss'>IV.</span> (<cite>The Spirit of - the Age</cite>), p. 296. - </dd> - <dt><a href='#Page_400'>400</a>.</dt> - <dd><em>Sermons.</em> <cite>Sketches of History, in Six Sermons</cite>, 1784. - </dd> - <dt> </dt> - <dd><cite>An English Grammar.</cite> The grammar was written by Hazlitt himself and published - by Mrs. Godwin at the Skinner Street house. See vol <span class='fss'>IV.</span>, - Bibliographical Note on p. 388. It contained a letter written by Godwin under the - pseudonym of Edward Baldwin. - </dd> - </dl> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='small'>Printed by T. and A. <span class='sc'>Constable</span>, Printers to His Majesty</span></div> - <div><span class='small'>at the Edinburgh University Press</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<hr class='c017' /> -<div class='footnote' id='f1'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r1'>1</a>. We have not forgotten Defoe as one of our own writers. The author of -Robinson Crusoe was an Englishman; and one of those Englishmen who make us -proud of the name.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f2'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r2'>2</a>. See, among a thousand instances, the conclusion of the story of Geneura.—‘And -all that day we read no more!’</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f3'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r3'>3</a>. The late Mr. Burke was a writer of a very splendid imagination, and great -command of words. This was, with many persons, a sufficient ground for -concluding that he was a mere rhetorician, without depth of thought or solidity of -judgment.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f4'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r4'>4</a>. .sp 1</p> -<div class='lg-container-b c018'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>‘<span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Gli occhi di ch’io parlai si caldamente</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">E le braccia, e le mani, e i piedi, e ‘l viso</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Che m’ havean si da me stesso diviso,</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">E fatto singular fra l’ altra gente;</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Le crispe chiome d’ or puro lucente,</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">E ‘l lampeggiar de l’ angelico riso,</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Che solean far in terra un paradiso,</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Poco pulvere son che nulla sente!</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ed io pur vivo! onde mi doglio e sdegno.</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Rimaso senza ‘l lume, ch’ amai tanto,</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">In gran fortuna, e ‘n disarmato legno.</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Or sia qui fine al mio amoroso canto.</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">Secca e la vena de l’ usato ingegno</span></div> - <div class='line'><span lang="it" xml:lang="it">E la cetera mia rivolta in pianto.</span>’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Literally as follows. ‘Those eyes of which I spoke so warmly, and the -arms, and the hands, and the feet, and the face, which have robbed me -of myself, and made me different from others; those crisped locks of pure -shining gold, and the lightning of that angelical smile, which used to make -a heaven upon earth, are now a little dust which feels nothing!—And I still -remain! whence I lament and disdain myself, left without the light which I -loved so much, in a troubled sea, and with dismantled bark. Here then must -end all my amorous songs. Dry is the vein of my exhausted genius, and my lyre -answers only in lamentations!’</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f5'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r5'>5</a>. The universality of Shakespear’s genius has, perhaps, been a disadvantage to -his single works: the variety of his resources has prevented him from giving that -intense concentration of interest to some of them which they might have had. -He is in earnest only in Lear and Timon. He combined the powers of Æschylus -and Aristophanes, of Dante and Rabelais, in his own mind. If he had been only -half what he was, he might have seemed greater.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f6'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r6'>6</a>. Do not publications generally find their way there, without a <em>direction</em>? R.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f7'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r7'>7</a>. Why to Great Britain alone? R.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f8'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r8'>8</a>. ‘Multiscience (or a variety and quantity of acquired knowledge) does not -teach intelligence. But the Sibyll with wild enthusiastic mouth shrilling forth -unmirthful, inornate, and unperfumed truths, reaches to a thousand years with her -voice through the power of God.’</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f9'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r9'>9</a>. With all proper allowances for the effects of the Mundungus, we must say -that this answer appears to us very curiously characteristic of the exaggerated and -canting tone of this poet and his associates. A man may or may not think time -misemployed in reading newspapers:—but we believe no man, out of the Pantisocratic -or Lake school, ever dreamed of denouncing it as unchristian and impious—even -if he had not himself begun and ended his career as an Editor of newspapers. -The same absurd exaggeration is visible in his magnificent eulogium on the -conversational talents of his Birmingham Unitarians.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f10'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r10'>10</a>. See his criticisms on Bertram, vol. <span class='fss'>II.</span>, reprinted from the Courier.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f11'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r11'>11</a>. We are aware that time conquers even nature, and that the characters of -nations change with a total change of circumstances. The modern Italians are -a very different race of people from the ancient Romans. This gives us some -chance. In the decomposition and degeneracy of the sturdy old English character, -which seems fast approaching, the mind and muscles of the country may be -sufficiently relaxed and softened to imbibe a taste for all the refinements of luxury -and show; and a century of slavery may yield us a crop of the Fine Arts, to be -soon buried in sloth and barbarism again.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f12'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r12'>12</a>. This name, for some reason or other, does not once occur in these Memoirs.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f13'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r13'>13</a>. The Editor of the Englishman for many years was a Mr. Radcliffe. He had -been formerly attached to some of our embassies into Italy, where his lady -accompanied him; and here she imbibed that taste for picturesque scenery, and -the obscure and wild superstitions of mouldering castles, of which she has made so -beautiful a use in her Romances. The fair authoress kept herself almost as much -<em>incognito</em> as the Author of Waverley; nothing was known of her but her name in -the title-page. She never appeared in public, nor mingled in private society, but -kept herself apart, like the sweet bird that sings its solitary notes, shrowded and -unseen.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f14'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r14'>14</a>. Many of these articles (particularly the Theatrical Criticism) are unavoidably -written over night, just as the paper is going to the press, without correction or -previous preparation. Yet they will often stand a comparison with more laboured -compositions. It is curious, that what is done at so short a notice should bear so -few marks of haste. In fact, there is a kind of <em>extempore</em> writing, as well as <em>extempore</em> -speaking. Both are the effect of necessity and habit. If a man has but -words and ideas in his head, he can express himself in a longer or a shorter time -(with a little practice), just as he has a motive for doing it. Where there is the -necessary stimulus for making the effort, what is given from a first impression, -what is struck off at a blow, is in many respects better than what is produced on -reflection, and at several heats.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f15'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r15'>15</a>. One of Mr. Landor’s refinements in spelling.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f16'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r16'>16</a>. ‘Calculating the prices of provisions, and the increase of taxes, the poet-laureate, -in the time of Elizabeth, had about four times as much as at present: so -that Cecil spoke reasonably, Elizabeth royally.’—<em>Note by the Author.</em></p> - -<p class='c010'>We were unwilling to suppress this hint for the increase of the laureate’s salary, -considering how worthily the situation is filled at present; and Mr. Landor’s -recommendation must be peremptory at court. We observe that our author’s -spelling of the word ‘laureate’ is the same as Mr. Southey’s. Is the latter indebted -to the same source for the learned Orientalism of <i><span lang="frp" xml:lang="frp">Tâtar</span></i> for Tartar? What a -significant age we live in! How many extravagant conclusions and false assumptions -lurk under that one orthoepy! He who innovates in things where custom -alone is concerned, must be proof against its suggestions in all other cases; and -when reason and fancy come into play, must indeed be a law to himself.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f17'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r17'>17</a>. We do not see this question in the same point of view as our author. By -his leave (as a mere general and speculative question), the conquerors become -amalgamated with the conquered: barbarism becomes civilized. The claim of -tyrants to rule over slaves is the only principle that is eternal. These are the -only two races, whose interests are never reconciled.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f18'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r18'>18</a>. ‘Ææa, the island of Circe.’</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f19'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r19'>19</a>. ‘The viper was the armorial device of the Visconti, tyrants of Milan.’</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f20'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r20'>20</a>. Lectures on the Dramatic Literature of the Age of Elizabeth.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f21'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r21'>21</a>. ‘The pavilions of the Caliphs of Bagdad were not so deliciously placed, nor -so sumptuously raised, as this retreat of the self-denying brotherhood of the Certosa. -It was founded in the fourteenth century by Charles, son of Robert of Arragon, -King of Naples.’</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f22'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r22'>22</a>. Evelyn, who visited Naples about this time, observes that ‘the country people -are so jovial and so addicted to music, that the very husbandmen almost universally -play on the guitar, singing and accompanying songs in praise of their sweethearts, -and will commonly go to the field with their fiddle. They are merry, witty, and -genial, all of which I attribute to their ayre.’—<cite>Memoirs</cite>, vol. <span class='fss'>I.</span></p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f23'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r23'>23</a>. ‘Among the women were the Signorine Leonora and Caterina, who were -never heard but with rapture’ (says Della Valle, a contemporary of Salvator, in -speaking of the female musicians of this time) ‘particularly the elder who accompanied -herself on the arch lute. I remember their mother in her youth, when she -sailed in her felucca near the grotto of Pausilippo, with her golden harp in her -hand; but in our times these shores were inhabited by syrens, not only beautiful -and tuneful, but virtuous and beneficent.’</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f24'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r24'>24</a>. Burney’s History of Music. Dr. Burney purchased an old music book of -Salvator’s compositions, of his granddaughter, in 1773, and brought it over with -him to England.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f25'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r25'>25</a>. He was thrown into gaol and executed, for his concern in some desperate -enterprise.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f26'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r26'>26</a>. Why so? Was it not said just before, that this painter was deep in the -Neapolitan school? But Lady Morgan will have it so, and we cannot contradict -her.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f27'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r27'>27</a>. We might refer to the back-ground of the St. Peter Martyr. Claude, Gaspar, -and Salvator could not have painted this one back-ground among them! but we -have already remarked, that <em>comparisons are odious</em>.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f28'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r28'>28</a>. The Cardinal Sforza Pallavicini, having been present by his own request at -the recitation of one of these pieces, and being asked his opinion, declared, that -‘Salvator’s poetry was full of splendid passages, but that, as a whole, it was -unequal.’</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f29'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r29'>29</a>. Lady Morgan is always quarrelling with Passeri’s style, because it is not that -of a modern Blue-stocking.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f30'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r30'>30</a>. Hector St. John.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f31'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r31'>31</a>. Verse and poetry has its source in this principle: it is the harmony of the soul -imparted from the strong impulse of pleasure to language and to indifferent things; -as a person hearing music walks in a sustained and measured step over uneven ground.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f32'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r32'>32</a>. It does not appear that the general form was coloured, as Mr. Flaxman seems -to argue.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f33'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r33'>33</a>. ‘It was the refuse, or what was called the <em>whig</em>, of the milk; and was -applied,’ says a Tory writer, ‘to what was still more sour, a Scotch Presbyterian.’</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f34'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r34'>34</a>. Oldmixon’s History of England.</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f35'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r35'>35</a>. Defoe’s ‘Appeal to Honour and Honesty.’</p> -</div> -<div class='footnote' id='f36'> -<p class='c010'><a href='#r36'>36</a>. Oldmixon’s History of England, vol. <span class='fss'>III.</span> p. 36.</p> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c004' /> -</div> -<div class='tnotes x-ebookmaker'> - -<div class='chapter ph2'> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - - <ol class='ol_1 c002'> - <li>Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling. - - </li> - <li>Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. - </li> - </ol> - -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COLLECTED WORKS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT, VOL. 10 (OF 12) ***</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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