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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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