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diff --git a/78449-0.txt b/78449-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1b1a55c --- /dev/null +++ b/78449-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16254 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78449 *** + + + + + LITERARY STUDIES + + VOL. I. + + PRINTED BY + SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE + LONDON + + + + +[Illustration: (signed) Yours, Walter Bagehot. + +Woodburytype Company.] + + + + + LITERARY STUDIES + + BY THE LATE + WALTER BAGEHOT + M.A. AND FELLOW OF UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, LONDON + + _WITH A PREFATORY MEMOIR_ + + EDITED BY + RICHARD HOLT HUTTON + + IN TWO VOLUMES + + VOL. I. + + _FOURTH EDITION_ + + LONDON + LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. + AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET + 1891 + + _All rights reserved_ + + + + +ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FOURTH EDITION. + + +The only changes that have been made in this edition are corrections +of the press, the need of which has been discovered since the third +edition was issued. For a few of these I have been indebted to the very +carefully annotated American edition of Mr. Bagehot’s works brought out +at Hartford, Connecticut, by Mr. Forrest Morgan, of the Travellers’ +Insurance Society. In some cases I think that the American editor has +missed Mr. Bagehot’s meaning, and have not, therefore, accepted his +corrections. + + R. H. H. + +_November 1, 1890._ + + + + +ADVERTISEMENT. + + +Several of the following Essays were published by Mr. BAGEHOT himself in +a volume which appeared in 1858, entitled ‘Estimates of some Englishmen +and Scotchmen’—a volume which has now long been out of print. A good +many others are republished, now for the first time, from _The National +Review_, in which they appeared, while one other,—that on Henry Crabb +Robinson,—is taken, with the kind permission of the Editor, from +_The Fortnightly Review_; two short metaphysical papers are from the +_Contemporary Review_, and three—one biographical and two political—from +the _Economist_. The Prefatory Memoir is also republished, with the +Editor’s permission, from _The Fortnightly Review_. In all cases the date +of the first publication has been appended to each Essay. The Portrait +was taken in photography by Monsieur Adolphe Beau, in 1864. It has been +printed by Messrs. Locke & Whitfield by the Woodbury process. + +_November 1878._ + + + + +CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. + + + PAGE + + PRELIMINARY MEMOIR ix + + ESSAY + + I. THE FIRST EDINBURGH REVIEWERS (1855) 1 + + II. HARTLEY COLERIDGE (1852) 41 + + III. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (1856) 75 + + IV. SHAKESPEARE—THE MAN (1853) 126 + + V. JOHN MILTON (1859) 173 + + VI. LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU (1862) 221 + + VII. WILLIAM COWPER (1855) 255 + + _APPENDIX._ + + I. LETTERS ON THE FRENCH COUP D’ÉTAT OF 1851 (1852) 309 + + II. CÆSARISM AS IT EXISTED IN 1865 361 + + III. MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HON. JAMES WILSON (1860) 367 + + + + +MEMOIR BY THE EDITOR.[1] + + +It is inevitable, I suppose, that the world should judge of a man chiefly +by what it has gained in him, and lost by his death, even though a +very little reflection might sometimes show that the special qualities +which made him so useful to the world implied others of a yet higher +order, in which, to those who knew him well, these more conspicuous +characteristics must have been well-nigh merged. And while, of course, +it has given me great pleasure, as it must have given pleasure to all +Bagehot’s friends, to hear the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s evidently +genuine tribute to his financial sagacity in the Budget speech of 1877, +and Lord Granville’s eloquent acknowledgments of the value of Bagehot’s +political counsels as Editor of the _Economist_, in the speech delivered +at the London University on May 9, 1877, I have sometimes felt somewhat +unreasonably vexed that those who appreciated so well what I may almost +call the smallest part of him, appeared to know so little of the essence +of him,—of the high-spirited, buoyant, subtle, speculative nature in +which the imaginative qualities were even more remarkable than the +judgment, and were, indeed, at the root of all that was strongest in +the judgment,—of the gay and dashing humour which was the life of every +conversation in which he joined,—and of the visionary nature to which the +commonest things often seemed the most marvellous, and the marvellous +things the most intrinsically probable. To those who hear of Bagehot +only as an original political economist and a lucid political thinker, +a curiously false image of him must be suggested. If they are among the +multitude misled by Carlyle, who regard all political economists as ‘the +dreary professors of a dismal science,’ they will probably conjure up +an arid disquisitionist on value and cost of production; and even if +assured of Bagehot’s imaginative power, they may perhaps only understand +by the expression, that capacity for feverish preoccupation which makes +the mention of ‘Peel’s Act’ summon up to the faces of certain fanatics +a hectic glow, or the rumour of paper currencies blanch others with the +pallor of true passion. The truth, however, is that the best qualities +which Bagehot had, both as economist and as politician, were of a kind +which the majority of economists and politicians do not specially +possess. I do not mean that it was in any way an accident that he was +an original thinker in either sphere; far from it. But I do think that +what he brought to political and economical science, he brought in some +sense from _outside_ their normal range,—that the man of business and +the financier in him fell within such sharp and well-defined limits, +that he knew better than most of his class where their special weakness +lay, and where their special functions ended. This, at all events, I +am quite sure of, that so far as his judgment was sounder than other +men’s—and on many subjects it was much sounder—it was so not in spite of, +but in consequence of, the excursive imagination and vivid humour which +are so often accused of betraying otherwise sober minds into dangerous +aberrations. In him both lucidity and caution were directly traceable to +the force of his imagination. + +Walter Bagehot was born at Langport on February 3, 1826. Langport is an +old-fashioned little town in the centre of Somersetshire, which in early +days returned two members to Parliament, until the burgesses petitioned +Edward I. to relieve them of the expense of paying their members,—a +quaint piece of economy of which Bagehot frequently made humorous boast. +The town is still a close corporation, and calls its mayor by the old +Saxon name of Portreeve, and Bagehot himself became its Deputy-Recorder, +as well as a Magistrate for the County. Situated at the point where the +river Parret ceases to be navigable, Langport has always been a centre +of trade; and here in the last century Mr. Samuel Stuckey founded the +Somersetshire Bank, which has since spread over the entire county, and +is now the largest private bank of issue in England. Bagehot was the +only surviving child of Mr. Thomas Watson Bagehot, who was for thirty +years Managing Director and Vice-Chairman of Stuckey’s Banking Company, +and was, as Bagehot was fond of recalling, before he resigned that +position, the oldest joint-stock banker in the United Kingdom. Bagehot +succeeded his father as Vice-Chairman of the Bank, when the latter +retired in his old age. His mother, a Miss Stuckey, was a niece of Mr. +Samuel Stuckey, the founder of the Banking Company, and was a very pretty +and lively woman, who had, by her previous marriage with a son of Dr. +Estlin of Bristol, been brought at an early age into an intellectual +atmosphere by which she had greatly profited. There is no doubt that +Bagehot was greatly indebted to the constant and careful sympathy in +all his studies that both she and his father gave him, as well as to a +very studious disposition, for his future success. Dr. Prichard, the +well-known ethnologist, was her brother-in-law, and her son’s marked +taste for science was first awakened in Dr. Prichard’s house in Park Row, +where Bagehot often spent his half-holidays while he was a schoolboy in +Bristol. To Dr. Prichard’s ‘Races of Man’ may, indeed, be first traced +that keen interest in the speculative side of ethnological research, +the results of which are best seen in Bagehot’s book on ‘Physics and +Politics.’ + +I first met Bagehot at University College, London, when we were neither +of us over seventeen. I was struck by the questions put by a lad with +large dark eyes and florid complexion to the late Professor De Morgan, +who was lecturing to us, as his custom was, on the great difficulties +involved in what we thought we all understood perfectly—such, for +example, as the meaning of 0, of negative quantities, or the grounds of +probable expectation. Bagehot’s questions showed that he had both read +and thought more on these subjects than most of us, and I was eager to +make his acquaintance, which soon ripened into an intimate friendship, in +which there was never any intermission between that time and his death. +Some will regret that Bagehot did not go to Oxford; the reason being that +his father, who was a Unitarian, objected on principle to all doctrinal +tests, and would never have permitted a son of his to go to either of the +older Universities while those tests were required of the undergraduates. +And I am not at all sure that University College, London, was not at that +time a much more awakening place of education for young men than almost +any Oxford college. Bagehot himself, I suspect, thought so. Fifteen years +later he wrote, in his essay on Shelley: ‘A distinguished pupil of the +University of Oxford once observed to us, “The use of the University +of Oxford is that no one can over-read himself there. The appetite +for knowledge is repressed.”’ And whatever may have been defective in +University College, London—and no doubt much was defective—nothing of +the kind could have been said of it when we were students there. Indeed, +in those years London was a place with plenty of intellectual stimulus +in it for young men, while in University College itself there was quite +enough vivacious and original teaching to make that stimulus available +to the full. It is sometimes said that it needs the quiet of a country +town remote from the capital, to foster the love of genuine study in +young men. But of this, at least, I am sure, that Gower Street, and +Oxford Street, and the New Road, and the dreary chain of squares from +Euston to Bloomsbury, were the scenes of discussions as eager and as +abstract as ever were the sedate cloisters or the flowery river-meadows +of Cambridge or Oxford. Once, I remember, in the vehemence of our +argument as to whether the so-called logical principle of identity (A is +A) were entitled to rank as ‘a law of thought’ or only as a postulate of +language, Bagehot and I wandered up and down Regent Street for something +like two hours in the vain attempt to find Oxford Street:— + + ‘And yet what days were those, Parmenides, + When we were young, when we could number friends, + In all the Italian cities like ourselves, + When with elated hearts we joined your train, + Ye sun-born virgins, on the road of truth! + Then we could still enjoy, then neither thought + Nor outward things were closed and dead to us, + But we received the shock of mighty thoughts + On single minds with a pure natural joy; + And if the sacred load oppressed our brain, + We had the power to feel the pressure eased, + The brow unbound, the thoughts flow free again + In the delightful commerce of the world.’ + +Bagehot has himself described, evidently from his own experience, the +kind of life we lived in those days, in an article on Oxford Reform: ‘So, +too, in youth, the real plastic energy is not in tutors, or lectures, or +in books “got up,” but in Wordsworth and Shelley, in the books that all +read because all like; in what all talk of because all are interested; +in the argumentative walk or disputatious lounge; in the impact of +young thought upon young thought, of fresh thought on fresh thought, of +hot thought on hot thought; in mirth and refutation, in ridicule and +laughter; for these are the free play of the natural mind, and these +cannot be got without a college.’[2] + +The late Professor Sewell, when asked to give his pupils some clear +conception of the old Greek Sophists, is said to have replied that he +could not do this better than by referring them to the Professors of +University College, London. I do not think there was much force in the +sarcasm, for though Professor T. Hewitt Key, whose restless and ingenious +mind led him many a wild dance after etymological Will-of-the-wisps—I +remember, for instance, his cheerfully accepting the suggestion that +‘better’ and ‘bad’ (_melior_ and _malus_) came from the same root, and +accounting for it by the probable disposition of hostile tribes to call +everything bad which their enemies called good, and everything good which +their enemies called bad—may have had in him much of the brilliance, +and something also, perhaps, of the flightiness, of the old sophist, +it would be hard to imagine men more severe in exposing pretentious +conceits and dispelling dreams of theoretic omniscience, than Professors +De Morgan, Malden, and Long. De Morgan, who at that time was in the +midst of his controversy on formal logic with Sir William Hamilton, was, +indeed, characterised by the great Edinburgh metaphysician as ‘profound +in mathematics, curious in logic, but wholly deficient in architectonic +power;’ yet, for all that, his lectures on the Theory of Limits were a +far better logical discipline for young men than Sir William Hamilton’s +on the Law of the Unconditioned or the Quantification of the Predicate. +Professor Malden contrived to imbue us with a love of that fastidious +taste and that exquisite nicety in treating questions of scholarship, +which has, perhaps, been more needed and less cultivated in Gower Street +than any other of the higher elements of a college education; while +Professor Long’s caustic irony, accurate and almost ostentatiously dry +learning, and profoundly stoical temperament, were as antithetic to the +temper of the sophist as human qualities could possibly be. + +The time of our college life was pretty nearly contemporaneous with +the life of the Anti-Corn-Law League and the great agitation in favour +of Free-trade. To us this was useful rather from the general impulse +it gave to political discussion, and the literary curiosity it excited +in us as to the secret of true eloquence, than because it anticipated +in any considerable degree the later acquired taste for economical +science. Bagehot and I seldom missed an opportunity of hearing together +the matchless practical disquisitions of Mr. Cobden—lucid and homely, +yet glowing with intense conviction,—the profound passion and careless, +though artistic, scorn of Mr. Bright, and the artificial and elaborately +ornate periods, and witty, though somewhat _ad captandum_, epigrams of +Mr. W. J. Fox (afterwards M.P. for Oldham). Indeed, we scoured London +together to hear any kind of oratory that had gained a reputation of +its own, and compared all we heard with the declamation of Burke and +the rhetoric of Macaulay, many of whose later essays came out and +were eagerly discussed by us while we were together at college. In +our conversations on these essays, I remember that I always bitterly +attacked, while Bagehot moderately defended, the glorification of +compromise which marks all Macaulay’s writings. Even in early youth +Bagehot had much of that ‘animated moderation’ which he praises so highly +in his latest work. He was a voracious reader, especially of history, and +had a far truer appreciation of historical conditions than most young +thinkers; indeed, the broad historical sense which characterised him +from first to last, made him more alive than ordinary students to the +urgency of circumstance, and far less disposed to indulge in abstract +moral criticism from a modern point of view. On theology, as on all other +subjects, Bagehot was at this time more Conservative than myself, he +sharing his mother’s orthodoxy, and I at that time accepting heartily the +Unitarianism of my own people. Theology was, however, I think, the only +subject on which, in later life, we, to some degree at least, exchanged +places, though he never at any time, however doubtful he may have become +on some of the cardinal issues of historical Christianity, accepted the +Unitarian position. Indeed, within the last two or three years of his +life, he spoke on one occasion of the Trinitarian doctrine as probably +the best account which human reason could render of the mystery of the +self-existent mind. + +In those early days Bagehot’s manner was often supercilious. We used +to attack him for his intellectual arrogance—his ὕβρις we called it, +in our college slang—a quality which I believe was not really in him, +though he had then much of its external appearance. Nevertheless his +genuine contempt for what was intellectually feeble was not accompanied +by an even adequate appreciation of his own powers. At college, however, +his satirical ‘Hear, hear,’ was a formidable sound in the debating +society, and one which took the heart out of many a younger speaker; +and the ironical ‘How much?’ with which in conversation he would meet +an over-eloquent expression, was always of a nature to reduce a man, as +the mathematical phrase goes, to his ‘lowest terms.’ In maturer life he +became much gentler and mellower, and often even delicately considerate +for others; but his inner scorn for ineffectual thought remained, in +some degree, though it was very reticently expressed, to the last. For +instance, I remember his attacking me for my mildness in criticising a +book which, though it professed to rest on a basis of clear thought, +really missed all its points. ‘There is a pale, whitey-brown substance,’ +he wrote to me, ‘in the man’s books, which people who don’t think take +for thought, but it isn’t;’ and he upbraided me much for not saying +plainly that the man was a muff. In his youth this scorn for anything +like the vain beating of the wings in the attempt to think, was at +its maximum. It was increased, I think, by that which was one of his +greatest qualities, his remarkable ‘detachment’ of mind—in other words, +his comparative inaccessibility to the contagion of blind sympathy. Most +men, more or less unconsciously, shrink from even _thinking_ what they +feel to be out of sympathy with the feelings of their neighbours, unless +under some strong incentive to do so; and in this way the sources of much +true and important criticism are dried up, through the mere diffusion +and ascendancy of conventional but sincere habits of social judgment. +And no doubt for the greater number of us this is much the best. We +are worth more for the purpose of constituting and strengthening the +cohesive power of the social bond, than we should ever be worth for the +purpose of criticising feebly—and with little effect, perhaps, except the +disorganising effect of seeming ill-nature—the various incompetences and +miscarriages of our neighbours’ intelligence. But Bagehot’s intellect +was always far too powerful and original to render him available for the +function of mere social cement; and full as he was of genuine kindness +and hearty personal affections, he certainly had not in any high degree +that sensitive instinct as to what others would feel, which so often +shapes even the thoughts of men, and still oftener their speech, into +mild and complaisant, but unmeaning and unfruitful, forms. + +Thus it has been said that in his very amusing article on Crabb Robinson, +published in the _Fortnightly Review_ for August 1869, he was more than a +little rough in his delineation of that quaint old friend of our earlier +days. And certainly there is something of the naturalist’s realistic +manner of describing the habits of a new species, in the paper, though +there is not a grain of malice or even depreciatory bias in it, and +though there is a very sincere regard manifested throughout. But that +essay will illustrate admirably what I mean by saying that Bagehot’s +detachment of mind, and the deficiency in him of any aptitude for playing +the part of mere social cement, tended to give the impression of an +intellectual arrogance which—certainly in the sense of self-esteem or +self-assertion—did not in the least belong to him. In the essay I have +just mentioned he describes how Crabb Robinson, when he gave his somewhat +famous breakfast-parties, used to forget to make the tea, then lost his +keys, then told a long story about a bust of Wieland during the extreme +agony of his guests’ appetites, and finally, perhaps, withheld the cup +of tea he had at last poured out, while he regaled them with a poem of +Wordsworth’s or a diatribe against Hazlitt. And Bagehot adds, ‘The more +astute of his guests used to breakfast before they came, and then there +was much interest in seeing a steady literary man, who did not understand +the region, in agonies at having to hear three stories before he got +his tea, one again between his milk and his sugar, another between his +butter and his toast, and additional zest in making a stealthy inquiry +that was sure to intercept the coming delicacies by bringing on Schiller +and Goethe.’ The only ‘astute’ person referred to was, I imagine, Bagehot +himself, who confessed to me, much to my amusement, that this was always +his own precaution before one of Crabb Robinson’s breakfasts. I doubt +if anybody else ever thought of it. It was very characteristic in him +that he should have not only noticed—for that, of course, anyone might +do—this weak element in Crabb Robinson’s breakfasts, but should have +kept it so distinctly before his mind as to make it the centre, as it +were, of a policy, and the opportunity of a mischievous stratagem to +try the patience of others. It showed how much of the social naturalist +there was in him. If any race of animals could understand a naturalist’s +account of their ways and habits, and of the devices he adopted to get +those ways and habits more amusingly or instructively displayed before +him, no doubt they would think that he was a cynic; and it was this +intellectual detachment, as of a social naturalist, from the society in +which he moved, which made Bagehot’s remarks often seem somewhat harsh, +when, in fact, they were animated not only by no suspicion of malice, but +by the most cordial and earnest friendliness. Owing to this separateness +of mind, he described more strongly and distinctly traits which, when +delineated by a friend, we expect to find painted in the softened manner +of one who is half disposed to imitate or adopt them. + +Yet, though I have used the word ‘naturalist’ to denote the keen and +solitary observation with which Bagehot watched society, no word +describes him worse, if we attribute to it any of that coldness and +stillness of curiosity which we are apt to associate with scientific +vigilance. Especially in his youth, buoyancy, vivacity, velocity of +thought, were of the essence of the impression which he made. He had +high spirits and great capacities for enjoyment, great sympathies indeed +with the old English Cavalier. In his Essay on Macaulay he paints that +character with profound sympathy:— + + ‘What historian, indeed,’ he says, ‘has ever estimated + the Cavalier character? There is Clarendon, the grave, + rhetorical, decorous, lawyer—piling words, congealing + arguments—very stately, a little grim. There is Hume, the + Scotch metaphysician, who has made out the best case for + such people as never were, for a Charles who never died, for + a Strafford who could never have been attainted, a saving, + calculating North-countryman, fat, impassive, who lived + on eightpence a day. What have these people to do with an + enjoying English gentleman? Talk of the ways of spreading a + wholesome Conservatism throughout the country ... as far as + communicating and establishing your creed is concerned, try a + little pleasure. The way to keep up old customs is to enjoy + old customs; the way to be satisfied with the present state of + things, is to enjoy that state of things. Over the “Cavalier” + mind this world passes with a thrill of delight; there is an + exultation in a daily event, zest in the “regular thing,” joy + at an old feast.’[3] + +And that aptly represents himself. Such arrogance as he seemed to have +in early life was the arrogance as much of enjoyment as of detachment +of mind—the _insouciance_ of the old Cavalier as much at least as the +calm of a mind not accessible to the contagion of social feelings. He +always talked, in youth, of his spirits as inconveniently high; and +once wrote to me that he did not think they were quite as ‘boisterous’ +as they had been, and that his fellow-creatures were not sorry for the +abatement; nevertheless, he added, ‘I am quite fat, gross, and ruddy.’ +He was, indeed, excessively fond of hunting, vaulting, and almost all +muscular effort, so that his life would be wholly misconceived by anyone +who, hearing of his ‘detachment’ of thought, should picture his mind as +a vigilantly observant, far-away intelligence, such as Hawthorne’s, for +example. He liked to be in the thick of the _mêlée_ when talk grew warm, +though he was never so absorbed in it as not to keep his mind cool. + +As I said, Bagehot was a Somersetshire man, with all the richness +of nature and love for the external glow of life which the most +characteristic counties of the South-west of England contrive to give to +their most characteristic sons:— + + ‘This north-west corner of Spain,’ he wrote once to a newspaper + from the Pyrenees, ‘is the only place out of England where I + should like to live. It is a sort of better Devonshire; the + coast is of the same kind, the sun is more brilliant, the sea + is more brilliant, and there are mountains in the background. + I have seen some more beautiful places and many grander, but I + should not like to live in them. As Mr. Emerson puts it, “I do + not want to go to heaven before my time.” My English nature by + early use and long habit is tied to a certain kind of scenery, + soon feels the want of it, and is apt to be alarmed as well as + pleased at perpetual snow and all sorts of similar beauties. + But here, about San Sebastian, you have the best England can + give you (at least if you hold, as I do, that Devonshire is + the finest of our counties), and the charm, the ineffable, + indescribable charm of the South too. Probably the sun has some + secret effect on the nervous system that makes one inclined to + be pleased, but the golden light lies upon everything, and one + fancies that one is charmed only by the outward loveliness.’ + +The vivacity and warm colouring of the landscapes of the South of England +certainly had their full share in moulding his tastes, and possibly even +his style. + +Bagehot took the mathematical scholarship with his Bachelor’s degree in +the University of London in 1846, and the gold medal in Intellectual and +Moral Philosophy with his Master’s degree in 1848, in reading for which +he mastered for the first time those principles of political economy +which were to receive so much illustration from his genius in later +years. But at this time philosophy, poetry, and theology had, I think, +a much greater share of his attention than any narrow and more sharply +defined science. Shakespeare, Keats, Shelley and Wordsworth, Coleridge, +Martineau and John Henry Newman, all in their way exerted a great +influence over his mind, and divided, not unequally, with the authors +whom he was bound to study—that is, the Greek philosophers, together +with Hume, Kant, J. S. Mill, and Sir William Hamilton—the time at his +disposal. I have no doubt that for seven or eight years of his life the +Roman Catholic Church had a great fascination for his imagination, though +I do not think that he was ever at all near conversion. He was intimate +with all Dr. Newman’s writings. And of these the Oxford sermons, and the +poems in the _Lyra Apostolica_ afterwards separately published—partly, +I believe, on account of the high estimate of them which Bagehot had +himself expressed—were always his special favourites. The little poetry +he wrote—and it is evident that he never had the kind of instinct for, +or command of, language which is the first condition of genuine poetic +genius—seems to me to have been obviously written under the spell which +Dr. Newman’s own few but finely-chiselled poems had cast upon him. If +I give one specimen of Bagehot’s poems, it is not that I think it in +any way an adequate expression of his powers, but for a very different +reason, because it will show those who have inferred from his other +writings that his mind never deeply concerned itself with religion, how +great is their mistake. Nor is there any real poverty of resource in +these lines, except perhaps in the awkward mechanism of some of them. +They were probably written when he was twenty-three or twenty-four. + + ‘TO THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH. + + ‘“Casta inceste.”—_Lucretius._ + + ‘Thy lamp of faith is brightly trimmed, + Thy eager eye is not yet dimmed, + Thy stalwart step is yet unstayed, + Thy words are well obeyed. + + ‘Thy proud voice vaunts of strength from heaven, + Thy proud foes carp, “By hell’s art given:” + No Titan thou of earth-born bands, + Strange Church of hundred hands. + + ‘Nursed without knowledge, born of night, + With hand of power and thoughts of light, + As Britain seas, far reachingly + O’er-rul’st thou history. + + ‘Wild as La Pucelle in her hour, + O’er prostrate realms with awe-girt power + Thou marchest stedfast on thy path + Through wonder, love, and wrath. + + ‘And will thy end be such as hers, + O’erpowered by earthly mail-clad powers, + Condemned for cruel, magic art, + Though awful, bold of heart? + + ‘Through thorn-clad Time’s unending waste + With ardent step alone thou strayest, + As Jewish scape-goats tracked the wild, + Unholy, consecrate, defiled. + + ‘Use not thy truth in manner rude + To rule for gain the multitude, + Or thou wilt see that truth depart, + To seek some holier heart; + + ‘Then thou wilt watch thy errors lorn, + O’erspread by shame, o’erswept by scorn, + In lonely want without hope’s smile, + As Tyre her weed-clad Isle. + + ‘Like once thy chief, thou bear’st Christ’s name; + Like him thou hast denied his shame, + Bold, eager, skilful, confident, + Oh, now like him repent!’ + +That has certainly no sign of the hand of the master in it, for the +language is not moulded and vivified by the thought, but the thought +itself is fine. And there is still better evidence than these lines +would afford, of the fascination which the Roman Catholic Church had for +Bagehot. A year or two later, in the letters on the _coup d’état_, to +which I shall soon have to refer, there occurs the following passage. +(He is trying to explain how the cleverness, the moral restlessness, +and intellectual impatience of the French, all tend to unfit them for a +genuine Parliamentary government):— + + ‘I do not know that I can exhibit the way these qualities of + the French character operate on their opinions better than by + telling you how the Roman Catholic Church deals with them. + I have rather attended to it since I came here. It gives + sermons almost an interest, their being in French, and to those + curious in intellectual matters, it is worth observing. In + other times, and even now in out-of-the-way Spain, I suppose + it may be true that the Catholic Church has been opposed to + inquiry and reasoning. But it is not so now and here. Loudly + from the pens of a hundred writers, from the tongues of a + thousand pulpits, in every note of thrilling scorn and exulting + derision, she proclaims the contrary. Be she Christ’s workman + or Antichrist’s, she knows her work too well. “Reason, reason, + reason!” exclaims she to the philosophers of this world. “Put + in practice what you teach if you would have others believe + it. Be consistent. Do not prate to us of private judgment, + when you are but yourselves repeating what you heard in the + nursery, ill-mumbled remnants of a Catholic tradition. No; + exemplify what you command; inquire and make search. Seek, + and we warn you that ye will never find, yet do as ye will. + Shut yourselves up in a room, make your mind a blank, go + down (as you speak) into the depth of your consciousness, + scrutinise the mental structure, inquire for the elements of + belief,—spend years, your best years, in the occupation,—and + at length, when your eyes are dim, and your brain hot, and + your hands unsteady, then reckon what you have gained. See + if you cannot count on your fingers the certainties you have + reached; reflect which of them you doubted yesterday, which + you may disbelieve to-morrow; or rather, make haste—assume at + random some essential _credenda_,—write down your inevitable + postulates, enumerate your necessary axioms, toil on, toil + on, spin your spider’s web, adore your own soul, or if ye + prefer it, choose some German nostrum; try an intellectual + intuition, or the pure reason, or the intelligible ideas, or + the mesmeric clairvoyance, and when so, or somehow, you have + attained your results, try them on mankind. Don’t go out into + the byeways and hedges; it is unnecessary. Ring a bell, call in + the servants, give them a course of lectures, cite Aristotle, + review Descartes, panegyrise Plato, and see if the bonne will + understand you. It is you that say _Vox populi, vox Dei_. You + see the people reject you. Or, suppose you succeed,—what you + call succeeding. Your books are read; for three weeks or even + a season you are the idol of the _salons_. Your hard words are + on the lips of women; then a change comes—a new actress appears + at the Théâtre Français or the Opéra; her charms eclipse your + theories; or a great catastrophe occurs; political liberty, it + is said, is annihilated. _Il faut se faire mouchard_, is the + observation of scoffers. Anyhow you are forgotten. Fifty years + may be the gestation of a philosophy, not three its life. + Before long, before you go to your grave, your six disciples + leave you for some newer master, or to set up for themselves. + The poorest priest in the remotest region of the Basses-Alpes + has more power over men’s souls than human cultivation. His + ill-mouthed masses move women’s souls—can you? Ye scoff at + Jupiter, yet he at least was believed in, you never have been. + Idol for idol, the _de_throned is better than the _un_throned. + No, if you would reason, if you would teach, if you would + speculate,—come to us. We have our premises ready; years + upon years before you were born, intellects whom the best of + you delight to magnify, toiled to systematise the creed of + ages. Years upon years after you are dead, better heads than + yours will find new matter there to define, to divide, to + arrange. Consider the hundred volumes of Aquinas. Which of + you desire a higher life than that;—to deduce, to subtilise, + discriminate, systematise, and decide the highest truth, and + to be believed? Yet such was his luck, his enjoyment. He was + what you would be. No, no, _credite, credite_. Ours is the + life of speculation. The cloister is the home for the student. + Philosophy is stationary, Catholicism progressive. _You_ call. + _We_ are heard,” &c. So speaks each preacher, according to his + ability. And when the dust and noise of present controversies + have passed away, and, in the interior of the night, some grave + historian writes out the tale of half-forgotten times, let him + not forget to observe that, profoundly as the mediæval Church + subdued the superstitious cravings of a painful and barbarous + age, in after-years she dealt more discerningly still with the + feverish excitement, the feeble vanities, and the dogmatic + impatience of an over-intellectual generation.’[4] + +It is obvious, I think, both from the poem, and from these reflections, +that what attracted Bagehot in the Church of Rome was the historical +prestige and social authority which she had accumulated in believing and +uncritical ages for use in the unbelieving and critical age in which we +live,—while what he condemned and dreaded in her was her tendency to use +her power over the multitude for purposes of a low ambition. + +And as I am on this subject, this will be, I think, the best opportunity +I shall have to say what I have got to say of Bagehot’s later religious +belief, without returning to it when I have to deal with a period in +which the greatest part of his spare intellectual energy was given to +other subjects. I do not think that the religious affections were very +strong in Bagehot’s mind, but the primitive religious instincts certainly +were. From childhood he was what he certainly remained to the last, in +spite of the rather antagonistic influence of the able scientific group +of men from whom he learned so much—a thorough transcendentalist, by +which I mean one who could never doubt that there was a real foundation +of the universe distinct from the outward show of its superficial +qualities, and that the substance is never exhaustively expressed in +these qualities. He often repeats in his essays Shelley’s fine line, +‘Lift not the painted veil which those who live call life,’ and the +essence at least of the idea in it haunted him from his very childhood. +In the essay on ‘Hartley Coleridge’—perhaps the most perfect in style +of any of his writings—he describes most powerfully, and evidently in +great measure from his own experience, the mysterious confusion between +appearances and realities which so bewildered little Hartley,—the +difficulty that he complained of in distinguishing between the various +Hartleys,—‘picture Hartley,’ ‘shadow Hartley,’ and between Hartley the +subject and Hartley the object, the enigmatic blending of which last +two Hartleys the child expressed by catching hold of his own arm, and +then calling himself the ‘catch-me-fast Hartley.’ And in dilating on +this bewildering experience of the child’s, Bagehot borrows from his own +recollections:— + + ‘All children have a world of their own, as distinct from + that of the grown people who gravitate around them, as the + dreams of girlhood from our prosaic life, or the ideas of the + kitten that plays with the falling leaves, from those of her + carnivorous mother that catches mice, and is sedulous in her + domestic duties. But generally about this interior existence + children are dumb. You have warlike ideas, but you cannot say + to a sinewy relative, “My dear aunt, I wonder when the big + bush in the garden will begin to walk about; I’m sure it’s a + Crusader, and I was cutting it all the day with my steel sword. + But what do you think, aunt? for I’m puzzled about its legs, + because you see, aunt, it has only _one_ stalk—and besides, + aunt, the leaves.” You cannot remark this in secular life, but + you hack at the infelicitous bush till you do not wholly reject + the idea that your small garden is Palestine, and yourself the + most adventurous of knights.’[5] + +They have a tradition in the family that this is but a fragment from +Bagehot’s own imaginative childhood, and certainly this visionary +element in him was very vivid to the last. However, the transcendental +or intellectual basis of religious belief was soon strengthened in him, +as readers of his remarkable paper on Bishop Butler will easily see, by +those moral and retributive instincts which warn us of the meaning and +consequences of guilt:— + + ‘The moral principle,’ he wrote in that essay, ‘whatever may + be said to the contrary by complacent thinkers, is really + and to most men a principle of fear.... Conscience is the + condemnation of ourselves; we expect a penalty. As the Greek + proverb teaches, “Where there is shame, there is fear.”... How + to be free from this is the question. How to get loose from + this—how to be rid of the secret tie which binds the strong man + and cramps his pride, and makes him angry at the beauty of the + universe, which will not let him go forth like a great animal, + like the king of the forest, in the glory of his might, but + which restrains him with an inner fear and a secret foreboding + that if he do but exalt himself he shall be abased, if he do + but set forth his own dignity he will offend ONE who will + deprive him of it. This, as has often been pointed out, is the + source of the bloody rites of heathendom.’[6] + +And then, after a powerful passage, in which he describes the sacrificial +superstitions of men like Achilles, he returns, with a flash of his own +peculiar humour, to Bishop Butler, thus:— + + ‘Of course it is not this kind of fanaticism that we impute + to a prelate of the English Church; human sacrifices are not + respectable, and Achilles was not rector of Stanhope. But + though the costume and circumstances of life change, the human + heart does not; its feelings remain. The same anxiety, the same + consciousness of personal sin, which lead, in barbarous times, + to what has been described, show themselves in civilised life + as well. In this quieter period, their great manifestation is + scrupulosity;’[7] + +which he goes on to describe as a sort of inexhaustible anxiety for +perfect compliance with the minutest positive commands which may be +made the condition of forgiveness for the innumerable lapses of moral +obligation. I am not criticising the paper, or I should point out that +Bagehot failed in it to draw out the distinction between the primitive +moral instinct and the corrupt superstition into which it runs; but I +believe that he recognised the weight of this moral testimony of the +conscience to a divine Judge, as well as the transcendental testimony of +the intellect to an eternal substance of things, to the end of his life. +And certainly in the reality of human free-will as the condition of all +genuine moral life, he firmly believed. In his ‘Physics and Politics’—the +subtle and original essay upon which, in conjunction with the essay on +the ‘English Constitution,’ Bagehot’s reputation as a European thinker +chiefly rests—he repeatedly guards himself (for instance, pp. 9, 10) +against being supposed to think that in accepting the principle of +evolution, he has accepted anything inconsistent either with spiritual +creation, or with the free will of man. On the latter point he adds, + + ‘No doubt the modern doctrine of the “conservation of force,” + if applied to decision, is inconsistent with free-will; if you + hold that force is “never lost or gained,” you cannot hold that + there is a real gain, a sort of new creation of it in free + volition. But I have nothing to do here with the universal + “conservation of force.” The conception of the nervous organs + as stores of will-made power, does not raise or need so vast a + discussion.’[8] + +And in the same book he repeatedly uses the expression ‘Providence,’ +evidently in its natural meaning, to express the ultimate force at work +behind the march of ‘evolution.’ Indeed, in conversation with me on this +subject, he often said how much higher a conception of the creative mind, +the new Darwinian ideas seemed to him to have introduced, as compared +with those contained in what is called the argument from contrivance and +design. On the subject of personal immortality, too, I do not think that +Bagehot ever wavered. He often spoke, and even wrote, of ‘that vague +sense of eternal continuity which is always about the mind, and which no +one could bear to lose,’ and described it as being much more important to +us than it even appears to be, important as that is; for, he said, ‘when +we think we are thinking of the past, we are only thinking of a future +that is to be like it.’ But with the exception of these cardinal points, +I could hardly say how much Bagehot’s mind was or was not affected by +the great speculative controversies of later years. Certainly he became +much more doubtful concerning the force of the historical evidence of +Christianity than I ever was, and rejected, I think, entirely, though +on what amount of personal study he had founded his opinion I do not +know, the Apostolic origin of the fourth Gospel. Possibly his mind may +have been latterly in suspense as to miracle altogether, though I am +pretty sure that he had not come to a negative conclusion. He belonged, +in common with myself, during the last years of his life, to a society +in which these fundamental questions were often discussed; but he seldom +spoke in it, and told me very shortly before his death that he shrank +from such discussions on religious points, feeling that, in debates of +this kind, they were not and could not be treated with anything like +thoroughness. On the whole, I think, the cardinal article of his faith +would be adequately represented even in the latest period of his life by +the following passage in his essay on Bishop Butler:— + + ‘In every step of religious argument we require the assumption, + the belief, the faith, if the word is better, in an absolutely + _perfect_ Being; in and by whom we are, who is omnipotent + as well as most holy; who moves on the face of the whole + world, and ruleth all things by the word of his power. If we + grant this, the difficulty of the opposition between what + is here called the natural and the supernatural religion is + removed; and without granting it, that difficulty is perhaps + insuperable. It follows from the very idea and definition of + an infinitely perfect Being, that he is within us as well as + without us,—ruling the clouds of the air and the fishes of + the sea, as well as the fears and thoughts of men; smiling + through the smile of nature as well as warning with the pain + of conscience,—“sine qualitate, bonum; sine quantitate, + magnum; sine indigentiâ, creatorem; sine situ, præsidentem; + sine habitu, omnia continentem; sine loco, ubique totum; sine + tempore, sempiternum; sine ullâ sui mutatione, mutabilia + facientem, nihilque patientem.” If we assume this, life is + simple; without this, all is dark.’[9] + +Evidently, then, though Bagehot held that the doctrine of evolution by +natural selection gave a higher conception of the Creator than the old +doctrine of mechanical design, he never took any materialistic view of +evolution. One of his early essays, written while at college, on some of +the many points of the Kantian philosophy which he then loved to discuss, +concluded with a remarkable sentence, which would probably have fairly +expressed, even at the close of his life, his profound belief in God, +and his partial sympathy with the agnostic view that we are, in great +measure, incapable of apprehending, more than very dimly, His mind or +purposes:—‘Gazing after the infinite essence, we are like men watching +through the drifting clouds for a glimpse of the true heavens on a drear +November day; layer after layer passes from our view, but still the same +immovable grey rack remains.’ + +After Bagehot had taken his Master’s degree, and while he was still +reading Law in London, and hesitating between the Bar and the family +bank, there came as Principal to University Hall (which is a hall of +residence in connection with University College, London, established by +the Presbyterians and Unitarians after the passing of the Dissenters’ +Chapel Act), the man who had, I think, a greater intellectual fascination +for Bagehot than any of his contemporaries—Arthur Hugh Clough, Fellow +of Oriel College, Oxford, and author of various poems of great genius, +more or less familiar to the public, though Clough is perhaps better +known as the subject of the exquisite poem written on his death in +1861, by his friend Matthew Arnold—the poem to which he gave the name +of ‘Thyrsis’—than by even the most popular of his own. Bagehot had +subscribed for the erection of University Hall, and took an active +part at one time on its council. Thus he saw a good deal of Clough, +and did what he could to mediate between that enigma to Presbyterian +parents—a college-head who held himself serenely neutral on almost +all moral and educational subjects interesting to parents and pupils, +except the observance of disciplinary rules—and the managing body who +bewildered him and were by him bewildered. I don’t think either Bagehot +or Clough’s other friends were very successful in their mediation, but +he at least gained in Clough a cordial friend, and a theme of profound +intellectual and moral interest to himself which lasted him his life, and +never failed to draw him into animated discussion long after Clough’s +own premature death; and I think I can trace the effect which some of +Clough’s writings had on Bagehot’s mind to the very end of his career. +There were some points of likeness between Bagehot and Clough, but many +more of difference. Both had the capacity for boyish spirits in them, +and the florid colour which usually accompanies a good deal of animal +vigour; both were reserved men, with a great dislike of anything like +the appearance of false sentiment, and both were passionate admirers of +Wordsworth’s poetry; but Clough was slightly lymphatic, with a great +tendency to unexpressed and unacknowledged discouragement, and to the +paralysis of silent embarrassment when suffering from such feelings, +while Bagehot was keen, and very quickly evacuated embarrassing +positions, and never returned to them. When however, Clough was happy +and at ease, there was a calm and silent radiance in his face, and his +head was set with a kind of stateliness on his shoulders, that gave him +almost an Olympian air; but this would sometimes vanish in a moment into +an embarrassed taciturnity that was quite uncouth. One of his friends +declares that the man who was said to be ‘a cross between a schoolboy +and a bishop,’ must have been like Clough. There was in Clough, too, a +large Chaucerian simplicity and a flavour of homeliness, so that now +and then, when the light shone into his eyes, there was something, in +spite of the air of fine scholarship and culture, which reminded one of +the best likenesses of Burns. It was of Clough, I believe, that Emerson +was thinking (though, knowing Clough intimately as he did, he was of +course speaking mainly in joke) when he described the Oxford of that day +thus:—‘“Ah,” says my languid Oxford gentleman, “nothing new, and nothing +true, and no matter.”’ No saying could misrepresent Clough’s really +buoyant and simple character more completely than that; but doubtless +many of his sayings and writings, treating, as they did, most of the +greater problems of life as insoluble, and enjoining a self-possessed +composure under the discovery of their insolubility, conveyed an +impression very much like this to men who came only occasionally in +contact with him. Bagehot, in his article on Crabb Robinson, says that +the latter, who in those days seldom remembered names, always described +Clough as ‘that admirable and accomplished man—you know whom I mean—the +one who never says anything.’ And certainly Clough was often taciturn to +the last degree, or if he opened his lips, delighted to open them only +to scatter confusion by discouraging, in words at least, all that was +then called earnestness—as, for example, by asking, ‘Was it ordained that +twice two should make four, simply for the intent that boys and girls +should be cut to the heart that they do not make five? Be content; when +the veil is raised, perhaps they will make five! Who knows?’[10] + +Clough’s chief fascination for Bagehot was, I think, that he had as +a poet in some measure rediscovered, at all events realised, as few +ever realised before, the enormous difficulty of finding truth—a +difficulty which he somewhat paradoxically held to be enhanced rather +than diminished by the intensity of the truest modern passion for it. +The stronger the desire, he teaches, the greater is the danger of +illegitimately satisfying that desire by persuading ourselves that what +we _wish_ to believe, is true, and the greater the danger of ignoring the +actual confusions of human things:— + + ‘Rules baffle instincts, instincts rules, + Wise men are bad, and good are fools, + Facts evil, wishes vain appear, + We cannot go, why are we here? + + ‘Oh, may we, for assurance’ sake, + Some arbitrary judgment take, + And wilfully pronounce it clear, + For this or that ’tis, we are here? + + ‘Or is it right, and will it do + To pace the sad confusion through, + And say, it does not yet appear + What we shall be—what we are here?’ + +This warning to withhold judgment and not cheat ourselves into beliefs +which our own imperious desire to believe had alone engendered, is given +with every variety of tone and modulation, and couched in all sorts of +different forms of fancy and apologue, throughout Clough’s poems. He +insists on ‘the _ruinous_ force of the will’ to persuade us of illusions +which please us; of the tendency of practical life to give us beliefs +which suit that practical life, but are none the truer for that; and is +never weary of warning us that a firm belief in a falsity can be easily +generated:— + + ‘_Action will furnish belief_,—but will that belief be the true one? + This is the point, you know. However, it doesn’t much matter. + What one wants, I suppose, is to predetermine the action, + So as to make it entail, not a chance belief, but the true one.’ + +This practical preaching, which Clough urges in season and out of season, +met an answering chord in Bagehot’s mind, not so much in relation to +religious belief as in relation to the over-haste and over-eagerness of +human conduct, and I can trace the effect of it in all his writings, +political and otherwise, to the end of his life. Indeed, it affected him +much more in later days than in the years immediately following his first +friendship with Clough. With all his boyish dash, there was something +in Bagehot even in youth which dreaded precipitancy, and not only +precipitancy itself, but those moral situations tending to precipitancy +which men who have no minds of their own to make up, so often court. In +later life he pleased himself by insisting that, on Darwin’s principle, +civilised men, with all the complex problems of modern life to puzzle +them, suspend their judgment so little, and are so eager for action, +only because they have inherited from the earlier, simpler, and more +violent ages, an excessive predisposition to action unsuited to our epoch +and dangerous to our future development. But it was Clough, I think, +who first stirred in Bagehot’s mind this great dread of ‘the ruinous +force of the will,’ a phrase he was never weary of quoting, and which +might almost be taken as the motto of his ‘Physics and Politics,’ the +great conclusion of which is that in the ‘age of discussion,’ grand +policies and high-handed diplomacy and sensational legislation of all +kinds will become rarer and rarer, because discussion will point out all +the difficulties of such policies in relation to a state of existence +so complex as our own, and will in this way tend to repress the excess +of practical energy handed down to us by ancestors to whom life was a +sharper, simpler, and more perilous affair. + +But the time for Bagehot’s full adoption of the suspensive principle in +public affairs was not yet. In 1851 he went to Paris, shortly before +the _coup d’état_. And while all England was assailing Louis Napoleon +(justly enough, as I think) for his perfidy, and his impatience of +the self-willed Assembly he could not control, Bagehot was preparing +a deliberate and very masterly defence of that bloody and high-handed +act. Even Bagehot would, I think, if pressed judiciously in later life, +have admitted—though I can’t say he ever _did_—that the _coup d’état_ +was one of the best illustrations of ‘the ruinous force of the will’ in +engendering, or at least crystallising, a false intellectual conclusion +as to the political possibilities of the future, which recent history +could produce. Certainly he always spoke somewhat apologetically of +these early letters, though I never heard him expressly retract their +doctrine. In 1851 a knot of young Unitarians, of whom I was then one, +headed by the late Mr. J. Langton Sanford—afterwards the historian of +the Great Rebellion, who survived Bagehot barely four months—had engaged +to help for a time in conducting the _Inquirer_, which then was, and +still is, the chief literary and theological organ of the Unitarian +body. Our _régime_ was, I imagine, a time of great desolation for the +very tolerant and thoughtful constituency for whom we wrote; and many of +them, I am confident, yearned, and were fully justified in yearning, for +those better days when this tyranny of ours should be overpast. Sanford +and Osler did a good deal to throw cold water on the rather optimist and +philanthropic politics of the most sanguine, because the most benevolent +and open-hearted of Dissenters. Roscoe criticised their literary work +from the point of view of a devotee of the Elizabethan poets; and I +attempted to prove to them in distinct heads, first, that their laity +ought to have the protection afforded by a liturgy against the arbitrary +prayers of their ministers; and next, that at least the great majority +of their sermons ought to be suppressed, and the habit of delivering +them discontinued almost altogether. Only a denomination of ‘just men’ +trained in tolerance for generations, and in that respect, at least, +made all but ‘perfect,’ would have endured it at all; but I doubt if +any of us caused the Unitarian body so much grief as Bagehot, who never +was a Unitarian, but who contributed a series of brilliant letters on +the _coup d’état_, in which he trod just as heavily on the toes of his +colleagues as he did on those of the public by whom the _Inquirer_ was +taken. In those letters he not only, as I have already shown, eulogised +the Catholic Church, but he supported the Prince-President’s military +violence, attacked the freedom of the Press in France, maintained +that the country was wholly unfit for true Parliamentary government, +and—worst of all perhaps—insinuated a panegyric on Louis Napoleon +himself, asserting that he had been far better prepared for the duties of +a statesman by gambling on the turf, than he would have been by poring +over the historical and political dissertations of the wise and the good. +This was Bagehot’s day of cynicism. The seven letters which he wrote on +the _coup d’état_ were certainly very exasperating, and yet they were +not caricatures of his real thought, for his private letters at the time +were more cynical still. Crabb Robinson, in speaking of him, used ever +afterwards to describe him to me as ‘that friend of yours—you know whom +I mean, you rascal!—who wrote those abominable, those most disgraceful +letters on the _coup d’état_—I did not forgive him for years after.’ Nor +do I wonder, even now, that a sincere friend of constitutional freedom +and intellectual liberty, like Crabb Robinson, found them difficult to +forgive. They were light and airy, and even flippant on a very grave +subject. They made nothing of the Prince’s perjury; and they took +impertinent liberties with all the dearest prepossessions of the readers +of the _Inquirer_, and assumed their sympathy just where Bagehot knew +that they would be most revolted by his opinions. Nevertheless, they had +a vast deal of truth in them, and no end of ability, and I hope that +there will be many to read them with interest now that they are here +republished. There is a good deal of the raw material of history in +them, and certainly I doubt if Bagehot ever again hit the satiric vein +of argument so well. Here is a passage that will bear taking out of its +context, and therefore not so full of the shrewd malice of these letters +as many others, but which will illustrate their ability. It is one in +which Bagehot maintained for the first time the view (which I believe he +subsequently almost persuaded English politicians to accept, though in +1852 it was a mere flippant novelty, a paradox, and a heresy) that free +institutions are apt to succeed with a stupid people, and to founder with +a ready-witted and vivacious one. After broaching this, he goes on:— + + ‘I see you are surprised. You are going to say to me as + Socrates did to Polus, “My young friend, _of course_ you are + right, but will you explain what you mean, as you are not yet + intelligible?” I will do so as well as I can, and endeavour to + make good what I say, not from a prior demonstration of my own, + but from the details of the present and the facts of history. + Not to begin by wounding any present susceptibilities, let me + take the Roman character, for, with one great exception—I need + not say to whom I allude—they are the great political people + of history. Now is not a certain dulness their most visible + characteristic? What is the history of their speculative + mind? A blank. What their literature? A copy. They have left + not a single discovery in any abstract science, not a single + perfect or well-formed work of high imagination. The Greeks, + the perfection of human and accomplished genius, bequeathed + to mankind the ideal forms of self-idolising art; the Romans + imitated and admired. The Greeks explained the laws of nature; + the Romans wondered and despised. The Greeks invented a system + of numerals second only to that now in use; the Romans counted + to the end of their days with the clumsy apparatus which + we still call by their name. The Greeks made a capital and + scientific calendar; the Romans began their month when the + Pontifex Maximus happened to spy out the new moon. Throughout + Latin literature this is the perpetual puzzle—Why are we free + and they slaves?—we prætors and they barbers? Why do the stupid + people always win and the clever people always lose? I need + not say that in real sound stupidity the English people are + unrivalled. You’ll have more wit, and better wit, in an Irish + street-row than would keep Westminster Hall in humour for five + weeks.... These valuable truths are no discoveries of mine. + They are familiar enough to people whose business it is to + know them. Hear what a douce and aged attorney says of your + peculiarly promising barrister. “Sharp? Oh! yes, yes: he’s too + sharp by half. He isn’t _safe_, not a minute, isn’t that young + man.” “What style, sir,” asked of an East India Director some + youthful aspirant for literary renown, “is most to be preferred + in the composition of official despatches?” “My good fellow,” + responded the ruler of Hindostan, “the style _as we_ like, is + the Humdrum.”’[11] + +The permanent value of these papers is due to the freshness of their +impressions of the French capital, and their true criticisms of Parisian +journalism and society; their perverseness consists in this, that +Bagehot steadily ignored in them the distinction between the duty of +resisting anarchy, and the assumption of the Prince-President that this +could only be done by establishing his own dynasty, and deferring _sine +die_ that great constitutional experiment which is now once more, no +thanks to him or his Government, on its trial; an experiment which, for +anything we see, had at least as good a chance then as now, and under +a firm and popular chief of the executive like Prince Louis, would +probably have had a better chance then than it has now under MacMahon. +I need hardly say that in later life Bagehot was by no means blind to +the political shortcomings of Louis Napoleon’s _régime_, as the article +republished from the _Economist_, in the second appendix to this volume, +sufficiently proves. Moreover, he rejoiced heartily in the moderation +of the republican statesmen during the severe trials of the months +which just preceded his own death, in 1877, and expressed his sincere +belief—confirmed by the history of the last year and a half—that the +existing Republic has every prospect of life and growth. + +During that residence in Paris, Bagehot, though, as I have said, in a +somewhat cynical frame of mind, was full of life and courage, and was +beginning to feel his own genius, which perhaps accounts for the air of +recklessness so foreign to him, which he never adopted either before +or since. During the riots he was a good deal in the streets, and from +a mere love of art helped the Parisians to construct some of their +barricades, notwithstanding the fact that his own sympathy was with those +who shot down the barricades, not with those who manned them. He climbed +over the rails of the Palais Royal on the morning of December 2nd to +breakfast, and used to say that he was the only person who did breakfast +there on that day. Victor Hugo is certainly wrong in asserting that no +one expected Louis Napoleon to use force, and that the streets were as +full as usual when the people were shot down, for the gates of the Palais +Royal were shut quite early in the day. Bagehot was very much struck by +the ferocious look of the Montagnards. + + ‘Of late,’ he wrote to me, ‘I have been devoting my entire + attention to the science of barricades, which I found amusing. + They have systematised it in a way which is pleasing to the + cultivated intellect. We had only one good day’s fighting, + and I naturally kept out of cannon-shot. But I took a quiet + walk over the barricades in the morning, and superintended the + construction of three with as much keenness as if I had been + clerk of the works. You’ve seen lots, of course, at Berlin, but + I should not think those Germans were up to a real Montagnard, + who is the most horrible being to the eye I ever saw,—sallow, + sincere, sour fanaticism, with grizzled moustaches, and a + strong wish to shoot you rather than not. The Montagnards are a + scarce commodity, the real race—only three or four, if so many, + to a barricade. If you want a Satan any odd time, they’ll do; + only I hope that _he_ don’t believe in human brotherhood. It + is not possible to respect any one who does, and I should be + loth to confound the notion of _our_ friend’s solitary grandeur + by supposing him to fraternise,’ &c. ‘I think M. Buonaparte is + entitled to great praise. He has very good heels to his boots, + and the French just want treading down, and nothing else—calm, + cruel, business-like oppression, to take the dogmatic conceit + out of their heads. The spirit of generalisation which, John + Mill tells us, honourably distinguishes the French mind, has + come to this, that every Parisian wants his head _tapped_ in + order to get the formulæ and nonsense out of it. And it would + pay to perform the operation, for they are very clever on what + is within the limit of their experience, and all that can be + “expanded” in terms of it, but beyond, it is all generalisation + and folly.... So I am for any carnivorous government.’ + +And again, in the same letter:— + + ‘Till the Revolution came I had no end of trouble to find + conversation, but now they’ll talk against everybody, and + against the President like mad—and they talk immensely well, + and the language is like a razor, capital if you are skilful, + but sure to cut you if you aren’t. A fellow can talk German + in crude forms, and I don’t see it sounds any worse, but this + stuff is horrid unless you get it _quite_ right. A French lady + made a striking remark to me:—“_C’est une révolution qui a + sauvé la France. Tous mes amis sont mis en prison_.” She was + immensely delighted that such a pleasing way of saving her + country had been found.’ + +Of course the style of these familiar private letters conveys a gross +caricature not only of Bagehot’s maturer mind, but even of the judgment +of the published letters, and I quote them only to show that at the time +when he composed these letters on the _coup d’état_, Bagehot’s mood was +that transient mood of reckless youthful cynicism through which so many +men of genius pass. I do not think he had at any time any keen sympathy +with the multitude, _i.e._, with masses of unknown men. And that he ever +felt what has since then been termed ‘the enthusiasm of humanity,’ the +sympathy with ‘the toiling millions of men sunk in labour and pain,’ +he himself would strenuously have denied. Such sympathy, even when men +really desire to feel it, is, indeed, very much oftener coveted than +actually felt by men as a living motive; and I am not quite sure that +Bagehot would have even wished to feel it. Nevertheless, he had not the +faintest trace of real hardness about him towards people whom he knew +and understood. He could not bear to give pain; and when, in rare cases +by youthful inadvertence, he gave it needlessly, I have seen how much +and what lasting vexation it caused him. Indeed, he was capable of great +sacrifices to spare his friends but a little suffering. + +It was, I think, during his stay in Paris that Bagehot finally decided +to give up the notion of practising at the Bar, and to join his father +in the Somersetshire Bank and in his other business as a merchant and +ship-owner. This involved frequent visits to London and Liverpool, and +Bagehot soon began to take a genuine interest in the larger issues of +commerce, and maintained to the end that ‘business is much more amusing +than pleasure.’ Nevertheless, he could not live without the intellectual +life of London, and never stayed more than six weeks at a time in the +country without finding some excuse for going to town; and long before +his death he made his home there. Hunting was the only sport he really +cared for. He was a dashing rider, and a fresh wind was felt blowing +through his earlier literary efforts, as though he had been thinking +in the saddle, an effect wanting in his later essays, where you see +chiefly the calm analysis of a lucid observer. But most of the ordinary +amusements of young people he detested. He used to say that he wished he +could think balls _wicked_, being so stupid as they were, and all ‘the +little blue and pink girls, so like each other,’—a sentiment partly due, +perhaps, to his extreme shortness of sight. + +Though Bagehot never doubted the wisdom of his own decision to give up +the law for the life of commerce, he thoroughly enjoyed his legal studies +in his friend the late Mr. Justice Quain’s chambers, and in those of the +present Vice-Chancellor Sir Charles Hall, and he learnt there a good deal +that was of great use to him in later life. Moreover, in spite of his +large capacity for finance and commerce, there were small difficulties in +Bagehot’s way as a banker and merchant which he felt somewhat keenly. He +was always absent-minded about _minutiæ_. For instance, to the last, he +could not correct a proof well, and was sure to leave a number of small +inaccuracies, harshnesses, and slipshodnesses in style, uncorrected. +He declared at one time that he was wholly unable to ‘add up,’ and in +his mathematical exercises in college he had habitually been inaccurate +in trifles. I remember Professor Malden, on returning one of his Greek +exercises, saying to him, with that curiously precise and emphatic +articulation which made every remark of his go so much farther than +that of our other lecturers, ‘Mr. Bagehot, you wage an internecine war +with your aspirates’—not meaning, of course, that he ever left them out +in pronunciation, but that he neglected to put them in in his written +Greek. And to the last, even in his printed Greek quotations, the slips +of this kind were always numerous. This habitual difficulty—due, I +believe, to a preoccupied imagination—in attending to small details, made +a banker’s duties seem irksome and formidable to him at first; and even +to the last, in his most effective financial papers, he would generally +get some one else to look after the precise figures for him. But in +spite of all this, and in spite of a real attraction for the study of +law, he was sure that his head would not stand the hot Courts and heavy +wigs which make the hot Courts hotter, or the night-work of a thriving +barrister in case of success; and he was certainly quite right. Indeed, +had he chosen the Bar, he would have had no leisure for those two or +three remarkable books which have made his reputation,—books which have +been already translated into all the literary and some of the unliterary +languages of Europe, and two of which are, I believe, used as text-books +in some of the American Colleges.[12] Moreover, in all probability, +his life would have been much shorter into the bargain. Soon after his +return from Paris he devoted himself in earnest to banking and commerce, +and also began that series of articles, first for the _Prospective_ and +then for the _National Review_ (which latter periodical he edited in +conjunction with me for several years), the most striking of which he +republished in 1858, under the awkward and almost forbidding title of +‘Estimates of some Englishmen and Scotchmen’—a book which never attracted +the attention it deserved, and which has been long out of print. In +republishing most of these essays as I am now doing,—and a later volume +may, I hope, contain those essays on statesmen and politicians which +are for the present omitted from these,—it is perhaps only fair to say +that Bagehot in later life used to speak ill, much too ill, of his own +early style. He used to declare that his early style affected him like +the ‘jogging of a cart without springs over a very rough road,’ and no +doubt in his earliest essays something abrupt and spasmodic may easily +be detected. Still, this was all so inextricably mingled with flashes of +insight and humour which could ill be spared, that I always protested +against any notion of so revising the essays as to pare down their +excrescences. + +I have never understood the comparative failure of this volume of +Bagehot’s early essays; and a comparative failure it was, though I do not +deny that, even at the time, it attracted much attention among the most +accomplished writers of the day, and that I have been urged to republish +it, as I am now doing, by many of the ablest men of my acquaintance. +Obviously, as I have admitted, there are many faults of workmanship +in it. Now and then the banter is forced. Often enough the style is +embarrassed. Occasionally, perhaps, the criticism misses its mark, or +is over-refined. But taken as a whole, I hardly know any book that is +such good reading, that has so much lucid vision in it, so much shrewd +and curious knowledge of the world, so sober a judgment and so dashing a +humour combined. Take this, for instance, out of the paper on ‘The First +Edinburgh Reviewers,’ concerning the judgment passed by Lord Jeffrey on +the poetry of Bagehot’s favourite poet, Wordsworth:— + + ‘The world has given judgment. Both Mr. Wordsworth and Lord + Jeffrey have received their rewards. The one had his own + generation—the laughter of men, the applause of drawing-rooms, + the concurrence of the crowd; the other, a succeeding age, + the fond enthusiasm of secret students, the lonely rapture of + lonely minds. And each has received according to his kind. If + all cultivated men speak differently because of the existence + of Wordsworth and Coleridge; if not a thoughtful English + book has appeared for years without some trace for good or + for evil of their influence; if sermon-writers subsist upon + their thoughts; if “sacred” poets thrive by translating their + weaker portions into the speech of women; if, when all this + is over, some sufficient part of their writing will ever be + fitting food for wild musing and solitary meditation, surely + this is because they possessed the inner nature—an “intense + and glowing mind”—“the vision and the faculty divine.” But, + if perchance in their weaker moments the great authors of the + Lyrical ballads did ever imagine that the world was to pause + because of their verses, that “Peter Bell” would be popular + in drawing-rooms, that “Christabel” would be perused in the + City, that people of fashion would make a hand-book of the + “Excursion,” it was well for them to be told at once that it + was not so. Nature ingeniously prepared a shrill artificial + voice, which spoke in season and out of season, enough and + more than enough, what will ever be the idea of the cities of + the plain concerning those who live alone among the mountains; + of the frivolous concerning the grave; of the gregarious + concerning the recluse; of those who laugh concerning those who + laugh not; of the common concerning the uncommon; of those who + lend on usury concerning those who lend not; the notions of the + world, of those whom it will not reckon among the righteous. + It said, “This won’t do.” And so in all times will the lovers + of polished Liberalism speak concerning the intense and lonely + “prophet.”’[13] + +I choose that passage because it illustrates so perfectly Bagehot’s +double vein, his sympathy with the works of high imagination, and his +clear insight into that busy life which does not and cannot take note +of works of high imagination, and which would not do the work it does, +if it could. And this is the characteristic of all the essays. How +admirably, for instance, in his essay on Shakespeare, does he draw out +the individuality of a poet who is generally supposed to be so completely +hidden in his plays; and with how keen a satisfaction does he discern and +display the prosperous and practical man in Shakespeare—the qualities +which made him a man of substance and a Conservative politician, as well +as the qualities which made him a great dramatist and a great dreamer. +No doubt Bagehot had a strong personal sympathy with the double life. +Somersetshire probably never believed that the imaginative student, the +omnivorous reader, could prosper as a banker and a man of business, +and it was a satisfaction to him to show that he understood the world +far better than the world had ever understood him. Again, how delicate +is his delineation of Hartley Coleridge; how firm and clear his study +of ‘Sir Robert Peel;’[14] and how graphically he paints the literary +pageant of Gibbon’s tame but splendid genius! Certainly the literary +taste of England never made a greater blunder than when it passed by this +remarkable volume of essays with comparatively little notice. + +In 1858 Bagehot married the eldest daughter of the Right Honourable +James Wilson, who died two years later in India, whither he had gone as +the financial member of the Indian Council, to reduce to some extent +the financial anarchy which then prevailed there. This marriage gave +Bagehot nineteen years of undisturbed happiness, and certainly led to the +production of his most popular and original, if not in every respect his +most brilliant books. It connected him with the higher world of politics, +without which he would hardly have studied and written as he did on the +English Constitution; and by making him the Editor of the _Economist_ it +compelled him to give his whole mind as much to the theoretic side of +commerce and finance, as his own duties had already compelled him to give +it to the practical side. But when I speak of his marriage as the last +impulse which determined his chief work in life, I do not forget that he +had long been prepared both for political and for financial speculation +by his early education. His father, a man of firm and deliberate +political convictions, had taken a very keen interest in the agitation +for the great Reform Bill of 1832, and had materially helped to return +a Liberal member for his county after it passed. Probably no one in all +England knew the political history of the country since the peace more +accurately than he. Bagehot often said that when he wanted any detail +concerning the English political history of the last half-century, he had +only to ask his father, to obtain it. His uncle, Mr. Vincent Stuckey, +too, was a man of the world, and his house in Langport was a focus of +many interests during Bagehot’s boyhood. Mr. Stuckey had begun life at +the Treasury, and was at one time private secretary to Mr. Huskisson; and +when he gave up that career to take a leading share in the Somersetshire +Bank, he kept up for a long time his house in London, and his relations +with political society there. He was fond of his nephew, as was Bagehot +of him; and there was always a large field of interests, and often there +were men of eminence, to be found in his house. Thus Bagehot had been +early prepared for the wider field of political and financial thought, to +which he gave up so much of his time after his marriage. + +I need not say nearly as much on this later aspect of Bagehot’s life as +I have done on its early and more purely literary aspects, because his +services in this direction are already well appreciated by the public. +But this I should like to point out, that he could never have written +as he did on the English Constitution without having acutely studied +living statesmen and their ways of acting on each other; that his book +was essentially the book of a most realistic, because a most vividly +imaginative, observer of the actual world of politics—the book of a +man who was not blinded by habit and use to the enormous difficulties +in the way of ‘government by public meeting,’ and to the secret of the +various means by which in practice those difficulties had been attenuated +or surmounted. It is the book of a meditative man who had mused much +on the strange workings of human instincts, no less than of a quick +observer who had seen much of external life. Had he not studied the men +before he studied the institutions, had he not concerned himself with +individual statesmen before he turned his attention to the mechanism of +our Parliamentary system, he could never have written his book on ‘the +English Constitution.’ + +I think the same may be said of his book on ‘Physics and Politics,’ a +book in which I find new force and depth every time I take it up afresh. +It is true that Bagehot had a keen sympathy with natural science, that +he devoured all Mr. Darwin’s and Mr. Wallace’s books, and many of a +much more technical kind, as, for example, Professor Huxley’s on the +‘Principles of Physiology,’ and grasped the leading ideas contained in +them with a firmness and precision that left nothing to be desired. But +after all, ‘Physics and Politics’ could never have been written without +that sort of living insight into man which was the life of all his +earlier essays. The notion that a ‘cake of custom,’ of rigid, inviolable +law, was the first requisite for a strong human society, and that the +very cause which was thus essential for the _first_ step of progress—the +step towards unity—was the great danger of the second step—the step +out of uniformity—and was the secret of all arrested and petrified +civilisations, like the Chinese, is an idea which first germinated in +Bagehot’s mind at the time he was writing his cynical letters from Paris +about stupidity being the first requisite of a political people; though I +admit, of course, that it could not have borne the fruit it did, without +Mr. Darwin’s conception of a natural selection through conflict, to +help it on. Such passages as the following could evidently never have +been written by a mere student of Darwinian literature, nor without the +trained imagination exhibited in Bagehot’s literary essays:— + + ‘No one will ever comprehend the arrested civilisations unless + he sees the strict dilemma of early society. Either men had + no law at all and lived in confused tribes, hardly hanging + together, or they had to obtain a fixed law by processes of + incredible difficulty. Those who surmounted that difficulty + soon destroyed all those that lay in their way who did not. + And then they themselves were caught in their own yoke. The + customary discipline which could only be imposed on any early + men by terrible sanctions, continued with those sanctions, and + killed out of the whole society the propensities to variation + which are the principle of progress. Experience shows how + incredibly difficult it is to get men really to encourage the + principle of originality;’[15] + +and, as Bagehot held, for a very good reason, namely, that without a long +accumulated and inherited tendency to discourage originality, society +would never have gained the cohesion requisite for effective common +action against its external foes. No one, I think, who had not studied as +Bagehot had in actual life, first, the vast and unreasoning Conservatism +of politically strong societies, like that of rural England, and next, +the perilous mobility and impressibility of politically weak societies, +like that of Paris, would ever have seen as he did the close connection +of these ideas with Mr. Darwin’s principle of natural selection by +conflict. And here I may mention, by way of illustrating this point, that +Bagehot delighted in observing and expounding the bovine slowness of +rural England in acquiring a new idea. Somersetshire, he used to boast, +would not subscribe 1,000_l._ ‘to be represented by an archangel;’ and in +one letter which I received from him during the Crimean War, he narrated +with great gusto an instance of the tenacity with which a Somersetshire +rustic stuck to his own notion of what was involved in conquering an +enemy. ‘The Somersetshire view,’ he wrote, ‘of the chance of bringing +the war to a successful conclusion is as follows:—_Countryman_: “How +old, zir, be the Zar?”—_Myself_: “About sixty-three.”—_Countryman_: +“Well, now, I can’t think however they be to take he. They do tell I that +Rooshia is a very big place, and if he doo goo right into the middle +of’n, you could not take he, not nohow.” I talked till the train came +(it was at a station), and endeavoured to show how the war might be +finished without capturing the Czar, but I fear without effect. At last +he said, “Well, zir, I hope, _as you do say, zir_, we shall take he,” as +I got into the carriage.’ It is clear that the humorous delight which +Bagehot took in this tenacity and density of rural conceptions, was +partly the cause of the attention which he paid to the subject. No doubt +there was in him a vein of purely instinctive sympathy with this density, +for intellectually he could not even have understood it. Writing on the +intolerable and fatiguing cleverness of French journals, he describes +in one of his Paris letters the true enjoyment he felt in reading a +thoroughly stupid article in the _Herald_ (a Tory paper now no more), and +I believe he was quite sincere. It was, I imagine, a real pleasure to him +to be able to preach, in his last general work, that a ‘cake of custom,’ +just sufficiently stiff to make innovation of any kind very difficult, +but not quite stiff enough to make it impossible, is the true condition +of durable progress. + +The coolness of his judgment, and his power of seeing both sides of a +question, undoubtedly gave Bagehot’s political opinions considerable +weight with both parties, and I am quite aware that a great majority of +the ablest political thinkers of the time would disagree with me when +I say, that personally I do not rate Bagehot’s sagacity as a practical +politician nearly so highly as I rate his wise analysis of the growth +and _rationale_ of political institutions. Everything he wrote on the +politics of the day was instructive, but, to my mind at least, seldom +decisive, and, as I thought, often not true. He did not feel, and avowed +that he did not feel, much sympathy with the masses, and he attached far +too much relative importance to the refinement of the governing classes. +That, no doubt, is most desirable, if you can combine it with a genuine +consideration for the interests of ‘the toiling millions of men sunk in +labour and pain.’ But experience, I think, sufficiently shows that they +are often, perhaps even generally, incompatible; and that democratic +governments of very low tone may consult more adequately the leading +interests of the ‘dim common populations’ than aristocratic governments +of very high calibre. Bagehot hardly admitted this, and always seemed to +me to think far more of the intellectual and moral tone of governments, +than he did of the intellectual and moral interests of the people +governed. + +Again, those who felt most profoundly Bagehot’s influence as a political +thinker, would probably agree with me that it was his leading idea +in politics to discourage anything like too much action of any kind, +legislative or administrative, and most of all anything like an ambitious +colonial or foreign policy. This was not owing to any _doctrinaire_ +adhesion to the principle of _laissez-faire_. He supported, hesitatingly +no doubt, but in the end decidedly, the Irish Land Bill, and never +belonged to that straitest sect of the Economists who decry, as contrary +to the laws of economy, and little short of a crime, the intervention of +Government in matters which the conflict of individual self-interests +might possibly be trusted to determine. It was from a very different +point of view that he was so anxious to deprecate ambitious policies, +and curb the practical energies of the most energetic of peoples. Next +to Clough, I think that Sir George Cornewall Lewis had the most powerful +influence over him in relation to political principles. There has been no +statesman in our time whom he liked so much or regretted so deeply; and +he followed him most of all in deprecating the greater part of what is +called political _energy_. Bagehot held with Sir George Lewis that men +in modern days do a great deal too much; that half the public actions, +and a great many of the private actions of men, had better never have +been done; that modern statesmen and modern peoples are far too willing +to burden themselves with responsibilities. He held, too, that men have +not yet sufficiently verified the principles on which action ought to +proceed, and that till they have done so, it would be better far to act +less. Lord Melbourne’s habitual query, ‘Can’t you let it alone?’ seemed +to him, as regarded all new responsibilities, the wisest of hints for our +time. He would have been glad to find a fair excuse for giving up India, +for throwing the Colonies on their own resources, and for persuading the +English people to accept deliberately the place of a fourth or fifth-rate +European power—which was not, in his estimation, a cynical or unpatriotic +wish, but quite the reverse, for he thought that such a course would +result in generally raising the calibre of the national mind, conscience, +and taste. In his ‘Physics and Politics’ he urges generally, as I have +before pointed out, that the practical energy of existing peoples in the +West is far in advance of the knowledge that would alone enable them to +turn that energy to good account. He wanted to see the English a more +leisurely race, taking more time to consider all their actions, and +suspending their decisions on all great policies and enterprises till +either these were well matured, or, as he expected it to be in the great +majority of cases, the opportunity for sensational action was gone by. He +quotes from Clough what really might have been taken as the motto of his +own political creed:— + + ‘Old things need not be therefore true, + O brother men, nor yet the new; + Ah, still awhile, th’ old thought retain, + And yet consider it again.’ + +And in all this, if it were advanced rather as a principle of education +than as a principle of political practice, there would be great force. +But when he applied this teaching, not to the individual but to the +State, not to encourage the gradual formation of a new type of character, +but to warn the nation back from a multitude of practical duties of a +simple though arduous kind, such as those, for example, which we have +undertaken in India—duties, the value of which, performed even as they +are, could hardly be overrated, if only because they involve so few +debatable and doubtful assumptions, and are only the elementary tasks +of the hewers of wood and drawers of water for the civilisation of the +future—I think Bagehot made the mistake of attaching far too little value +to the moral instincts of a sagacious people, and too much to the refined +deductions of a singularly subtle intellect. I suspect that the real +effect of suddenly stopping the various safety-valves, by which the spare +energy of our nation is diverted to the useful work of roughly civilising +other lands, would be, not to stimulate the deliberative understanding +of the English people, but to stunt its thinking as well as its acting +powers, and render it more frivolous and more vacant-minded than it is. + +In the field of economy there are so many thinkers who are far better +judges of Bagehot’s invaluable work than myself, that I will say a very +few words indeed upon it. It is curious, but I believe it to be almost +universally true, that what may be called the primitive impulse of all +economic _action_, is generally also strong in great economic _thinkers_ +and financiers—I mean the saving, or at least the anti-spending, +instinct. It is very difficult to see why it should be so, but I think +it _is_ so. No one was more large-minded in his view of finance than +Bagehot. He preached that, in the case of a rich country like England, +efficiency was vastly more important than the mere reduction of +expenditure, and held that Mr. Gladstone and other great Chancellors of +the Exchequer made a great deal too much of saving for saving’s sake. +None the less he himself had the anti-spending instinct in some strength, +and he was evidently pleased to note its existence in his favourite +economic thinker, Ricardo. Generous as Bagehot was—and no one ever +hesitated less about giving largely for an adequate end—he always told +me, even in boyhood, that spending was disagreeable to him, and that it +took something of an effort to pay away money. In a letter before me, +he tells his correspondent of the marriage of an acquaintance, and adds +that the lady is a Dissenter, ‘and therefore probably rich. Dissenters +don’t spend, _and quite right too_.’ I suppose it takes some feeling of +this kind to give the intellect of a man of high capacity that impulse +towards the study of the laws of the increase of wealth, without which +men of any imagination would be more likely to turn in other directions. +Nevertheless, even as an economist, Bagehot’s most original writing was +due less to his deductions from the fundamental axioms of the modern +science, than to that deep insight into men which he had gained in many +different fields. The essays, published in the _Fortnightly Review_ for +February and May 1876[16]—in which he showed so powerfully how few of +the conditions of the science known to us as ‘political economy’ have +ever been really applicable to any large portion of the globe during +the longest periods of human history—furnish quite an original study in +social history and in human nature. His striking book, ‘Lombard Street,’ +is quite as much a study of bankers and bill-brokers as of the principles +of banking. Take, again, Bagehot’s view of the intellectual position and +value of the capitalist classes. Every one who knows his writings in +the _Economist_, knows how he ridiculed the common impression that the +chief service of the capitalist class—that by which they _earn_ their +profits—is merely what the late Mr. Senior used to call ‘abstinence,’ +that is, the practice of deferring their enjoyment of their savings +in order that those savings may multiply themselves; and knows too +how inadequate he thought it, merely to add that when capitalists are +themselves managers, they discharge the task of ‘superintending labour’ +as well. Bagehot held that the capitalists of a commercial country do—not +merely the saving, and the work of foremen in superintending labour, +but all the difficult intellectual work of commerce besides, and are so +little appreciated as they are, chiefly because they are a dumb class +who are seldom equal to explaining to others the complex processes by +which they estimate the wants of the community, and conceive how best +to supply them. He maintained that capitalists are the great generals +of commerce, that they plan its whole strategy, determine its tactics, +direct its commissariat, and incur the danger of great defeats, as well +as earn, if they do not always gain, the credit of great victories. + +Here again is a new illustration of the light which Bagehot’s keen +insight into men, taken in connection with his own intimate understanding +of the commercial field, brought into his economic studies. He brought +life into these dry subjects from almost every side; for instance, in +writing to the _Spectator_, many years ago, about the cliff scenery of +Cornwall, and especially about the petty harbour of Boscastle, with its +fierce sea and its two breakwaters—which leave a mere ‘Temple Bar’ for +the ships to get in at—a harbour of which he says that ‘the principal +harbour of Liliput probably had just this look,’—he goes back in +imagination at once to the condition of the country at the time when a +great number of such petty harbours as these were essential to such trade +as there was, and shows that at that time the Liverpool and London docks +not only could not have been built for want of money, but would have been +of no use if they had been built, since the auxiliary facilities which +alone make such emporia useful did not exist. ‘Our old gentry built on +their own estates as they could, and if their estates were near some +wretched little haven, they were much pleased. The sea was the railway of +those days. It brought, as it did to Ellangowan, in Dirk Hatteraick’s +time, brandy for the men and pinners for the women, to the loneliest +of coast castles.’ It was by such vivid illustrations as this of the +conditions of a very different commercial life from our own, that Bagehot +lit up the ‘dismal science,’ till in his hands it became both picturesque +and amusing. + +Bagehot made two or three efforts to get into Parliament, but after an +illness which he had in 1868 he deliberately abandoned the attempt, and +held, I believe rightly, that his political judgment was all the sounder, +as well as his health the better, for a quieter life. Indeed, he used to +say of himself that it would be very difficult for him to find a borough +which would be willing to elect him its representative, because he was +‘between sizes in politics.’ Nevertheless in 1866 he was very nearly +elected for Bridgewater, but was by no means pleased that he was so near +success, for he stood to lose, not to win, in the hope that if he and +his party were really quite pure, he might gain the seat on petition. +He did his very best, indeed, to secure purity, though he failed. As a +speaker, he did not often succeed. His voice had no great compass, and +his manner was somewhat odd to ordinary hearers; but at Bridgewater he +was completely at his ease, and his canvass and public speeches were +decided successes. His examination, too, before the Commissioners sent +down a year or two later to inquire into the corruption of Bridgewater +was itself a great success. He not only entirely defeated the somewhat +eagerly pressed efforts of one of the Commissioners, Mr. Anstey, to +connect him with the bribery, but he drew a most amusing picture of the +bribable electors whom he had seen only to shun. I will quote a little +bit from the evidence he gave in reply to what Mr. Anstey probably +regarded as home-thrusts:— + + ‘42,018. (_Mr. Anstey._) Speaking from your experience of + those streets, when you went down them canvassing, did any + of the people say anything to you, or in your hearing, about + money?—Yes, one I recollect standing at the door, who said, + “I won’t vote for gentlefolks unless they do something for + I. Gentlefolks do not come to I unless they want something + of I, and I won’t do nothing for gentlefolks, unless they do + something for me.” Of course, I immediately retired out of that + house. + + ‘42,019. That man did not give you his promise?—I retired + immediately; he stood in the doorway sideways, as these rustics + do. + + ‘42,020. Were there many such instances?—One or two, I + remember. One suggested that I might have a place. I + immediately retired from him. + + ‘42,021. Did anybody of a better class than those voters, + privately, of course, expostulate with you against your + resolution to be pure?—No, nobody ever came to me at all. + + ‘42,022. But those about you, did any of them say anything + of this kind: “Mr. Bagehot, you are quite wrong in putting + purity of principles forward. It will not do if the other side + bribes?”—I might have been told that I should be unsuccessful + in the stream of conversation; many people may have told me + that; that is how I gathered that if the other side was impure + and we were pure, I should be beaten. + + ‘42,023. Can you remember the names of any who told you + that?—No, I cannot, but I daresay I was told by as many as + twenty people, and we went upon that entire consideration.’ + +To leave my subject without giving some idea of Bagehot’s racy +conversation would be a sin. He inherited this gift, I believe, in great +measure from his mother, to whose stimulating teaching in early life +he probably owed also a great deal of his rapidity of thought. A lady +who knew him well, says that one seldom asked him a question without +his answer making you either think or laugh, or both think and laugh +together. And this is the exact truth. His habitual phraseology was +always vivid. He used to speak, for instance, of the minor people, the +youths or admirers who collect round a considerable man, as his ‘fringe.’ +It was he who invented the phrase ‘padding,’ to denote the secondary +kind of article, not quite of the first merit, but with interest and +value of its own, with which a judicious editor will fill up perhaps +three-quarters of his review. If you asked him what he thought on a +subject on which he did not happen to have read or thought at all, he +would open his large eyes and say, ‘My mind is “to let” on that subject, +pray tell me what to think;’ though you soon found that this might be +easier attempted than done. He used to say banteringly to his mother, by +way of putting her off at a time when she was anxious for him to marry, +‘A man’s mother is his misfortune, but his wife is his fault.’ He told +me once, at a time when the _Spectator_ had perhaps been somewhat more +eager or sanguine on political matters than he approved, that he always +got his wife to ‘break’ it to him on the Saturday morning, as he found it +too much for his nerves to encounter its views without preparation. Then +his familiar antitheses not unfrequently reminded me of Dickens’s best +touches in that line. He writes to a friend, ‘Tell —— that his policies +went down in the _Colombo_, but were fished up again. _They are dirty, +but valid._’ I remember asking him if he had enjoyed a particular dinner +which he had rather expected to enjoy, but he replied, ‘No, the sherry +was bad; tasted as if L—— had dropped his h’s into it.’ His practical +illustrations, too, were full of wit. In his address to the Bridgewater +constituency, on the occasion when he was defeated by eight votes, he +criticised most happily the sort of bribery which ultimately resulted in +the disfranchisement of the place. + + ‘I can make allowance,’ he said, ‘for the poor voter; he is + most likely ill-educated, certainly ill-off, and a little + money is a nice treat to him. What he does is wrong, but it + is intelligible. What I do not understand is the position + of the rich, respectable, virtuous members of a party which + countenances these things. They are like the man who stole + stinking fish; they commit a crime, and they get no benefit.’ + +But perhaps the best illustration I can give of his more sardonic humour +was his remark to a friend who had a church in the grounds near his +house:—‘Ah, you’ve got the church in the grounds! I like that. It’s +well the tenants shouldn’t be _quite_ sure that the landlord’s power +stops with this world.’ And his more humorous exaggerations were very +happy. I remember his saying of a man who was excessively fastidious in +rejecting under-done meat, that he once sent away a cinder ‘because it +was red;’ and he confided gravely to an early friend that when he was in +low spirits, it cheered him to go down to the bank, and dabble his hand +in a heap of sovereigns. But his talk had finer qualities than any of +these. One of his most intimate friends—both in early life, and later in +Lincoln’s Inn—Mr. T. Smith Osler, writes to me of it thus:— + + ‘As an instrument for arriving at truth, I never knew anything + like a talk with Bagehot. It had just the quality which the + farmers desiderated in the claret, of which they complained + that though it was very nice, it brought them “no forrader;” + for Bagehot’s conversation did get you forward, and at a most + amazing pace. Several ingredients went to this; the foremost + was his power of getting to the heart of the subject, taking + you miles beyond your starting point in a sentence, generally + by dint of sinking to a deeper stratum. The next was his + instantaneous appreciation of the bearing of everything you + yourself said, making talk with him, as Roscoe once remarked, + “like riding a horse with a perfect mouth.” But most unique of + all was his power of keeping up animation without combat. I + never knew a power of discussion, of co operative investigation + of truth, to approach to it. It was all stimulus, and yet no + contest.’ + +But I must have done; and, indeed, it is next to impossible to convey, +even faintly, the impression of Bagehot’s vivid and pungent conversation +to anyone who did not know him. It was full of youth, and yet had all +the wisdom of a mature judgment in it. The last time we met, only five +days before his death, I remarked on the vigour and youthfulness of his +look, and told him he looked less like a contemporary of my own than one +of a younger generation. In a pencil-note, the last I received from him, +written from bed on the next day but one, he said, ‘I think you must +have had the evil eye when you complimented me on my appearance. Ever +since, I have been sickening, and am now in bed with a severe attack on +the lungs.’ Indeed, well as he appeared to me, he had long had delicate +health, and heart disease was the immediate cause of death. In spite of +a heavy cold on his chest, he went down to his father’s for his Easter +visit the day after I last saw him, and he passed away painlessly in +sleep on the 24th March 1877, aged 51. It was at Herds Hill, the pretty +place west of the river Parret, that flows past Langport, which his +grandfather had made some fifty years before, that he breathed his +last. He had been carried thither as an infant to be present when the +foundation stone was laid of the home which he was never to inherit; +and now very few of his name survive. Bagehot’s family is believed to +be the only one remaining that has retained the old spelling of the +name, as it appears in Doomsday Book, the modern form being Bagot. The +Gloucestershire family of the same name, from whose stock they are +supposed to have sprung, died out in the beginning of this century. + +Not very many perhaps, outside Bagehot’s own inner circle, will carry +about with them that hidden pain, that burden of emptiness, inseparable +from an image which has hitherto been one full of the suggestions of +life and power, when that life and power are no longer to be found; for +he was intimately known only to the few. But those who do will hardly +find again in this world a store of intellectual sympathy of so high a +stamp, so wide in its range and so full of original and fresh suggestion, +a judgment to lean on so real and so sincere, or a friend so frank and +constant, with so vivid and tenacious a memory for the happy associations +of a common past, and so generous in recognising the independent value of +divergent convictions in the less pliant present. + + R. H. H. + +_November 1, 1878._ + + + + +LITERARY STUDIES. + +[Illustration] + + + + +_THE FIRST EDINBURGH REVIEWERS._[17] + +(1855.) + + +It is odd to hear that the Edinburgh Review was once thought an +incendiary publication. A young generation, which has always regarded the +appearance of that periodical as a grave constitutional event (and been +told that its composition is intrusted to Privy Councillors only), can +scarcely believe, that once grave gentlemen kicked it out of doors—that +the dignified classes murmured at ‘those young men’ starting such views, +abetting such tendencies, using _such_ expressions—that aged men said, +‘Very clever, but not at all sound.’ Venerable men too exaggerate. People +say the Review was planned in a garret, but this is incredible. Merely to +take such a work into a garret would be inconsistent with propriety; and +the tale that the original conception, the pure idea to which each number +is a quarterly aspiration, ever was in a garret is the evident fiction of +reminiscent age—striving and failing to remember. + +Review writing is one of the features of modern literature. Many able +men really give themselves up to it. Comments on ancient writings are +scarcely so common as formerly; no great part of our literary talent is +devoted to the illustration of the ancient masters; but what seems at +first sight less dignified, annotation on modern writings was never so +frequent. Hazlitt started the question, whether it would not be as well +to review works which did not appear, in lieu of those which did—wishing, +as a reviewer, to escape the labour of perusing print, and, as a man, to +save his fellow-creatures from the slow torture of tedious extracts. But, +though approximations may frequently be noticed—though the neglect of +authors and independence of critics are on the increase—this conception, +in its grandeur, has never been carried out. We are surprised at first +sight, that writers should wish to comment on one another; it appears a +tedious mode of stating opinions, and a needless confusion of personal +facts with abstract arguments; and some, especially authors who have +been censured, say that the cause is laziness—that it is easier to write +a review than a book—and that reviewers are, as Coleridge declared, a +species of maggots, inferior to bookworms, living on the delicious brains +of real genius. Indeed it _would_ be very nice, but our world is so +imperfect. This idea is wholly false. Doubtless it is easier to write one +review than one book: but not, which is the real case, many reviews than +one book. A deeper cause must be looked for. + +In truth, review-writing but exemplifies the casual character of modern +literature. Everything about it is temporary and fragmentary. Look at +a railway stall; you see books of every colour—blue, yellow, crimson, +‘ring-streaked, speckled, and spotted,’ on every subject, in every +style, of every opinion, with every conceivable difference, celestial +or sublunary, maleficent, beneficent—but all small. People take their +literature in morsels, as they take sandwiches on a journey. The volumes +at least, you can see clearly, are not intended to be everlasting. It +may be all very well for a pure essence like poetry to be immortal in a +perishable world; it has no feeling; but paper cannot endure it, paste +cannot bear it, string has no heart for it. The race has made up its mind +to be fugitive, as well as minute. What a change from the ancient volume!— + + ‘That weight of wood, with leathern coat o’erlaid, + Those ample clasps, of solid metal made; + The close-press’d leaves, unoped for many an age, + The dull red edging of the well-fill’d page; + On the broad back the stubborn ridges roll’d, + Where yet the title stands in tarnish’d gold.’ + +And the change in the appearance of books has been accompanied—has been +caused—by a similar change in readers. What a transition from the student +of former ages!—from a grave man, with grave cheeks and a considerate +eye, who spends his life in study, has no interest in the outward world, +hears nothing of its din, and cares nothing for its honours, who would +gladly learn and gladly teach, whose whole soul is taken up with a few +books of ‘Aristotle and his Philosophy,’—to the merchant in the railway, +with a head full of sums, an idea that tallow is ‘up,’ a conviction that +teas are ‘lively,’ and a mind reverting perpetually from the little +volume which he reads to these mundane topics, to the railway, to the +shares, to the buying and bargaining universe. We must not wonder that +the outside of books is so different, when the inner nature of those for +whom they are written is so changed. + +It is indeed a peculiarity of our times, that we must instruct so many +persons. On politics, on religion, on all less important topics still +more, every one thinks himself competent to think,—in some casual manner +does think,—to the best of our means must be taught to think rightly. +Even if we had a profound and far-seeing statesman, his deep ideas and +long-reaching vision would be useless to us, unless we could impart a +confidence in them to the mass of influential persons, to the unelected +Commons, the unchosen Council, who assist at the deliberations of the +nation. In religion the appeal now is not to the technicalities of +scholars, or the fictions of recluse schoolmen, but to the deep feelings, +the sure sentiments, the painful strivings of all who think and hope. +And this appeal to the many necessarily brings with it a consequence. +We must speak to the many so that they will listen,—that they will like +to listen,—that they will understand. It is of no use addressing them +with the forms of science, or the rigour of accuracy, or the tedium of +exhaustive discussion. The multitude are impatient of system, desirous of +brevity, puzzled by formality. They agree with Sydney Smith: ‘Political +economy has become, in the hands of Malthus and Ricardo, a school of +metaphysics. All seem agreed what is to be done; the contention is, how +the subject is to be divided and defined. _Meddle with no such matters._’ +We are not sneering at ‘the last of the sciences;’ we are concerned with +the essential doctrine, and not with the particular instance. Such is the +taste of mankind. + +We may repeat ourselves. + +There is, as yet, no Act of Parliament compelling a _bonâ fide_ traveller +to read. If you wish him to read, you must make reading pleasant. You +must give him short views, and clear sentences. It will not answer to +explain what all the things which you describe, are _not_. You must +begin by saying what they are. There is exactly the difference between +the books of this age, and those of a more laborious age, that we +feel between the lecture of a professor and the talk of the man of +the world—the former profound, systematic, suggesting all arguments, +analysing all difficulties, discussing all doubts,—very admirable, a +little tedious, slowly winding an elaborate way, the characteristic +effort of one who has hived wisdom during many studious years, agreeable +to such as he is, anything but agreeable to such as he is not: the +latter, the talk of the manifold talker, glancing lightly from topic to +topic, suggesting deep things in a jest, unfolding unanswerable arguments +in an absurd illustration, expounding nothing, completing nothing, +exhausting nothing, yet really suggesting the lessons of a wider +experience, embodying the results of a more finely tested philosophy, +passing with a more Shakespearian transition, connecting topics with a +more subtle link, refining on them with an acuter perception, and what +is more to the purpose, pleasing all that hear him, charming high and +low, in season and out of season, with a word of illustration for each +and a touch of humour intelligible to all,—fragmentary yet imparting +what he says, allusive yet explaining what he intends, disconnected +yet impressing what he maintains. This is the very model of our modern +writing. The man of the modern world is used to speak what the modern +world will hear; the writer of the modern world must write what that +world will indulgently and pleasantly peruse. + +In this transition from ancient writing to modern, the review-like essay +and the essay-like review fill a large space. Their small bulk, their +slight pretension to systematic completeness, their avowal, it might be +said, of necessary incompleteness, the facility of changing the subject, +of selecting points to attack, of exposing only the best corner for +defence, are great temptations. Still greater is the advantage of ‘our +limits.’ A real reviewer always spends his first and best pages on the +parts of a subject on which he wishes to write, the easy comfortable +parts which he knows. The formidable difficulties which he acknowledges, +you foresee by a strange fatality that he will only reach two pages +before the end; to his great grief there is no opportunity for discussing +them. As a young gentleman, at the India House examination, wrote ‘Time +up’ on nine unfinished papers in succession, so you may occasionally read +a whole review, in every article of which the principal difficulty of +each successive question is about to be reached at the conclusion. Nor +can any one deny that this is the suitable skill, the judicious custom of +the craft. + +Some may be inclined to mourn over the old days of systematic arguments +and regular discussion. A ‘field-day’ controversy is a fine thing. +These skirmishes have much danger and no glory. Yet there is one immense +advantage. The appeal now is to the mass of sensible persons. Professed +students are not generally suspected of common sense; and though they +often show acuteness in their peculiar pursuits, they have not the +various experience, the changing imagination, the feeling nature, the +realised detail which are necessary _data_ for a thousand questions. +Whatever we may think on this point, however, the transition has been +made. The Edinburgh Review was, at its beginning, a material step in +the change. Unquestionably, the _Spectator_ and _Tatler_, and such-like +writings, had opened a similar vein, but their size was too small. +They could only deal with small fragments, or the extreme essence of a +subject. They could not give a view of what was complicated, or analyse +what was involved. The modern man must be told what to think—shortly, no +doubt—but he _must_ be told it. The essay-like criticism of modern times +is about the length which he likes. The Edinburgh Review, which began the +system, may be said to be, in this country, the commencement on large +topics of suitable views for sensible persons. + +The circumstances of the time were especially favourable to such an +undertaking. Those years were the commencement of what is called the +Eldonine period. The cold and haughty Pitt had gone down to the grave in +circumstances singularly contrasting with his prosperous youth, and he +had carried along with him the inner essence of half-liberal principle, +which had clung to a tenacious mind from youthful associations, and +was all that remained to the Tories of abstraction or theory. As for +Lord Eldon, it is the most difficult thing in the world to believe that +there ever was such a man. It only shows how intense historical evidence +is, that no one really doubts it. He believed in everything which it +is impossible to believe in—in the danger of Parliamentary Reform, +the danger of Catholic Emancipation, the danger of altering the Court +of Chancery, the danger of altering the Courts of Law, the danger of +abolishing capital punishment for trivial thefts, the danger of making +landowners pay their debts, the danger of making anything more, the +danger of making anything less. It seems as if he maturely thought, ‘Now +I know the present state of things to be consistent with the existence +of John Lord Eldon; but if we begin altering that state, I am sure I do +not know that it will be consistent.’ As Sir Robert Walpole was against +all committees of inquiry on the simple ground, ‘If they once begin that +sort of thing, who knows who will be safe?’—so that great Chancellor +(still remembered in his own scene) looked pleasantly down from the +woolsack, and seemed to observe, ‘Well, it _is_ a queer thing that I +should be here, and here I mean to stay.’ With this idea he employed, +for many years, all the abstract intellect of an accomplished lawyer, +all the practical _bonhomie_ of an accomplished courtier, all the energy +of both professions, all the subtlety acquired in either, in the task of +maintaining John Lord Eldon in the cabinet, and maintaining a cabinet +that would suit John Lord Eldon. No matter what change or misfortunes +happened to the Royal house,—whether the most important person in +court politics was the old King or the young King, Queen Charlotte or +Queen Caroline—whether it was a question of talking grave business to +the mutton of George the Third, or queer stories beside the champagne +of George the Fourth, there was the same figure. To the first he was +tearfully conscientious, and at the second the old northern circuit +stories (how old, what outlasting tradition shall ever say?) told with a +cheerful _bonhomie_, and a strong conviction that they _were_ ludicrous, +really seem to have pleased as well as the more artificial niceties of +the professed wits. He was always agreeable, and always serviceable. No +little peccadillo offended him: the ideal, according to the satirist, +of a ‘good-natured man,’ he cared for nothing until he was himself +hurt. He ever remembered the statute which absolves obedience to a king +_de facto_. And it was the same in the political world. There was one +man who never changed. No matter what politicians came and went—and a +good many, including several that are now scarcely remembered, did come +and go,—the ‘Cabinet-maker,’ as men called him, still remained. ‘As to +Lord Liverpool being Prime Minister,’ continued Mr. Brougham, ‘he is +no more Prime Minister than I am. I reckon Lord Liverpool as a sort of +member of opposition; and after what has recently passed, if I were +required, I should designate him as “a noble lord with whom I have the +honour to act.” Lord Liverpool may have collateral influence, but Lord +Eldon has all the direct influence of the Prime Minister. He is Prime +Minister to all intents and purposes, and he stands alone in the full +exercise of all the influence of that high situation. Lord Liverpool +has carried measures against the Lord Chancellor; so have I. If Lord +Liverpool carried the Marriage Act, I carried the Education Bill,’ &c. +&c. And though the general views of Lord Eldon may be described,—though +one can say at least negatively and intelligibly that he objected to +everything proposed, and never proposed anything himself,—the arguments +are such as it would require great intellectual courage to endeavour +at all to explain. What follows is a favourable specimen. ‘Lord Grey,’ +says his biographer, ‘having introduced a bill for dispensing with the +declarations prescribed by the Acts of 25 and 30 Car. II., against the +doctrine of Transubstantiation and the Invocation of Saints, moved the +second reading of it on the 10th of June, when the Lord Chancellor again +opposed the principle of such a measure, urging that the law which had +been introduced under Charles II. had been re-enacted in the first +Parliament of _William III._, the founder of our civil and religious +liberties. It had been thought necessary for the preservation of these, +that papists should not be allowed to sit in Parliament, and some test +was necessary by which it might be ascertained whether a man was a +Catholic or Protestant. The only possible test for such a purpose was an +oath declaratory of religious belief, and, as _Dr. Paley_ had observed, +it was perfectly just to have a religious test of a political creed. +He entreated the House not to commit the crime against posterity of +transmitting to them in an impaired and insecure state the civil and +religious liberties of England.’ And this sort of appeal to Paley and +King William is made the ground—one can hardly say the reason—for the +most rigid adherence to all that was established. + +It may be asked, How came the English people to endure this? They are +not naturally illiberal; on the contrary, though slow and cautious, they +are prone to steady improvement, and not at all disposed to acquiesce +in the unlimited perfection of their rulers. On a certain imaginative +side, unquestionably, there is or was a strong feeling of loyalty, of +attachment to what is old, love for what is ancestral, belief in what +has been tried. But the fond attachment to the past is a very different +idea from a slavish adoration of the present. Nothing is more removed +from the Eldonine idolatry of the _status quo_ than the old cavalier +feeling of deep idolatry for the ancient realm—that half-mystic idea that +consecrated what it touched; the moonlight, as it were, which + + ‘Silver’d the walls of Cumnor Hall, + And many an oak that grew thereby.’ + +Why, then, did the English endure the everlasting Chancellor? + +The fact is, that Lord Eldon’s rule was maintained a great deal on the +same motives as that of Louis Napoleon. One can fancy his astonishment +at hearing it said, and his cheerful rejoinder, ‘That whatever he was, +and Mr. Brougham was in the habit of calling him strange names, no +one should ever make him believe that he was a _Bonaparte_.’ But, in +fact, he was, like the present Emperor, the head of what we call the +party of order. Everybody knows what keeps Louis Napoleon in his place. +It is not attachment to him, but dread of what he restrains—dread of +revolution. The present may not be good, and having such newspapers,—you +might say no newspapers,—is dreadful; but it is better than no trade, +bankrupt banks, loss of old savings; your mother beheaded on destructive +principles; your eldest son shot on conservative ones. Very similar was +the feeling of Englishmen in the year 1800. They had no liking at all for +the French system. Statesmen saw its absurdity, holy men were shocked at +its impiety, mercantile men saw its effect on the 5 per cents. Everybody +was revolted by its cruelty. That it came across the Channel was no +great recommendation. A witty writer of our own time says, that if a +still Mussulman, in his flowing robes, wished to give his son a warning +against renouncing his faith, he would take the completest, smartest, +dapperest French dandy out of the streets of Pera, and say, ‘There, my +son, if ever you come to forget God and the Prophet, you may come to look +like _that_.’ Exactly similar in old conservative speeches is the use of +the French Revolution. If you proposed to alter anything, of importance +or not of importance, legal or social, religious or not religious, the +same answer was ready: ‘You see what the French have come to. They made +alterations; if we make alterations, who knows but we may end in the +same way?’ It was not any peculiar bigotry in Lord Eldon that actuated +him, or he would have been powerless; still less was it any affected +feeling which he put forward (though, doubtless, he was aware of its +persuasive potency, and worked on it most skilfully to his own ends); it +was genuine, hearty, craven fear; and he ruled naturally the common-place +Englishman, because he sympathised in his sentiments, and excelled him in +his powers. + +There was, too, another cause beside fear which then inclined, and which +in similar times of miscellaneous revolution will ever incline, subtle +rather than creative intellects to a narrow conservatism. Such intellects +require an exact creed; they want to be able clearly to distinguish +themselves from those around them, to tell to each man where they differ, +and why they differ; they cannot make assumptions; they cannot, like the +merely practical man, be content with rough and obvious axioms; they +require a _theory_. Such a want it is difficult to satisfy in an age of +confusion and tumult, when old habits are shaken, old views overthrown, +ancient assumptions rudely questioned, ancient inferences utterly +denied, when each man has a different view from his neighbour, when an +intellectual change has set father and son at variance, when a man’s own +household are the special foes of his favourite and self-adopted creed. +A bold and original mind breaks through these vexations, and forms for +itself a theory satisfactory to its notions, and sufficient for its +wants. A weak mind yields a passive obedience to those among whom it is +thrown. But a mind which is searching without being creative, which is +accurate and logical enough to see defects, without being combinative +or inventive enough to provide remedies,—which, in the old language, +is discriminative rather than discursive,—is wholly unable, out of the +medley of new suggestions, to provide itself with an adequate belief; and +it naturally falls back on the _status quo_. This is, at least, clear +and simple and defined; you know at any rate what you propose—where you +end—why you pause;—an argumentative defence it is, doubtless, difficult +to find; but there are arguments on all sides; the world is a medley +of arguments; no one is agreed in which direction to alter the world; +what is proposed is as liable to objection as what exists; nonsense +for nonsense, the old should keep its ground: and so in times of +convulsion, the philosophic scepticism—the ever-questioning hesitation +of Hume and Montaigne—the subtlest quintessence of the most restless +and refining abstraction—becomes allied to the stupidest, crudest +acquiescence in the present and concrete world. We read occasionally +in conservative literature (the remark is as true of religion as of +politics) alternations of sentences, the first an appeal to the coarsest +prejudice,—the next a subtle hint to a craving and insatiable scepticism. +You may trace this even in Vesey junior. Lord Eldon never read Hume or +Montaigne, but sometimes, in the interstices of cumbrous law, you may +find sentences with their meaning, if not in their manner; ‘Dumpor’s case +always struck me as extraordinary; but if you depart from Dumpor’s case, +what is there to prevent a departure in every direction?’ + +The glory of the Edinburgh Review is that from the first it steadily +set itself to oppose this timorous acquiescence in the actual system. +On domestic subjects the history of the first thirty years of the +nineteenth century is a species of duel between the Edinburgh Review and +Lord Eldon. All the ancient abuses which he thought it most dangerous +to impair, they thought it most dangerous to retain. ‘To appreciate +the value of the Edinburgh Review,’ says one of the founders, ‘the +state of England at the period when that journal began should be had +in remembrance. The Catholics were not emancipated. The Corporation +and Test Acts were unrepealed. The game-laws were horribly oppressive; +steel-traps and spring-guns were set all over the country; prisoners +tried for their lives could have no counsel. Lord Eldon and the Court +of Chancery pressed heavily on mankind. Libel was punished by the most +cruel and vindictive imprisonments. The principles of political economy +were little understood. The laws of debt and conspiracy were on the +worst footing. The enormous wickedness of the slave-trade was tolerated. +A thousand evils were in existence which the talents of good and noble +men have since lessened or removed: and these efforts have been not a +little assisted by the honest boldness of the Edinburgh Review.’ And even +more characteristic than the advocacy of these or any other partial or +particular reforms is the systematic opposition of the Edinburgh Review +to the crude acquiescence in the _status quo_; the timorous dislike to +change because it was change; to the optimistic conclusion, ‘that what +is, ought to be;’ the sceptical query, ‘How do you know that what you say +will be any better?’ + +In this defence of the principle of innovation, a defence which it +requires great imagination (or, as we suggested, the looking across +the Channel) to conceive the efficacy of now, the Edinburgh Review was +but the doctrinal organ of the Whigs. A great deal of philosophy has +been expended in endeavouring to fix and express theoretically the creed +of that party: various forms of abstract doctrine have been drawn out, +in which elaborate sentence follows hard on elaborate sentence, to be +set aside, or at least vigorously questioned by the next or succeeding +inquirers. In truth Whiggism is not a creed, it is a character. Perhaps +as long as there has been a political history in this country there have +been certain men of a cool, moderate, resolute firmness, not gifted with +high imagination, little prone to enthusiastic sentiment, heedless of +large theories and speculations, careless of dreamy scepticism; with a +clear view of the next step, and a wise intention to take it; a strong +conviction that the elements of knowledge are true, and a steady belief +that the present world can, and should be, quietly improved. + +These are the Whigs. A tinge of simplicity still clings to the character; +of old it was the Country Party. The limitation of their imagination +is in some sort an advantage to such men; it confines them to a simple +path, prevents their being drawn aside by various speculations, restricts +them to what is clear and intelligible, and at hand. ‘I cannot,’ said +Sir S. Romilly, ‘be convinced without arguments, and I do not see that +either Burke or Paine advance any.’ He was unable to see that the most +convincing arguments,—and some of those in the work of Burke, which he +alludes to, are certainly sound enough,—may be expressed imaginatively, +and may work a far firmer persuasion than any neat and abstract +statement. Nor are the intellectual powers of the characteristic element +in this party exactly of the loftiest order; they have no call to make +great discoveries, or pursue unbounded designs, or amaze the world by +some wild dream of empire and renown. That terrible essence of daring +genius, such as we see it in Napoleon, and can imagine it in some of +the conquerors of old time, is utterly removed from their cool and +placid judgment. In taste they are correct,—that is, better appreciating +the complete compliance with explicit and ascertained rules, than the +unconscious exuberance of inexplicable and unforeseen beauties. In their +own writings, they display the defined neatness of the second order, +rather than the aspiring hardihood of the first excellence. In action +they are quiet and reasonable rather than inventive and overwhelming. +Their power indeed is scarcely intellectual; on the contrary, it resides +in what Aristotle would have called their ἦθος, and we should call +their nature. They are emphatically pure-natured and firm-natured. +Instinctively casting aside the coarse temptations and crude excitements +of a vulgar earth, they pass like a September breeze across the other +air, cool and refreshing, unable, one might fancy, even to comprehend the +many offences with which all else is fainting and oppressed. So far even +as their excellence is intellectual, it consists less in the supereminent +possession of any single talent or endowment, than in the simultaneous +enjoyment and felicitous adjustment of many or several;—in a certain +balance of the faculties which we call judgment or sense, which placidly +indicates to them what should be done, and which is not preserved without +an equable calm, and a patient, persistent watchfulness. In such men the +moral and intellectual nature half become one. Whether, according to +the Greek question, manly virtue can be taught or not, assuredly it has +never been taught to them; it seems a native endowment; it seems a soul—a +soul of honour—as we speak, within the exterior soul; a fine impalpable +essence, more exquisite than the rest of the being; as the thin pillar of +the cloud, more beautiful than the other blue of heaven, governing and +guiding a simple way through the dark wilderness of our world. + +To descend from such elevations, among _people_ Sir Samuel Romilly is +the best-known type of this character. The admirable biography of him +made public his admirable virtues. Yet it is probable that among the +aristocratic Whigs, persons as typical of the character can be found. +This species of noble nature is exactly of the kind which hereditary +associations tend to purify and confirm; just that casual, delicate, +placid virtue, which it is so hard to find, perhaps so sanguine to +expect, in a rough tribune of the people. Defects enough there are in +this character, on which we shall say something; yet it is wonderful to +see what an influence in this sublunary sphere it gains and preserves. +The world makes an oracle of its judgment. There is a curious living +instance of this. You may observe that when an ancient liberal, Lord +John Russell, or any of the essential sect, has done anything very +queer, the last thing you would imagine anybody would dream of doing, +and is attacked for it, he always answers boldly, ‘Lord Lansdowne said +I _might_;’ or if it is a ponderous day, the eloquence runs, ‘A noble +friend with whom I have ever had the inestimable advantage of being +associated from the commencement (the infantile period, I might say) of +my political life, and to whose advice,’ &c. &c. &c.—and a very cheerful +existence it must be for ‘my noble friend’ to be expected to justify—(for +they never say it except they have done something very odd)—and dignify +every aberration. Still it must be a beautiful feeling to have a man like +Lord John, to have a stiff, small man bowing down before you. And a good +judge certainly suggested the conferring of this authority. ‘Why do they +not talk over the virtues and excellences of Lansdowne? There is no man +who performs the duties of life better, or fills a high station in a more +becoming manner. He is full of knowledge, and eager for its acquisition. +His remarkable politeness is the result of good nature, regulated by good +sense. He looks for talents and qualities among all ranks of men, and +adds them to his stock of society, as a botanist does his plants; and +while other aristocrats are yawning among stars and garters, Lansdowne is +refreshing his soul with the fancy and genius which he has found in odd +places, and gathered to the marbles and pictures of his palace. Then he +is an honest politician, a wise statesman, and has a philosophic mind,’ +&c. &c.[18] Here is devotion for a carping critic; and who ever heard +before of _bonhomie_ in an idol? + +It may strike some that this equable kind of character is not the most +interesting. Many will prefer the bold felicities of daring genius, +the deep plans of latent and searching sagacity, the hardy triumphs of +an overawing and imperious will. Yet it is not unremarkable that an +experienced and erudite Frenchman, not unalive to artistic effect, has +just now selected this very species of character for the main figure in +a large portion of an elaborate work. The hero of M. Villemain is one to +whom he delights to ascribe such things as _bon sens_, _esprit juste_, +_cœur excellent_. The result, it may be owned, is a little dull, yet it +is not the less characteristic. The instructed observer has detected +the deficiency of his country. If France had more men of firm will, +quiet composure, with a suspicion of enormous principle and a taste +for moderate improvement: if a Whig party, in a word, were possible in +France, France would be free. And though there are doubtless crises +in affairs, dark and terrible moments, when a more creative intellect +is needful to propose, a more dictatorial will is necessary to carry +out, a sudden and daring resolution; though in times of inextricable +confusion—perhaps the present is one of them[19]—a more abstruse and +disentangling intellect is required to untwist the ravelled perplexities +of a complicated world; yet England will cease to be the England of +our fathers, when a large share in great affairs is no longer given to +the equable sense, the composed resolution, the homely purity of the +characteristic Whigs. + +It is evident that between such men and Lord Eldon there could be no +peace; and between them and the Edinburgh Review there was a natural +alliance. Not only the kind of reforms there proposed, the species of +views therein maintained, but the very manner in which those views and +alterations are put forward and maintained, is just what they would +like. The kind of writing suitable to such minds is not the elaborate, +ambitious, exhaustive discussion of former ages, but the clear, simple, +occasional writing (as we just now described it) of the present times. +The opinions to be expressed are short and simple; the innovations +suggested are natural and evident; neither one nor the other require +more than an intelligible statement, a distinct exposition to the world; +and their reception would be only impeded and complicated by operose and +cumbrous argumentation. The exact mind which of all others dislikes the +stupid adherence to the _status quo_, is the keen, quiet, improving Whig +mind; the exact kind of writing most adapted to express that dislike is +the cool, pungent, didactic essay. + +Equally common to the Whigs and the Edinburgh Review is the enmity to the +sceptical, over-refining Toryism of Hume and Montaigne. The Whigs, it is +true, have a conservatism of their own, but it instinctively clings to +certain practical rules tried by steady adherence, to appropriate formulæ +verified by the regular application and steady success of many ages. +Political philosophers speak of it as a great step when the idea of an +attachment to an organised code and system of rules and laws takes the +place of the exclusive oriental attachment to the person of the single +monarch. This step is natural, is instinctive to the Whig mind; that +cool impassive intelligence is little likely to yield to ardent emotions +of personal loyalty; but its chosen ideal is a body or collection of +wise rules fitly applicable to great affairs, pleasing a placid sense +by an evident propriety, gratifying the capacity for business by a +constant and clear applicability. The Whigs are constitutional by +instinct, as the Cavaliers were monarchical by devotion. It has been +a jest at their present leader that he is over familiar with public +forms and parliamentary rites. The first wish of the Whigs is to retain +the constitution; the second—and it is of almost equal strength—is +to improve it. They think the body of laws now existing to be, in the +main and in its essence, excellent; but yet that there are exceptional +defects which should be remedied, superficial inconsistencies that +should be corrected. The most opposite creed is that of the sceptic, +who teaches that you are to keep what is because it exists; not from +a conviction of its excellence, but from an uncertainty that anything +better can be obtained. The one is an attachment to precise rules for +specific reasons; the other an acquiescence in the present on grounds +that would be equally applicable to its very opposite, from a disbelief +in the possibility of improvement, and a conviction of the uncertainty +of all things. And equally adverse to an unlimited scepticism is the +nature of popular writing. It is true that the greatest teachers of that +creed have sometimes, and as it were of set purpose, adopted that species +of writing; yet essentially it is inimical to them. Its appeal is to +the people; as has been shown, it addresses the _élite_ of common men, +sensible in their affairs, intelligent in their tastes, influential among +their neighbours. What is absolute scepticism to such men?—a dream, a +chimera, an inexplicable absurdity. Tell it to them to-day, and they will +have forgotten it to-morrow. A man of business hates elaborate trifling. +‘If you do not believe _your own_ senses,’ he will say, ‘there is no use +in _my_ talking to you.’ As to the multiplicity of arguments and the +complexity of questions, he feels them little. He has a plain, simple, as +he would say, practical way of looking at the matter; and you will never +make him comprehend any other. He knows the world _can_ be improved. And +thus what we may call the middle species of writing—which is intermediate +between the light, frivolous style of merely amusing literature, and the +heavy, conscientious elaborateness of methodical philosophy—the style of +the original Edinburgh—is, in truth, as opposed to the vague, desponding +conservatism of the sceptic as it is to the stupid conservatism of the +crude and uninstructed; and substantially for the same reason—that it is +addressed to men of cool, clear, and practical understandings. + +It is, indeed, no wonder that the Edinburgh Review should be agreeable to +the Whigs, for the people who founded it were Whigs. Among these, three +stand pre-eminent—Horner, Jeffrey, and Sydney Smith. Other men of equal +ability may have contributed—and a few did contribute—to its pages; but +these men were, more than any one else, the first Edinburgh Review. + +Francis Horner’s was a short and singular life. He was the son of +an Edinburgh shopkeeper. He died at thirty-nine; and when he died, +from all sides of the usually cold House of Commons great statesmen +and thorough gentlemen got up to deplore his loss. Tears are rarely +parliamentary: all men are arid towards young Scotchmen; yet it was one +of that inclement nation whom statesmen of the species Castlereagh, and +statesmen of the species Whitbread—with all the many kinds and species +that lie between the two—rose in succession to lament. The fortunes and +superficial aspect of the man make it more singular. He had no wealth, +was a briefless barrister, never held an office, was a conspicuous member +of the most unpopular of all oppositions—the opposition to a glorious +and successful war. He never had the means of obliging any one. He +was destitute of showy abilities: he had not the intense eloquence or +overwhelming ardour which enthral and captivate popular assemblies: his +powers of administration were little tried, and may possibly be slightly +questioned. In his youthful reading he was remarkable for laying down, +for a few months of study, enormous plans, such as many years would +scarcely complete; and not especially remarkable for doing anything +wonderful towards accomplishing those plans. Sir Walter Scott, who, +though not illiberal in his essential intellect, was a keen partisan on +superficial matters, and no lenient critic on actual Edinburgh Whigs, +used to observe, ‘I cannot admire your Horner; he always reminds me of +Obadiah’s bull, who, though he never certainly did produce a calf, +nevertheless went about his business with so much gravity, that he +commanded the respect of the whole parish.’ It is no explanation of the +universal regret, that he was a considerable political economist: no real +English gentleman, in his secret soul, was ever sorry for the death of +a political economist: he is much more likely to be sorry for his life. +There is an idea that he has something to do with statistics; or, if that +be exploded, that he is a person who writes upon ‘value:’ says that rent +is—you cannot very well make out what; talks excruciating currency; he +may be useful as drying machines are useful;[20] but the notion of crying +about him is absurd. The economical loss might be great, but it will not +explain the mourning for Francis Horner. + +The fact is that Horner is a striking example of the advantage of keeping +an atmosphere. This may sound like nonsense, and yet it is true. There +is around some men a kind of circle or halo of influences, and traits, +and associations, by which they infallibly leave a distinct and uniform +impression on all their contemporaries. It is very difficult, even for +those who have the best opportunities, to analyse exactly what this +impression consists in, or why it was made—but it _is_ made. There is a +certain undefinable keeping in the traits and manner, and common speech +and characteristic actions of some men, which inevitably stamps the same +mark and image. It is like a man’s style. There are some writers who can +be known by a few words of their writing; each syllable is instinct with +a certain spirit: put it into the hands of any one chosen at random, +the same impression will be produced by the same casual and felicitous +means. Just so in character, the air and atmosphere, so to speak, which +are around a man, have a delicate and expressive power, and leave a +stamp of unity on the interpretative faculty of mankind. Death dissolves +this association, and it becomes a problem for posterity what it was +that contemporaries observed and reverenced. There is Lord Somers. Does +any one know why he had such a reputation? He was Lord Chancellor, and +decided a Bank case, and had an influence in the Cabinet; but there have +been Lord Chancellors, and Bank cases, and influential Cabinet ministers +not a few, that have never attained to a like reputation. There is +little we can connect specifically with his name. Lord Macaulay, indeed, +says that he spoke for five minutes on the Bishops’ trial; and that +when he sat down, his reputation as an orator and constitutional lawyer +was established. But this must be a trifle eloquent; hardly any orator +could be fast enough to attain such a reputation in five minutes. The +truth is, that Lord Somers had around him that inexpressible attraction +and influence of which we speak. He left a sure, and if we may trust +the historian, even a momentary impression on those who saw him. By a +species of tact they felt him to be a great man. The ethical sense—for +there is almost such a thing in simple persons—discriminated the fine +and placid oneness of his nature. It was the same on a smaller scale +with Horner. After he had left Edinburgh several years, his closest and +most confidential associate writes to him:—‘There is no circumstance +in your life, my dear Horner, so enviable as the universal confidence +which your conduct has produced among all descriptions of men. I do not +speak of your friends, who have been near and close observers; but I +have had some occasions of observing the impression which those who are +distant spectators have had, and I believe there are few instances of any +person of your age possessing the same character for independence and +integrity, qualities for which very little credit is given in general to +young men.’[21] Sydney Smith said, ‘the Ten Commandments were written +on his countenance.’ Of course he was a very ugly man, but the moral +impression in fact conveyed was equally efficacious; ‘I have often,’ said +the same most just observer, ‘told him, that there was not a crime he +might not commit with impunity, as no judge or jury who saw him would +give the smallest credit to any evidence against him. There was in his +look a calm settled love of all that was honourable and good—an air of +wisdom and of sweetness. You saw at once that he was a great man, whom +nature had intended for a leader of human beings; you ranged yourself +willingly under his banners, and cheerfully submitted to his sway.’ From +the somewhat lengthened description of what we defined as the essential +Whig character, it is evident how agreeable and suitable such a man was +to their quiet, composed, and aristocratic nature. His tone was agreeable +to English gentlemen: a firm and placid manliness, without effort or +pretension, is what they like best; and therefore it was that the House +of Commons grieved for his loss—unanimously and without distinction. + +Some friends of Horner’s, in his own time, mildly criticised him for a +tendency to party spirit. The disease in him, if real, was by no means +virulent; but it is worth noticing as one of the defects to which the +proper Whig character is specially prone. It is evident in the quiet +agreement of the men. Their composed, unimaginative nature is inclined +to isolate itself in a single view; their placid disposition, never +prone to self-distrust, is rather susceptible of friendly influence; +their practical habit is concentrated on what should be done. They do +not wish—they do not like to go forth into various speculation; to put +themselves in the position of opponents; to weigh in a refining scale the +special weight of small objections. Their fancy is hardly vivid enough +to explain to them all the characters of those whom they oppose; their +intellect scarcely detective enough to discover a meaning for each grain +in opposing arguments. Nor is their temper, it may be, always prone to be +patient with propositions which tease, and persons who resist them. The +wish to call down fire from heaven is rarely absent in pure zeal for a +pure cause. + +A good deal of praise has naturally been bestowed upon the Whigs for +adopting such a man as Horner, with Romilly and others of that time; and +much excellent eulogy has been expended on the close boroughs, which +afforded to the Whig leaders a useful mode of showing their favour. +Certainly the character of Horner was one altogether calculated to +ingratiate itself with the best and most special Whig nature. But as +for the eulogy on the proprietary seats in Parliament, it is certain +that from the position of the Whig party, the nomination system was +then most likely to show its excellences, and to conceal its defects. +Nobody but an honest man would bind himself thoroughly to the Whigs. It +was evident that the reign of Lord Eldon must be long; the heavy and +common Englishman (after all, the most steady and powerful force in +our political constitution) had been told that Lord Grey was in favour +of the ‘Papists,’ and liked Bonaparte; and the consequence was a long, +painful, arduous exile on ‘the other side of the table,’—the last place +any political adventurer would wish to arrive at. Those who have no +bribes will never charm the corrupt; those who have nothing to give will +not please those who desire that much shall be given them. There is an +observation of Niel Blane, the innkeeper, in ‘Old Mortality.’ ‘“And +what are we to eat ourselves, then, father,” asked Jenny, “when we hae +sent awa the haile meal in the ark and the girnel?” “We maun gaur wheat +flour serve us for a blink,” said Niel, with an air of resignation. “It +is not that ill food, though far frae being sae hearty and kindly to a +Scotchman’s stomach as the curney aitmeal is: the Englishers live amaist +upon it,”’ &c. It was so with the Whigs; they were obliged to put up with +honest and virtuous men, and they wanted able men to carry on a keen +opposition; and after all, they and the ‘Englishers’ like such men best. + +In another point of view, too, Horner’s life was characteristic of those +times. It might seem, at first sight, odd that the English Whigs should +go to Scotland to find a literary representative. There was no place +where Toryism was so intense. The constitution of Scotland at that time +has been described as the worst constitution in Europe. The nature of +the representation made the entire country a government borough. In the +towns, the franchise belonged to a close and self-electing corporation, +who were always carefully watched: the county representation, anciently +resting on a property qualification, had become vested in a few +titular freeholders, something like lords of the manor, only that +they might have no manor; and these, even with the addition of the +borough freeholders, did not amount to three thousand. The whole were +in the hands of Lord Eldon’s party, and the entire force, influence, +and patronage of Government were spent to maintain and keep it so. By +inevitable consequence, Liberalism, even of the most moderate kind, was +thought almost a criminal offence. The mild Horner was considered a man +of ‘very violent opinions.’ Jeffrey’s father, a careful and discerning +parent, was so anxious to shield him from the intellectual taint, as to +forbid his attendance at Stewart’s lectures. This seems an odd place to +find the eruption of a liberal review. Of course the necessary effect +of a close and common-place tyranny was to engender a strong reaction +in searching and vigorous minds. The Liberals of the north, though far +fewer, may perhaps have been stronger Liberals than those of the south; +but this will hardly explain the phenomenon. The reason is an academical +one; the teaching of Scotland seems to have been designed to teach men +to write essays and articles. There are two kinds of education, into +all the details of which it is not now pleasant to go, but which may be +adequately described as the education of facts, and the education of +speculation. The system of facts is the English system. The strength of +the pedagogue and the agony of the pupil are designed to engender a good +knowledge of two languages; in the old times, a little arithmetic; now +also a knowledge, more or less, of mathematics and mathematical physics. +The positive tastes and tendencies of the English mind confine its +training to ascertained learning and definite science. In Scotland the +case has long been different. The time of a man like Horner was taken +up with speculations like these: ‘I have long been feeding my ambition +with the prospect of accomplishing, at some future period of my life, a +work similar to that which Sir Francis Bacon executed about two hundred +years ago. It will depend on the sweep and turn of my speculations, +whether they shall be thrown into the form of a discursive commentary +on the “Instauratio Magna” of that great author, or shall be entitled +to an original form, under the title of a “View of the Limits of Human +Knowledge and a System of the Principles of Philosophical Inquiry.” I +shall say nothing at present of the audacity,’ &c. &c. And this sort +of planning, which is the staple of his youthful biography, was really +accompanied by much application to metaphysics, history, political +economy, and such like studies. It is not at all to our present purpose +to compare this speculative and indeterminate kind of study with the +rigorous accurate education of England. The fault of the former is +sometimes to produce a sort of lecturer _in vacuo_, ignorant of exact +pursuits, and diffusive of vague words. The English now and then produce +a learned creature like a thistle, prickly with all facts, and incapable +of all fruit. But passing by this general question, it cannot be doubted +that, as a preparation for the writing of various articles, the system of +Edinburgh is enormously superior to that of Cambridge. The particular, +compact, exclusive learning of England is inferior in this respect to +the general, diversified, omnipresent information of the North; and +what is more, the speculative, dubious nature of metaphysical and such +like pursuits tends, in a really strong mind, to cultivate habits of +independent thought and original discussion. A bold mind so trained will +even _wish_ to advance its peculiar ideas, on its own account, in a +written and special form; that is, as we said, to write an article. Such +are the excellences in this respect of the system of which Horner is an +example. The defects tend the same way. It tends, as is said, to make a +man fancy he knows everything. ‘Well then, at least,’ it may be answered, +‘I can write an article on everything.’ + +The facility and boldness of the habits so produced were curiously +exemplified in Lord Jeffrey. During the first six years of the Edinburgh +Review he wrote as many as seventy-nine articles; in a like period +afterwards he wrote forty. Any one who should expect to find a pure +perfection in these miscellaneous productions, should remember their +bulk. If all his reviews were reprinted, they would be very many. And +all the while he was a busy lawyer, was editor of the Review, did the +business, corrected the proof sheets; and more than all, what one would +have thought a very strong man’s work, actually managed Henry Brougham. +You must not criticise papers like these, rapidly written in the hurry +of life, as you would the painful words of an elaborate sage, slowly and +with anxious awfulness instructing mankind. Some things, a few things, +are for eternity; some, and a good many, are for time. We do not expect +the everlastingness of the Pyramids from the vibratory grandeur of a +Tyburnian mansion. + +The truth is, that Lord Jeffrey was something of a Whig critic. We have +hinted, that among the peculiarities of that character, an excessive +partiality for new, arduous, overwhelming, original excellence, was by no +means to be numbered. Their tendency inclining to the quiet footsteps of +custom, they like to trace the exact fulfilment of admitted rules, a just +accordance with the familiar features of ancient merit. But they are most +averse to mysticism. A clear, precise, discriminating intellect shrinks +at once from the symbolic, the unbounded, the indefinite. The misfortune +is that mysticism is true. There certainly are kinds of truth, borne in +as it were instinctively on the human intellect, most influential on +the character and the heart, yet hardly capable of stringent statement, +difficult to limit by an elaborate definition. Their course is shadowy; +the mind seems rather to have seen than to see them, more to feel +after than definitely apprehend them. They commonly involve an infinite +element, which of course cannot be stated precisely, or else a first +principle—an original tendency—of our intellectual constitution, which +it is impossible not to feel, and yet which it is hard to extricate in +terms and words. Of this latter kind is what has been called the religion +of nature, or more exactly, perhaps, the religion of the imagination. +This is an interpretation of the world. According to it the beauty of the +universe has a meaning, its grandeur a soul, its sublimity an expression. +As we gaze on the faces of those whom we love; as we watch the light of +life in the dawning of their eyes, and the play of their features, and +the wildness of their animation; as we trace in changing lineaments a +varying sign; as a charm and a thrill seem to run along the tone of a +voice, to haunt the mind with a mere word; as a tone seems to roam in the +ear; as a trembling fancy hears words that are unspoken; so in nature the +mystical sense finds a motion in the mountain, and a power in the waves, +and a meaning in the long white line of the shore, and a thought in the +blue of heaven, and a gushing soul in the buoyant light, an unbounded +being in the vast void air, and + + ‘Wakeful watchings in the pointed stars.’ + +There is a philosophy in this which might be explained, if explaining +were to our purpose. It might be advanced that there are original +sources of expression in the essential grandeur and sublimity of nature, +of an analogous though fainter kind, to those familiar, inexplicable +signs by which we trace in the very face and outward lineaments of +man the existence and working of the mind within. But be this as it +may, it is certain that Mr. Wordsworth preached this kind of religion, +and that Lord Jeffrey did not believe a word of it. His cool, sharp, +collected mind revolted from its mysticism; his detective intelligence +was absorbed in its apparent fallaciousness; his light humour made +sport with the sublimities of the preacher. His love of perspicuity +was vexed by its indefiniteness; the precise philosopher was amazed at +its mystic unintelligibility. Finding a little fault was doubtless not +unpleasant to him. The reviewer’s pen—φόνος ἡρώεσσιν—has seldom been +more poignantly wielded. ‘If,’ he was told, ‘you could be alarmed into +the semblance of modesty, you would charm everybody; but remember my +joke against you’ (Sydney Smith _loquitur_) ‘about the moon. D—n the +solar system—bad light—planets too distant—pestered with comets: feeble +contrivance; could make a better with great ease.’ Yet we do not mean +that in this great literary feud, either of the combatants had all the +right, or gained all the victory. The world has given judgment. Both +Mr. Wordsworth and Lord Jeffrey have received their reward. The one had +his own generation; the laughter of men, the applause of drawing-rooms, +the concurrence of the crowd: the other a succeeding age, the fond +enthusiasm of secret students, the lonely rapture of lonely minds. And +each has received according to his kind. If all cultivated men speak +differently because of the existence of Wordsworth and Coleridge; if +not a thoughtful English book has appeared for forty years, without +some trace for good or evil of their influence; if sermon-writers +subsist upon their thoughts; if ‘sacred poets’ thrive by translating +their weaker portion into the speech of women; if, when all this is +over, some sufficient part of their writing will ever be fitting food +for wild musing and solitary meditation, surely this is because they +possessed the inner nature—‘an intense and glowing mind,’ ‘the vision +and the faculty divine.’ But if, perchance, in their weaker moments, the +great authors of the ‘Lyrical Ballads’ did ever imagine that the world +was to pause because of their verses: that Peter Bell would be popular +in drawing-rooms; that Christabel would be perused in the City; that +people of fashion would make a hand-book of the Excursion,—it was well +for them to be told at once that this was not so. Nature ingeniously +prepared a shrill artificial voice, which spoke in season and out of +season, enough and more than enough, what will ever be the idea of the +cities of the plain concerning those who live alone among the mountains; +of the frivolous concerning the grave; of the gregarious concerning the +recluse; of those who laugh concerning those who laugh not; of the common +concerning the uncommon; of those who lend on usury concerning those who +lend not; the notion of the world of those whom it will not reckon among +the righteous—it said,[22] ‘This won’t do!’ And so in all time will the +lovers of polished Liberalism speak, concerning the intense and lonely +prophet. + +Yet, if Lord Jeffrey had the natural infirmities of a Whig critic, he +certainly had also its extrinsic and political advantages. Especially +at Edinburgh the Whigs wanted a literary man. The Liberal party in +Scotland had long groaned under political exclusion; they had suffered, +with acute mortification, the heavy sway of Henry Dundas, but they had +been compensated by a literary supremacy; in the book-world they enjoyed +a domination. On a sudden this was rudely threatened. The fame of Sir +Walter Scott was echoed from the southern world, and appealed to every +national sentiment—to the inmost heart of every Scotchman. And what a +ruler! a lame Tory, a jocose Jacobite, a laugher at Liberalism, a scoffer +at metaphysics, an unbeliever in political economy! What a gothic ruler +for the modern Athens;—was this man to reign over them? It would not have +been like human nature, if a strong and intellectual party had not soon +found a clever and noticeable rival. Poets, indeed, are not made ‘to +order;’ but Byron, speaking the sentiment of his time and circle, counted +reviewers their equals. If a Tory produced ‘Marmion,’ a Whig wrote the +best article upon it; Scott might, so ran Liberal speech, be the best +living writer of fiction; Jeffrey, clearly, was the most shrewd and +accomplished of literary critics. + +And though this was an absurd delusion, Lord Jeffrey was no every-day +man. He invented the trade of editorship. Before him an editor was a +bookseller’s drudge; he is now a distinguished functionary. If Jeffrey +was not a great critic, he had, what very great critics have wanted, the +art of writing what most people would think good criticism. He might not +know his subject, but he knew his readers. People like to read ideas +which they can imagine to have been their own. ‘Why does Scarlett always +persuade the jury?’ asked a rustic gentleman. ‘Because there are twelve +Scarletts in the jury-box,’ replied an envious advocate. What Scarlett +was in law, Jeffrey was in criticism; he could become that which his +readers could not avoid being. He was neither a pathetic writer nor +a profound writer; but he was a quick-eyed, bustling, black-haired, +sagacious, agreeable man of the world. He had his day, and was entitled +to his day; but a gentle oblivion must now cover his already subsiding +reputation. + +Sydney Smith was an after-dinner writer. His words have a flow, a vigour, +an expression, which is not given to hungry mortals. You seem to read +of good wine, of good cheer, of beaming and buoyant enjoyment. There is +little trace of labour in his composition; it is poured forth like an +unceasing torrent, rejoicing daily to run its course. And what courage +there is in it! There is as much variety of pluck in writing across a +sheet, as in riding across a country. Cautious men have many adverbs, +‘usually,’ ‘nearly,’ ‘almost:’ safe men begin, ‘it may be advanced:’ you +never know precisely what their premises are, nor what their conclusion +is; they go tremulously like a timid rider; they turn hither and thither; +they do not go straight across a subject, like a masterly mind. A few +sentences are enough for a master of sentences. A practical topic wants +rough vigour and strong exposition. This is the writing of ‘Sydney +Smith.’ It is suited to the broader kind of important questions. For +anything requiring fine nicety of speculation, long elaborateness of +deduction, evanescent sharpness of distinction, neither his style nor +his mind was fit. He had no patience for long argument, no acuteness +for delicate precision, no fangs for recondite research. Writers, like +teeth, are divided into incisors and grinders. Sydney Smith was a +‘molar.’ He did not run a long sharp argument into the interior of a +question; he did not, in the common phrase, go deeply into it; but he +kept it steadily under the contact of a strong, capable, heavy, jaw-like +understanding,—pressing its surface, effacing its intricacies, grinding +it down. Yet as we said, this is done without toil. The play of the +‘molar’ is instinctive and placid; he could not help it; it would seem +that he had an enjoyment in it. + +The story is, that he liked a bright light; that when he was a poor +parson in the country, he used, not being able to afford more delicate +luminaries, to adorn his drawing-room with a hundred little lamps of +tin metal and mutton fat. When you know this, you see it in all his +writings. There is the same preference of perspicuity throughout them. +Elegance, fine savour, sweet illustration, are quite secondary. His only +question to an argument was, ‘Will it tell?’ as to an example, ‘Will it +exemplify?’ Like what is called ‘push’ in a practical man, his style goes +straight to its object; it is not restrained by the gentle hindrances, +the delicate decorums of refining natures. There is nothing more +characteristic of the Scandinavian mythology, than that it had a god with +a hammer. You have no better illustration of our English humour, than the +great success of this huge and healthy organisation. + +There is something about this not exactly to the Whig taste. They do +not like such broad fun, and rather dislike unlimited statement. Lord +Melbourne, it is plain, declined to make him a bishop. In this there +might be a vestige of Canningite prejudice, but on the whole, there was +the distinction between the two men which there is between the loud wit +and the _recherché_ thinker—between the bold controversialist and the +discriminative statesman. A refined _noblesse_ can hardly respect a +humorist; he amuses them, and they like him, but they are puzzled to +know whether he does not laugh at them as well as with them; and the +notion of being laughed at, ever, or on any score, is alien to their shy +decorum and suppressed pride. But in a broader point of view, and taking +a wider range of general character, there was a good deal in common. +More than any one else, Sydney Smith was Liberalism in life. Somebody +has defined Liberalism as the spirit of the world. It represents its +genial enjoyment, its wise sense, its steady judgment, its preference +of the near to the far, of the seen to the unseen; it represents, too, +its shrinking from difficult dogma, from stern statement, from imperious +superstition. What health is to the animal, Liberalism is to the polity. +It is a principle of fermenting enjoyment, running over all the nerves, +inspiring the frame, happy in its mind, easy in its place, glad to +behold the sun. All this Sydney Smith, as it were, personified. The +biography just published of him will be very serviceable to his fame. +He has been regarded too much as a fashionable jester, and metropolitan +wit of society. We have now for the first time a description of him as +he was,—equally at home in the crude world of Yorkshire, and amid the +quintessential refinements of Mayfair. It is impossible to believe that +he did not give the epithet to his parish: it is now called Foston _le +Clay_. It was a ‘mute inglorious’ Sydney of the district, that invented +the name, if it is really older than the century. The place has an obtuse +soil, inhabited by stiff-clayed Yorkshiremen. There was nobody in the +parish to speak to, only peasants, farmers, and such like (what the +clergy call ‘parishioners’) and an old clerk who thought every one who +came from London a fool, ‘but you I do zee, Mr. Smith, be no fool.’ This +was the sort of life. + + ‘I turned schoolmaster, to educate my son, as I could + not afford to send him to school. Mrs. Sydney turned + schoolmistress, to educate my girls, as I could not afford + a governess. I turned farmer, as I could not let my land. + A man-servant was too expensive; so I caught up a little + garden-girl, made like a milestone, christened her Bunch, put + a napkin in her hand, and made her my butler. The girls taught + her to read, Mrs. Sydney to wait, and I undertook her morals. + Bunch became the best butler in the county. + + ‘I had little furniture, so I bought a cart-load of deals; + took a carpenter (who came to me for parish relief, called + Jack Robinson) with a face like a full-moon, into my service; + established him in a barn, and said, “Jack, furnish my house.” + You see the result! + + ‘At last it was suggested that a carriage was much wanted in + the establishment. After diligent search, I discovered in + the back settlements of a York coach-maker an ancient green + chariot, supposed to have been the earliest invention of the + kind. I brought it home in triumph to my admiring family. + Being somewhat dilapidated, the village tailor lined it, the + village blacksmith repaired it; nay, (but for Mrs. Sydney’s + earnest entreaties,) we believe the village painter would + have exercised his genius upon the exterior; it escaped this + danger however, and the result was wonderful. Each year added + to its charms: it grew younger and younger; a new wheel, a new + spring; I christened it the _Immortal_; it was known all over + the neighbourhood; the village boys cheered it, and the village + dogs barked at it; but “Faber meæ fortunæ” was my motto, and we + had no false shame. + + ‘Added to all these domestic cares, I was village parson, + village doctor, village comforter, village magistrate, and + Edinburgh Reviewer; so you see I had not much time left on my + hands to regret London.’ + +It is impossible that this should not at once remind us of the life of +Sir Walter Scott. There is the same strong sense, the same glowing, +natural pleasure, the same power of dealing with men, the same power of +diffusing common happiness. Both enjoyed as much in a day, as an ordinary +man in a month. The term ‘animal spirits’ peculiarly expresses this +bold enjoyment; it seems to come from a principle intermediate between +the mind and the body; to be hardly intellectual enough for the soul, +and yet too permeating and aspiring for crude matter. Of course, there +is an immense imaginative world in Scott’s existence to which Sydney +Smith had no claim. But they met upon the present world; they enjoyed +the spirit of life; ‘they loved the world, and the world them;’ they +did not pain themselves with immaterial speculation—roast beef was an +admitted fact. A certain, even excessive practical caution which is +ascribed to the Englishman, Scott would have been the better for. Yet his +biography would have been the worse. There is nothing in the life before +us comparable in interest to the tragic, gradual cracking of the great +mind; the overtasking of the great capital, and the ensuing failure; the +spectacle of heaving genius breaking in the contact with misfortune. +The anticipation of this pain increases the pleasure of the reader; the +commencing threads of coming calamity shade the woof of pleasure; the +proximity of suffering softens the ὕβρις, the terrible, fatiguing energy +of enjoyment. + +A great deal of excellent research has been spent on the difference +between ‘humour’ and ‘wit,’ into which metaphysical problem ‘our limits,’ +of course, forbid us to enter. There is, however, between them, the +distinction of dry sticks and green sticks; there is in humour a living +energy, a diffused potency, a noble sap; it grows upon the character of +the humorist. Wit is part of the machinery of the intellect; as Madame +de Staël says, ‘_La gaieté de l’esprit est facile à tous les hommes +d’esprit_.’ We wonder Mr. Babbage does not invent a punning-engine; +it is just as possible as a calculating one. Sydney Smith’s mirth was +essentially humorous; it clings to the character of the man; as with the +sayings of Dr. Johnson, there is a species of personality attaching to +it; the word is more graphic because Sydney Smith—that man being the man +that he was,—said it, than it would have been if said by any one else. +In a desponding moment, he would have it he was none the better for the +jests which he made, any more than a bottle for the wine which passed +through it: this is a true description of many a wit, but he was very +unjust in attributing it to himself. + +Sydney Smith is often compared to Swift; but this only shows with how +little thought our common criticism is written. The two men have really +nothing in common, except that they were both high in the Church, and +both wrote amusing letters about Ireland. Of course, to the great +constructive and elaborative power displayed in Swift’s longer works, +Sydney Smith has no pretension; he could not have written ‘Gulliver’s +Travels;’ but so far as the two series of Irish letters goes, it +seems plain that he has the advantage. Plymley’s letters are true; +the treatment may be incomplete—the Catholic religion may have latent +dangers and insidious attractions which are not there mentioned—but +the main principle is sound; the common sense of religious toleration +is hardly susceptible of better explanation. Drapier’s letters, on +the contrary, are essentially absurd; they are a clever appeal to +ridiculous prejudices. Who cares now for a disputation on the evils to be +apprehended a hundred years ago from adulterated halfpence, especially +when we know that the halfpence were not adulterated, and that if they +had been, those evils would never have arisen? Any one, too, who wishes +to make a collection of currency crotchets, will find those letters worth +his attention. No doubt there is a clever affectation of common-sense +as in all of Swift’s political writings, and the style has an air of +business; yet, on the other hand, there are no passages which any one +would now care to quote for their manner and their matter; and there are +many in ‘Plymley’ that will be constantly cited, so long as existing +controversies are at all remembered. The whole genius of the two writers +is emphatically opposed. Sydney Smith’s is the ideal of popular, buoyant, +riotous fun; it cries and laughs with boisterous mirth; it rolls hither +and thither like a mob, with elastic and common-place joy. Swift was a +detective in a dean’s wig; he watched the mob; his whole wit is a kind +of dexterous indication of popular frailties; he hated the crowd; he was +a spy on beaming smiles, and a common informer against genial enjoyment. +His whole essence was a soreness against mortality. Show him innocent +mirth, he would say, How absurd! He was painfully wretched, no doubt, +in himself: perhaps, as they say, he had no heart; but his mind, his +brain had a frightful capacity for secret pain; his sharpness was the +sharpness of disease; his power the sore acumen of morbid wretchedness. +It is impossible to fancy a parallel more proper to show the excellence, +the unspeakable superiority of a buoyant and bounding writer. + +At the same time, it is impossible to give to Sydney Smith the highest +rank, even as a humorist. Almost all his humour has reference to the +incongruity of special means to special ends. The notion of Plymley +is want of conformity between the notions of ‘my brother Abraham,’ +and the means of which he makes use; of the quiet clergyman, who was +always told he was a bit of a goose, advocating conversion by muskets, +and stopping Bonaparte by Peruvian bark. The notion of the letters to +Archdeacon Singleton is, a bench of bishops placidly and pleasantly +destroying the Church. It is the same with most of his writings. Even +when there is nothing absolutely practical in the idea, the subject is +from the scenery of practice, from concrete entities, near institutions, +superficial facts. You might quote a hundred instances. Here is one: ‘A +gentleman, in speaking of a nobleman’s wife of great rank and fortune, +lamented very much that she had no children. A medical gentleman who was +present observed, that to have no children was a great misfortune, but +he had often observed it was _hereditary_ in families.’ This is what we +mean by saying his mirth lies in the superficial relations of phenomena +(some will say we are pompous, like the medical man); in the relation +of one external fact to another external fact; of one detail of common +life to another detail of common life. But this is not the highest topic +of humour. Taken as a whole, the universe is absurd. There seems an +unalterable contradiction between the human mind and its employments. +How can a _soul_ be a merchant? What relation to an immortal being have +the price of linseed, the fall of butter, the tare on tallow, or the +brokerage on hemp? Can an undying creature debit ‘petty expenses,’ and +charge for ‘carriage paid’? All the world’s a stage;—‘the satchel, and +the shining morning face’—the ‘strange oaths;’—‘the bubble reputation’—the + + ‘Eyes severe and beard of formal cut, + Full of wise saws and modern instances.’ + +Can these things be real? Surely they are acting. What relation have they +to the truth as we see it in theory? What connection with our certain +hopes, our deep desires, our craving and infinite thought? ‘In respect of +itself, it is a good life; but in respect it is a shepherd’s life, it is +nought.’ The soul ties its shoe; the mind washes its hands in a basin. +All is incongruous. + + _Shallow._ Certain, ’tis certain; very sure, very sure; death, + as the Psalmist saith, is certain to all; all shall die. How a + good yoke of bullocks at Stamford fair? + + _Silence._ Truly, cousin, I was not there. + + _Shallow._ Death is certain.—Is old Double, of your town, + living yet? + + _Silence._ Dead, sir. + + _Shallow._ Dead. See! See! He drew a good bow,—and dead. He + shot a fine shoot. John of Gaunt loved him well, and betted + much money on his head.—Dead! He would have clapped i’ the + clout at fourscore, and carried you a forehandshaft, a fourteen + and fourteen and-a-half, that it would have done a man’s heart + good to see.—How a score of ewes now? + + _Silence._ Thereafter as they be; a score of ewes may be worth + ten pounds. + + _Shallow._ And is Double dead!— + +It is because Sydney Smith had so little of this Shakespearian humour, +that there is a glare in his pages, and that in the midst of his best +writing, we sigh for the soothing superiority of quieter writers. + +Sydney Smith was not only the wit of the first Edinburgh, but likewise +the divine. He was, to use his own expression, the only clergyman who +in those days ‘turned out’ to fight the battles of the Whigs. In some +sort this was not so important. A curious abstinence from religious +topics characterises the original Review. There is a wonderful omission +of this most natural topic of speculation in the lives of Horner and +Jeffrey. In truth, it would seem that, living in the incessant din of +a Calvinistic country, the best course for thoughtful and serious men +was to be silent—at least they instinctively thought so. They felt no +involuntary call to be theological teachers themselves, and gently +recoiled from the coarse admonition around them. Even in the present +milder time, few cultivated persons willingly think on the special dogmas +of distinct theology. They do not deny them, but they live apart from +them: they do not disbelieve them, but they are silent when they are +stated. They do not question the existence of Kamschatka, but they have +no call to busy themselves with Kamschatka; they abstain from peculiar +tenets. Nor in truth is this, though much aggravated by existing facts, +a mere accident of this age. There are some people to whom such a course +of conduct is always natural: there are certain persons who do not, as +it would seem cannot, feel all that others feel; who have, so to say, no +_ear_ for much of religion: who are in some sort out of its reach. ‘It is +impossible,’ says a late divine of the Church of England, ‘not to observe +that innumerable persons (may we not say the majority of mankind?) who +have a belief in God and immortality, have, nevertheless, scarcely any +consciousness of the peculiar doctrines of the Gospel. They seem to live +aloof from them in the world of business or of pleasure, “the common +life of all men,” not without a sense of right, and a rule of truth and +honesty, yet insensible’ to much which we need not name. ‘They have never +in their whole lives experienced the love of God, the sense of sin, or +the need of forgiveness. Often they are remarkable for the purity of +their morals; many of them have strong and disinterested attachments +and quick human sympathies; sometimes a stoical feeling of uprightness, +or a peculiar sensitiveness to dishonour. It would be a mistake to say +that they are without religion. They join in its public acts; they are +offended at profaneness or impiety; they are thankful for the blessings +of life, and do not rebel against its misfortunes. Such men meet us at +every step. They are those whom we know and associate with; honest in +their dealings, respectable in their lives, decent in their conversation. +The Scripture speaks to us of two classes, represented by the church and +the world, the wheat and the tares, the sheep and the goats, the friends +and enemies of God. We cannot say in which of these two divisions we +should find a place for them.’ They believe always a kind of ‘natural +religion.’ Now these are what we may call, in the language of the +present, Liberals. Those who can remember, or who will re-read our +delineation of the Whig character, may observe its conformity. There is +the same purity and delicacy, the same tranquil sense; an equal want of +imagination, of impulsive enthusiasm, of shrinking fear. You need not +speak like the above writer of ‘peculiar doctrines;’ the phenomenon is no +speciality of a particular creed. Glance over the whole of history. As +the classical world stood beside the Jewish; as Horace beside St. Paul; +like the heavy ark and the buoyant waves, so are men in contrast with one +another. You cannot imagine a classical Isaiah; you cannot fancy a Whig +St. Dominic; there is no such thing as a Liberal Augustine. The deep sea +of mysticism lies opposed to some natures; in some moods it is a sublime +wonder; in others an ‘impious ocean,’—they will never put forth on it at +any time. + +All this is intelligible, and in a manner beautiful as a character; +but it is not equally excellent as a creed. A certain class of Liberal +divines have endeavoured to petrify into a theory, a pure and placid +disposition. In some respects Sydney Smith is one of these; his sermons +are the least excellent of his writings; of course they are sensible +and well-intentioned, but they have the defect of his school. With +misdirected energy, these divines have laboured after a plain religion; +they have forgotten that a quiet and definite mind is confined to a +placid and definite world; that religion has its essence in awe, its +charm in infinity, its sanction in dread; that its dominion is an +inexplicable dominion; that mystery is its power. There is a reluctance +in all such writers; they creep away from the unintelligible parts of the +subject: they always seem to have something behind;—not to like to bring +out what they know to be at hand. They are in their nature apologists; +and, as George the Third said, ‘I did not know the Bible needed an +apology.’ As well might the thunder be ashamed to roll, as religion +hesitate to be too awful for mankind. The invective of Lucretius is truer +than the placid patronage of the divine. Let us admire Liberals in life, +but let us keep no terms with Paleyans in speculation. + +And so we must draw to a conclusion. We have in some sort given a +description of, with one great exception, the most remarkable men +connected at its origin with the Edinburgh Review. And that exception +is a man of too fitful, defective, and strange greatness to be spoken +of now. Henry Brougham must be left to after-times. Indeed, he would +have marred the unity of our article. He was connected with the Whigs, +but he never was one. His impulsive ardour is the opposite of their +coolness; his irregular, discursive intellect contrasts with their quiet +and perfecting mind. Of those of whom we have spoken, let us say, that +if none of them attained to the highest rank of abstract intellect; if +the disposition of none of them was ardent or glowing enough to hurry +them forward to the extreme point of daring greatness; if only one can be +said to have a lasting place in real literature, it is clear that they +vanquished a slavish cohort; that they upheld the name of freemen in a +time of bondmen; that they applied themselves to that which was real, +and accomplished much which was very difficult; that the very critics +who question their inimitable excellence will yet admire their just and +scarcely imitable example. + + + + +_HARTLEY COLERIDGE._[23] + +(1852.) + + +Hartley Coleridge was not like the Duke of Wellington.[24] Children are +urged by the example of the great statesman and warrior just departed—not +indeed to neglect ‘their book’ as he did—but to be industrious and +thrifty; to ‘always perform business,’ to ‘beware of procrastination,’ +to ‘NEVER fail to do their best:’ good ideas, as may be ascertained by +referring to the masterly despatches on the Mahratta transactions—‘great +events,’ as the preacher continues, ‘which exemplify the efficacy of +diligence even in regions where the very advent of our religion is as yet +but partially made known.’ But + + ‘What a wilderness were this sad world, + If man were always man and never child!’ + +And it were almost a worse wilderness if there were not some, to relieve +the dull monotony of activity, who are children through life; who act on +wayward impulse, and whose will has never come; who toil not and who spin +not; who always have ‘fair Eden’s simpleness:’ and of such was Hartley +Coleridge. ‘Don’t you remember,’ writes Gray to Horace Walpole, when +Lord B. and Sir H. C. and Viscount D., who are now great statesmen, were +little dirty boys playing at cricket? For my part I do not feel one bit +older or wiser now than I did then.’ For as some apply their minds to +what is next them, and labour ever, and attain to governing the Tower, +and entering the Trinity House,—to commanding armies, and applauding +pilots,—so there are also some who are ever anxious to-day about what +ought only to be considered to-morrow; who never get on; whom the earth +neglects, and whom tradesmen little esteem; who are where they were; who +cause grief, and are loved; that are at once a by-word and a blessing; +who do not live in life, and it seems will not die in death: and of such +was Hartley Coleridge. + +A curious instance of poetic anticipation was in this instance vouchsafed +to Wordsworth. When Hartley was six years old, he addressed to him these +verses, perhaps the best ever written on a real and visible child:— + + ‘O thou, whose fancies from afar are brought, + Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel + And fittest to unutterable thought + The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol; + Thou fairy voyager, that dost float + In such clear water that thy boat + May rather seem + To brood on air than on an earthly stream; + O blessed vision, happy child, + Thou art so exquisitely wild, + I think of thee with many fears + For what may be thy lot in future years. + ... + O too industrious folly! + O vain and causeless melancholy! + Nature will either end thee quite, + Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, + Preserve for thee by individual right + A young lamb’s heart among the full-grown flocks.’ + +And so it was. As often happens, being very little of a boy in actual +childhood, Hartley preserved into manhood and age all of boyhood which +he had ever possessed—its beaming imagination and its wayward will. He +had none of the natural roughness of that age. He never played—partly +from weakness, for he was very small, but more from awkwardness. His +uncle Southey used to say he had two left hands, and might have added +that they were both useless. He could no more have achieved football, or +mastered cricket, or kept in with the hounds, than he could have followed +Charles’s Wain or played pitch and toss with Jupiter’s satellites. Nor +was he very excellent at school-work. He showed, indeed, no deficiency. +The Coleridge family have inherited from the old scholar of Ottery St. +Mary a certain classical facility which could not desert the son of +Samuel Taylor. But his real strength was in his own mind. All children +have a world of their own, as distinct from that of the grown people who +gravitate around them as the dreams of girlhood from our prosaic life; as +the ideas of the kitten that plays with the falling leaves, from those of +her carnivorous mother that catches mice and is sedulous in her domestic +duties. But generally about this interior existence, children are dumb. +You have warlike ideas, but you cannot say to a sinewy relative, ‘My +dear aunt, I wonder when the big bush in the garden will begin to walk +about; I’m sure it’s a crusader, and I was cutting it all the day with +my steel sword. But what do you think, aunt, for I’m puzzled about its +legs, because you see, aunt, it has only _one_ stalk; and besides, aunt, +the leaves.’ You cannot remark this in secular life; but you hack at the +infelicitous bush till you do not altogether reject the idea that your +small garden is Palestine, and yourself the most adventurous of knights. +Hartley had this, of course, like any other dreamy child, but in his +case it was accompanied with the faculty of speech, and an extraordinary +facility in continuous story-telling. In the very earliest childhood he +had conceived a complete outline of a country like England, whereof he +was king himself, and in which there were many wars, and rumours of wars, +and foreign relations and statesmen, and rebels and soldiers. ‘My people, +Derwent,’ he used to begin, ‘are giving me much pain; they want to go +to war.’ This faculty, as was natural, showed itself before he went to +school, but he carried on the habit of fanciful narration even into that +bleak and ungenial region. ‘It was not,’ says his brother, ‘by a series +of tales, but by one continuous tale, regularly evolved, and possessing a +real unity, that he enchained the attention of his auditors, night after +night, as we lay in bed, for a space of years, and not unfrequently for +hours together.’... ‘There was certainly,’ he adds, ‘a great variety of +persons sharply characterised, who appeared on the stage in combination +and not in succession.’ Connected, in Hartley, with this premature +development of the imagination, there was a singular deficiency in what +may be called the _sense_ of reality. It is alleged that he hardly +knew that Ejuxrea, which is the name of his kingdom, was not as solid +a _terra firma_ as Keswick or Ambleside. The deficiency showed itself +on other topics. His father used to tell a story of his metaphysical +questioning. When he was about five years old, he was asked, doubtless +by the paternal metaphysician, some question as to why he was called +Hartley. ‘Which Hartley?’ replied the boy. ‘Why, is there more than one +Hartley?’ ‘Yes, there is a deal of Hartleys; there is Picture Hartley +(Hazlitt had painted a picture of him), and Shadow Hartley, and there’s +Echo Hartley, and there’s Catchmefast Hartley,’ seizing his own arm very +eagerly, and as if reflecting on the ‘summject and ommject,’ which is to +say, being in hopeless confusion. We do not hear whether he was puzzled +and perplexed by such difficulties in later life; and the essays which +we are reviewing, though they contain much keen remark on the detail of +human character, are destitute of the Germanic profundities; they do not +discuss how existence is possible, nor enumerate the pure particulars of +the soul itself. But considering the idle dreaminess of his youth and +manhood, we doubt if Hartley ever got over his preliminary doubts—ever +properly grasped the idea of fact and reality. This is not nonsense. If +you attend acutely, you may observe that in few things do people differ +more than in their perfect and imperfect realisation of this earth. +To the Duke of Wellington a coat was a coat; ‘there was no mistake;’ +no reason to disbelieve it; and he carried to his grave a perfect and +indubitable persuasion that he really did (what was his best exploit), +without fluctuation, _shave_ on the morning of the battle of Waterloo. +You could not have made him doubt it. But to many people who will never +be Field Marshals, there is on such points, not rational doubt, but +instinctive questioning. ‘Who the devil,’ said Lord Byron, ‘could _make_ +such a world? No one, I believe.’ ‘Cast your thoughts,’ says a very +different writer, ‘back on the time when our ancient buildings were +first reared. Consider the churches all around us; how many generations +have passed since stone was put upon stone, till the whole edifice was +finished! The first movers and instruments of its erection, the minds +that planned it, and the limbs that wrought at it, the pious hands +that contributed to it, and the holy lips that consecrated it, have +long, long ago been taken away, yet we benefit by their good deed. Does +it not seem strange that men should be able, not merely by acting on +others, not by a continued influence carried on through many minds in +succession, but by a single direct act, to come into contact with us, +and, as if with their own hand, to benefit us who live centuries later?’ +Or again, speaking of the lower animals: ‘Can anything be more marvellous +or startling, than that we should have a race of beings about us, whom +we do but see, and as little know their state, or can describe their +interests or their destiny, as we can tell of the inhabitants of the +sun and moon? It is indeed a very overpowering thought, that we hold +intercourse with creatures who are as much strangers to us, as mysterious +as if they were the fabulous, unearthly beings, more powerful than man, +and yet his slaves, which Eastern superstitions have invented.... Cast +your thoughts abroad on the whole number of them, large and small, in +vast forests, or in the water, or in the air, and then say whether the +presence of such countless multitudes, so various in their natures, so +strange and wild in their shapes, is not’ as incredible as anything can +be. We go into a street, and see it thronged with men, and we say, Is +it _true_, _are_ there these men? We look on a creeping river, till we +say, _Is_ there this river? We enter the law courts: we watch the patient +Chancellor: we hear the droning wigs:—surely this is not real,—this is +a dream,—nobody would do _that_,—it is a delusion. We are really, as +the sceptics insinuate, but ‘sensations and impressions,’ in groups or +alone, that float up and down; or, as the poet teaches, phantoms and +images, whose idle stir but mocks the calm reality of the ‘pictures on +the wall.’ All this will be called dreamy; but it is exactly because it +_is_ dreamy that we notice it. Hartley Coleridge was a dreamer: he began +with Ejuxrea, and throughout his years, he but slumbered and slept. Life +was to him a floating haze, a disputable mirage: you must not treat him +like a believer in stocks and stones—you might as well say he was a man +of business. + +Hartley’s school education is not worth recounting; but beside and along +with it there was another education, on every side of him, singularly +calculated to bring out the peculiar aptitudes of an imaginative mind, +yet exactly, on that very account, very little likely to bring it down +to fact and reality, to mix it with miry clay, or define its dreams by +a daily reference to the common and necessary earth. He was bred up in +the house of Mr. Southey, where, more than anywhere else in all England, +it was held that literature and poetry are the aim and object of every +true man, and that grocery and other affairs lie beneath at an wholly +immeasurable distance, to be attended to by the inferior animals. In +Hartley’s case the seed fell on fitting soil. In youth, and even in +childhood, he was a not unintelligent listener to the unspeakable talk of +the Lake poets. + +‘It was so,’ writes his brother, ‘rather than by a regular course of +study, that he was educated; by desultory reading, by the living voice +of Coleridge, Southey, and Wordsworth, Lloyd, Wilson, and De Quincey; +and again, by homely familiarity with townsfolk and countryfolk of every +degree; lastly, by daily recurring hours of solitude—by lonely wanderings +with the murmur of the Brathay in his ear.’ + +Thus he lived till the time came that he should go to Oxford, and +naturally enough, it seems, he went up with much hope and strong +excitement; for, quiet and calm as seem those ancient dormitories, to +him, as to many, the going among them seemed the first entrance into +the real world—the end of torpidity—the beginning of life. He had often +stood by the white Rydal Water, and thought it was coming, and now it +was come in fact. At first his Oxford life was prosperous enough. An +old gentleman, who believes that he too was once an undergraduate, +well remembers how Hartley’s eloquence was admired at wine parties and +breakfast parties. ‘Leaning his head on one shoulder, turning up his +dark bright eyes, and swinging backwards and forwards in his chair, he +would hold forth by the hour, for no one wished to interrupt him, on +whatever subject might have been started—either of literature, politics, +or religion—with an originality of thought, a force of illustration, +which,’ the narrator doubts, ‘if any man then living, except his father, +could have surpassed.’ The singular gift of continuous conversation—for +singular it is, if in any degree agreeable—seems to have come to him by +nature, and it was through life the one quality which he relied on for +attraction in society. Its being agreeable is to be accounted for mainly +by its singularity; if one knew any respectable number of declaimers—if +any proportion of one’s acquaintance should receive the gift of the +English language, and ‘improve each shining hour’ with liquid eloquence, +how we should regret their present dumb and torpid condition! If we +are to be dull—which our readers will admit to be an appointment of +providence—surely we will be dull in silence. Do not sermons exist, and +are they not a warning to mankind? + +In fact, the habit of common and continuous speech is a symptom of +mental deficiency. It proceeds from not knowing what is going on in +other people’s minds. S. T. Coleridge, it is well known, talked to +everybody, and to everybody alike; like a Christian divine, he did not +regard persons. ‘That is a fine opera, Mr. Coleridge,’ said a young +lady, some fifty years back. ‘Yes, ma’am; and I remember Kant somewhere +makes a very similar remark for, as _we_ know, the idea of philosophical +infinity—.’ Now, this sort of talk will answer with two sorts of +people—with comfortable, stolid, solid people, who don’t understand it at +all—who don’t feel that they ought to understand it—who feel that they +ought not—that _they_ are to sell treacle and appreciate figs—but that +there _is_ this transcendental superlunary sphere, which is known to +others—which is now revealed in the spiritual speaker, the unmitigated +oracle, the evidently celestial sound. That the dreamy orator himself +has no more notion what is passing in their minds than they have what +is running through his, is of no consequence at all. If he did know +it, he would be silent; he would be jarred to feel how utterly he was +misunderstood; it would break the flow of his everlasting words. Much +better that he should run on in a never-pausing stream, and that the +wondering rustics should admire for ever. The basis of the entertainment +is that neither should comprehend the other.—But in a degree yet higher +is the society of an omniscient orator agreeable to a second sort of +people,—generally young men, and particularly—as in Hartley’s case—clever +undergraduates. All young men like what is theatrical, and by a fine +dispensation all clever young men like notions. They want to hear about +opinions, to know about opinions. The ever-flowing rhetorician gratifies +both propensions. He is a notional _spectacle_. Like the sophist of old, +he _is_ something and says something. The vagabond speculator in all +ages will take hold on those who wish to reason, and want premises—who +wish to argue, and want theses—who desire demonstrations, and have but +presumptions. And so it was acceptable enough that Hartley should make +the low tones of his musical voice glide sweetly and spontaneously +through the cloisters of Merton, debating the old questions, the ‘fate, +free-will, foreknowledge,’—the points that Ockham and Scotus propounded +in these same enclosures—the common riddles, the everlasting enigmas of +mankind. It attracts the scorn of middle-aged men (who depart πρὸς τὰ +ἱερά, and fancy they are wise), but it is a pleasant thing, that impact +of hot thought upon hot thought, of young thought upon young thought, of +new thought upon new thought. It comes to the fortunate once, but to no +one a second time thereafter for ever. + +Nor was Hartley undistinguished in the regular studies of the University. +A regular, exact, accurate scholar he never was; but even in his early +youth he perhaps knew much more and understood much more of ancient +literature than seven score of schoolmasters and classmen. He had, +probably, in his mind a picture of the ancient world, or of some of it, +while the dry _literati_ only know the combinations and permutations of +the Greek alphabet. There is a pleasant picture of him at this epoch, +recorded by an eye-witness. ‘My attention,’ he narrates, ‘was at first +aroused by seeing from a window a figure flitting about amongst the +trees and shrubs of the garden with quick and agitated motion. This was +Hartley, who, in the ardour of preparing for his college examination, did +not even take his meals with the family, but snatched a hasty morsel in +his own apartment, and only sought the free air when the fading daylight +prevented him from seeing his books. Having found who he was that so +mysteriously flitted about the garden, I was determined to lose no time +in making his acquaintance, and through the instrumentality of Mrs. +Coleridge I paid Hartley a visit in what he called his den. This was a +room afterwards converted by Mr. Southey’—as what chink was not?—‘into +a supplementary library, but then appropriated as a study to Hartley, +and presenting a most picturesque and student-like disorder of scattered +pamphlets and folios.’ This is not a picture of the business-like +reading man—one wonders what fraction of his time he did read—but +it was probably the happiest period of his life. There was no coarse +prosaic action there. Much musing, little studying,—fair scholarship, an +atmosphere of the classics, curious fancies, much perusing of pamphlets, +light thoughts on heavy folios—these make the meditative poet, but not +the technical and patient-headed scholar; yet, after all, he was happy, +and obtained a second class. + +A more suitable exercise, as it would have seemed at first sight, was +supplied by that curious portion of Oxford routine, the Annual Prize +Poem. This, he himself tells us, was, in his academic years, the real and +single object of his ambition. His reason is, for an autobiographical +reason, decidedly simple. ‘A great poet,’ he says, ‘I should not have +imagined myself, for I knew well enough that the verses were no great +things.’ But he entertained at that period of life—he was twenty-one—a +favourable opinion of young ladies; and he seems to have ascertained, +possibly from actual trial, that verses were not in themselves a very +emphatic attraction. Singular as it may sound, the ladies selected were +not only insensible to what is, after all, a metaphysical line, the +distinction between good poetry and bad, but were almost indifferent to +poetry itself. Yet the experiment was not quite conclusive. Verses might +fail in common life, and yet succeed in the Sheldonian theatre. It is +plain that they would be _read out_; it occurred to him, as he naïvely +relates, that if he should appear ‘as a prizeman,’ ‘as an intelligible +reciter of poetry,’ he would be an object of ‘some curiosity to the fair +promenaders in Christchurch Meadow;’ that the young ladies ‘with whom he +was on bowing and speaking terms might have felt a satisfaction in being +known to know me, which they had never experienced before.’ ‘I should,’ +he adds, ‘have deemed myself a prodigious lion, and it was a character I +was weak enough to covet more than that of poet, scholar, or philosopher.’ + +In fact, he did not get the prize. The worthy East Indian, who imagined +that, in leaving a bequest for a prize to poetry, he should be as sure +of possessing poetry for his money as of eggs, if he had chosen eggs, +or of butter, if he had chosen butter, did not estimate rightly the +nature of poetry, or the nature of the human mind. The mechanical parts +of rhythm and metre are all that a writer can be certain of producing, +or that a purchaser can be sure of obtaining; and these an industrious +person will find in any collection of the Newdegate poems, together with +a fine assortment of similes and sentiments, respectively invented and +enjoined by Shem and Japhet for and to the use of after generations. And +there is a peculiar reason why a great poet (besides his being, as a +man of genius, rather more likely than another, to find a difficulty in +the preliminary technicalities of art) should not obtain an academical +prize, to be given for excellent verses to people of about twenty-one. +It is a bad season. ‘The imagination,’ said a great poet of the very +age, ‘of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is +healthy, but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a +ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition +thick-sighted.’[25] And particularly in a real poet, where the disturbing +influences of passion and fancy are most likely to be in excess, will +this unhealthy tinge be most likely to be excessive and conspicuous. +Nothing in the style of Endymion would have a chance of a prize; there +are no complete conceptions, no continuance of adequate words. What +is worse, there are no defined thoughts, or aged illustrations. The +characteristic of the whole is beauty and novelty, but it is beauty which +is not formed, and novelty which is strange and wavering. Some of these +defects are observable in the copy of verses on the ‘Horses of Lysippus,’ +which Hartley Coleridge contributed to the list of unsuccessful attempts. +It does not contain so much originality as we might have expected; on +such a topic we anticipated more nonsense; a little, we are glad to say, +there is, and also that there is an utter want of those even raps, which +are the music of prize poems,—which were the right rhythm for Pope’s +elaborate sense, but are quite unfit for dreamy classics or contemplative +enthusiasm. If Hartley, like Pope, had been the son of a shopkeeper, +he would not have received the paternal encouragement, but rather a +reprimand,—‘Boy, boy, these be bad rhymes;’ and so, too, believed a +grizzled and cold examiner. + +A much worse failure was at hand. He had been elected to a Fellowship, +in what was at that time the only open foundation in Oxford, Oriel +College: an event which shows more exact scholarship in Hartley, or +more toleration in the academical authorities for the grammatical +delinquencies of a superior man, than we should have been inclined, _a +priori_, to attribute to either of them. But it soon became clear that +Hartley was not exactly suited to that place. Decorum is the essence, +pomposity the advantage, of tutors. These Hartley had not. Beside the +serious defects which we shall mention immediately, he was essentially +an absent and musing, and therefore at times a highly indecorous man; +and though not defective in certain kinds of vanity, there was no tinge +in his manner of scholastic dignity. A schoolmaster should have an +atmosphere of awe, and walk wonderingly, as if he was amazed at being +himself. But an excessive sense of the ludicrous disabled Hartley +altogether from the acquisition of this valuable habit; perhaps he never +really attempted to obtain it. He accordingly never became popular as a +tutor, nor was he ever described as ‘exercising an influence over young +persons.’ Moreover, however excellently suited Hartley’s eloquence might +be to the society of undergraduates, it was out of place at the Fellows’ +table. This is said to be a dull place. The excitement of early thought +has passed away; the excitements of active manhood are unknown. A certain +torpidity seems natural there. We find too that, probably for something +to say, he was in those years rather fond of exaggerated denunciation +of the powers that be. This is not the habit most grateful to the heads +of houses. ‘Sir,’ said a great authority, ‘do you deny that Lord Derby +ought to be Prime Minister? you might as well say, that I ought not to +be Warden of So and So.’ These habits rendered poor Hartley no favourite +with the leading people of his college, and no great prospective +shrewdness was required to predict that he would fare but ill, if any +sufficient occasion should be found for removing from the place, a person +so excitable and so little likely to be of use in inculcating ‘safe’ +opinions among the surrounding youth. + +Unhappily, the visible morals of Hartley offered an easy occasion. It +is not quite easy to gather from the narrative of his brother the exact +nature or full extent of his moral delinquencies; but enough is shown +to warrant, according to the rules, the unfavourable judgment of the +collegiate authorities. He describes, probably truly, the commencement +of his errors—‘I verily believe that I should have gone crazy, silly, +mad with vanity, had I obtained the prize for my “Horses of Lysippus.” +It was the only occasion in my life wherein I was keenly disappointed, +for it was the only one upon which I felt any confident hope. I had made +myself very sure of it; and the intelligence that not I but Macdonald was +the lucky man, absolutely stupefied me; yet I contrived for a time to +lose all sense of my misfortunes in exultation for Burton’s success.... I +sang, I danced, I whistled, I ran from room to room, announcing the great +tidings, and trying to persuade myself that I cared nothing at all for my +own case. But it would not do. It was bare sands with me the next day. +It was not the mere loss of the prize, but the feeling or phantasy of +an adverse destiny.... I foresaw that all my aims and hopes would prove +frustrate and abortive; and from that time I date my downward declension, +my impotence of will, and my melancholy recklessness. It was the first +time I sought relief in wine, which, as usual in such cases, produced +not so much intoxication as downright madness.’ Cast in an uncongenial +society, requiring to live in an atmosphere of respect and affection—and +surrounded by gravity and distrust—misconstrued and half tempted to +maintain the misconstruction; with the waywardness of childhood without +the innocency of its impulses; with the passions of manhood without the +repressive vigour of a man’s will,—he lived as a woman lives that is lost +and forsaken, who sins ever and hates herself for sinning, but who sins, +perhaps, more on that very account; because she requires some relief +from the keenness of her own reproach; because, in her morbid fancy, the +idea is ever before her; because her petty will is unable to cope with +the daily craving and the horrid thought—that she may not lose her own +identity—that she may not give in to the rigid, the distrustful, and the +calm. + +There is just this excuse for Hartley, whatever it may be worth, that +the weakness was hereditary. We do not as yet know, it seems most likely +that we shall never know, the precise character of his father. But with +all the discrepancy concerning the details, enough for our purpose is +certain of the outline. We know that he lived many and long years a prey +to weaknesses and vice of this very description; and though it be false +and mischievous to speak of hereditary vice, it is most true and wise +to observe the mysterious fact of hereditary temptation. Doubtless it +is strange that the nobler emotions and the inferior impulses, their +peculiar direction or their proportionate strength, the power of a fixed +idea—that the inner energy of the very will, which seems to issue from +the inmost core of our complex nature, and to typify, if anything does, +the pure essence of the immortal soul—that these and such as these should +be transmitted by material descent, as though they were an accident of +the body, the turn of an eyebrow or the feebleness of a joint,—if this +were not obvious, it would be as amazing, perhaps more amazing, than +any fact which we know; it looks not only like predestinated, but even +heritable election. But, explicable or inexplicable—to be wondered at +or not wondered at—the fact is clear; tendencies and temptations are +transmitted even to the fourth generation both for good and for evil, +both in those who serve God and in those who serve Him not. Indeed, the +weakness before us seems essentially connected—perhaps we may say on a +final examination essentially identical—with the dreaminess of mind, the +inapprehensiveness of reality which we remarked upon before. Wordsworth +used to say, that ‘at a particular stage of his mental progress he used +to be frequently so wrapt into an unreal transcendental world of ideas, +that the external world seemed no longer to exist in relation to him, +and he had to convince himself of its existence by _clasping a tree_ or +something that happened to be near him.’ But suppose a mind which did not +feel acutely the sense of reality which others feel, in hard contact with +the tangible universe; which was blind to the distinction between the +palpable and the impalpable, or rather lived in the latter in preference +to, and nearly to the exclusion of, the former. What is to fix such a +mind, what is to strengthen it, to give it a fulcrum? To exert itself, +the will, like the arm, requires to have an obvious and a definite +resistance, to know where it is, why it is, whence it comes, and whither +it goes. ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made of,’ says Prospero. So, +too, the difficulty of Shakespeare’s greatest dreamer, Hamlet, is that +he cannot quite believe that his duty is to be done where it lies, and +immediately. Partly from the natural effect of a vision of a spirit which +is not, but more from native constitution and instinctive bent, he is for +ever speculating on the reality of existence, the truth of the world. +‘How,’ discusses Kant, ‘is Nature in general possible?’ and so asked +Hamlet too. With this feeling on his mind, persuasion is useless and +argument in vain. Examples gross as earth exhort him, but they produce no +effect; but he thinks and thinks the more. + + ‘Now whether it be + Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple + Of thinking too precisely on the event,— + A thought which quarter’d hath but one part wisdom + And ever three parts coward,—I do not know + Why yet I live to say, “This thing’s to do,” + Sith I have cause and will and strength and means + To do ’t.’ + +Hartley himself well observes that on such a character the likelihood +of action is inversely as the force of the motive and the time for +deliberation. The stronger the reason, the more certain the scepticism? +_Can_ anything be so certain? Does not the excess of the evidence alleged +make it clear that there is something behind, something on the other +side? Search then diligently lest anything be overlooked. Reflection +‘puzzles the will,’ Necessity ‘benumbs like a torpedo:’ and so + + ‘The native hue of resolution + Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, + And enterprises of great pith and moment + With this regard, their currents turn awry, + And lose the name of action.’ + +Why should we say any more? We do but ‘chant snatches of old tunes.’ +But in estimating men like the Coleridges—the son even more than the +father—we must take into account this peculiar difficulty—this dreamy +unbelief—this daily scepticism—this haunting unreality—and imagine that +some may not be quite responsible either for what they do, or for what +they do not—because they are bewildered, and deluded, and perplexed, and +want the faculty as much to comprehend their difficulty as to subdue it. + +The Oxford life of Hartley is all his life. The failure of his prospects +there, in his brother’s words, ‘deprived him of the residue of his +years.’ The biography afterwards goes to and fro—one attempt after +another failing, some beginning in much hope, but even the sooner for +that reason issuing in utter despair. His literary powers came early to +full perfection. For some time after his expulsion from Oriel he was +resident in London, and the poems written there are equal, perhaps are +superior, to any which he afterwards produced. This sonnet may serve as a +specimen:— + + ‘In the great city we are met again + Where many souls there are, that breathe and die + Scarce knowing more of nature’s potency + Than what they learn from heat or cold or rain, + The sad vicissitude of weary pain:— + For busy man is lord of ear and eye, + And what hath Nature, but the vast, void sky, + And the throng’d river toiling to the main? + Oh! say not so, for she shall have her part + In every smile, in every tear that falls, + And she shall hide her in the secret heart + Where love persuades and sterner duty calls; + But worse it were than death or sorrow’s smart, + To live without a friend within these walls.’ + +He soon, however, went down to the lakes, and there, except during one or +two short intervals, he lived and died. This exception was a residence +at Leeds, during which he brought out, besides a volume containing his +best poems, the book which stands at the head of our article—the Lives of +Northern Worthies. We selected the book, we confess, with the view mainly +of bringing a remarkable character before the notice of our readers—but +in itself the work is an excellent one, and of a rare kind. + +Books are for various purposes—tracts to teach, almanacs to sell, poetry +to make pastry, but this is the rarest sort of book, a book to _read_. +As Dr. Johnson said, ‘Sir, a good book is one you can hold in your hand, +and take to the fire.’ Now there are extremely few books which can, with +any propriety, be so treated. When a great author, as Grote or Gibbon, +has devoted a whole life of horrid industry to the composition of a large +history, one feels one ought not to touch it with a mere hand—it is not +respectful. The idea of slavery hovers over the ‘Decline and Fall.’ Fancy +a stiffly dressed gentleman, in a stiff chair, slowly writing that stiff +compilation in a stiff hand: it is enough to stiffen you for life. Or is +poetry readable? Of course it is rememberable; when you have it in the +mind, it clings; if by heart, it haunts. Imagery comes from it; songs +which lull the ear, heroines that waste the time. But this Biographia is +actually read; a man is glad to take it up, and slow to lay it down; it +is a book which is truly valuable, for it is truly pleasing; and which +a man who has once had it in his library would miss from his shelves, +not only in the common way, by a physical vacuum, but by a mental +deprivation. This strange quality it owes to a peculiarity of style. Many +people give many theories of literary composition, and Dr. Blair, whom we +will read, is sometimes said to have exhausted the subject; but, unless +he has proved the contrary, we believe that the knack in style is to +write like a human being. Some think they must be wise, some elaborate, +some concise; Tacitus wrote like a pair of stays; some startle as Thomas +Carlyle, or a comet, inscribing with his tail. But legibility is given +to those who neglect these notions, and are willing to be themselves, to +write their own thoughts in their own words, in the simplest words, in +the words wherein they were thought; and such, and so great, was in this +book the magnanimity of Hartley. + +As has been said, from his youth onwards, Hartley’s outward life was +a simple blank. Much writing, and much musing, some intercourse with +Wordsworth, some talking to undergraduate readers or lake ladies, great +loneliness, and much intercourse with the farmers of Cumberland—these +pleasures, simple enough, most of them, were his life. The extreme +pleasure of the peasantry in his conversation, is particularly remarked. +‘Aye, but Mr. Coleridge talks fine,’ observed one. ‘I would go through +fire and water for Mr. C.,’ interjected another. His father, with real +wisdom, had provided (in part, at least) for his necessary wants in the +following manner:— + + ‘This is a codicil to my last will and testament. + + ‘S. T. COLERIDGE. + + ‘Most desirous to secure, as far as in me lies, for my dear + son Hartley, the tranquillity essential to any continued and + successful exertion of his literary talents, and which, from + the like characters of our minds in this respect, I know to + be especially requisite for his happiness, and persuaded that + he will recognise in this provision that anxious affection + by which it is dictated, I affix this codicil to my last + will and testament.... And I hereby request them (the said + trustees) to hold the sum accruing to Hartley Coleridge from + the equal division of my total bequest between him, his brother + Derwent, and his sister Sara, after his mother’s decease, + to dispose of the interests or proceeds of the same portion + to or for the use of my dear son Hartley Coleridge, at such + time or times, in such manner, or under such conditions, as + they, the trustees above named, know to be my wish, and shall + deem conducive to the attainment of my object in adding the + codicil, namely, the anxious wish to ensure for my son the + continued means of a home, in which I comprise board, lodging, + and raiment. Providing that nothing in this codicil shall be + so interpreted as to interfere with my son H. C.’s freedom of + choice respecting his place of residence, or with his power of + disposing of his portion by will after his decease according as + his own judgments and affections may decide.’ + +An excellent provision, which would not, however, by the English law, +have disabled the ‘said Hartley’ from depriving himself of ‘the continued +means of a home’ by alienating the principal of the bequest; since the +jurisprudence of this country has no legal definition of ‘prodigality,’ +and does not consider any person incompetent to manage his pecuniary +affairs unless he be quite and certainly insane. Yet there undoubtedly +are persons, and poor Hartley was one of them, who though in general +perfectly sane, and even with superior powers of thought or fancy, are as +completely unable as the most helpless lunatic to manage any pecuniary +transactions, and to whom it would be a great gain to have perpetual +guardians and compulsory trustees. But such people are rare, and few +principles are so English as the maxim _de minimis non curat lex_. + +He lived in this way for thirty years or nearly so, but there is nothing +to tell of all that time. He died January 6, 1849, and was buried in +Grasmere churchyard—the quietest place in England, ‘by the yews,’ as +Arnold says, ‘that Wordsworth planted, the Rotha with its big silent +pools passing by.’ It was a shining January day when Hartley was borne to +the grave. ‘Keep the ground for us,’ said Mr. Wordsworth to the sexton; +‘we are old, and it cannot be long.’ + +We have described Hartley’s life at length for a peculiar reason. It is +necessary to comprehend his character, to appreciate his works; and there +is no way of delineating character but by a selection of characteristic +sayings and actions. All poets, as is commonly observed, are delineated +in their poems, but in very different modes. Each minute event in the +melancholy life of Shelley is frequently alluded to in his writings. The +tender and reverential character of Virgil is everywhere conspicuous in +his pages. It is clear that Chaucer was shrewd. We seem to have talked +with Shakespeare, though we have forgotten the facts of his life; but +it is not by minute allusion, or a tacit influence, or a genial and +delightful sympathy, that a writer like Hartley Coleridge leaves the +impress of himself, but in a more direct manner, which it will take a few +words to describe. + +Poetry begins in Impersonality. Homer is a voice—a fine voice, a fine +eye, and a brain that drew with light; and this is all we know. The +natural subjects of the first art are the scenes and events in which the +first men naturally take an interest. They don’t care—who does?—for a +kind old man; but they want to hear of the exploits of their ancestors—of +the heroes of their childhood—of them that their fathers saw—of the +founders of their own land—of wars, and rumours of wars—of great +victories boldly won—of heavy defeats firmly borne—of desperate disasters +unsparingly retrieved. So in all countries—Siegfried, or Charlemagne, or +Arthur,—they are but attempts at an Achilles: the subject is the same—the +κλέα ἀνδρῶν and the death that comes to all. But then the mist of battles +passes away, and the sound of the daily conflict no longer hurtles in +the air, and a generation arises skilled with the skill of peace, and +refined with the refinement of civilisation, yet still remembering the +old world, still appreciating the old life, still wondering at the old +men, and ready to receive, at the hand of the poet, a new telling of +the old tale—a new idealisation of the legendary tradition. This is the +age of dramatic art, when men wonder at the big characters of old, as +schoolboys at the words of Æschylus, and try to find in their own breasts +the roots of those monstrous, but artistically developed impersonations. +With civilisation too comes another change: men wish not only to tell +what they have seen, but also to express what they are conscious of. +Barbarians feel only hunger, and that is not lyrical; but as time runs +on, arise gentler emotions and finer moods and more delicate desires +which need expression, and require from the artist’s fancy the lightest +touches and the most soothing and insinuating words. Lyrical poetry, too, +as we know, is of various kinds. Some, as the war song, approach to the +epic, depict events and stimulate to triumph; others are love songs to +pour out wisdom, others sober to describe champagne; some passive and +still, and expressive of the higher melancholy, as Gray’s ‘Elegy in a +Country Churchyard.’ But with whatever differences of species and class, +the essence of lyrical poetry remains in all identical; it is designed +to express, and when successful does express, some one mood, some single +sentiment, some isolated longing in human nature. It deals not with man +as a whole, but with man piecemeal, with man in a scenic aspect, with man +in a peculiar light. Hence lyrical poets must not be judged literally +from their lyrics: they are discourses; they require to be reduced into +the scale of ordinary life, to be stripped of the enraptured element, +to be clogged with gravitating prose. Again, moreover, and in course +of time, the advance of ages and the progress of civilisation appear +to produce a new species of poetry which is distinct from the lyrical, +though it grows out of it, and contrasted with the epic, though in a +single respect it exactly resembles it. This kind may be called the +_self-delineative_, for in it the poet deals not with a particular +desire, sentiment, or inclination in his own mind, not with a special +phase of his own character, not with his love of war, his love of ladies, +his melancholy, but with his mind viewed as a whole, with the entire +essence of his own character. The first requisite of this poetry is +truth. It is in Plato’s phrase the soul ‘itself by itself’ aspiring to +view and take account of the particular notes and marks that distinguish +it from all other souls. The sense of reality is necessary to excellence; +the poet being himself, speaks like one who has authority; he knows and +must not deceive. This species of poetry, of course, adjoins on the +lyrical, out of which it historically arises. Such a poem as the ‘Elegy’ +is, as it were, on the borders of the two; for while it expresses but +a single emotion, meditative, melancholy, you seem to feel that this +sentiment is not only then and for a moment the uppermost, but (as with +Gray it was) the habitual mood, the pervading emotion of his whole life. +Moreover, in one especial peculiarity, this sort of poetry is analogous +to the narrative or epic. Nothing certainly can, in a general aspect, +be more distantly removed one from another, the one dealing in external +objects and stirring events, the other with the stillness and repose of +the poet’s mind; but still in a single characteristic the two coincide. +They describe character as the painters say _in mass_. The defect of the +drama is, that it can delineate only motion. If a thoughtful person will +compare the character of Achilles, as we find it in Homer, with the more +surpassing creations of dramatic invention, say with Lear or Othello, +he will perhaps feel that character in repose, character on the lonely +beach, character in marble, character in itself, is more clearly and +perfectly seen in the epic narrative, than in the conversational drama. +It of course requires immense skill to make mere talk exhibit a man as +he is ἑτάρων ἄφαρ. Now this quality of epic poetry the self-delineative +precisely shares with it. It describes a character—the poet’s—alone by +itself. And therefore, when the great master in both kinds did not +hesitate to turn aside from his ‘high argument’ to say— + + ‘More safe I sing with mortal voice unchanged + To hoarse or mute, though fallen on evil days,’ + +pedants may prose as they please about the ‘impropriety’ of +‘interspersing’ species of composition which are by nature remote; but +Milton felt more profoundly that in its treatment of character the +egotistical poetry is allied to the epic; that he was putting together +elements which would harmoniously combine; that he was but exerting the +same faculties in either case—being guided thereto by a sure instinct, +the desire of genius to handle and combine every one of the subjects on +which it is genius. + +Now it is in this self-delineative species of poetry that, in our +judgment, Hartley Coleridge has attained to nearly, if not quite the +highest excellence; it pervades his writings everywhere. But a few +sonnets may be quoted to exemplify it:— + + ‘We parted on the mountains, as two streams + From one clear spring pursue their several ways; + And thy fleet course hath been through many a maze + In foreign lands, where silvery Padus gleams + To that delicious sky, whose glowing beams + Brightened the tresses that old poets praise, + Where Petrarch’s patient love and artful lays, + And Ariosto’s song of many themes, + Moved the soft air.—But I, a lazy brook, + As close pent up within my native dell, + Have crept along from nook to shady nook, + Where flow’rets blow and whispering Naiads dwell. + Yet now we meet that parted were so wide, + For rough and smooth to travel side by side. + + ‘Once I was young, and fancy was my all, + My love, my joy, my grief, my hope, my fear, + And ever ready as an infant’s tear, + Whate’er in Fancy’s kingdom might befall, + Some quaint device had Fancy still at call, + With seemly verse to greet the coming cheer; + Such grief to soothe, such airy hope to rear, + To sing the birth-song, or the funeral + Of such light love, it was a pleasant task; + But ill accord the quirks of wayward glee + That wears affliction for a wanton mask, + With woes that bear not Fancy’s livery; + With Hope that scorns of Fate its fate to ask, + But is itself its own sure destiny. + + ‘Too true it is my time of power was spent + In idly watering weeds of casual growth + That wasted energy to desperate sloth + Declined, and fond self-seeking discontent; + That the huge debt for all that nature lent + I sought to cancel,—and was nothing loth, + To deem myself an outlaw, severed both + From duty and from hope,—yea, blindly sent + Without an errand where I would to stray:— + Too true it is, that knowing now my state, + I weakly mourn the sin I ought to hate, + Nor love the law I yet would fain obey: + But true it is, above all law and fate + Is Faith, abiding the appointed day. + + ‘Long time a child, and still a child when years + Had painted manhood on my cheek, was I: + For yet I lived like one not born to die, + A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears; + No hope I needed, and I knew no fears. + But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep, and waking, + I waked to sleep no more, at once o’ertaking + The vanguard of my age, with all arrears + Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man, + Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is grey, + For I have lost the race I never ran; + A rathe December blights my lagging May; + And still I am a child, tho’ I be old, + Time is my debtor for my years untold.’ + +Indeed, the whole series of sonnets with which the earliest and best +work of Hartley began is (with a casual episode on others), mainly and +essentially a series on himself. Perhaps there is something in the +structure of the sonnet rather adapted to this species of composition. +It is too short for narrative, too artificial for the intense passions, +too complex for the simple, too elaborate for the domestic; but in an +impatient world where there is not a premium on self-describing, who so +would speak of himself must be wise and brief, artful and composed—and in +these respects he will be aided by the concise dignity of the tranquil +sonnet. + +It is remarkable that in this, too, Hartley Coleridge resembled his +father. Turn over the early poems of S. T. Coleridge, the minor poems +(we exclude the ‘Mariner’ and ‘Christabel,’ which are his epics), but +the small shreds which Bristol worshipped and Cottle paid for, and you +will be disheartened by utter dulness. Taken on a decent average, and +perhaps excluding a verse here and there, it really seems to us that they +are inferior to the daily works of the undeserving and multiplied poets. +If any reader will peruse any six of the several works intituled ‘Poems +by a Young Gentleman,’ we believe he will find the refined anonymity +less insipid than the small productions of Samuel Taylor. There will be +less puff and less ostentation. The reputation of the latter was caused +not by their merit but by their time. Fifty years ago people believed +in metre, and it is plain that Coleridge (Southey may be added, for +that matter) believed in it also; the people in Bristol said that these +two were wonderful men, because they had written wonderfully small +verses;—and such is human vanity, that both for a time accepted the +creed. In Coleridge, who had large speculative sense, the hallucination +was not permanent—there are many traces that he rated his Juvenilia at +their value; but poor Southey, who lived with domestic women, actually +died in the delusion that his early works were perfect, except that he +tried to ‘amend’ the energy out of Joan of Arc, which was the only good +thing in it. His wife did not doubt that he had produced stupendous +works. Why, then, should he? But experience has now shown that a certain +metrical facility, and a pleasure in the metrical expression of certain +sentiments, are in youth extremely common. Many years ago, Mr. Moore is +reported to have remarked to Sir Walter Scott, that hardly a magazine +was then published, which did not contain verses that would have made a +sensation when they were young men. ‘Confound it, Tom,’ was the reply, +‘what luck it was _we_ were born before all these fellows.’ And though +neither Moore nor Scott are to be confounded with the nameless and +industrious versifiers of the present day, yet it must be allowed that +they owed to their time and their position—to the small quantity of +rhyme in the market of the moment, and the extravagant appreciation of +their early productions—much of that popular encouragement which induced +them to labour upon more excellent compositions and to train themselves +to write what they will be remembered by. But, dismissing these +considerations, and returning to the minor poems of S. T. Coleridge, +although we fearlessly assert that it is impossible for any sane man to +set any value on—say the Religious Musings—an absurd attempt to versify +an abstract theory, or the essay on the Pixies, who had more fun in +them than the reader of it could suspect—it still is indisputable that +scattered here and there through these poems, there are lines about +himself (lines, as he said in later life, ‘in which the subjective object +views itself subjectivo-objectively,’) which rank high in that form of +art. Of this kind are the Tombless Epitaph, for example, or the lines,— + + ‘To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assigned + Energic Reason and a shaping mind, + The daring ken of truth; the Patriot’s part, + And Pity’s sigh, that breathes the gentle heart; + Sloth-jaundiced all! and from my graspless hand + Drop friendship’s priceless pearls, like hour-glass sand. + I weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows, + A dreamy pang in morning’s fev’rish doze;’ + +and so on. In fact, it would appear that the tendency to, and the faculty +for self-delineation are very closely connected with the dreaminess +of disposition and impotence of character which we spoke of just now. +Persons very subject to these can grasp no external object, comprehend +no external being; they can do no external thing, and therefore they are +left to themselves. Their own character is the only one which they can +view as a whole, or depict as a reality; of every other they may have +glimpses, and acute glimpses, like the vivid truthfulness of particular +dreams; but no settled appreciation, no connected development, no regular +sequence whereby they may be exhibited on paper or conceived in the +imagination. If other qualities are supposed to be identical, those will +be most egotistical who only know themselves; the people who talk most of +themselves will be those who talk best. + +In the execution of minor verses, we think we could show that Hartley +should have the praise of surpassing his father; but nevertheless it +would be absurd, on a general view, to compare the two men. Samuel +Taylor was so much bigger; what there was in his son was equally good, +perhaps, but then there was not much of it; outwardly and inwardly he was +essentially little. In poetry, for example, the father has produced two +longish poems, which have worked themselves right down to the extreme +depths of the popular memory, and stay there very firmly, in part from +their strangeness, but in part from their power. Of Hartley, nothing +of this kind is to be found—he could not write connectedly; he wanted +steadiness of purpose, or efficiency of will, to write so voluntarily; +and his genius did not, involuntarily, and out of its unseen workings, +present him with continuous creations; on the contrary, his mind teemed +with little fancies, and a new one came before the first had attained any +enormous magnitude. As his brother observed, he wanted ‘back thought.’ +‘On what plan, Mr. Coleridge, are you arranging your books?’ inquired +a lady. ‘Plan, madam? I have no plan: at first I had a principle; but +then I had another, and now I do not know.’ The same contrast between +the ‘shaping mind’ of the father, and the gentle and minute genius of +the son, is said to have been very plain in their conversation. That of +Samuel was continuous, diffused, comprehensive. + + ‘Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless motion, + Nothing before and nothing behind, but the sky and the ocean.’ + +‘Great talker, certainly,’ said Hazlitt, ‘_if_ you will let him start +from no _data_, and come to no conclusion.’ The talk of Hartley, on the +contrary, though continuous in time, was detached in meaning; stating +hints and observations on particular subjects; glancing lightly from side +to side, but throwing no intense light on any, and exhausting none. It +flowed gently over small doubts and pleasant difficulties, rippling for a +minute sometimes into bombast, but lightly recovering and falling quietly +in ‘melody back.’ + +By way, it is likely, of compensation to Hartley for this great +deficiency in what his father imagined to be his own _forte_,—the power +of conceiving a whole,—Hartley possessed, in a considerable degree, +a species of sensibility to which the former was nearly a stranger. +‘The mind of S. T. Coleridge,’ says one who had every means of knowing +and observing, ‘was not in the least under the influence of external +objects.’ Except in the writings written during daily and confidential +intimacy with Wordsworth (an exception that may be obviously accounted +for), no trace can perhaps be found of any new image or metaphor from +natural scenery. There is some story too of his going for the first time +to York, and by the Minster, and never looking up at it. But Hartley’s +poems exhibit a great sensibility to a certain aspect of exterior nature, +and great fanciful power of presenting that aspect in the most charming +and attractive forms. It is likely that the London boyhood of the elder +Coleridge was,—added to a strong abstractedness which was born with +him,—a powerful cause in bringing about the curious mental fact, that +a great poet, so susceptible to every other species of refining and +delightful feeling, should have been utterly destitute of any perception +of beauty in landscape or nature. We must not forget that S. T. Coleridge +was a blue-coat boy,—what do any of them know about fields? And +similarly, we require in Hartley’s case, before we can quite estimate his +appreciation of nature, to consider his position, his circumstances, and +especially his time. + +Now it came to pass in those days that William Wordsworth went up into +the hills. It has been attempted in recent years to establish that the +object of his life was to teach Anglicanism. A whole life of him has been +written by an official gentleman, with the apparent view of establishing +that the great poet was a believer in rood-lofts, an idolator of piscinæ. +But this is not capable of rational demonstration. Wordsworth, like +Coleridge, began life as a heretic, and as the shrewd Pope unfallaciously +said, ‘once a heretic, always a heretic.’ Sound men are sound from the +first; safe men are safe from the beginning, and Wordsworth began wrong. +His real reason for going to live in the mountains was certainly in part +sacred, but it was not in the least Tractarian:— + + ‘For he with many feelings, many thoughts, + Made up a meditative joy, and found + Religious meanings in the forms of nature.’ + +His whole soul was absorbed in the one idea, the one feeling, the one +thought, of the sacredness of hills. + + ‘Early had he learned + To reverence the volume that displays + The mystery, the life which cannot die; + But in the mountains did he _feel_ his faith. + All things responsive to the writing, there + Breathed immortality, revolving life, + And greatness still revolving; infinite; + There littleness was not. + ... + —In the after-day + Of boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn, + And ’mid the hollow depths of naked crags, + He sate, and e’en in their fixed lineaments + Or from the power of a peculiar eye, + Or by creative feeling overborne, + Or by predominance of thought oppressed, + E’en in their fixed and steady lineaments + He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind, + Expression ever varying! + ... + A sense sublime + Of something far more deeply interfused, + Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, + And the round ocean and the living air + And the blue sky, and in the mind of man. + A motion and a spirit that impels + All thinking things, all objects of all thought, + And rolls through all things.’ + +The defect of this religion is, that it is too abstract for the +practical, and too bare for the musing. The worship of sensuous +beauty—the southern religion—is of all sentiments the one most deficient +in his writings. His poetry hardly even gives the charm, the entire +charm, of the scenery in which he lived. The lighter parts are little +noticed: the rugged parts protrude. The bare waste, the folding hill, +the rough lake, Helvellyn with a brooding mist, Ulswater in a grey day: +these are his subjects. He took a personal interest in the corners of +the universe. There is a print of Rembrandt said to represent a piece of +the Campagna, a mere waste, with a stump and a man, and under is written +‘Tacet et loquitur;’ and thousands will pass the old print-shop where +it hangs, and yet have a taste for paintings, and colours, and oils: +but some fanciful students, some lonely stragglers, some long-haired +enthusiasts, by chance will come, one by one, and look, and look, and +be hardly able to take their eyes from the fascination, so massive is +the shade, so still the conception, so firm the execution. Thus is it +with Wordsworth and his poetry. _Tacet et loquitur._ Fashion apart, the +million won’t read it. Why should they?—they could not understand it. +Don’t put them out,—let them buy, and sell, and die;—but idle students, +and enthusiastic wanderers, and solitary thinkers, will read, and read, +and read, while their lives and their occupations hold. In truth, +his works are the Scriptures of the intellectual life; for that same +searching, and finding, and penetrating power which the real Scripture +exercises on those engaged, as are the mass of men, in practical +occupations and domestic ties, do his works exercise on the meditative, +the solitary, and the young. + + ‘His daily teachers had been woods and rills, + The silence that is in the starry sky, + The sleep that is among the lonely hills.’ + +And he had more than others, + + ‘That blessed mood, + In which the burthen of the mystery, + In which the heavy and the weary weight + Of all this unintelligible world + Is lightened: that serene and blessed mood + In which the affections gently lead us on, + Until the breath of this corporeal frame, + And even the motion of our human blood + Almost suspended, we are laid asleep + In body, and become a living soul; + While with an eye made quiet by the power + Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, + We see into the life of things.’ + +And therefore he has had a whole host of sacred imitators. Mr. Keble, +for example, has translated him for women. He has himself told us that +he owed to Wordsworth the tendency _ad sanctiora_, which is the mark of +his own writings; and in fact he has but adapted the tone and habit of +reverence, which his master applied to common objects and the course of +the seasons, to sacred objects and the course of the ecclesiastical +year,—diffusing a mist of sentiment and devotion altogether delicious +to a gentle and timid devotee. Hartley Coleridge is another translator. +He has applied to the sensuous beauties and seductive parts of external +nature the same _cultus_ which Wordsworth applied to the bare and the +abstract. It is— + + ‘That fair beauty which no eye can see, + Of that sweet music which no ear can measure.’ + +It is, as it were, female beauty in wood and water; it is Rydal Water on +a shining day; it is the gloss of the world with the knowledge that it is +gloss: the sense of beauty, as in some women, with the feeling that yet +it is hardly theirs:— + + ‘The vale of Tempe had in vain been fair, + Green Ida never deemed the nurse of Jove, + Each fabled stream, beneath its covert grove, + Had idly murmured to the idle air; + The shaggy wolf had kept his horrid lair + In Delphi’s cell and old Trophonius’ cave, + And the wild wailing of the Ionian wave + Had never blended with the sweet despair + Of Sappho’s death-song,—if the sight inspired + Saw only what the visual organs show; + If heaven-born phantasy no more required + Than what within the sphere of sense may grow. + The beauty to perceive of earthly things, + The mounting soul must heavenward prune her wings. + +And he knew it himself: he has sketched the essence of his works:— + + ‘Whither is gone the wisdom and the power, + That ancient sages scattered with the notes + Of thought-suggesting lyres? The music floats + In the void air; e’en at this breathing hour, + In every cell and every blooming bower, + The sweetness of old lays is hovering still; + But the strong soul, the self-constraining will, + The rugged root that bare the winsome flower, + Is weak and withered. Were we like the Fays + That sweetly nestle in the fox-glove bells, + Or lurk and murmur in the rose-lipped shells, + Which Neptune to the earth for quit-rent pays; + Then might our pretty modern Philomels + Sustain our spirits with their roundelays.’ + +We had more to say of Hartley: we were to show that his Prometheus was +defective; that its style had no Greek severity, no defined outline; that +he was a critic as well as a poet, though in a small detached way, and +what is odd enough, that he could criticise in rhyme. We were to make +plain how his heart was in the right place, how his love affairs were +hopeless, how he was misled by his friends; but our time is done and +our space is full, and these topics must ‘go without day’ of returning. +We may end as we began. There are some that are bold and strong and +incessant and energetic and hard, and to these is the world’s glory; +and some are timid and meek and impotent and cowardly and rejected and +obscure. ‘One man esteemeth one day above another, another esteemeth +every day alike.’ And so of Hartley, whom few regarded; he had a +resource, the stillness of thought, the gentleness of musing, the peace +of nature. + + ‘To his side the fallow deer + Came and rested without fear; + The eagle, lord of land and sea, + Stooped down to pay him fealty; + And both the undying fish that swim, + In Bowscale-tarn did wait on him; + The pair were servants of his eye, + In their immortality; + And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, + Moved to and fro for his delight. + He knew the rocks which Angels haunt + Upon the mountains visitant. + He hath kenned them taking wing, + And into caves where Fairies sing + He hath entered; and been told + By voices how men lived of old. + Among the heavens his eye can see + The face of thing that is to be, + And if that men report him right + His tongue could whisper words of might. + —Now another day is come, + Fitter hope and nobler doom, + He hath thrown aside his crook, + And hath buried deep his book.’ + + ‘And now the streams may sing for others’ pleasure, + The hills sleep on in their eternity.’ + +He is gone from among them. + + + + +_PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY._[26] + +(1856.) + + +After the long biography of Moore, it is half a comfort to think of a +poet as to whom our information is but scanty. The few intimates of +Shelley seem inclined to go to their graves without telling in accurate +detail the curious circumstances of his life. We are left to be content +with vain ‘prefaces’ and the circumstantial details of a remarkable +blunderer. We know something, however;—we know enough to check our +inferences from his writings; in some moods it is pleasant not to have +them disturbed by long volumes of memoirs and anecdotes. + +One peculiarity of Shelley’s writing makes it natural that at times +we should not care to have, that at times we should wish for, a full +biography. No writer has left so clear an image of himself in his +writings; when we remember them as a whole, we seem to want no more. +No writer, on the other hand, has left so many little allusions which +we should be glad to have explained, which the patient patriarch would +not perhaps have endured that anyone should comprehend while he did +not. The reason is, that Shelley has combined the use of the two great +modes by which writers leave with their readers the image of themselves. +There is the art of self-delineation. Some authors try in imagination +to get outside themselves—to contemplate their character as a fact, and +to describe it and the movement of their own actions as external forms +and images. Scarcely any one has done this as often as Shelley. There +is hardly one of his longer works which does not contain a finished +picture of himself in some point or under some circumstances. Again, some +writers, almost or quite unconsciously, by a special instinct of style, +give an idea of themselves. This is not peculiar to literary men; it is +quite as remarkable among men of action. There are people in the world +who cannot write the commonest letter on the commonest affair of business +without giving a just idea of themselves. The Duke of Wellington is an +example which at once occurs of this. You may read a despatch of his +about bullocks and horseshoe-nails; and yet you will feel an interest—a +great interest, because somehow among the words seems to lurk the mind of +a great general. Shelley has this peculiarity also. Every line of his has +a personal impress, an unconscious inimitable manner. And the two modes +in which he gives an idea of himself concur. In every delineation we see +the same simple intense being. As mythology found a Naiad in the course +of every limpid stream, so through each eager line our fancy sees the +same panting image of sculptured purity. + +Shelley is probably the most remarkable instance of the pure impulsive +character,—to comprehend which requires a little detail. Some men are +born under the law: their whole life is a continued struggle between +the lower principles of their nature and the higher. These are what are +called men of principle; each of their best actions is a distinct choice +between conflicting motives. One propension would bear them here; another +there; a third would hold them still: into the midst the living will +goes forth in its power, and selects whichever it holds to be best. The +habitual supremacy of conscience in such men gives them an idea that +they only exert their will when they do right; when they do wrong they +seem to ‘let their nature go;’ they say that ‘they are hurried away:’ +but, in fact, there is commonly an act of will in both cases;—only it is +weaker when they act ill, because in passably good men, if the better +principles are reasonably strong, they conquer; it is only when very +faint that they are vanquished. Yet the case is evidently not always so; +sometimes the wrong principle is of itself and of set purpose definitely +chosen: the better one is consciously put down. The very existence of +divided natures is a conflict. This is no new description of human +nature. For eighteen hundred years Christendom has been amazed at the +description in St. Paul of the law of his members warring against the +law of his mind. Expressions most unlike in language, but not dissimilar +in meaning, are to be found in some of the most familiar passages of +Aristotle. + +In extreme contrast to this is the nature which has no struggle. It +is possible to conceive a character in which but one impulse is ever +felt—in which the whole being, as with a single breeze, is carried in +a single direction. The only exercise of the will in such a being is +in aiding and carrying out the dictates of the single propensity. And +this is something. There are many of our powers and faculties only in +a subordinate degree under the control of the emotions; the intellect +itself in many moments requires to be bent to defined attention by +compulsion of the will; no mere intensity of desire will thrust it on +its tasks. But of what in most men is the characteristic action of the +will—namely, self-control—such natures are hardly in want. An ultimate +case could be imagined in which they would not need it at all. They +have no lower desires to pull down, for they have no higher ones which +come into collision with them; the very words ‘lower’ and ‘higher,’ +involving the contemporaneous action and collision of two impulses, are +inapplicable to them; there is no strife; all their soul impels them in +a single line. This may be a quality of the highest character: indeed in +the highest character it will certainly be found; no one will question +that the whole nature of the holiest being tends to what is holy without +let, struggle, or strife—it would be impiety to doubt it. Yet this +same quality may certainly be found in a lower—a much lower—mind than +the highest. A level may be of any elevation; the absence of intestine +commotion may arise from a sluggish dulness to eager aspirations; the +one impulse which is felt may be any impulse whatever. If the idea were +completely exemplified, one would instinctively say, that a being with +so single a mind could hardly belong to human nature. Temptation is the +mark of our life; we can hardly divest ourselves of the idea that it is +indivisible from our character. As it was said of solitude, so it may be +said of the sole dominion of a single impulse, ‘Whoso is devoted to it +would seem to be either a beast or a god.’ + +Completely realised on earth this idea will never be; but approximations +may be found, and one of the closest of those approximations is Shelley. +We fancy his mind placed in the light of thought, with pure subtle +fancies playing to and fro. On a sudden an impulse arises; it is alone, +and has nothing to contend with; it cramps the intellect, pushes aside +the fancies, constrains the nature; it bolts forward into action. +Such a character is an extreme puzzle to external observers. From the +occasionality of its impulses it will often seem silly; from their +singularity, strange; from their intensity, fanatical. It is absurdest +in the more trifling matters. There is a legend of Shelley, during an +early visit to London, flying along the street, catching sight of a new +microscope, buying it in a moment; pawning it the instant afterwards +to relieve some one in the same street in distress. The trait may be +exaggerated, but it is characteristic. It shows the sudden irruption of +his impulses, their abrupt force and curious purity. + +The predominant impulse in Shelley from a very early age was ‘a passion +for reforming mankind.’ Mr. Newman has told us in his Letters from the +East how much he and his half-missionary associates were annoyed at being +called ‘young people trying to convert the world.’ In a strange land, +ignorant of the language, beside a recognised religion, in the midst +of an immemorial society, the aim, though in a sense theirs, seemed +ridiculous when ascribed to them. Shelley would not have felt this at +all. No society, however organised, would have been too strong for him +to attack. He would not have paused. The impulse was upon him. He would +have been ready to preach that mankind were to be ‘free, equal, pure, +and wise,’—in favour of ‘justice, and truth, and time, and the world’s +natural sphere,’—in the Ottoman Empire, or to the Czar, or to George III. +Such truths were independent of time and place and circumstance; some +time or other, something, or somebody (his faith was a little vague), +would most certainly intervene to establish them. It was this placid +undoubting confidence which irritated the positive and sceptical mind of +Hazlitt. ‘The author of the “Prometheus Unbound,”’ he tells us, ‘has a +fire in his eye, a fever in his blood, a maggot in his brain, a hectic +flutter in his speech, which mark out the philosophic fanatic. He is +sanguine-complexioned and shrill-voiced. As is often observable in the +case of religious enthusiasts, there is a slenderness of constitutional +stamina, which renders the flesh no match for the spirit. His bending, +flexible form appears to take no strong hold of things, does not grapple +with the world about him, but slides from it like a river— + + ‘And in its liquid texture mortal wound + Receives no more than can the fluid air.’ + +The shock of accident, the weight of authority, make no impression on +his opinions, which retire like a feather, or rise from the encounter +unhurt, through their own buoyancy. He is clogged by no dull system of +realities, no earth-bound feelings, no rooted prejudices, by nothing that +belongs to the mighty trunk and hard husk of nature and habit; but is +drawn up by irresistible levity to the regions of mere speculation and +fancy, to the sphere of air and fire, where his delighted spirit floats +in ‘seas of pearl and clouds of amber.’ There is no _caput mortuum_ of +worn-out threadbare experience to serve as ballast to his mind; it is +all volatile, intellectual salt-of-tartar, that refuses to combine its +evanescent, inflammable essence with anything solid or anything lasting. +Bubbles are to him the only realities:—touch them, and they vanish. +Curiosity is the only proper category of his mind; and though a man in +knowledge, he is a child in feeling.’ And so on with vituperation. No two +characters could, indeed, be found more opposite than the open, eager, +buoyant poet, and the dark, threatening, unbelieving critic. + +It is difficult to say how far such a tendency under some circumstances +might not have carried Shelley into positions most alien to an essential +benevolence. It is most dangerous to be possessed with an idea. Dr. +Arnold used to say that he had studied the life of Robespierre with the +greatest personal benefit. No personal purity is a protection against +insatiable zeal; it almost acts in the opposite direction. The less a man +is conscious of inferior motives, the more likely is he to fancy that he +is doing God service. There is no difficulty in imagining Shelley cast by +the accident of fortune into the Paris of the Revolution; hurried on by +its ideas, undoubting in its hopes, wild with its excitement, going forth +in the name of freedom conquering and to conquer;—and who can think that +he would have been scrupulous how he attained such an end? It was in him +to have walked towards it over seas of blood. One could almost identify +him with St. Just, the ‘fair-haired republican.’ + +On another and a more generally interesting topic, Shelley advanced a +theory which amounts to a deification of impulse. ‘Love,’ he tells us, +‘is inevitably consequent upon the perception of loveliness. Love withers +under constraint; its very essence is liberty; it is compatible neither +with obedience, jealousy, nor fear; it is there most pure, perfect, +and unlimited, where its votaries live in confidence, equality, and +unreserve.... A husband and wife ought to continue united only so long as +they love each other. Any law which should bind them to cohabitation for +one moment after the decay of their affection would be a most intolerable +tyranny, and the most unworthy of toleration. How odious an usurpation +of the right of private judgment should that law be considered, which +should make the ties of friendship indissoluble, in spite of the +caprices, the inconstancy, the fallibility, of the human mind! And by so +much would the fetters of love be heavier and more unendurable than those +of friendship, as love is more vehement and capricious, more dependent +on those delicate peculiarities of imagination, and less capable of +reduction to the ostensible merits of the object.’ This passage, no +doubt, is from an early and crude essay, one of the notes to ‘Queen Mab;’ +and there are many indications, in his latter years, that though he might +hold in theory that ‘constancy has nothing virtuous in itself,’ yet in +practice he shrank from breaking a tie hallowed by years of fidelity and +sympathy. But, though his conduct was doubtless higher than his creed, +there is no evidence that his creed was ever changed. The whole tone +of his works is on the other side. The ‘Epipsychidion’ could not have +been written by a man who attached a moral value to constancy of mind. +And the whole doctrine is most expressive of his character. A quivering +sensibility endured only the essence of the most refined love. It is +intelligible, that one who bowed in a moment to every desire should have +attached a kind of consecration to the most pure and eager of human +passions. + +The evidence of Shelley’s poems confirms this impression of him. The +characters which he delineates have all this same kind of pure impulse. +The reforming impulse is especially felt. In almost every one of his +works there is some character, of whom all we know is, that he or she +had this passionate disposition to reform mankind. We know nothing else +about them, and they are all the same. Laon, in the ‘Revolt of Islam,’ +does not differ at all from Lionel, in ‘Rosalind and Helen.’ Laon differs +from Cythna, in the former poem, only as male from female. Lionel is +delineated, though not with Shelley’s greatest felicity, in a single +passage:— + + ‘Yet through those dungeon-walls there came + Thy thrilling light, O liberty! + And as the meteor’s midnight flame + Startles the dreamer, sunlight truth + Flashed on his visionary youth, + And filled him, not with love, but faith, + And hope, and courage, mute in death; + For love and life in him were twins, + Born at one birth: in every other + First life, then love its course begins, + Though they be children of one mother: + And so through this dark world they fleet + Divided, till in death they meet. + But he loved all things ever. Then + He passed amid the strife of men, + And stood at the throne of armed power + Pleading for a world of woe: + Secure as one on a rock-built tower + O’er the wrecks which the surge trails to and fro. + ’Mid the passions wild of human-kind + He stood, like a spirit calming them; + For, it was said, his words could bind + Like music the lulled crowd, and stem + That torrent of unquiet dream + Which mortals truth and reason deem, + But is revenge, and fear, and pride. + Joyous he was, and hope and peace + On all who heard him did abide, + Raining like dew from his sweet talk, + As, where the evening star may walk + Along the brink of the gloomy seas, + Liquid mists of splendour quiver.’ + +Such is the description of all his reformers in calm. In times of +excitement, they all burst forth— + + ‘Fear not the tyrants shall rule for ever, + Or the priests of the bloody faith; + They stand on the brink of that mighty river + Whose waves they have tainted with death; + It is fed from the depths of a thousand dells, + Around them it foams, and rages, and swells: + And their swords and their sceptres I floating see, + Like wrecks in the surge of eternity.’ + +In his more didactic poems it is the same. All the world is evil, and +will be evil, until some unknown conqueror shall appear—a teacher +by rhapsody and a conqueror by words—who shall at once reform all +evil. Mathematicians place great reliance on the unknown symbol, +great X. Shelley did more; he expected it would take life and reform +our race. Such impersonations are, of course, not real men; they are +mere incarnations of a desire. Another passion, which no man has ever +felt more strongly than Shelley—the desire to penetrate the mysteries +of existence (by Hazlitt profanely called curiosity)—is depicted in +‘Alastor’ as the sole passion of the only person in the poem:— + + ‘By solemn vision and bright silver dream + His infancy was nurtured. Every sight + And sound from the vast earth and ambient air + Sent to his heart its choicest impulses. + The fountains of divine philosophy + Fled not his thirsting lips; and all of great, + Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past + In truth or fable consecrates, he felt + And knew. When early youth had past, he left + His cold fireside and alienated home + To seek strange truths in undiscovered lands. + Many a wide waste and tangled wilderness + Has lured his fearless steps; and he has bought + With his sweet voice and eyes, from savage men, + His rest and food.’ + +He is cheered on his way by a beautiful dream, and the search to find +it again mingles with the shadowy quest. It is remarkable how great +is the superiority of the personification in ‘Alastor,’ though one of +his earliest writings, over the reforming abstractions of his other +works. The reason is, its far greater closeness to reality. The one +is a description of what he was; the other of what he desired to be. +Shelley had nothing of the magic influence, the large insight, the bold +strength, the permeating eloquence, which fit a man for a practical +reformer: but he had, in perhaps an unequalled and unfortunate measure, +the famine of the intellect—the daily insatiable craving after the +highest truth which is the passion of ‘Alastor.’ So completely did he +feel it, that the introductory lines of the poem almost seem to identify +him with the hero; at least they express sentiments which would have been +exactly dramatic in his mouth:— + + ‘Mother of this unfathomable world! + Favour my solemn song; for I have loved + Thee ever, and thee only; I have watched + Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps, + And my heart ever gazes on the depth + Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed + In charnels and on coffins, where black Death + Keeps records of the trophies won from thee, + Hoping to still these obstinate questionings + Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost, + Thy messenger, to render up the tale + Of what we are. In lone and silent hours, + When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness; + Like an inspired and desperate alchymist, + Staking his very life on some dark hope, + Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks + With my most innocent love; until strange tears, + Uniting with those breathless kisses, made + Such magic as compels the charmed night + To render up thy charge ... and though ne’er yet + Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary, + Enough from incommunicable dream, + And twilight phantasms and deep noonday thought, + Has shone within me, that serenely now, + And moveless (as a long-forgotten lyre, + Suspended in the solitary dome + Of some mysterious and deserted fane), + I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain + May modulate with murmurs of the air, + And motions of the forests and the sea, + And voice of living beings, and woven hymns + Of night and day, and the deep heart of man.’ + +The accompaniments are fanciful; but the essential passion was his own. + +These two forms of abstract personification exhaust all which can be +considered characters among Shelley’s poems—one poem excepted. Of course, +all his works contain ‘Spirits,’ ‘Phantasms,’ ‘Dream No. 1,’ and ‘Fairy +No. 3;’ but these do not belong to this world. The higher air seems never +to have been favourable to the production of marked character; with +almost all poets the inhabitants of it are prone to a shadowy thinness: +in Shelley, the habit of frequenting mountain-tops has reduced them to +evanescent mists of lyrical energy. One poem of Shelley’s, however, has +two beings of another order; creations which, if not absolutely dramatic +characters of the first class—not beings whom we know better than we know +ourselves—are nevertheless very high specimens of the second; persons who +seem like vivid recollections from our intimate experience. In this case +the dramatic execution is so good, that it is difficult to say why the +results are not quite of the first rank. One reason of this is, perhaps, +their extreme simplicity. Our imaginations, warned by consciousness and +outward experience of the wonderful complexity of human nature, refuse +to credit the existence of beings, all whose actions are unmodified +consequences of a single principle. These two characters are Beatrice +Cenci and her father Count Cenci. In most of Shelley’s poems—he died +under thirty—there is an extreme suspicion of aged persons. In actual +life he had plainly encountered many old gentlemen who had no belief in +the complete and philosophical reformation of mankind. There is, indeed, +an old hermit in the ‘Revolt of Islam’ who is praised (Captain Medwin +identifies him with a Dr. Some-one who was kind to Shelley at Eton); but +in general the old persons in his poems are persons whose authority it is +desirable to disprove:— + + ‘Old age, with its gray hair + And wrinkled legends of unworthy things + And icy sneers, is naught.’ + +The less its influence, he evidently believes, the better. Not +unnaturally, therefore, he selected for a tragedy a horrible subject +from Italian story, in which an old man, accomplished in this world’s +learning, renowned for the ‘cynic sneer of o’er experienced sin,’ is the +principal evil agent. The character of Count Cenci is that of a man who +of set principle does evil for evil’s sake. He loves ‘the sight of agony:’ + + ‘All men delight in sensual luxury; + All men enjoy revenge; and most exult + Over the tortures they can never feel, + Flattering their secret peace with others’ pain: + But I delight in nothing else.’ + +If he regrets his age, it is from the failing ability to do evil: + + ‘True, I was happier than I am while yet + Manhood remained to act the thing I thought; + While lust was sweeter than revenge: and now + Invention palls.’ + +It is this that makes him contemplate the violation of his daughter: + + ‘There yet remains a deed to act, + Whose horror might make sharp an appetite + More dull than mine.’ + +Shelley, though an habitual student of Plato—the greatest modern writer +who has taken great pleasure in his writings—never seems to have read +any treatise of Aristotle; otherwise he would certainly seem to have +derived from that great writer the idea of the ἀκόλαστος; yet in reality +the idea is as natural to Shelley as any man—more likely to occur to +him than to most. Children think that everybody who is bad is very bad. +Their simple eager disposition only understands the doing what they wish +to do; they do not refine: if they hear of a man doing evil, they think +he wishes to do it,—that he has a special impulse to do evil, as they +have to do what they do. Something like this was the case with Shelley. +His mind, impulsive and childlike, could not imagine the struggling kind +of character—either those which struggle with their lower nature and +conquer, or those which struggle and are vanquished—either the ἐγκρατής +or the ἀκρατής of the old thinker; but he could comprehend that which +is in reality far worse than either, the being who wishes to commit sin +because it is sin, who is as it were possessed with a demon hurrying +him out, hot and passionate, to vice and crime. The innocent child is +whirled away by one impulse; the passionate reformer by another; the +essential criminal, if such a being be possible, by a third. They are +all beings, according to one division, of the same class. An imaginative +mind like Shelley’s, belonging to the second of these types, naturally +is prone in some moods to embody itself under the forms of the third. It +is, as it were, the antithesis to itself.—Equally simple is the other +character—that of Beatrice. Even before her violation, by a graphic touch +of art, she is described as absorbed, or beginning to be absorbed, in the +consciousness of her wrongs; + + ‘_Beatrice._ As I have said, speak to me not of love. + Had you a dispensation, I have not; + Nor will I leave this home of misery + Whilst my poor Bernard, and that gentle lady + To whom I owe life and these virtuous thoughts, + Must suffer what I still have strength to share. + Alas, Orsino! all the love that once + I felt for you is turned to bitter pain. + Ours was a youthful contract, which you first + Broke by assuming vows no Pope will loose: + And yet I love you still, but holily, + Even as a sister or a spirit might; + And so I swear a cold fidelity.’ + +After her violation, her whole being is absorbed by one thought,—how and +by what subtle vengeance she can expiate the memory of her shame. These +are all the characters in Shelley; an impulsive unity is of the essence +of them all. + +The same characteristic of Shelley’s temperament produced also most +marked effects on his speculative opinions. The peculiarity of his +creed early brought him into opposition to the world. His education +seems to have been principally directed by his father, of whom the only +description which has reached us is not favourable. Sir Timothy Shelley, +according to Captain Medwin, was an illiterate country gentleman of an +extinct race; he had been at Oxford, where he learned nothing, had made +the grand tour, from which he brought back ‘a smattering of bad French +and a bad picture of an eruption at Vesuvius.’ He had the air of the +old school, and the habit of throwing it off which distinguished that +school. Lord Chesterfield himself was not easier on matters of morality. +He used to tell his son that he would provide for natural children +_ad infinitum_, but would never forgive his making a _mésalliance_. +On religion his opinions were very lax. He, indeed, ‘required his +servants,’ we are told, ‘to attend church,’ and even on rare occasions, +with superhuman virtue, attended himself; but there, as with others of +that generation, his religion ended. He doubtless did not feel that any +more could be required of him. He was not consciously insincere; but he +did not in the least realise the opposition between the religion which +he professed and the conduct which he pursued. Such a person was not +likely to influence a morbidly sincere imaginative nature in favour +of the doctrines of the Church of England. Shelley went from Eton, +where he had been singular, to Oxford, where he was more so. He was a +fair classical scholar. But his real mind was given to out-of-school +knowledge. He had written a novel; he had studied chemistry; when +pressed in argument, he used to ask, ‘What, then, does Condorcet say +upon the subject?’ This was not exactly the youth for the University of +Oxford in the year 1810. A distinguished pupil of that University once +observed to us, ‘The use of the University of Oxford is, that no one +can over-read themselves there. The appetite for knowledge is repressed. +A blight is thrown over the ingenuous mind, &c.’ And possibly it may be +so; considering how small a space literary knowledge fills in the busy +English world, it may not be without its advantages that any mind prone +to bookish enthusiasm should be taught by the dryness of its appointed +studies, the want of sympathy of its teachers, and a rough contact with +average English youth, that studious enthusiasm must be its own reward; +that in this country it will meet with little other; that it will not +be encouraged in high places. Such discipline may, however, be carried +too far. A very enthusiastic mind may possibly by it be turned in upon +itself. This was the case with Shelley. When he first came up to Oxford +physics were his favourite pursuit. On chemistry, especially, he used +to be eloquent. ‘The galvanic battery,’ said he, ‘is a new engine. It +has been used hitherto to an insignificant extent: yet it has worked +wonders already. What will not an extraordinary combination of troughs +of colossal magnitude, a well-arranged system of hundreds of metallic +plates, effect?’ Nature, however, like the world, discourages a wild +enthusiasm. ‘His chemical operations seemed to an unskilful observer +to promise nothing but disasters. He had blown himself up at Eton. He +had inadvertently swallowed some mineral poison, which he declared had +seriously injured his health, and from the effects of which he should +never recover. His hands, his clothes, his books, and his furniture, +were stained and covered by medical acids,’ and so on. Disgusted with +these and other failures, he abandoned physics for metaphysics. He rushed +head-long into the form of philosophy then popular. It is not likely +that he ever read Locke; and it is easy to imagine the dismay with which +the philosopher would have regarded so ‘heady and skittish’ a disciple: +but he continually invoked Locke as an authority, and was really guided +by the French expositions of him then popular. Hume, of course, was +not without his influence. With such teachers only to control him, an +excitable poet rushed in a moment to materialism, and thence to atheism. +Deriving any instruction from the University, was, according to him, +absurd; he wished to convert the University. He issued a kind of thesis, +stating by way of interrogatory all the difficulties of the subject; +called it the ‘necessity of atheism,’ and sent it to the professors, +heads of houses, and several bishops. The theistic belief of his college +was equal to the occasion. ‘It was a fine spring morning on Lady Day in +the year 1811, when,’ says a fellow-student, ‘I went to Shelley’s rooms. +He was absent; but before I had collected our books, he rushed in. He +was terribly agitated. I anxiously inquired what had happened. “I am +expelled.” He then explained that he had been summoned before the Master +and some of the Fellows; that as he was unable to deny the authorship of +the essay, he had been expelled and ordered to quit the college the next +morning at latest.’ He had wished to be put on his trial more regularly, +and stated to the Master that England was ‘a free country;’ but without +effect. He was obliged to leave Oxford: his father was very angry; ‘if he +had broken the Master’s windows, one could have understood it:’ but to be +expelled for publishing a _book_ seemed an error incorrigible, because +incomprehensible. + +These details at once illustrate Shelley’s temperament, and enable us to +show that the peculiarity of his opinions arose out of that temperament. +He was placed in circumstances which left his eager mind quite free. Of +his father we have already spoken: there was no one else to exercise a +subduing or guiding influence over him; nor would his mind have naturally +been one extremely easy to influence. Through life he followed very much +his own bent and his own thoughts. His most intimate associates exercised +very little control over his belief. He followed his nature; and that +nature was in a singular degree destitute of certain elements which most +materially guide ordinary men. It seems most likely that a person prone +to isolated impulse will be defective in the sensation of conscience. +There is scarcely room for it. When, as in common conflicting +characters, the whole nature is daily and hourly in a perpetual struggle, +the faculty which decides what elements in that nature are to have the +supremacy is daily and hourly appealed to. Passions are contending; life +is a discipline; there is a reference every moment to the directory +of the discipline—the order-book of the passions. In temperaments not +exposed to the ordinary struggle there is no such necessity. Their +impulse guides them; they have little temptation; are scarcely under the +law; have hardly occasion to consult the statute-book. In consequence, +simple and beautiful as such minds often are, they are deficient in the +sensation of duty; have no haunting idea of right or wrong; show an easy +_abandon_ in place of a severe self-scrutiny. At first it might seem +that such minds lose little; they are exempted from the consciousness of +a code to whose provisions they need little access. But such would be +the conclusion only from a superficial view of human nature. The whole +of our inmost faith is a series of intuitions; and experience seems +to show that the intuitions of conscience are the beginning of that +series. Childhood has little which can be called a religion; the shows +of this world, the play of its lights and shadows, suffice. It is in +the collision of our nature, which occurs in youth, that the first real +sensation of faith is felt. Conscience is often then morbidly acute; a +flush passes over the youthful mind; the guiding instinct is keen and +strong, like the passions with which it contends. At the first struggle +of our nature commences our religion. Childhood will utter the words; in +early manhood, when we become half-unwilling to utter them, they begin to +have a meaning. The result of history is similar. The whole of religion +rests on a faith that the universe is solely ruled by an almighty and +all-perfect Being. This strengthens with the moral cultivation, and grows +with the improvement of mankind. It is the assumed axiom of the creed +of Christendom; and all that is really highest in our race may have the +degree of its excellence tested by the degree of the belief in it. But +experience shows that the belief only grows very gradually. We see at +various times, and now, vast outlying nations in whom the conviction of +morality—the consciousness of a law—is but weak; and there the belief in +an all-perfect God is half-forgotten, faint, and meagre. It exists as +something between a tradition and a speculation; but it does not come +forth on the solid earth; it has no place in the business and bosoms +of men; it is thrust out of view even when we look upwards by fancied +idols and dreams of the stars in their courses. Consider the state of +the Jewish, as compared with the better part of the Pagan world of +old. On the one side we see civilisation, commerce, the arts, a great +excellence in all the exterior of man’s life; a sort of morality sound +and sensible, placing the good of man in a balanced moderation within +and good looks without;—in a combination of considerate good sense, with +the _air_ of aristocratic, or, as it was said, ‘godlike’ refinement. +We see, in a word, civilisation, and the ethics of civilisation; the +first polished, the other elaborated and perfected. But this is all; +we do not see faith. We see in some quarters rather a horror of the +_curiosus deus_ interfering, controlling, watching,—never letting things +alone,—disturbing the quiet of the world with punishment and the fear +of punishment. The Jewish side of the picture is different. We see a +people who have perhaps an inaptitude for independent civilisation, who +in secular pursuits have only been assistants and attendants on other +nations during the whole history of mankind. These have no equable, +beautiful morality like the others; but instead a gnawing, abiding, +depressing—one might say, a slavish—ceremonial, excessive sense of law +and duty. This nation has faith. By a link not logical, but ethical, +this intense, eating, abiding supremacy of conscience is connected +with a deep daily sense of a watchful, governing, and jealous God. And +from the people of the law arises the gospel. The sense of duty, when +awakened, awakens not only the religion of the law, but in the end the +other religious intuitions which lie round about it. The faith of +Christendom has arisen not from a great people, but from ‘the least of +all people,’—from the people whose anxious legalism was a noted contrast +to the easy, impulsive life of pagan nations. In modern language, +conscience is the _converting_ intuition,—that which turns men from the +world without to that within,—from the things which are seen to the +realities which are not seen. In a character like Shelley’s, where this +haunting, abiding, oppressive moral feeling is wanting or defective, the +religious belief in an Almighty God which springs out of it is likely to +be defective likewise. + +In Shelley’s case this deficiency was aggravated by what may be called +the abstract character of his intellect. We have shown that no character +except his own, and characters most strictly allied to his own, are +delineated in his works. The tendency of his mind was rather to personify +isolated qualities or impulses—equality, liberty, revenge, and so on—than +to create out of separate parts or passions the single conception of an +entire character. This is, properly speaking, the mythological tendency. +All early nations show this marked disposition to conceive of separate +forces and qualities as a kind of semi-persons; that is, not true +actual persons with distinct characters, but beings who guide certain +influences, and of whom all we know is that they guide those influences. +Shelley evinces a remarkable tendency to deal with mythology in this +simple and elementary form. Other poets have breathed into mythology +a modern life; have been attracted by those parts which seem to have +a religious meaning, and have enlarged that meaning while studying to +embody it. With Shelley it is otherwise; the parts of mythology by which +he is attracted are the bare parts—the simple stories which Dr. Johnson +found so tedious:— + + ‘Arethusa arose + From her couch of snows + In the Acroceraunian mountains. + From cloud and from crag, + With many a jag, + Shepherding her bright fountains, + She leapt down the rocks + With her rainbow locks + Streaming among the streams; + Her steps paved with green + The downward ravine, + Which slopes to the western gleams; + And gliding and springing, + She went ever singing, + In murmurs as soft as sleep; + The earth seemed to love her, + And heaven smiled above her, + As she lingered towards the deep. + Then Alpheus bold, + On his glacier cold, + With his trident the mountains strook,’ + &c. &c. + +Arethusa and Alpheus are not characters: they are only the spirits of +the fountain and the stream. When not writing on topics connected with +ancient mythology, Shelley shows the same bent. ‘The Cloud,’ and the +‘Skylark,’ are more like mythology—have more of the impulse by which +the populace, if we may so say, of the external world was first fancied +into existence—than any other modern poems. There is, indeed, no habit +of mind more remote from our solid and matter-of-fact existence; none +which was once powerful, of which the present traces are so rare. In +truth, Shelley’s imagination achieved all it could with the materials +before it. The materials for the creative faculty must be provided by +the receptive faculty. Before a man can imagine what will seem to be +realities, he must be familiar with what are realities. The memory +of Shelley had no heaped-up ‘store of life,’ no vast accumulation of +familiar characters. His intellect did not tend to the strong grasp of +realities; its taste was rather for the subtle refining of theories, +the distilling of exquisite abstractions. His imagination personified +what his understanding presented to it. It had nothing else to do. He +displayed the same tendency of mind—sometimes negatively and sometimes +positively—in his professedly religious inquiries. His belief went +through three stages—first, materialism, then a sort of Nihilism, then +a sort of Platonism. In neither of them is the rule of the universe +ascribed to a character: in the first and last it is ascribed to animated +abstractions; in the second there is no universe at all. In neither of +them is there any strong grasp of fact. The writings of the first period +are clearly influenced by, and modelled on, Lucretius. He held the same +abstract theory of nature—sometimes of half-personified atoms, moving +hither and thither of themselves—at other times of a general pervading +spirit of nature, holding the same relation to nature, as a visible +object, that Arethusa the goddess bears to Arethusa the stream: + + ‘The magic car moved on. + As they approached their goal + The coursers seemed to gather speed: + The sea no longer was distinguished; earth + Appeared a vast and shadowy sphere: + The sun’s unclouded orb + Rolled through the black concave; + Its rays of rapid light + Parted around the chariot’s swifter course, + And fell like ocean’s feathery spray + Dashed from the boiling surge + Before a vessel’s prow. + + The magic car moved on. + Earth’s distant orb appeared + The smallest light that twinkles in the heavens: + Whilst round the chariot’s way + Innumerable systems rolled, + And countless spheres diffused + An ever-varying glory. + It was a sight of wonder: some + Were horned like the crescent moon; + Some shed a mild and silver beam + Like Hesperus o’er the western sea; + Some dash’d athwart with trains of flame, + Like worlds to death and ruin driven; + Some shone like stars, and, as the chariot passed, + Bedimmed all other light. + + Spirit of Nature! here, + In this interminable wilderness + Of worlds, at whose immensity + Even soaring fancy staggers,— + Here is thy fitting temple. + Yet not the lightest leaf + That quivers to the passing breeze + Is less instinct with thee: + Yet not the meanest worm + That lurks in graves and fattens on the dead + Less shares thy eternal breath. + Spirit of Nature! thou, + Imperishable as this glorious scene,— + Here is thy fitting temple.’ + +And he copied not only the opinions of Lucretius, but also his tone. +Nothing is more remarkable than that two poets of the first rank should +have felt a bounding joy in the possession of opinions which, if true, +ought, one would think, to move an excitable nature to the keenest and +deepest melancholy. That this life is all; that there is no God, but only +atoms and a moulding breath; are singular doctrines to be accepted with +joy: they only could have been so accepted by wild minds bursting with +imperious energy, knowing of no law, ‘wreaking thoughts upon expression’ +of which they knew neither the meaning nor the result. From this stage +Shelley’s mind passed to another; but not immediately to one of greater +belief. On the contrary, it was the doctrine of Hume which was called +in to expel the doctrine of Epicurus. His previous teachers had taught +him that there was nothing except matter: the Scotch sceptic met him at +that point with the question—Is matter certain? Hume, as is well known, +adopted the negative part from the theory of materialism and the theory +of immaterialism, but rejected the positive side of both. He held, or +professed to hold, that there was no substantial thing, either matter or +mind; but only ‘sensations and impressions’ flying about the universe, +inhering in nothing and going nowhere. These, he said, were the only +subjects of consciousness; all you felt was your feeling, and all your +thought was your thought; the rest was only hypothesis. The notion +that there was any ‘_you_’ at all was a theory generally current among +mankind, but not, unless proved, to be accepted by the philosopher. +This doctrine, though little agreeable to the world in general, has an +excellence in the eyes of youthful disputants; it is a doctrine which +no one will admit, and which no one can disprove. Shelley accordingly +accepted it; indeed it was a better description of his universe than +of most people’s; his mind was filled with a swarm of ideas, fancies, +thoughts, streaming on without his volition, without plan or order. He +might be pardoned for fancying that they were all; he could not see the +outward world for them; their giddy passage occupied him till he forgot +himself. He has put down the theory in its barest form: ‘The most refined +abstractions of logic conduct to a view of life which, though startling +to the apprehension, is, in fact, that which the habitual sense of its +repeated combinations has extinguished in us. It strips, as it were, +the painted curtain from this scene of things. I confess that I am one +of those who am unable to refuse my assent to the conclusions of those +philosophers who assert that nothing exists but as it is perceived.’ And +again: ‘The view of life presented by the most refined deductions of the +intellectual philosophy is that of unity. Nothing exists but as it is +perceived. The difference is merely nominal between those two classes of +thought which are vulgarly distinguished by the names of ideas and of +external objects. Pursuing the same thread of reasoning, the existence +of distinct individual minds, similar to that which is employed in +now questioning its own nature, is likewise found to be a delusion. +The words, _I_, _you_, _they_, are not signs of any actual difference +subsisting between the assemblage of thoughts thus indicated, but are +merely marks employed to denote the different modifications of the one +mind. Let it not be supposed that this doctrine conducts to the monstrous +presumption that I, the person who now write and think, am that one +mind. I am but a portion of it. The words, _I_, and _you_, and _they_, +are grammatical devices invented simply for arrangement, and totally +devoid of the intense and exclusive sense usually attached to them. It +is difficult to find terms adequate to express so subtle a conception as +that to which the intellectual philosophy has conducted us. We are on +that verge where words abandon us; and what wonder if we grow dizzy to +look down the dark abyss of how little we know!’ On his wild nerves these +speculations produced a great effect. Their thin acuteness excited his +intellect; their blank result appalled his imagination. He was obliged to +pause in the last fragment of one of his metaphysical papers, ‘dizzy from +thrilling horror.’ In this state of mind he began to study Plato; and it +is probable that in the whole library of philosophy there is no writer +so suitable to such a reader. A common modern author, believing in mind +and matter, he would have put aside at once as loose and popular. He was +attracted by a writer who, like himself, in some sense did not believe +in either—who supplied him with subtle realities different from either, +at once to be extracted by his intellect and to be glorified by his +imagination. The theory of Plato, that the all-apparent phenomena were +unreal, he believed already; he had a craving to believe in something +noble, beautiful, and difficult to understand; he was ready, therefore, +to accept the rest of that theory, and to believe that these passing +phenomena were imperfect types and resemblances—imperfect incarnations, +so to speak—of certain immovable, eternal, archetypal realities. All +his later writings are coloured by that theory, though in some passages +the remains of the philosophy of the senses with which he commenced +appear in odd proximity to the philosophy of abstractions with which he +concluded. There is, perhaps, no allusion in Shelley to the _Phædrus_; +but no one can doubt which of Plato’s ideas would be most attractive to +the nature we have described. The most valuable part of Plato he did +not comprehend. There is in Shelley none of that unceasing reference to +ethical consciousness and ethical religion which has for centuries placed +Plato first among the preparatory preceptors of Christianity. The general +doctrine is that + + ‘The one remains, the many change and pass; + Heaven’s light for ever shines, earth’s shadows fly; + Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, + Stains the white radiance of eternity, + Until death tramples it to fragments.’ + +The particular worship of the poet is paid to that one spirit whose + + ‘Plastic stress + Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there + All new successions to the forms they wear; + Torturing th’ unwilling dross that checks its flight + To its own likeness, as each mass may bear; + And bursting in its beauty and its might + From trees, and beasts, and men, into the heaven’s light.’ + +It is evident that not even in this, the highest form of creed to which +he ever clearly attained, is there any such distinct conception of a +character as is essential to a real religion. The conception of God is +not to be framed out of a single attribute. Shelley has changed the +‘idea’ of beauty into a spirit, and this probably for the purposes of +poetry; he has given it life and animal motion; but he has done no more; +the ‘spirit’ has no will, and no virtue: it is animated, but unholy; +alive, but unmoral: it is an object of intense admiration; it is not an +object of worship. + +We have ascribed this quality of Shelley’s writings to an abstract +intellect; and in part, no doubt, correctly. Shelley had, probably by +nature, such an intellect; it was self-enclosed, self-absorbed, teeming +with singular ideas, remote from character and life; but so involved is +human nature, that this tendency to abstraction, which we have spoken of +as aggravating the consequences of his simple impulsive temperament, +was itself aggravated by that temperament. It is a received opinion in +metaphysics, that the idea of personality is identical with the idea of +will. A distinguished French writer has accurately expressed this: ‘Le +pouvoir,’ says M. Jouffroy, ‘que l’homme a de s’emparer de ses capacités +naturelles et de les diriger fait de lui une _personne_; et c’est parce +que les _choses_ n’exercent pas ce pouvoir en elles-mêmes, qu’elles ne +sont que des choses. Telle est la véritable différence qui distingue +les choses des personnes. Toutes les natures possibles sont douées de +certaines capacités; mais les unes out reçu par-dessus les autres le +privilège de se saisir d’elles-mêmes et de se gouverner: celles-là sont +les personnes. Les autres en ont été privées, en sorte qu’elles n’ont +point de part à ce qui se fait en elles: celles-là sont les choses. +Leurs capacités ne s’en développent pas moins, mais c’est exclusivement +selon les lois auxquelles Dieu les a soumises. C’est Dieu qui gouverne +en elles; il est la personne des choses, comme l’ouvrier est la personne +de la montre. Ici la personne est hors de l’être; dans le sein même des +choses, comme dans le sein de la montre, la personne ne se rencontre pas; +on ne trouve qu’une série de capacités qui se meuvent aveuglément, sans +que la nature qui en est douée sache même ce qu’elles font. Aussi ne +peut-on demander compte aux choses de ce qui se fait en elles; il faut +s’adresser à Dieu: comme on s’adresse à l’ouvrier et non à la montre, +quand la montre va mal.’ And if this theory be true—and doubtless it is +an approximation to the truth—it is evident that a mind ordinarily moved +by simple impulse will have little distinct consciousness of personality. +While thrust forward by such impulse, it is a mere instrument. Outward +things set it in motion. It goes where they bid; it exerts no will upon +them; it is, to speak expressively, a mere conducting thing. When such +a mind is free from such impulse, there is even less will; thoughts, +feelings, ideas, emotions, pass before it in a sort of dream. For the +time it is a mere perceiving thing. In neither case is there a trace +of voluntary character. If we want a reason for anything, ‘il faut +s’adresser à Dieu.’ + +Shelley’s political opinions were likewise the effervescence of his +peculiar nature. The love of liberty is peculiarly natural to the simple +impulsive mind. It feels irritated at the idea of a law; it fancies it +does not need it: it really needs it less than other minds. Government +seems absurd—society an incubus. It has hardly patience to estimate +particular institutions: it wants to begin again—to make a _tabula rasa_ +of all which men have created or devised; for they seem to have been +constructed on a false system, for an object it does not understand. On +this _tabula rasa_ Shelley’s abstract imagination proceeded to set up +arbitrary monstrosities of ‘equality’ and ‘love,’ which never will be +realised among the children of men. + +Such a mind is clearly driven to self-delineation. Nature, no doubt, in +some sense remains to it. A dreamy mind—a mind occupied intensely with +its own thoughts—will often have a peculiarly intense apprehension of +anything which by the hard collision of the world it has been forced to +observe. The scene stands out alone in the memory; is a refreshment from +hot thoughts; grows with the distance of years. A mind like Shelley’s, +deeply susceptible to all things beautiful, has many pictures and images +shining in its recollection which it recurs to, and which it is ever +striving to delineate. Indeed, in such minds it is rather the picture in +their mind which they describe than the original object; the ‘ideation,’ +as some harsh metaphysicians call it, rather than the reality. A certain +dream-light is diffused over it; a wavering touch, as of interfering +fancy or fading recollection. The landscape has not the hues of the +real world; it is modified in the _camera obscura_ of the self-enclosed +intelligence. Nor can such a mind long endure the cold process of +external delineation. Its own hot thoughts rush in; its favourite topic +is itself and them. Shelley, indeed, as we observed before, carries this +to an extent which no poet probably ever equalled. He described not only +his character but his circumstances. We know that this is so in a large +number of passages; if his poems were commented on by some one thoroughly +familiar with the events of his life, we should doubtless find that it +was so in many more. On one strange and painful scene his fancy was +continually dwelling. In a gentle moment we have a dirge— + + ‘The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, + The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, + And the year + On the earth her deathbed, in a shroud of leaves, dead + Is lying. + Come months, come away, + From November to May, + In your saddest array; + Follow the bier + Of the dead cold year, + And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. + + ‘The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, + The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling; + For the year; + The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone + To his dwelling. + Come, months, come away; + Put on white, black, and gray; + Let your light sisters play— + Ye, follow the bier + Of the dead cold year, + And make her grave green with tear on tear.’ + +In a frenzied mood he breaks forth into wildness: + + ‘She is still, she is cold + On the bridal couch; + One step to the white deathbed, + And one to the bier, + And one to the charnel—and one, O, where? + The dark arrow fled + In the noon. + 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.’ + +There is no doubt that these and a hundred other similar passages allude +to the death of his first wife; as melancholy a story as ever shivered +the nerves of an excitable being. The facts are hardly known to us, but +they are something like these: In very early youth Shelley had formed +a half-fanciful attachment to a cousin, a Miss Harriet Grove, who is +said to have been attractive, and to whom, certainly, his fancy often +went back in later and distant years. How deep the feeling was on either +side we do not know; she seems to have taken an interest in the hot +singular dreams which occupied his mind—except only where her image might +intrude—from which one might conjecture that she took unusual interest in +him; she even wrote some chapters, or parts of some, in one of his boyish +novels, and her parents doubtless thought the ‘Rosicrucian’ could be +endured, as Shelley was the heir to land and a baronetcy. His expulsion +from Oxford altered all this. Probably he had always among his friends +been thought ‘a singular young man,’ and they had waited in perplexity +to see if the oddness would turn to unusual good or unusual evil. His +atheistic treatise and its results seemed to show clearly the latter, and +all communication with Miss Grove was instantly forbidden him. What she +felt on the subject is not told us; probably some theistic and undreaming +lover intervened, for she married in a short time. The despair of an +excitable poet at being deprived of his mistress at the same moment that +he was abandoned by his family, and in a measure by society, may be +fancied, though it cannot be known. Captain Medwin observes: ‘Shelley, +on this trying occasion, had the courage to live, in order that he might +labour for one great object—the advancement of the human race, and the +amelioration of society; and strengthened himself in a resolution to +devote his energies to this ultimate end, being prepared to endure every +obloquy, to make every sacrifice for its accomplishment: and would,’ +such is the Captain’s English, ‘if necessary, have died in the cause.’ +It does not appear, however, that disappointed love took solely the very +unusual form of philanthropy. By chance, whether with or without leave +does not appear, he went to see his second sister, who was at school +at a place called Balham Hill, near London; and, while walking in the +garden with her, ‘a Miss Westbrook passed them.’ She was a ‘handsome +blonde young lady, nearly sixteen;’ and Shelley was much struck. He found +out that her name was ‘Harriett,’—as he, after his marriage, anxiously +expresses it, with two t’s, ‘Harriett;’ and he fell in love at once. She +had the name of his first love; ‘fairer, though yet the same.’ After his +manner, he wrote to her immediately. He was in the habit of doing this to +people who interested him, either in his own or under an assumed name: +and once, Captain Medwin says, carried on a long correspondence with +Mrs. Hemans, then Miss Browne, under his (the captain’s) name; but which +he, the deponent, was not permitted to peruse. In Miss Westbrook’s case +the correspondence had a more serious consequence. Of her character we +can only guess a little. She was, we think, an ordinary blooming young +lady of sixteen. Shelley was an extraordinary young man of nineteen, +rather handsome, very animated, and expressing his admiration a little +intensely. He was doubtless much the most aristocratic person she had +ever spoken to; for her father was a retired innkeeper, and Shelley had +always the air of a man of birth. There is a vision, too, of an elder +sister, who made ‘Harriett dear’ very uncomfortable. On the whole, the +result may be guessed. At the end of August 1811, we do not know the +precise day, they were married at Gretna Green. Jests may be made on it; +but it was no laughing matter in the life of the wife or the husband. Of +the lady’s disposition and mind we know nothing, except from Shelley; +a medium which must, under the circumstances, be thought a distorting +one. We should conclude that she was capable of making many people happy, +though not of making Shelley happy. There is an ordinance of nature at +which men of genius are perpetually fretting, but which does more good +than many laws of the universe which they praise: it is, that ordinary +women ordinarily prefer ordinary men. ‘Genius,’ as Hazlitt would have +said, ‘puts them out.’ It is so strange; it does not come into the room +as usual; it says ‘such things:’ once it forgot to brush its hair. The +common female mind prefers usual tastes, settled manners, customary +conversation, defined and practical pursuits. And it is a great good that +it should be so. Nature has no wiser instinct. The average woman suits +the average man; good health, easy cheerfulness, common charms, suffice. +If Miss Westbrook had married an every-day person—a gentleman, suppose, +in the tallow line—she would have been happy, and have made him happy. +Her mind could have understood his life; her society would have been a +gentle relief from unodoriferous pursuits. She had nothing in common +with Shelley. His mind was full of eager thoughts, wild dreams, singular +aspirations. The most delicate tact would probably have often failed, the +nicest sensibility would have been jarred, affection would have erred, +in dealing with such a being. A very peculiar character was required, to +enter into such a rare union of curious qualities. Some eccentric men of +genius have, indeed, felt in the habitual tact and serene nothingness of +ordinary women, a kind of trust and calm. They have admired an instinct +of the world which they had not—a repose of mind they could not share. +But this is commonly in later years. A boy of twenty thinks he knows +the world; he is too proud and happy in his own eager and shifting +thoughts, to wish to contrast them with repose. The commonplaceness of +life goads him: placid society irritates him. Bread is an incumbrance; +upholstery tedious: he craves excitement; he wishes to reform mankind. +You cannot convince him it is right to sew, in a world so full of sorrow +and evil. Shelley was in this state; he hurried to and fro over England, +pursuing theories, and absorbed in plans. He was deep in metaphysics; +had subtle disproofs of all religion; wrote several poems, which would +have been a puzzle to a very clever young lady. There were pecuniary +difficulties besides: neither of the families had approved of the match, +and neither were inclined to support the household. Altogether, no one +can be surprised that in less than three years the hasty union ended +in a ‘separation by mutual consent.’ The wonder is that it lasted so +long.—What her conduct was after the separation, is not very clear: there +were ‘reports’ about her at Bath—perhaps a loquacious place. She was not +twenty, probably handsome, and not improbably giddy: being quite without +evidence, we cannot judge what was rumour and what was truth. Shelley +has not left us in similar doubt. After a year or two he travelled +abroad with Mary, afterwards the second Mrs. Shelley, the daughter of +Mary Wollstonecraft and William Godwin—names most celebrated in those +times, and even now known for their anti-matrimonial speculations. Of +their ‘six weeks’ tour’ abroad, in the year 1816, a record remains, and +should be read by any persons who wish to learn what travelling was in +its infancy. It was the year when the Continent was first thrown open +to English travellers; and few probably adopted such singular means of +locomotion as Shelley and his companions. First they tried walking, +and had a very small ass to carry their portmanteau; then they tried a +mule; then a _fiacre_, which drove away from them; afterwards they came +to a raft. It was not, however, an unamusing journey. At an ugly and +out-of-the-way château, near Brunen, Shelley began a novel, to be called +‘The Assassins,’ which he never finished—probably never continued—after +his return; but which still remains, and is one of the most curious +and characteristic specimens of his prose style. It was a refreshing +intellectual tour; one of the most pleasant rambles of his life. On +his return he was met by painful intelligence. His wife had destroyed +herself. Of her state of mind we have again no evidence. She is said to +have been deeply affected by the ‘reports’ to which we have alluded; +but whatever it was, Shelley felt himself greatly to blame. He had been +instrumental in first dividing her from her family; had connected himself +with her in a wild contract, from which neither could ever be set free; +if he had not crossed her path, she might have been happy in her own way +and in her own sphere. All this preyed upon his mind, and it is said he +became mad; and whether or not his horror and pain went the length of +actual frenzy, they doubtless approached that border-line of suffering +excitement which divides the most melancholy form of sanity from the +most melancholy form of insanity. In several poems he seems to delineate +himself in the guise of a maniac: + + ‘“Of his sad history + I know but this,” said Maddalo; “he came + To Venice a dejected man, and fame + Said he was wealthy, or he had been so. + Some thought the loss of fortune wrought him woe; + But he was ever talking in such sort + As you do,—but more sadly: he seem’d hurt, + Even as a man with his peculiar wrong, + To hear but of the oppression of the strong, + Or those absurd deceits (I think with you + In some respects, you know) which carry through + The excellent impostors of this earth + When they outface detection. He had worth, + Poor fellow! but a humourist in his way.”— + + —“Alas, what drove him mad?” + + “I cannot say: + A lady came with him from France; and when + She left him and returned, he wander’d then + About yon lonely isles of desert sand + Till he grew wild. He had no cash nor land + Remaining:—the police had brought him here— + Some fancy took him, and he would not bear + Removal; so I fitted up for him + Those rooms beside the sea, to please his whim; + And sent him busts, and books, and urns for flowers, + Which had adorned his life in happier hours, + And instruments of music. You may guess, + A stranger could do little more or less + For one so gentle and unfortunate— + And those are his sweet strains, which charm the weight + From madmen’s chains, and make this hell appear + A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear.” + + “Nay, this was kind of you,—he had no claim, + As the world says.” + + “None but the very same, + Which I on all mankind, were I, as he, + Fall’n to such deep reverse. His melody + Is interrupted; now we hear the din + Of madmen, shriek on shriek, again begin; + Let us now visit him: after this strain + He ever communes with himself again, + And sees and hears not any.” + + Having said + These words, we called the keeper: and he led + To an apartment opening on the sea— + There the poor wretch was sitting mournfully + Near a piano, his pale fingers twined + One with the other; and the ooze and wind + Rushed through an open casement, and did sway + His hair, and starred it with the brackish spray: + His head was leaning on a music-book, + And he was muttering; and his lean limbs shook; + His lips were pressed against a folded leaf, + In hue too beautiful for health, and grief + Smiled in their motions as they lay apart, + As one who wrought from his own fervid heart + The eloquence of passion: soon he raised + His sad meek face, and eyes lustrous and glazed, + And spoke,—sometimes as one who wrote and thought + His words might move some heart that heeded not, + If sent to distant lands;—and then as one + Reproaching deeds never to be undone, + With wondering self-compassion; then his speech + Was lost in grief, and then his words came each + Unmodulated and expressionless,— + But that from one jarred accent you might guess + It was despair made them so uniform: + And all the while the loud and gusty storm + Hissed through the window; and we stood behind, + Stealing his accents from the envious wind, + Unseen. I yet remember what he said + Distinctly—such impression his words made.’ + +And casual illustrations—unconscious metaphors, showing a terrible +familiarity—are borrowed from insanity in his subsequent works. + +This strange story is in various ways deeply illustrative of his +character. It shows how the impulsive temperament, not definitely +intending evil, is hurried forward, so to say, _over_ actions and crimes +which would seem to indicate deep depravity—which would do so in ordinary +human nature, but which do not indicate in it anything like the same +degree of guilt. Driven by singular passion across a tainted region, it +retains no taint; on a sudden it passes through evil, but preserves its +purity. So curious is this character, that a record of its actions may +read like a libel on its life. + +To some the story may also suggest whether Shelley’s nature was one of +those most adapted for love in its highest form. It is impossible to +deny that he loved with a great intensity; yet it was with a certain +narrowness, and therefore a certain fitfulness. Possibly a somewhat +wider nature, taking hold of other characters at more points,—fascinated +as intensely, but more variously.—stirred as deeply, but through more +complicated emotions,—is requisite for the highest and most lasting +feeling. Passion, to be enduring, must be many-sided. Eager and narrow +emotions urge like the gadfly of the poet: but they pass away; they are +single; there is nothing to revive them. Various as human nature must +be the passion which absorbs that nature into itself. Shelley’s mode +of delineating women has a corresponding peculiarity. They are well +described; but they are described under only one aspect. Every one of his +poems almost has a lady whose arms are white, whose mind is sympathising, +and whose soul is beautiful. She has many names—Cythna, Asia, Emily; but +these are only external disguises; she is indubitably the same person, +for her character never varies. No character can be simpler. She is +described as the ideal object of love in its most simple and elemental +form; the pure object of the essential passion. She is a being to be +loved in a single moment, with eager eyes and gasping breath; but you +feel that in that moment you have seen the whole. There is nothing to +come to afterwards. The fascination is intense, but uniform. There is not +the ever-varying grace, the ever-changing expression of the unchanging +charm, that alone can attract for all time the shifting moods of a +various and mutable nature. + +The works of Shelley lie in a confused state, like the _disjecta membra_ +of the poet of our boyhood. They are in the strictest sense ‘remains.’ +It is absurd to expect from a man who died at thirty a long work of +perfected excellence. All which at so early an age can be expected are +fine fragments, casual expressions of single inspirations. Of these +Shelley has written some that are nearly, and one or two perhaps that +are quite, perfect. But he has not done more. It would have been better +if he had not attempted so much. He would have done well to have heeded +Goethe’s caution to Eckerman: ‘Beware of attempting a large work. If you +have a great work in your head, nothing else thrives near it, all other +thoughts are repelled, and the pleasantness of life itself is for the +time lost. What exertion and expenditure of mental force are required +to arrange and round off a great whole; and then what powers, and what +a tranquil undisturbed situation in life, to express it with the proper +fluency! If you have erred as to the whole, all your toil is lost; and +further, if, in treating so extensive a subject, you are not perfectly +master of your material in the details, the whole will be defective, +and censure will be incurred.’ Shelley did not know this. He was ever +labouring at long poems: but he has scarcely left one which, as a whole, +is worthy of him; you can point to none and say, This is Shelley. Even +had he lived to an age of riper capacity, it may be doubted if a being +so discontinuous, so easily hurried to and fro, would have possessed +the settled, undeviating self-devotion that are necessary to a long and +perfect composition. He had not, like Goethe, the cool shrewdness to +watch for inspiration. + +His success, as we have said, is in fragments; and the best of those +fragments are lyrical. The very same isolation and suddenness of impulse +which rendered him unfit for the composition of great works, rendered him +peculiarly fit to pour forth on a sudden the intense essence of peculiar +feeling ‘in profuse strains of unpremeditated art.’ Lord Macaulay has +said that the words ‘bard’ and ‘inspiration,’ generally so meaningless +when applied to modern poets, have a meaning when applied to Shelley. +An idea, an emotion grew upon his brain his breast heaved, his frame +shook, his nerves quivered with the ‘harmonious madness’ of imaginative +concentration. ‘Poetry,’ he himself tells us, ‘is not, like reasoning, +a power to be exerted according to the determination of the will. A man +cannot say, “I will compose poetry.” The greatest poet even cannot say +it; for the mind in creation is as a fading coal, which some invisible +influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens to transitory brightness; +this power arises from within, like the colour of a flower which fades +and changes as it is developed, and the conscious portions of our nature +are unprophetic either of its approach or its departure.... Poetry is the +record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds. +We are aware of evanescent visitations of thought and feeling sometimes +associated with place or person, sometimes regarding our own mind alone, +and always arising unforeseen and departing unbidden, but elevating and +delightful beyond all expression: so that even in the desire and the +regret they leave, there cannot but be pleasure, participating as it does +in the nature of its object. It is as it were the interpenetration of a +diviner nature through our own; but its footsteps are like those of a +wind over the sea, which the coming calm erases, and whose traces remain +only, as on the wrinkled sand which paves it.’ In verse, Shelley has +compared the skylark to a poet; we may turn back the description on his +own art and his own mind: + + ‘Keen as are the arrows + Of that silver sphere, + Whose intense lamp narrows + In the white dawn clear, + Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. + + All the earth and air + With thy voice is loud, + As, when night is bare, + From one lonely cloud + The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. + + What thou art we know not; + What is most like thee? + From rainbow-clouds there flow not + Drops so bright to see, + As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. + + ... + + Like a high-born maiden + In a palace-tower, + Soothing her love-laden + Soul in secret hour + With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower. + + Like a glow-worm golden + In a dell of dew, + Scattering unbeholden + Its aërial hue + Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view. + + Like a rose embowered + In its own green leaves, + By warm winds deflowered, + Till the scent it gives + Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves. + + Sound of vernal showers + On the twinkling grass, + Rain-awakened flowers, + All that ever was + Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.’ + +In most poets unearthly beings are introduced to express peculiar removed +essences of lyrical rapture; but they are generally failures. Lord Byron +tried this kind of composition in ‘Manfred,’ and the result is an evident +failure. In Shelley, such singing solitary beings are almost uniformly +successful; while writing, his mind really for the moment was in the +state in which theirs is supposed always to be. He loved attenuated ideas +and abstracted excitement. In expressing their nature he had but to set +free his own. + +Human nature is not, however, long equal to this sustained effort of +remote excitement. The impulse fails, imagination fades, inspiration dies +away. With the skylark it is well: + + ‘With thy clear keen joyance + Languor cannot be: + Shadow of annoyance + Never came near thee: + Thou lovest; but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.’ + +But in unsoaring human nature languor comes, fatigue palls, melancholy +oppresses, melody dies away. The universe is not all blue sky; there +is the thick fog and the heavy earth. ‘The world,’ says Mr. Emerson, +‘is mundane.’ A creeping sense of weight is part of the most aspiring +nature. To the most thrilling rapture succeeds despondency, perhaps +pain. To Shelley this was peculiarly natural. His dreams of reform, +of a world which was to be, called up the imaginative ecstasy: his +soul bounded forward into the future; but it is not possible even to +the most abstracted and excited mind to place its happiness in the +expected realisation of impossible schemes, and yet not occasionally be +uncertain of those schemes. The rigid frame of society, the heavy heap +of traditional institutions, the solid slowness of ordinary humanity, +depress the aspiring fancy. ‘Since our fathers fell asleep, all things +continue as they were from the beginning.’ Occasionally we must think of +our fathers. No man can always dream of ever altering all which is. It +is characteristic of Shelley, that at the end of his most rapturous and +sanguine lyrics there intrudes the cold consciousness of this world. So +with his Grecian dreams:— + + ‘A brighter Hellas rears its mountains + From waves serener far; + A new Peneus rolls its fountains + Against the morning-star. + Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep + Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. + + A loftier Argo cleaves the main, + Fraught with a later prize; + Another Orpheus sings again, + And loves, and weeps, and dies: + A new Ulysses leaves once more + Calypso for his native shore.’ + +But he ends: + + ‘O, cease! must hate and death return? + Cease! must men kill and die? + Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn + Of bitter prophecy. + The world is weary of the past— + O, might it die or rest at last!’ + +In many of his poems the failing of the feeling is as beautiful as its +short moment of hope and buoyancy. + +The excellence of Shelley does not, however, extend equally over the +whole domain of lyrical poetry. That species of art may be divided—not +perhaps with the accuracy of science, but with enough for the rough +purposes of popular criticism—into the human and the abstract. The sphere +of the former is of course the actual life, passions, and actions of +real men,—such are the war-songs of rude nations especially; in that +early age there is no subject for art but natural life and primitive +passion. At a later time, when from the deposit of the _débris_ of a +hundred philosophies, a large number of half-personified abstractions +are part of the familiar thoughts and language of all mankind, there +are new objects to excite the feelings,—we might even say there are +new feelings to be excited; the rough substance of original passion +is sublimated and attenuated till we hardly recognise its identity. +Ordinarily and in most minds the emotion loses in this process its +intensity or much of it; but this is not universal. In some peculiar +minds it is possible to find an almost dizzy intensity of excitement +called forth by some fancied abstraction, remote altogether from the +eyes and senses of men. The love-lyric in its simplest form is probably +the most intense expression of primitive passion; yet not in those +lyrics where such intensity is the greatest,—in those of Burns, for +example,—is the passion so dizzy, bewildering, and bewildered, as in the +‘Epipsychidion’ of Shelley, the passion of which never came into the real +world at all, was only a fiction founded on fact, and was wholly—and even +Shelley felt it—inconsistent with the inevitable conditions of ordinary +existence. In this point of view, and especially also taking account of +his peculiar religious opinions, it is remarkable that Shelley should +have taken extreme delight in the Bible as a composition. He is the least +biblical of poets. The whole, inevitable, essential conditions of real +life—the whole of its plain, natural joys and sorrows—are described in +the Jewish literature as they are described nowhere else. Very often +they are assumed rather than delineated; and the brief assumption is +more effective than the most elaborate description. There is none of the +delicate sentiment and enhancing sympathy which a modern writer would +think necessary; the inexorable facts are dwelt on with a stern humanity, +which recognises human feeling though intent on something above it. Of +all modern poets, Wordsworth shares the most in this peculiarity; perhaps +he is the only recent one who has it at all. He knew the hills beneath +whose shade ‘the generations are prepared:’ + + ‘Much did he see of men, + Their passions and their feelings: chiefly those + Essential and eternal in the heart, + That mid the simple form of rural life + Exist more simple in their elements, + And speak a plainer language.’ + +Shelley has nothing of this. The essential feelings he hoped to change; +the eternal facts he struggled to remove. Nothing in human life to him +was inevitable or fixed; he fancied he could alter it all. His sphere +is the ‘unconditioned;’ he floats away into an imaginary Elysium or +an expected Utopia; beautiful and excellent, of course, but having +nothing in common with the absolute laws of the present world. Even in +the description of mere nature the difference may be noted. Wordsworth +describes the earth as we know it, with all its peculiarities; where +there are moors and hills, where the lichen grows, where the slate-rock +juts out. Shelley describes the universe. He rushes away among the stars; +this earth is an assortment of imagery, he uses it to deck some unknown +planet. He scorns ‘the smallest light that twinkles in the heavens.’ His +theme is the vast, the infinite, the immeasurable. He is not of our home, +nor homely; he describes not our world, but that which is common to all +worlds—the Platonic idea of a world. Where it can, his genius soars from +the concrete and real into the unknown, the indefinite, and the void. + +Shelley’s success in the abstract lyric would prepare us for expecting +that he would fail in attempts at eloquence. The mind which bursts +forward of itself into the inane, is not likely to be eminent in the +composed adjustments of measured persuasion. A voluntary self-control is +necessary to the orator: even when he declaims, he must only let himself +go; a keen will must be ready, a wakeful attention at hand, to see that +he does not say a word by which his audience will not be touched. The +eloquence of ‘Queen Mab’ is of that unpersuasive kind which is admired in +the earliest youth, when things and life are unknown, when all that is +intelligible is the sound of words. + +Lord Macaulay, in a passage to which we have referred already, speaks +of Shelley as having, more than any other poet, many of the qualities +of the great old masters; two of these he has especially. In the first +place, his imagination is classical rather than romantic,—we should, +perhaps, apologise for using words which have been used so often, but +which hardly convey even now a clear and distinct meaning; yet they seem +the best for conveying a distinction of this sort. When we attempt to +distinguish the imagination from the fancy, we find that they are often +related as a beginning to an ending. On a sudden we do not know how a +new image, form, idea, occurs to our minds; sometimes it is borne in +upon us with a flash, sometimes we seem unawares to stumble upon it, and +find it as if it had long been there: in either case the involuntary, +unanticipated appearance of this new thought or image is a primitive +fact which we cannot analyse or account for. We say it originated in +our imagination or creative faculty: but this is a mere expression of +the completeness of our ignorance; we could only define the imagination +as the faculty which produces such effects; we know nothing of it +or its constitution. Again, on this original idea a large number of +accessory and auxiliary ideas seem to grow or accumulate insensibly, +casually, and without our intentional effort; the bare primitive form +attracts a clothing of delicate materials—an adornment not altering its +essences, but enhancing its effect. This we call the work of the fancy. +An exquisite delicacy in appropriating fitting accessories is as much +the characteristic excellence of a fanciful mind, as the possession +of large, simple, bold ideas is of an imaginative one. The last is +immediate; the first comes minute by minute. The distinction is like what +one fancies between sculpture and painting. If we look at a delicate +statue—a Venus or Juno—it does not suggest any slow elaborate process +by which its expression was chiselled and its limbs refined; it seems +a simple fact; we look, and require no account of it; it exists. The +greatest painting suggests, not only a creative act, but a decorative +process: day by day there was something new; we could watch the tints +laid on, the dresses tinged, the perspective growing and growing. There +is something statuesque about the imagination; there is the gradual +complexity of painting in the most exquisite productions of the fancy. +When we speak of this distinction, we seem almost to be speaking of the +distinction between ancient and modern literature. The characteristic of +the classical literature is the simplicity with which the imagination +appears in it; that of modern literature is the profusion with which the +most various adornments of the accessory fancy are thrown and lavished +upon it. Perhaps nowhere is this more conspicuous than in the modern +treatment of antique subjects. One of the most essentially modern of +recent poets—Keats,—has an ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn:’ it begins— + + ‘Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness! + Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, + Sylvan historian! who canst thus express + A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: + What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape + Of deities or mortals, or of both, + In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? + What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? + What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? + What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy!’ + +No ancient poet would have dreamed of writing thus. There would have +been no indistinct shadowy warmth, no breath of surrounding beauty: +his delineation would have been cold, distinct, chiselled like the urn +itself. The use which such a poet as Keats makes of ancient mythology is +exactly similar. He owes his fame to the inexplicable art with which he +has breathed a soft tint over the marble forms of gods and goddesses, +enhancing their beauty without impairing their chasteness. The naked +kind of imagination is not peculiar to a mythological age. The growth of +civilisation, at least in Greece, rather increased than diminished the +imaginative bareness of the poetical art. It seems to attain its height +in Sophocles. If we examine any of his greater passages, a principal +beauty is their reserved simplicity. A modern reader almost necessarily +uses them as materials for fancy: we are too used to little circumstance +to be able to do without it. Take the passage in which Œdipus contrasts +the conduct of his sons with that of his daughters: + + ὦ πάντ’ ἐκείνω τοῖς ἐν Αἰγύπτῳ νόμοις + φύσιν κατεικασθέντε καὶ βίου τροφάς. + ἐκεῖ γὰρ οἱ μὲν ἄρσενες κατὰ στέγας + θακοῦσιν ἱστουργοῦντες, αἱ δὲ σύννομοι + τἄξω βίου τροφεῖα πορσύνουσ’ ἀεί. + σφῷν δ’, ὦ τέκν’, οὓς μὲν εἰκὸς ἦν πονεῖν τάδε, + κατ’ οἶκον οἰκουροῦσιν ὥστε παρθένοι, + σφὼ δ’ ἀντ’ ἐκείνων τἀμὰ δυστήνου κακὰ + ὑπερπονεῖτον. ἡ μέν ἐξ ὅτου νέας + τροφῆς ἔληξε καὶ κατίσχυσεν δέμας, + ἀεὶ μεθ’ ἡμῶν δύσμορος πλανωμένη + γερονταγωγεῖ, πολλὰ μὲν κατ’ ἀγρίαν + ὕλην ἄσιτος νηλίπους τ’ ἀλωμένη, + πολλοῖσι δ’ ὄμβροις ἡλίου τε καύμασι + μοχθοῦσα τλήμων, δεύτερ’ ἡγεῖται τὰ τῆς + οἴκοι διαίτης, εἰ πατὴρ τροφὴν ἔχοι. + +What a contrast to the ravings of Lear! What a world of detail +Shakespeare would have put into the passage! What talk of ‘sulphurous and +thought-executing fires,’ ‘simulars of virtue,’ ‘pent-up guilts,’ and +‘the thick rotundity of the world!’ Decorum is the principal thing in +Sophocles. The conception of Œdipus is not + + ‘Crowned with rank fumiter and furrow weeds, + With harlocks, hemlock, nettle, and cuckoo-flowers.’ + +There are no ‘idle weeds’ among the ‘sustaining corn.’ The conception of +Lear is that of an old gnarled oak, gaunt and quivering in the stormy +sky, with old leaves and withered branches tossing in the air, and +all the complex growth of a hundred years creaking and nodding to its +fall. That of Œdipus is the peak of Teneriffe, as we fancied it in our +childhood, by itself and snowy, above among the stormy clouds, heedless +of the angry winds and the desolate waves,—single, ascending, and alone. +Or, to change the metaphor to one derived from an art where the same +qualities of mind have produced kindred effects, ancient poetry is +like a Grecian temple, with pure form and rising columns,—created, one +fancies, by a single effort of an originative nature: modern literature +seems to have sprung from the involved brain of a Gothic architect, +and resembles a huge cathedral—the work of the perpetual industry of +centuries—complicated and infinite in details; but by their choice +and elaboration producing an effect of unity which is not inferior to +that of the other, and is heightened by the multiplicity through which +it is conveyed. And it is this warmth of circumstance—this profusion +of interesting detail—which has caused the name ‘romantic’ to be +perseveringly applied to modern literature. + +We need only to open Shelley, to show how essentially classical in its +highest efforts his art is. Indeed, although nothing can be further +removed from the staple topics of the classical writers than the abstract +lyric, yet their treatment is nearly essential to it. We have said, its +sphere is in what the Germans call the unconditioned—in the unknown, +immeasurable, and untrodden. It follows from this that we cannot know +much about it. We cannot know detail in tracts we have never visited; +the infinite has no form; the immeasurable no outline: that which is +common to all worlds is simple. There is therefore no scope for the +accessory fancy. With a single soaring effort imagination may reach her +end; if she fail, no fancy can help her; if she succeed, there will +be no petty accumulations of insensible circumstance in a region far +above all things. Shelley’s excellence in the abstract lyric is almost +another phrase for the simplicity of his impulsive imagination.—He shows +it on other subjects also. We have spoken of his bare treatment of the +ancient mythology. It is the same with his treatment of nature. In the +description of the celestial regions quoted before—one of the most +characteristic passages in his writings—the details are few, the air +thin, the lights distinct. We are conscious of an essential difference +if we compare the ‘Ode to the Nightingale,’ in Keats, for instance—such +verses as + + ‘I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, + Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs: + But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet + Wherewith the seasonable month endows + The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild, + White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine, + Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves, + And mid-May’s eldest child, + The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, + The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. + + Darkling I listen; and for many a time + I have been half in love with easeful Death, + Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, + To take into the air my quiet breath: + Now more than ever seems it rich to die, + To cease upon the midnight with no pain, + While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad + In such an ecstasy. + Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— + To thy high requiem become a sod.’ + +—with the conclusion of the ode ‘To a Skylark’— + + ‘Yet if we could scorn + Hate, and pride, and fear; + If we were things born + Not to shed a tear, + I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. + + Better than all measures + Of delightful sound, + Better than all treasures + That in books are found, + Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! + + Teach me half the gladness + That thy brain must know; + Such harmonious madness + From my lips would flow, + The world should listen then, as I am listening now.’ + +We can hear that the poetry of Keats is a rich, composite, voluptuous +harmony; that of Shelley a clear single ring of penetrating melody. + +Of course, however, this criticism requires limitation. There is an +obvious sense in which Shelley is a fanciful, as contra-distinguished +from an imaginative poet. These words, being invented for the popular +expression of differences which can be remarked without narrow +inspection, are apt to mislead us when we apply them to the exact results +of a near and critical analysis. Besides the use of the word ‘fancy’ to +denote the power which adorns and amplifies the product of the primitive +imagination, we also employ it to denote the weaker exercise of the +faculty which itself creates those elementary products. We use the word +‘imaginative’ only for strong, vast, imposing, interesting conceptions: +we use the word ‘fanciful’ when we have to speak of smaller and weaker +creations, which amaze us less at the moment and affect us more slightly +afterwards. Of course, metaphysically speaking, it is not likely that +there will be found to be any distinction; the faculty which creates the +most attractive ideas is doubtless the same as that which creates the +less attractive. Common language marks the distinction, because common +people are impressed by the contrast between what affects them much and +what affects them little; but it is no evidence of the entire difference +of the latent agencies. Speech, as usual, refers to sensations, and not +to occult causes. Of fancies of this sort Shelley is full: whole poems—as +the ‘Witch of Atlas’—are composed of nothing else. Living a good deal in, +and writing a great deal about, the abstract world, it was inevitable +that he should often deal in fine subtleties, affecting very little the +concrete hearts of real men. Many pages of his are, in consequence, +nearly unintelligible, even to good critics of common poetry. The air +is too rarefied for hardy and healthy lungs: these like, as Lord Bacon +expressed it, ‘to work upon stuff.’ From his habitual choice of slight +and airy subjects, Shelley may be called a fanciful, as opposed to an +imaginative, poet; from his bare delineations of great objects, his keen +expression of distinct impulses, he should be termed an imaginative, +rather than a fanciful one. + +Some of this odd combination of qualities Shelley doubtless owed to +the structure of his senses. By one of those singular results which +constantly meet us in metaphysical inquiry, the imagination and fancy are +singularly influenced by the bodily sensibility. One might have fancied +that the faculty by which the soul soars into the infinite, and sees +what it cannot see with the eye of the body, would have been peculiarly +independent of that body. But the reverse is the case. Vividness of +sensation seems required to awaken, delicacy to define, copiousness to +enrich, the visionary faculty. A large experience proves that a being +who is blind to this world will be blind to the other; that a coarse +expectation of what is not seen will follow from a coarse perception of +what is seen. Shelley’s sensibility was vivid but peculiar. Hazlitt used +to say, ‘he had seen him; and did not like his looks.’ He had the thin +keen excitement of the fanatic student; not the broad, natural, energy +which Hazlitt expected from a poet. The diffused life of genial enjoyment +which was common to Scott and to Shakespeare, was quite out of his way. +Like Mr. Emerson, he would have wondered they could be content with a +‘mean and jocular life.’ In consequence, there is no varied imagery from +human life in his poetry. He was an abstract student, anxious about +deep philosophies; and he had not that settled, contemplative, allotted +acquaintance with external nature which is so curious in Milton, the +greatest of studious poets. The exact opposite, however, to Shelley, in +the nature of his sensibility, is Keats. That great poet used to pepper +his tongue, ‘to enjoy in all its grandeur the cool flavour of delicious +claret.’ When you know it, you seem to read it in his poetry. There is +the same luxurious sentiment; the same poise on fine sensation. Shelley +was the reverse of this; he was a waterdrinker; his verse runs quick +and chill, like a pure crystal stream. The sensibility of Keats was +attracted too by the spectacle of the universe; he could not keep his +eye from seeing, or his ears from hearing, the glories of it. All the +beautiful objects of nature reappear by name in his poetry. On the other +hand, the abstract idea of beauty is for ever celebrated in Shelley; it +haunted his soul. But it was independent of special things; it was the +general surface of beauty which lies upon all things. It was the smile of +the universe and the expression of the world; it was not the vision of +a land of corn and wine. The nerves of Shelley quivered at the idea of +loveliness; but no coarse sensation obtruded particular objects upon him. +He was left to himself with books and reflection. + +So far, indeed, from Shelley having a peculiar tendency to dwell on and +prolong the sensation of pleasure, he has a perverse tendency to draw out +into lingering keenness the torture of agony. Of his common recurrence +to the dizzy pain of mania we have formerly spoken; but this is not the +only pain. The nightshade is commoner in his poems than the daisy. The +nerve is ever laid bare; as often as it touches the open air of the real +world, it quivers with subtle pain. The high intellectual impulses which +animated him are too incorporeal for human nature; they begin in buoyant +joy, they end in eager suffering. + +In style, said Mr. Wordsworth—in workmanship, we think his expression +was—Shelley is one of the best of us. This too, we think, was the second +of the peculiarities to which Lord Macaulay referred when he said that +Shelley had, more than any recent poet, some of the qualities of the +great old masters. The peculiarity of his style is its intellectuality; +and this strikes us the more from its contrast with his impulsiveness. +He had something of this in life. Hurried away by sudden desires, as +he was in his choice of ends, we are struck with a certain comparative +measure and adjustment in his choice of means. So in his writings; over +the most intense excitement, the grandest objects, the keenest agony, +the most buoyant joy, he throws an air of subtle mind. His language is +minutely and acutely searching; at the dizziest height of meaning the +keenness of the words is greatest. As in mania, so in his descriptions +of it, the acuteness of the mind seems to survive the mind itself. +It was from Plato and Sophocles, doubtless, that he gained the last +perfection in preserving the accuracy of the intellect when treating of +the objects of the imagination; but in its essence it was a peculiarity +of his own nature. As it was the instinct of Byron to give in glaring +words the gross phenomena of evident objects, so it was that of Shelley +to refine the most inscrutable with the curious nicety of an attenuating +metaphysician. In the wildest of ecstasies his self-anatomising intellect +is equal to itself. + +There is much more which might be said, and which ought to be said, of +Shelley; but our limits are reached. We have not attempted a complete +criticism; we have only aimed to show how some of the peculiarities of +his works and life may be traced to the peculiarity of his nature. + + + + +_SHAKESPEARE—THE MAN._[27] + +(1853.) + + +The greatest of English poets, it is often said, is but a name. ‘No +letter of his writing, no record of his conversation, no character of +him drawn with any fulness by a contemporary,’ have been extracted by +antiquaries from the piles of rubbish which they have sifted. Yet of +no person is there a clearer picture in the popular fancy. You seem to +have known Shakespeare—to have seen Shakespeare—to have been friends +with Shakespeare. We would attempt a slight delineation of the popular +idea which has been formed, not from loose tradition or remote research; +not from what some one says some one else said that the poet said, but +from data, which are at least undoubted, from the sure testimony of his +certain works. + +Some extreme sceptics, we know, doubt whether it is possible to deduce +anything as to an author’s character from his works. Yet surely people +do not keep a tame steam-engine to write their books; and if those books +were really written by a man, he must have been a man who could write +them; he must have had the thoughts which they express, have acquired the +knowledge they contain, have possessed the style in which we read them. +The difficulty is a defect of the critics. A person who knows nothing of +an author he has read, will not know much of an author whom he has seen. + +First of all, it may be said, that Shakespeare’s works could only be +produced by a first-rate imagination working on a first-rate experience. +It is often difficult to make out whether the author of a poetic +creation is drawing from fancy, or drawing from experience; but for art +on a certain scale, the two must concur. Out of nothing, nothing can +be created. Some plastic power is required, however great may be the +material. And when such a work as ‘Hamlet’ or ‘Othello,’ still more, when +both of them and others not unequal have been created by a single mind, +it may be fairly said, that not only a great imagination, but a full +conversancy with the world was necessary to their production. The whole +powers of man under the most favourable circumstances, are not too great +for such an effort. We may assume that Shakespeare had a great experience. + +To a great experience one thing is essential, an experiencing nature. +It is not enough to have opportunity, it is essential to feel it. Some +occasions come to all men; but to many they are of little use, and to +some they are none. What, for example, has experience done for the +distinguished Frenchman, the name of whose essay is prefixed to this +paper. M. Guizot is the same man that he was in 1820, or, we believe as +he was in 1814. Take up one of his lectures, published before he was +a practical statesman; you will be struck with the width of view, the +amplitude and the solidity of the reflections; you will be amazed that +a mere literary teacher could produce anything so wise; but take up +afterwards an essay published since his fall—and you will be amazed to +find no more. Napoleon the First is come and gone—the Bourbons of the old +_régime_ have come and gone—the Bourbons of the new _régime_ have had +their turn. M. Guizot has been first minister of a citizen king; he has +led a great party; he has pronounced many a great _discours_ that was +well received by the second elective assembly in the world. But there +is no trace of this in his writings. No one would guess from them that +their author had ever left the professor’s chair. It is the same, we +are told, with small matters: when M. Guizot walks the street, he seems +to see nothing; the head is thrown back, the eye fixed, and the mouth +working. His mind is no doubt at work, but it is not stirred by what is +external. Perhaps it is the internal activity of mind that overmasters +the perceptive power. Anyhow there might have been an _émeute_ in the +street and he would not have known it; there have been revolutions in his +life and he is scarcely the wiser. Among the most frivolous and fickle of +civilised nations he is alone. They pass from the game of war to the game +of peace, from the game of science to the game of art, from the game of +liberty to the game of slavery, from the game of slavery to the game of +licence; he stands like a schoolmaster in the play-ground, without sport +and without pleasure, firm and sullen, slow and awful. + +A man of this sort is a curious mental phenomenon. He appears to get +early—perhaps to be born with, a kind of dry schedule or catalogue of the +universe; he has a ledger in his head, and has a title to which he can +refer any transaction; nothing puzzles him, nothing comes amiss to him, +but he is not in the least the wiser for anything. Like the book-keeper, +he has his heads of account, and he knows them, but he is no wiser for +the particular items. After a busy day, and after a slow day, after a +few entries, and after many, his knowledge is exactly the same: take his +opinion of Baron Rothschild, he will say, ‘Yes, he keeps an account with +us;’ of Humphrey Brown, ‘Yes, we have that account, too.’ Just so with +the class of minds which we are speaking of, and in greater matters. Very +early in life they come to a certain and considerable acquaintance with +the world; they learn very quickly all they can learn, and naturally +they never, in any way, learn any more. Mr. Pitt is, in this country, +the type of the character. Mr. Alison, in a well-known passage, makes it +a matter of wonder that he was fit to be a Chancellor of the Exchequer +at twenty-three, and it _is_ a great wonder. But it is to be remembered +that he was no more fit at forty-three. As somebody said, he did not +grow, he was cast. Experience taught him nothing, and he did not believe +that he had anything to learn. The habit of mind in smaller degrees is +not very rare, and might be illustrated without end. Hazlitt tells a +story of West, the painter, that is in point: When some one asked him if +he had ever been to Greece, he answered, ‘No, I have read a descriptive +catalogue of the principal objects in that country, and I believe I am as +well conversant with them as if I had visited it.’ No doubt he was just +as well conversant, and so would be any _doctrinaire_. + +But Shakespeare was not a man of this sort. If he walked down a street, +he knew what was in that street. His mind did not form in early life +a classified list of all the objects in the universe, and learn no +more about the universe ever after. From a certain fine sensibility of +nature, it is plain that he took a keen interest not only in the general +and coarse outlines of objects, but in their minutest particulars and +gentlest gradations. You may open Shakespeare and find the clearest +proofs of this; take the following:— + + ‘When last the young Orlando parted from you, + He left a promise to return again + Within an hour; and, pacing through the forest, + Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy, + Lo, what befel! he threw his eye aside, + And, mark, what object did present itself! + Under an oak, whose boughs were moss’d with age, + And high top bald with dry antiquity, + A wretched ragged man, o’ergrown with hair, + Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck + A green and gilded snake had wreath’d itself, + Who with her head, nimble in threats, approach’d + The opening of his mouth; but suddenly + Seeing Orlando, it unlink’d itself, + And with indented glides did slip away + Into a bush: under which bush’s shade + A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, + Lay crouching, head on ground, with cat-like watch, + When that the sleeping man should stir; for ’tis + The royal disposition of that beast, + To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead: + This seen,’ &c. &c. + +Or the more celebrated description of the hunt:— + + ‘And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare, + Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles, + How he outruns the wind, and with what care + He cranks and crosses, with a thousand doubles: + The many musits through the which he goes + Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes. + + ‘Sometimes he runs among a flock of sheep, + To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell, + And sometime where earth-delving conies keep, + To stop the loud pursuers in their yell; + And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer; + Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear: + + ‘For there his smell with others being mingled, + The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt, + Ceasing their clamorous cry, till they have singled, + With much ado, the cold fault cleanly out; + Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies, + As if another chase were in the skies. + + ‘By this, poor Wat, far off, upon a hill, + Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear, + To hearken if his foes pursue him still; + Anon their loud alarums he doth hear; + And now his grief may be compared well + To one sore sick that hears the passing bell. + + ‘Then thou shalt see the dew-bedabbled wretch + Turn and return, indenting with the way; + Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch, + Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay: + For misery is trodden on by many, + And being low, never relieved by any.’ + +It is absurd, by the way, to say we know _nothing_ about the man who +wrote that; we know that he had been after a hare. It is idle to allege +that mere imagination would tell him that a hare is apt to run among a +flock of sheep, or that its so doing disconcerts the scent of hounds. +But no single citation really represents the power of the argument. Set +descriptions may be manufactured to order, and it does not follow that +even the most accurate or successful of them was really the result of a +thorough and habitual knowledge of the object. A man who knows little +of Nature may write one excellent delineation, as a poor man may have +one bright guinea. Real opulence consists in having many. What truly +indicates excellent knowledge, is the habit of constant, sudden, and +almost unconscious allusion, which implies familiarity, for it can +arise from that alone,—and this very species of incidental, casual, +and perpetual reference to ‘the mighty world of eye and ear,’ is the +particular characteristic of Shakespeare. + +In this respect Shakespeare had the advantage of one whom, in many +points, he much resembled—Sir Walter Scott. For a great poet, the +organisation of the latter was very blunt; he had no sense of smell, +little sense of taste, almost no ear for music (he knew a few, perhaps +three, Scotch tunes, which he avowed that he had learnt in sixty years, +by hard labour and mental association), and not much turn for the minutiæ +of nature in any way. The effect of this may be seen in some of the best +descriptive passages of his poetry, and we will not deny that it does +(although proceeding from a sensuous defect), in a certain degree, add +to their popularity. He deals with the main outlines and great points of +nature, never attends to any others, and in this respect he suits the +comprehension and knowledge of many who know only those essential and +considerable outlines. Young people, especially, who like big things, are +taken with Scott, and bored by Wordsworth, who knew too much. And after +all, the two poets are in proper harmony, each with his own scenery. Of +all beautiful scenery the Scotch is the roughest and barest, as the +English is the most complex and cultivated. What a difference is there +between the minute and finished delicacy of Rydal Water and the rough +simplicity of Loch Katrine. It is the beauty of civilisation beside the +beauty of barbarism. Scott has himself pointed out the effect of this on +arts and artists. + + ‘Or see yon weather-beaten hind, + Whose sluggish herds before him wind, + Whose tattered plaid and rugged cheek + His Northern clime and kindred speak; + Through England’s laughing meads he goes, + And England’s wealth around him flows; + Ask if it would content him well, + At ease in those gay plains to dwell, + Where hedgerows spread a verdant screen, + And spires and forests intervene, + And the neat cottage peeps between? + No, not for these would he exchange + His dark Lochaber’s boundless range, + Not for fair Devon’s meads forsake + Ben Nevis grey and Garry’s lake.’ + + ‘Thus while I ape the measures wild + Of tales that charmed me yet a child, + Rude though they be, still, with the chime, + Return the thoughts of early time; + And feelings roused in life’s first day, + Glow in the line and prompt the lay. + Then rise those crags, that mountain tower, + Which charmed my fancy’s wakening hour. + Though no broad river swept along, + To claim perchance heroic song; + Though sighed no groves in summer gale, + To prompt of love a softer tale; + Though scarce a puny streamlet’s speed + Claimed homage from a shepherd’s reed, + Yet was poetic impulse given + By the green hill and clear blue heaven. + It was a barren scene and wild, + Where naked cliffs were rudely piled, + But ever and anon between, + Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; + And well the lonely infant knew + Recesses where the wallflower grew, + And honeysuckle loved to crawl + Up the low crag and ruined wall. + ... + From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask + The classic poet’s well-conned task? + Nay, Erskine, nay—On the wild hill + Let the wild heathbell flourish still; + Cherish the tulip, prune the vine, + But freely let the woodbine twine, + And leave untrimmed the eglantine. + Nay, my friend, nay—Since oft thy praise + Hath given fresh vigour to my lays, + Since oft thy judgment could refine + My flattened thought or cumbrous line, + Still kind, as is thy wont, attend, + And in the minstrel spare the friend. + Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale, + Flow forth, flow unrestrained, my tale.’ + +And this is wise, for there is beauty in the North as well as in the +South. Only it is to be remembered that the beauty of the Trosachs is the +result of but a few elements—say birch and brushwood, rough hills and +narrow dells, much heather and many stones—while the beauty of England +is one thing in one district and one in another; is here the combination +of one set of qualities, and there the harmony of opposite ones, and is +everywhere made up of many details and delicate refinements; all which +require an exquisite delicacy of perceptive organisation, a seeing eye, a +minutely hearing ear. Scott’s is the strong admiration of a rough mind; +Shakespeare’s, the nice minuteness of a susceptible one. + +A perfectly poetic appreciation of nature contains two elements,—a +knowledge of facts, and a sensibility to charms. Everybody who may have +to speak to some naturalists will be well aware how widely the two may +be separated. He will have seen that a man may study butterflies and +forget that they are beautiful, or be perfect in the ‘Lunar theory’ +without knowing what most people mean by the moon. Generally such people +prefer the stupid parts of nature—worms and Cochin-China fowls. But +Shakespeare was not obtuse. The lines— + + ‘Daffodils + That come before the swallow dares, and take + The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, + But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes, + Or Cytherea’s breath,’ + +seem to show that he knew those feelings of youth, to which beauty is +more than a religion. + +In his mode of delineating natural objects Shakespeare is curiously +opposed to Milton. The latter, who was still by temperament, and a +schoolmaster by trade, selects a beautiful object, puts it straight out +before him and his readers, and accumulates upon it all the learned +imagery of a thousand years; Shakespeare glances at it and says something +of his own. It is not our intention to say that, as a describer of the +external world, Milton is inferior; in _set_ description we rather think +that he is the better. We only wish to contrast the mode in which the +delineation is effected. The one is like an artist who dashes off any +number of picturesque sketches at any moment; the other like a man who +has lived at Rome, has undergone a thorough training, and by deliberate +and conscious effort, after a long study of the best masters, can produce +a few great pictures. Milton, accordingly, as has been often remarked, +is careful in the choice of his subjects; he knows too well the value of +his labour to be very ready to squander it; Shakespeare, on the contrary, +describes anything that comes to hand, for he is prepared for it +whatever it may be, and what he paints he paints without effort. Compare +any passage from Shakespeare—for example, those quoted before—and the +following passage from Milton:— + + ‘Southward through Eden went a river large, + Nor changed its course, but through the shaggy hill + Passed underneath ingulfed; for God had thrown + That mountain as his garden mould, high raised + Upon the rapid current, which through veins + Of porous earth, with kindly thirst up-drawn + Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill + Watered the garden; thence united fell + Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood, + Which from its darksome passage now appears: + And now divided into four main streams + Runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm + And country, whereof here needs no account; + But rather to tell how,—if art could tell,— + How from that sapphire fount the crispèd brooks, + Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold, + With mazy error under pendant shades + Ran nectar, visiting each plant; and fed + Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice art + In beds and curious knots, but nature boon + Poured forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain, + Both where the morning sun first warmly smote + The open field, and where the unpierced shade + Imbrowned the noontide bowers. Thus was this place + A happy rural seat of various view; + Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm; + Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind, + Hung amiable (Hesperian fables true, + If true, here only), and of delicious taste: + Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks + Grazing the tender herb, were interposed: + Or palmy hillock, or the flowery lap + Of some irriguous valley spread her store; + Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.’ + +Why, you could draw a map of it. It is _not_ ‘Nature boon,’ but ‘nice +art in beds and curious knots;’ it is exactly the old (and excellent) +style of artificial gardening, by which any place can be turned into trim +hedgerows, and stiff borders, and comfortable shades; but there are no +straight lines in nature or Shakespeare. Perhaps the contrast may be +accounted for by the way in which the two poets acquired their knowledge +of scenes and scenery. We think we demonstrated before that Shakespeare +was a sportsman, but if there be still a sceptic or a dissentient, let +him read the following remarks on dogs:— + + My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, + So flewed, so sanded; and their heads are hung + With ears that sweep away the morning dew, + Crook-kneed and dewlapped like Thessalian bulls; + Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells, + Each under each. A cry more tunable + Was never holloa’d to nor cheered with horn + In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly.’ + +‘Judge when you hear.’ It is evident that the man who wrote this was +a judge of dogs, was an out-of-door sporting man, full of natural +sensibility, not defective in ‘daintiness of ear,’ and above all things, +apt to cast on Nature random, sportive, half-boyish glances, which reveal +so much, and bequeath such abiding knowledge. Milton, on the contrary, +went out to see nature. He left a narrow cell, and the intense study +which was his ‘portion in this life,’ to take a slow, careful, and +reflective walk. In his treatise on education he has given us his notion +of the way in which young people should be familiarised with natural +objects. ‘But,’ he remarks, ‘to return to our institute; besides these +constant exercises at home, there is another opportunity of gaining +pleasure from pleasure itself abroad; in those vernal seasons of the +year when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness +against nature, not to go out and see her riches and partake in her +rejoicing in heaven and earth. I should not therefore be a persuader to +them of studying much in these, after two or three years, that they have +well laid their grounds, but to ride out in companies, with prudent and +staid guides, to all quarters of the land; learning and observing all +places of strength, all commodities of building and of soil, for towns +and tillage, harbours and ports of trade. Sometimes taking sea as far as +our navy, to learn there also what they can in the practical knowledge +of sailing and of sea-fight.’ Fancy ‘the prudent and staid guides.’ What +a machinery for making pedants. Perhaps Shakespeare would have known +that the conversation would be in this sort:—‘I say, Shallow, that mare +is going in the knees. She has never been the same since you larked her +over the fivebar, while Moleyes was talking clay and agriculture. I do +not hate Latin so much, but I hate “argillaceous earth;” and what use is +_that_ to a fellow in the Guards, _I_ should like to know?’ Shakespeare +had himself this sort of boyish buoyancy. He was not ‘one of the staid +guides.’ We might further illustrate it. Yet this would be tedious +enough, and we prefer to go on and show what we mean by an experiencing +nature in relation to men and women, just as we have striven to indicate +what it is in relation to horses and hares. + +The reason why so few good books are written, is that so few people +that can write know anything. In general an author has always lived in +a room, has read books, has cultivated science, is acquainted with the +style and sentiments of the best authors, but he is out of the way of +employing his own eyes and ears. He has nothing to hear and nothing to +see. His life is a vacuum. The mental habits of Robert Southey, which +about a year ago were so extensively praised in the public journals, +are the type of literary existence, just as the praise bestowed on them +shows the admiration excited by them among literary people. He wrote +poetry (as if anybody could) before breakfast; he read during breakfast. +He wrote history until dinner; he corrected proof sheets between dinner +and tea; he wrote an essay for the ‘Quarterly’ afterwards; and after +supper by way of relaxation composed the ‘Doctor’—a lengthy and elaborate +jest. Now, what can anyone think of such a life—except how clearly it +shows that the habits best fitted for communicating information, formed +with the best care, and daily regulated by the best motives, are exactly +the habits which are likely to afford a man the least information to +communicate. Southey had no events, no experiences. His wife kept house +and allowed him pocket-money, just as if he had been a German professor +devoted to accents, tobacco, and the dates of Horace’s amours. And it +is pitiable to think that so meritorious a life was only made endurable +by a painful delusion. He thought that day by day, and hour by hour, +he was accumulating stores for the instruction and entertainment of a +long posterity. His epics were to be in the hands of all men, and his +history of Brazil the ‘Herodotus of the South American Republics.’ As if +his epics were not already dead, and as if the people who now cheat at +Valparaiso care a _real_ who it was that cheated those before them. Yet +it was only by a conviction like this that an industrious and caligraphic +man (for such was Robert Southey), who might have earned money as a +clerk, worked all his days for half a clerk’s wages, at occupation much +duller and more laborious. The critic in the ‘Vicar of Wakefield’ lays +down that you should _always_ say that the picture would have been better +if the painter had taken more pains; but in the case of the practised +literary man, you should often enough say that the writings would have +been much better if the writer had taken less pains. He says he has +devoted his life to the subject—the reply is, ‘Then you have taken the +best way to prevent your making anything of it.’ Instead of reading +studiously what Burgersdicius and Ænœsidemus said men were, you should +have gone out yourself, and seen (if you can see) what they are. + +After all, the original way of writing books may turn out to be the best. +The first author, it is plain, could not have taken anything from books, +since there were no books for him to copy from; he looked at things for +himself. Anyhow the modern system fails, for where are the amusing books +from voracious students and habitual writers? Not that we mean exactly +to say that an author’s hard reading is the cause of his writing that +which is hard to read. This would be near the truth, but not quite the +truth. The two are concomitant effects of a certain defective nature. +Slow men read well, but write ill. The abstracted habit, the want of +keen exterior interests, the aloofness of mind from what is next it, all +tend to make a man feel an exciting curiosity and interest about remote +literary events, the toils of scholastic logicians, and the petty feuds +of Argos and Lacedæmon; but they also tend to make a man very unable to +explain and elucidate those exploits for the benefit of his fellows. +What separates the author from his readers, will make it proportionably +difficult for him to explain himself to them. Secluded habits do not tend +to eloquence; and the indifferent apathy which is so common in studious +persons is exceedingly unfavourable to the liveliness of narration and +illustration which is needed for excellence in even the simpler sorts of +writing. Moreover, in general, it will perhaps be found, that persons +devoted to mere literature commonly become devoted to mere idleness. +They wish to produce a great work, but they find they cannot. Having +relinquished everything to devote themselves to this, they conclude on +trial that this is impossible. They wish to write, but nothing occurs +to them. Therefore they write nothing, and they do nothing. As has been +said, they have nothing to do. Their life has no events, unless they are +very poor. With any decent means of subsistence, they have nothing to +rouse them from an indolent and musing dream. A merchant must meet his +bills, or he is civilly dead and uncivilly remembered. But a student may +know nothing of time and be too lazy to wind up his watch. In the retired +citizen’s journal in Addison’s _Spectator_, we have the type of this way +of spending the time:—Mem. Morning 8 to 9, ‘Went into the parlour and +tied on my shoe-buckles.’ This is the sort of life for which studious men +commonly relinquish the pursuits of business and the society of their +fellows. + +Yet all literary men are not tedious, neither are they all slow. One +great example even these most tedious times have luckily given us, to +show us what may be done by a really great man even now, the same who +before served as an illustration—Sir Walter Scott. In his lifetime +people denied he was a poet, but nobody said that he was not ‘the best +fellow’ in Scotland—perhaps that was not much—or that he had not more +wise joviality, more living talk, more graphic humour, than any man in +Great Britain. ‘Wherever we went,’ said Mr. Wordsworth, ‘we found his +name acted as an _open sesame_, and I believe that in the character of +the _sheriff’s_ friends, we might have counted on a hearty welcome under +any roof in the border country.’ Never neglect to talk to people with +whom you are casually thrown, was his precept, and he exemplified the +maxim himself. ‘I believe,’ observes his biographer, ‘that Scott has +somewhere expressed in print his satisfaction, that amid all the changes +of our manners, the ancient freedom of personal intercourse may still be +indulged between a master and an _out-of-door_ servant; but in truth he +kept by the old fashion, even with domestic servants, to an extent which +I have hardly ever seen practised by any other gentleman. He conversed +with his coachman if he sat by him, as he often did, on the box—with his +footman, if he chanced to be in the rumble. Indeed, he did not confine +his humanity to his own people; any steady-going servant of a friend of +his was soon considered as a sort of friend too, and was sure to have a +kind little colloquy to himself at coming or going.’ ‘Sir Walter speaks +to every man as if he was his blood relation,’ was the expressive comment +of one of these dependents. It was in this way that he acquired the great +knowledge of various kinds of men, which is so clear and conspicuous +in his writings; nor could that knowledge have been acquired on easier +terms, or in any other way. No man could describe the character of +Dandie Dinmont, without having been in Lidderdale. Whatever has been +once in a book may be put into a book again; but an original character, +taken at first hand from the sheepwalks and from nature, must be seen in +order to be known. A man, to be able to describe—indeed, to be able to +know—various people in life, must be able at sight to comprehend their +essential features, to know how they shade one into another, to see how +they diversify the common uniformity of civilised life. Nor does this +involve simply intellectual or even imaginative prerequisites, still +less will it be facilitated by exquisite senses or subtle fancy. What is +wanted is, to be able to appreciate mere clay—which mere mind never will. +If you will describe the people,—nay, if you will write for the people, +you must be one of the people. You must have led their life, and must +wish to lead their life. However strong in any poet may be the higher +qualities of abstract thought or conceiving fancy, unless he can actually +sympathise with those around him, he can never describe those around +him. Any attempt to produce a likeness of what is not really _liked_ by +the person who is describing it, will end in the creation of what may +be correct, but is not living—of what may be artistic, but is likewise +artificial. + +Perhaps this is the defect of the works of the greatest dramatic +genius of recent times—Goethe. His works are too much in the nature of +literary studies; the mind is often deeply impressed by them, but one +doubts if the author was. He saw them as he saw the houses of Weimar +and the plants in the act of metamorphosis. He had a clear perception +of their fixed condition and their successive transitions, but he did +not really (if we may so speak) comprehend their motive power. So to +say, he appreciated their life, but not their liveliness. Niebuhr, as is +well known, compared the most elaborate of Goethe’s works—the novel of +Wilhelm Meister—to a menagerie of tame animals, meaning thereby, as we +believe, to express much the same distinction. He felt that there was a +deficiency in mere vigour and rude energy. We have a long train and no +engine—a great accumulation of excellent matter, arranged and ordered +with masterly skill, but not animated with over-buoyant and unbounded +play. And we trace this not to a defect in imaginative power, a defect +which it would be a simple absurdity to impute to Goethe, but to the +tone of his character and the habits of his mind. He moved hither and +thither through life, but he was always a man apart. He mixed with +unnumbered kinds of men, with courts and academies, students and women, +camps and artists, but everywhere he was with them yet not of them. In +every scene he was there, and he made it clear that he was there with +a reserve and as a stranger. He went there _to experience_. As a man +of universal culture and well skilled in the order and classification +of human life, the fact of any one class or order being beyond his +reach or comprehension seemed an absurdity, and it was an absurdity. +He thought that he was equal to moving in any description of society, +and he was equal to it; but then on that exact account he was absorbed +in none. There were none of surpassing and immeasurably preponderating +captivation. No scene and no subject were to him what Scotland and Scotch +nature were to Sir Walter Scott. ‘If I did not see the heather once a +year, I should die,’ said the latter; but Goethe would have lived without +it, and it would not have cost him much trouble. In every one of Scott’s +novels there is always the spirit of the old moss trooper—the flavour of +the ancient border; there is the intense sympathy which enters into the +most living moments of the most living characters—the lively energy which +_becomes_ the energy of the most vigorous persons delineated. Marmion was +‘written’ while he was galloping on horseback. It reads as if it were so. + +Now it appears that Shakespeare not only had that various commerce with, +and experience of men, which was common both to Goethe and to Scott, but +also that he agrees with the latter rather than with the former in the +kind and species of that experience. He was not merely with men, but of +men; he was not a ‘thing apart,’ with a clear intuition of what was in +those around him; he had in his own nature the germs and tendencies of +the very elements that he described. He knew what was in man, for he felt +it in himself. Throughout all his writings you see an amazing sympathy +with common people, rather an excessive tendency to dwell on the common +features of ordinary lives. You feel that common people could have +been cut out of him, but not without his feeling it; for it would have +deprived him of a very favourite subject—of a portion of his ideas to +which he habitually recurred. + + ‘_Leon._ What would you with me, honest neighbour? + + _Dog._ Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you, that + decerns you nearly. + + _Leon._ Brief, I pray you; for you see ’tis a busy time with me. + + _Dog._ Marry, this it is, sir. + + _Verg._ Yes, in truth it is, sir. + + _Leon._ What is it, my good friends? + + _Dog._ Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter: + an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt, as, God help, + I would desire they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin + between his brows. + + _Verg._ Yes, I thank God, I am as honest as any man living, + that is an old man, and no honester than I. + + _Dog._ Comparisons are odorous:—_palabras_, neighbour Verges. + + _Leon._ Neighbours, you are tedious. + + _Dog._ It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor + duke’s officers; but, truly, for mine own part, if I were as + tedious as a king, I could find in my heart to bestow it all of + your worship. + + ... + + _Leon._ I would fain know what you have to say. + + _Verg._ Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your + worship’s presence, have ta’en a couple of as arrant knaves as + any in Messina. + + _Dog._ A good old man, sir; he will be talking; as they say, + When the age is in, the wit is out; God help us! it is a world + to see!—Well said, i’faith, neighbour Verges:—well, God’s a + good man; an two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind:—An + honest soul, i’faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever broke + bread; but God is to be worshipped: All men are not alike; + alas, good neighbour! + + _Leon._ Indeed, neighbour, he comes too far short of you. + + _Dog._ Gifts that God gives,’—&c. &c. + + * * * * * + + ‘_Stafford._ Ay, sir. + + _Cade._ By her he had two children at one birth. + + _Staff._ That’s false. + + _Cade._ Ay, there’s the question; but, I say,’tis true: + The elder of them, being put to nurse, + Was by a beggar-woman stol’n away: + And, ignorant of his birth and parentage, + Became a bricklayer, when he came to age; + His son am I; deny it, if you can. + + _Dick._ Nay, ’tis too true; therefore he shall be king. + + _Smith._ Sir, he made a chimney in my father’s house, and the + bricks are alive at this day to testify it; therefore, deny it + not.’ + +Shakespeare was too wise not to know that for most of the purposes of +human life stupidity is a most valuable element. He had nothing of +the impatience which sharp logical narrow minds habitually feel when +they come across those who do not apprehend their quick and precise +deductions. No doubt he talked to the stupid players, to the stupid +door-keeper, to the property man, who considers paste jewels ‘very +preferable, besides the expense’—talked with the stupid apprentices of +stupid Fleet Street, and had much pleasure in ascertaining what was +their notion of ‘King Lear.’ In his comprehensive mind it was enough if +every man hitched well into his own place in human life. If every one +were logical and literary, how would there be scavengers, or watchmen, +or caulkers, or coopers? Narrow minds will be subdued to what they ‘work +in.’ The ‘dyer’s hand’ will not more clearly carry off its tint, nor +will what is moulded more precisely indicate the confines of the mould. +A patient sympathy, a kindly fellow-feeling for the narrow intelligence +necessarily induced by narrow circumstances,—a narrowness which, in some +degrees, seems to be inevitable, and is perhaps more serviceable than +most things to the wise conduct of life—this, though quick and half-bred +minds may despise it, seems to be a necessary constituent in the +composition of manifold genius. ‘How shall the world be served?’ asks the +host in Chaucer. We must have cart-horses as well as race-horses, draymen +as well as poets. It is no bad thing, after all, to be a slow man and to +have one idea a year. You don’t make a figure, perhaps, in argumentative +society, which requires a quicker species of thought, but is that the +worse? + + ‘_Hol._ _Via_, Goodman Dull; thou hast spoken no word all this + while. + + _Dull._ Nor understood none neither, sir. + + _Hol._ _Allons_, we will employ thee. + + _Dull._ I’ll make one in a dance or so, or I will play on the + tabor to the worthies, and let them dance the hay. + + _Hol._ Most dull, honest Dull, to our sport away.’ + +And such, we believe, was the notion of Shakespeare. + +S. T. Coleridge has a nice criticism which bears on this point. He +observes that in the narrations of uneducated people in Shakespeare, just +as in real life, there is a want of prospectiveness and a superfluous +amount of regressiveness. People of this sort are unable to look a long +way in front of them, and they wander from the right path. They get on +too fast with one half, and then the other hopelessly lags. They can +tell a story exactly as it is told to them (as an animal can go step by +step where it has been before), but they can’t calculate its bearings +beforehand, or see how it is to be adapted to those to whom they are +speaking, nor do they know how much they have thoroughly told and how +much they have not. ‘I went up the street, then I went down the street; +no, first went down and then—but you do not follow me; I go before you, +sir.’ Thence arises the complex style usually adopted by persons not +used to narration. They tumble into a story and get on as they can. This +is scarcely the sort of thing which a man could foresee. Of course a +metaphysician can account for it, and like Coleridge, assure you that +if he had not observed it, he could have predicted it in a moment; but, +nevertheless, it is too refined a conclusion to be made out from known +premises by common reasoning. Doubtless there is some reason why negroes +have woolly hair (and if you look into a philosophical treatise, you +will find that the author could have made out that it would be so, if he +had not, by a mysterious misfortune, known from infancy that it was the +fact),—still one could never have supposed it oneself. And in the same +manner, though the profounder critics may explain in a satisfactory and +refined manner, how the confused and undulating style of narration is +peculiarly incident to the mere multitude, yet it is most likely that +Shakespeare derived his acquaintance with it from the fact, from actual +hearing, and not from what may be the surer, but is the slower process +of metaphysical deduction. The best passage to illustrate this is that +in which the nurse gives a statement of Juliet’s age; but it will not +exactly suit our pages. The following of Mrs. Quickly will suffice:— + + ‘Tilly-fally, Sir John, never tell me; your ancient swaggerer + comes not in my doors. I was before Master Tizzick, the + Deputy, the other day; and, as he said to me,—it was no longer + ago than Wednesday last,—Neighbour Quickly, says he;—Master + Dumb, our minister, was by then;—Neighbour Quickly, says he, + receive those that are civil; for, saith he, you are in an ill + name:—now, he said so, I can tell you whereupon; for, says + he, you are an honest woman, and well thought on; therefore + take heed to what guests you receive: Deceive, says he, no + swaggering companions.—There comes none here;—you would bless + you to hear what he said:—no, I’ll no swaggerers.’ + +Now, it is quite impossible that this, any more than the political +reasoning on the parentage of Cade, which was cited before, should have +been written by one not habitually and sympathisingly conversant with the +talk of the illogical classes. Shakespeare felt, if we may say so, the +force of the bad reasoning. He did not, like a sharp logician, angrily +detect a flaw, and set it down as a fallacy of reference or a fallacy +of amphibology. This is not the English way, though Dr. Whately’s logic +has been published so long (and, as he says himself, must now be deemed +to be irrefutable, since no one has ever offered any refutation of it). +Yet still people in this country do not like to be committed to distinct +premises. They like a Chancellor of the Exchequer to say, ‘It has during +very many years been maintained by the honourable member for Montrose +that two and two make four, and I am free to say, that I think there is a +great deal to be said in favour of that opinion; but, without committing +her Majesty’s Government to that proposition as an abstract sentiment, +I will go so far as to assume two and two are not sufficient to make +five, which, with the permission of the House, will be a sufficient basis +for all the operations which I propose to enter upon during the present +year.’ We have no doubt Shakespeare reasoned in that way himself. Like +any other Englishman, when he had a clear course before him, he rather +liked to shuffle over little hitches in the argument, and on that account +he had a great sympathy with those who did so too. He would never have +interrupted Mrs. Quickly; he saw that her mind was going to and fro over +the subject; he saw that it was coming right, and this was enough for +him, and will be also enough of this topic for our readers. + +We think we have proved that Shakespeare had an enormous specific +acquaintance with the common people; that this can only be obtained by +sympathy. It likewise has a further condition. + +In spiritedness, the style of Shakespeare is very like to that of Scott. +The description of a charge of cavalry in Scott reads, as was said +before, as if it was written on horseback. A play by Shakespeare reads +as if it were written in a playhouse. The great critics assure you, that +a theatrical audience must be kept awake, but Shakespeare knew this of +his own knowledge. When you read him, you feel a sensation of motion, +a conviction that there is something ‘up,’ a notion that not only is +something being talked about, but also that something is being done. We +do not imagine that Shakespeare owed this quality to his being a player, +but rather that he became a player because he possessed this quality of +mind. For after, and notwithstanding everything which has, or may be +said against the theatrical profession, it certainly does require from +those who pursue it a certain quickness and liveliness of mind. Mimics +are commonly an elastic sort of persons, and it takes a little levity of +disposition to enact even the ‘heavy fathers.’ If a boy joins a company +of strolling players, you may be sure that he is not a ‘good boy;’ he +may be a trifle foolish, or a thought romantic, but certainly he is not +slow. And this was in truth the case with Shakespeare. They say, too, +that in the beginning he was a first-rate link-boy; and the tradition is +affecting, though we fear it is not quite certain. Anyhow you feel about +Shakespeare that he could have been a link-boy. In the same way you feel +he may have been a player. You are sure at once that he could not have +followed any sedentary kind of life. But wheresoever there was anything +_acted_ in earnest or in jest, by way of mock representation or by way +of serious reality, there he found matter for his mind. If anybody could +have any doubt about the liveliness of Shakespeare, let them consider the +character of Falstaff. When a man has created _that_ without a capacity +for laughter, then a blind man may succeed in describing colours. Intense +animal spirits are the single sentiment (if they be a sentiment) of +the entire character. If most men were to save up all the gaiety of +their whole lives, it would come about to the gaiety of one speech in +Falstaff. A morose man might have amassed many jokes, might have observed +many details of jovial society, might have conceived a Sir John, marked +by rotundity of body, but could hardly have imagined what we call his +rotundity of mind. We mean that the animal spirits of Falstaff give him +an easy, vague, diffusive sagacity which is peculiar to him. A morose +man, Iago, for example, may know anything, and is apt to know a good +deal; but what he knows is generally all in corners. He knows number 1, +number 2, number 3, and so on, but there is not anything continuous, or +smooth, or fluent in his knowledge. Persons conversant with the works of +Hazlitt will know in a minute what we mean. Everything which he observed +he seemed to observe from a certain soreness of mind; he looked at people +because they offended him; he had the same vivid notion of them that +a man has of objects which grate on a wound in his body. But there is +nothing at all of this in Falstaff; on the contrary, everything pleases +him, and everything is food for a joke. Cheerfulness and prosperity +give an easy abounding sagacity of mind which nothing else does give. +Prosperous people bound easily over all the surface of things which +their lives present to them; very likely they keep to the surface; there +are things beneath or above to which they may not penetrate or attain, +but what is on any part of the surface, that they know well. ‘Lift +not the painted veil which those who live call life,’ and they do not +lift it. What is sublime or awful above, what is ‘sightless and drear’ +beneath,—these they may not dream of. Nor is any one piece or corner of +life so well impressed on them as on minds less happily constituted. It +is only people who have had a tooth out, that really know the dentist’s +waiting-room. Yet such people, for the time at least, know nothing but +that and their tooth. The easy and sympathising friend who accompanies +them knows everything; hints gently at the contents of the _Times_, and +would cheer you with Lord Palmerston’s replies. So, on a greater scale, +the man of painful experience knows but too well what has hurt him, and +where and why; but the happy have a vague and rounded view of the round +world, and such was the knowledge of Falstaff. + +It is to be observed that these high spirits are not a mere excrescence +or superficial point in an experiencing nature; on the contrary, they +seem to be essential, if not to its idea or existence, at least to its +exercise and employment. How are you to know people without talking to +them, but how are you to talk to them without tiring yourself? A common +man is exhausted in half an hour; Scott or Shakespeare could have gone on +for a whole day. This is, perhaps, peculiarly necessary for a painter of +English life. The basis of our national character seems to be a certain +energetic humour, which may be found in full vigour in old Chaucer’s +time, and in great perfection in at least one of the popular writers +of this age, and which is, perhaps, most easily described by the name +of our greatest painter—Hogarth. It is amusing to see how entirely the +efforts of critics and artists fail to naturalise in England any other +sort of painting. Their efforts are fruitless; for the people painted are +not English people: they may be Italians, or Greeks, or Jews, but it is +quite certain that they are foreigners. We should not fancy that modern +art ought to resemble the Mediæval. So long as artists attempt the same +class of paintings as Raphael, they will not only be inferior to Raphael, +but they will never please, as they might please, the English people. +What we want is what Hogarth gave us—a representation of ourselves. It +may be that we are wrong, that we ought to prefer something of the old +world, some scene in Rome or Athens, some tale from Carmel or Jerusalem; +but, after all, we do not. These places are, we think, abroad, and had +their greatness in former times; we wish a copy of what now exists, and +of what we have seen. London we know, and Manchester we know, but where +are all these? It is the same with literature, Milton excepted, and even +Milton can hardly be called a popular writer: all great English writers +describe English people, and in describing them, they give, as they must +give, a large comic element; and, speaking generally, this is scarcely +possible, except in the case of cheerful and easy-living men. There +is, no doubt, a biting satire, like that of Swift, which has for its +essence misanthropy. There is the mockery of Voltaire, which is based on +intellectual contempt; but this is not our English humour—it is not that +of Shakespeare and Falstaff; ours is the humour of a man who laughs when +he speaks, of flowing enjoyment, of an experiencing nature. + +Yet it would be a great error if we gave anything like an exclusive +prominence to this aspect of Shakespeare. Thus he appeared to those +around him—in some degree they knew that he was a cheerful, and humorous, +and happy man; but of his higher gift they knew less than we. A great +painter of men must (as has been said) have a faculty of conversing, but +he must also have a capacity for solitude. There is much of mankind that +a man can only learn from himself. Behind every man’s external life, +which he leads in company, there is another which he leads alone, and +which he carries with him apart. We see but one aspect of our neighbour, +as we see but one side of the moon; in either case there is also a dark +half, which is unknown to us. We all come down to dinner, but each has a +room to himself. And if we would study the internal lives of others, it +seems essential that we should begin with our own. If we study this our +_datum_, if we attain to see and feel how this influences and evolves +itself in our social and (so to say) public life, then it is possible +that we may find in the lives of others the same or analogous features; +and if we do not, then at least we may suspect that those who want them +are deficient likewise in the secret agencies which we feel produce them +in ourselves. The metaphysicians assert, that people originally picked +up the idea of the existence of other people in this way. It is orthodox +doctrine that a baby says: ‘I have a mouth, mamma has a mouth: therefore +I’m the same species as mamma. I have a nose, papa has a nose, therefore +papa is the same genus as me.’ But whether or not this ingenious idea +really does or does not represent the actual process by which we +originally obtain an acquaintance with the existence of minds analogous +to our own, it gives unquestionably the process by which we obtain our +notion of that part of those minds which they never exhibit consciously +to others, and which only becomes predominant in secresy and solitude and +to themselves. Now, that Shakespeare has this insight into the musing +life of man, as well as into his social life, is easy to prove; take, for +instance, the following passages:— + + ‘This battle fares like to the morning’s war, + When dying clouds contend with growing light; + What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, + Can neither call it perfect day nor night. + Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea, + Forc’d by the tide to combat with the wind; + Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea + Forc’d to retire by fury of the wind: + Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the wind: + Now, one the better; then, another best; + Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, + Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered; + So is the equal poise of this fell war. + Here on this molehill will I sit me down. + To whom God will, there be the victory! + For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, + Have chid me from the battle; swearing both + They prosper best of all when I am thence. + Would I were dead! if God’s good will were so; + For what is in this world but grief and woe? + Oh God! methinks it were a happy life, + To be no better than a homely swain: + To sit upon a hill, as I do now, + To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, + Thereby to see the minutes how they run: + How many make the hour full complete, + How many hours bring about the day, + How many days will finish up the year, + How many years a mortal man may live. + When this is known, then to divide the time: + So many hours must I tend my flock; + So many hours must I take my rest; + So many hours must I contemplate; + So many hours must I sport myself; + So many days my ewes have been with young; + So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean; + So many years ere I shall shear the fleece; + So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, + Pass’d over to the end they were created, + Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. + Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely! + Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade + To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, + Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy + To kings, that fear their subjects’ treachery? + O yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth. + And to conclude,—the shepherd’s homely curds, + His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, + His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade, + All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, + Is far beyond a prince’s delicates, + His viands sparkling in a golden cup, + His body couchèd in a curious bed, + When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.’ + + ‘A fool, a fool!—I met a fool i’ the forest, + A motley fool!—a miserable world;— + As I do live by food, I met a fool; + Who laid him down and basked him in the sun, + And railed on lady Fortune in good terms, + In good set terms,—and yet a motley fool. + “Good-morrow, fool,” quoth I: “No, sir,” quoth he, + “Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me fortune:” + And then he drew a dial from his poke, + And looking on it with lack-lustre eye, + Says, very wisely, “It is ten o’clock: + Thus may we see,” quoth he, “how the world wags; + ’Tis but an hour ago since it was nine; + And after an hour more,’twill be eleven; + And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, + And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot, + And thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear + The motley fool thus moral on the time, + My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, + That fools should be so deep-contemplative; + And I did laugh, sans intermission, + An hour by his dial.’ + +No slight versatility of mind and pliancy of fancy could pass at will +from scenes such as these to the ward of Eastcheap and the society +which heard the chimes at midnight. One of the reasons of the rarity +of great imaginative works is that in very few cases is this capacity +for musing solitude combined with that of observing mankind. A certain +constitutional though latent melancholy is essential to such a nature. +This is the exceptional characteristic in Shakespeare. All through +his works you feel you are reading the popular author, the successful +man; but through them all there is a certain tinge of musing sadness +pervading, and, as it were, softening their gaiety. Not a trace can +be found of ‘eating cares’ or narrow and mind-contracting toil, but +everywhere there is, in addition to shrewd sagacity and buoyant wisdom, a +refining element of chastening sensibility, which prevents sagacity from +being rough, and shrewdness from becoming cold. He had an eye for either +sort of life:— + + ‘Why, let the stricken deer go weep, + The hart ungallèd play; + For some must watch, and some must sleep, + Thus runs the world away.’ + +In another point also Shakespeare, as he was, must be carefully +contrasted with the estimate that would be formed of him from such +delineations as that of Falstaff, and that was doubtless frequently made +by casual though only by casual frequenters of the Mermaid. It has been +said that the mind of Shakespeare contained within it the mind of Scott; +it remains to be observed that it contained also the mind of Keats. For, +beside the delineation of human life, and beside also the delineation of +nature, there remains also for the poet a third subject—the delineation +of _fancies_. Of course, these, be they what they may, are like to, and +were originally borrowed either from man or from nature—from one or +from both together. We know but two things in the simple way of direct +experience, and whatever else we know must be in some mode or manner +compacted out of them. Yet ‘books are a substantial world, both pure +and good,’ and so are fancies too. In all countries men have devised to +themselves a whole series of half-divine creations—mythologies Greek and +Roman, fairies, angels, beings who may be, for aught we know, but with +whom, in the meantime, we can attain to no conversation. The most known +of these mythologies are the Greek, and what is, we suppose, the second +epoch of the Gothic, the fairies; and it so happens that Shakespeare has +dealt with them both and in a remarkable manner. We are not, indeed, +of those critics who profess simple and unqualified admiration for the +poem of ‘Venus and Adonis.’ It seems intrinsically, as we know it from +external testimony to have been, a juvenile production, written when +Shakespeare’s nature might be well expected to be crude and unripened. +Power is shown, and power of a remarkable kind; but it is not displayed +in a manner that will please or does please the mass of men. In spite of +the name of its author, the poem has never been popular—and surely this +is sufficient. Nevertheless, it is remarkable as a literary exercise, and +as a treatment of a singular, though unpleasant subject. The fanciful +class of poems differ from others in being laid, so far as their scene +goes, in a perfectly unseen world. The type of such productions is +Keats’s ‘Endymion.’ We mean that it is the type, not as giving the +abstract perfection of this sort of art, but because it shows and +embodies both its excellences and defects in a very marked and prominent +manner. In that poem there are no passions and no actions, there is no +art and no life; but there is beauty, and that is meant to be enough, and +to a reader of one-and-twenty it is enough and more. What are exploits +or speeches? What is Cæsar or Coriolanus? What is a tragedy like Lear, +or a real view of human life in any kind whatever, to people who do not +know and do not care what human life is? In early youth it is, perhaps, +not true that the passions, taken generally, are particularly violent, +or that the imagination is in any remarkable degree powerful; but it +is certain that the fancy (which though it be, in the last resort, but +a weak stroke of that same faculty, which, when it strikes hard, we +call imagination, may yet for this purpose be looked on as distinct) is +particularly wakeful, and that the gentler species of passions are more +absurd than they are afterwards. And the literature of this period of +human life runs naturally away from the real world; away from the less +ideal portion of it, from stocks and stones, and aunts and uncles, and +rests on mere half-embodied sentiments, which in the hands of great poets +assume a kind of semi-personality, and are, to the distinction between +things and persons, ‘as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto +wine.’ The ‘Sonnets’ of Shakespeare belong exactly to the same school +of poetry. They are not the sort of verses to take any particular hold +upon the mind permanently and for ever, but at a certain period they take +too much. For a young man to read in the spring of the year among green +fields and in gentle air, they are the ideal. As first of April poetry +they are perfect. + +The ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ is of another order. If the question +were to be decided by ‘Venus and Adonis,’ in spite of the unmeasured +panegyrics of many writers, we should be obliged in equity to hold, that +as a poet of mere fancy Shakespeare was much inferior to the late Mr. +Keats and even to meaner men. Moreover, we should have been prepared +with some refined reasonings to show that it was unlikely that a poet +with so much hold on reality, in life and nature, both in solitude and +in society, should have also a similar command over unreality: should +possess a command not only of flesh and blood, but of the imaginary +entities which the self-inworking fancy brings forth—impalpable +conceptions of mere mind: _quædam simulacra miris pallentia modis_ thin +ideas, which come we know not whence, and are given us we know not why. +But, unfortunately for this ingenious, if not profound suggestion, +Shakespeare in fact possessed the very faculty which it tends to prove +that he would not possess. He could paint Poins and Falstaff, but he +excelled also in fairy legends. He had such + + ‘Seething brains; + Such shaping fantasies as apprehend + More than cool reason ever comprehends.’ + +As, for example, the idea of Puck, or Queen Mab, of Ariel, or such a +passage as the following:— + + ‘_Puck._ How now, spirit! whither wander you? + + _Fai._ Over hill, over dale, + Thorough bush, thorough briar, + Over park, over pale, + Thorough flood, thorough fire, + I do wander everywhere, + Swifter than the moones sphere; + And I serve the fairy queen, + To dew her orbs upon the green: + The cowslips tall her pensioners be; + In their gold coats spots you see; + Those be rubies, fairy favours, + In those freckles live their savours: + I must go seek some dew-drops here, + And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear. + Farewell, thou lob of spirits, I’ll be gone; + Our queen and all our elves come here anon. + + _Puck._ The king doth keep his revels here to-night; + Take heed the queen come not within his sight. + For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, + Because that she, as her attendant, hath + A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king; + She never had so sweet a changeling: + And jealous Oberon would have the child + Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild: + But she, perforce, withholds the lovèd boy, + Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy: + And now they never meet in grove, or green, + By fountain clear, or spangled star-light sheen, + But they do square; that all their elves, for fear, + Creep into acorn-cups, and hide them there. + + _Fai._ Either I mistake your shape and making quite, + Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite + Call’d Robin Good-fellow: are you not he + That fright the maidens of the villagery; + Skim milk; and sometimes labour in the quern, + And bootless make the breathless housewife churn; + And sometimes make the drink to bear no barm; + Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm? + Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck, + You do their work, and they shall have good luck: + Are not you he? + + _Puck._ Thou speak’st aright; + I am that merry wanderer of the night. + I jest to Oberon, and make him smile, + When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, + Neighing in likeness of a filly foal: + And sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bowl, + In very likeness of a roasted crab; + And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob, + And on her wither’d dew-lap pour the ale. + The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, + Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me; + Then slip I from beneath, down topples she, + And _tailor_ cries, and falls into a cough; + And then the whole quire hold their hips, and loffe; + And waxen in their mirth, and neeze and swear + A merrier hour was never wasted there.— + But room, Fairy, here comes Oberon. + + _Fai._ And here my mistress:—Would that he were gone!’ + +Probably he believed in these things. Why not? Everybody else believed in +them then. They suit our climate. As the Greek mythology suits the keen +Attic sky, the fairies, indistinct and half-defined, suit a land of mild +mists and gentle airs. They confuse the ‘maidens of the villagery;’ they +are the paganism of the South of England. + +Can it be made out what were Shakespeare’s political views? We think it +certainly can, and that without difficulty. From the English historical +plays, it distinctly appears that he accepted, like everybody then, the +Constitution of his country. His lot was not cast in an age of political +controversy, nor of reform. What was, was from of old. The Wars of the +Roses had made it very evident how much room there was for the evils +incident to an hereditary monarchy, for instance, those of a controverted +succession, and the evils incident to an aristocracy, as want of public +spirit and audacious selfishness, to arise and continue within the realm +of England. Yet they had not repelled, and had barely disconcerted our +conservative ancestors. They had not become Jacobins; they did not +concur—and history, except in Shakespeare, hardly does justice to them—in +Jack Cade’s notion that the laws should come out of his mouth, or that +the commonwealth was to be reformed by interlocutors in this scene. + + ‘_Geo._ I tell thee, Jack Cade the clothier means to dress the + Commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap on it. + + _John._ So he had need, for ’tis threadbare. Well, I say it was + never a merry world in England since gentlemen came up. + + _Geo._ O miserable age! Virtue is not regarded in + handycraftsmen. + + _John._ The nobility think scorn to go in leather aprons. + + _Geo._ Nay more: the king’s council are no good workmen. + + _John._ True; and yet it is said, Labour in thy vocation; which + is as much as to say, as let the magistrates be labouring men, + and therefore should we be magistrates. + + _Geo._ Thou hast hit it, for there is no better sign of a brave + mind than a hard hand. + + _John._ I see them! I see them!’ + +The English people did see them, and know them, and therefore have +rejected them. An audience which, _bonâ fide_, entered into the merit +of this scene, would never believe in everybody’s suffrage. They would +know that there is such a thing as nonsense, and when a man has once +attained to that deep conception, you may be sure of him ever after. And +though it would be absurd to say that Shakespeare originated this idea, +or that the disbelief in simple democracy is owing to his teaching or +suggestions, yet it may, nevertheless, be truly said, that he shared +in the peculiar knowledge of men—and also possessed the peculiar +constitution of mind—which engender this effect. The author of Coriolanus +never believed in a mob, and did something towards preventing anybody +else from doing so. But this political idea was not exactly the strongest +in Shakespeare’s mind. We think he had two other stronger, or as strong. +First, the feeling of loyalty to the ancient polity of this country—not +because it was good, but because it existed. In his time, people no more +thought of the origin of the monarchy than they did of the origin of the +Mendip Hills. The one had always been there, and so had the other. God +(such was the common notion) had made both, and one as much as the other. +Everywhere, in that age, the common modes of political speech assumed +the existence of certain utterly national institutions, and would have +been worthless and nonsensical except on that assumption. This national +habit appears as it ought to appear in our national dramatist. A great +divine tells us that the Thirty-nine Articles are ‘forms of thought;’ +inevitable conditions of the religious understanding: in politics, +‘kings, lords, and commons’ are, no doubt, ‘forms of thought,’ to the +great majority of Englishmen; in these, they live, and beyond these, they +never move. You can’t reason on the removal (such is the notion) of the +English Channel, nor St. George’s Channel, nor can you of the English +Constitution in like manner. It is to most of us, and to the happiest of +us, a thing immutable, and such, no doubt, it was to Shakespeare, which, +if any one would have proved, let him refer at random to any page of the +historical English plays. + +The second peculiar tenet which we ascribe to his political creed, +is a disbelief in the middle classes. We fear he had no opinion of +traders. In this age, we know, it is held that the keeping of a shop is +equivalent to a political education. Occasionally, in country villages, +where the trader sells everything, he is thought to know nothing, and +has no vote; but in a town where he is a householder (as, indeed, he is +in the country), and sells only one thing—there we assume that he knows +everything. And this assumption is in the opinion of some observers +confirmed by the fact. Sir Walter Scott used to relate, that when, after +a trip to London, he returned to Tweedside, he always found the people in +that district knew more of politics than the Cabinet. And so it is with +the mercantile community in modern times. If you are a Chancellor of the +Exchequer, it is possible that you may be acquainted with finance; but if +you sell figs it is certain that you will. Now we nowhere find this laid +down in Shakespeare. On the contrary, you will generally find that when +a ‘citizen’ is mentioned, he generally does or says something absurd. +Shakespeare had a clear perception that it is possible to bribe a class +as well as an individual, and that personal obscurity is but an insecure +guarantee for political disinterestedness. + + ‘Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, + His private arbours and new-planted orchards + On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, + And to your heirs for ever: common pleasures, + To walk abroad and recreate yourselves. + Here was a Cæsar! when comes such another?’ + +He everywhere speaks in praise of a tempered and ordered and qualified +polity, in which the pecuniary classes have a certain influence, but no +more, and shows in every page a keen sensibility to the large views, +and high-souled energies, the gentle refinements and disinterested +desires in which those classes are likely to be especially deficient. +He is particularly the poet of personal nobility, though, throughout +his writings, there is a sense of freedom, just as Milton is the poet +of freedom, though with an underlying reference to personal nobility; +indeed, we might well expect our two poets to combine the appreciation +of a rude and generous liberty with that of a delicate and refined +nobleness, since it is the union of these two elements that characterises +our society and their experience. + +There are two things—good-tempered sense and ill-tempered sense. In our +remarks on the character of Falstaff, we hope we have made it very clear +that Shakespeare had the former; we think it nearly as certain that he +possessed the latter also. An instance of this might be taken from that +contempt for the perspicacity of the _bourgeoisie_ which we have just +been mentioning. It is within the limits of what may be called malevolent +sense, to take extreme and habitual pleasure in remarking the foolish +opinions, the narrow notions, and fallacious deductions which seem to +cling to the pompous and prosperous man of business. Ask him his opinion +of the currency question, and he puts ‘bills’ and ‘bullion’ together +in a sentence, and he does not seem to care what he puts between them. +But a more proper instance of (what has an odd sound), the malevolence +of Shakespeare is to be found in the play of ‘Measure for Measure.’ We +agree with Hazlitt, that this play seems to be written, perhaps more +than any other, _con amore_, and with a relish; and this seems to be the +reason why, notwithstanding the unpleasant nature of its plot, and the +absence of any very attractive character, it is yet one of the plays +which take hold on the mind most easily and most powerfully. Now the +entire character of Angelo, which is the expressive feature of the piece, +is nothing but a successful embodiment of the pleasure, the malevolent +pleasure, which a warm-blooded and expansive man takes in watching +the rare, the dangerous and inanimate excesses of the constrained and +cold-blooded. One seems to see Shakespeare, with his bright eyes and his +large lips and buoyant face, watching with a pleasant excitement the +excesses of his thin-lipped and calculating creation, as though they were +the excesses of a real person. It is the complete picture of a natural +hypocrite, who does not consciously disguise strong impulses, but whose +very passions seem of their own accord to have disguised themselves and +retreated into the recesses of the character, yet only to recur even +more dangerously when their proper period is expired, when the will is +cheated into security by their absence, and the world (and, it may be, +the ‘judicious person’ himself) is impressed with a sure reliance in his +chilling and remarkable rectitude. + +It has, we believe, been doubted whether Shakespeare was a man much +conversant with the intimate society of women. Of course no one denies +that he possessed a great knowledge of them—a capital acquaintance with +their excellences, faults, and foibles; but it has been thought that this +was the result rather of imagination than of society, of creative fancy +rather than of perceptive experience. Now that Shakespeare possessed, +among other singular qualities, a remarkable imaginative knowledge of +women, is quite certain, for he was acquainted with the soliloquies of +women. A woman we suppose, like a man, must be alone, in order to speak a +soliloquy. After the greatest possible intimacy and experience, it must +still be imagination, or fancy at least, which tells any man what a woman +thinks of herself and to herself. There will still—get as near the limits +of confidence or observation as you can—be a space which must be filled +up from other means. Men can only divine the truth—reserve, indeed, is +a part of its charm. Seeing, therefore, that Shakespeare had done what +necessarily and certainly must be done without experience, we were in +some doubt whether he might not have dispensed with it altogether. A +grave reviewer cannot know these things. We thought indeed of reasoning +that since the delineations of women in Shakespeare were admitted to be +first-rate, it should follow,—at least there was a fair presumption,—that +no means or aid had been wanting to their production, and that +consequently we ought, in the absence of distinct evidence, to assume +that personal intimacy as well as solitary imagination had been concerned +in their production. And we meant to cite the ‘questions about Octavia,’ +which Lord Byron, who thought he had the means of knowing, declared to be +‘women all over.’ + +But all doubt was removed and all conjecture set to rest by the coming +in of an ably-dressed friend from the external world, who mentioned that +the language of Shakespeare’s women was essentially female language; that +there were certain points and peculiarities in the English of cultivated +English women, which made it a language of itself, which must be heard +familiarly in order to be known. And he added, ‘except a greater use of +words of Latin derivation, as was natural in an age when ladies received +a learned education, a few words not now proper, a few conceits that +were the fashion of the time, and there is the very same English in the +women’s speeches in Shakespeare.’ He quoted— + + ‘Think not I love him, though I ask for him; + ’Tis but a peevish boy:—yet he talks well;— + But what care I for words? yet words do well, + When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. + It is a pretty youth:—not very pretty:— + But, sure, he’s proud; and yet his pride becomes him; + He’ll make a proper man: The best thing in him + Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue + Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. + He is not tall; yet for his years he’s tall: + His leg is but so so: and yet ’tis well. + There was a pretty redness in his lip; + A little riper and more lusty red + Than that mix’d in his cheek; ’twas just the difference + Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. + There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d him + In parcels as I did, would have gone near + To fall in love with him: but, for my part, + I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet + I have more cause to hate him than to love him: + For what had he to do to chide at me? + He said, my eyes were black, and my hair black, + And, now I am remember’d, scorn’d at me: + I marvel, why I answer’d not again; + But that’s all one;’ + +and the passage of Perdita’s cited before about the daffodils that— + + ‘take + The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, + But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes, + Or Cytherea’s breath;’ + +and said that these were conclusive. But we have not, ourselves, heard +young ladies converse in that manner. + +Perhaps it is in his power of delineating women, that Shakespeare +contrasts most strikingly with the greatest master of the art of +dialogue in antiquity—we mean Plato. It will, no doubt, be said that the +delineation of women did not fall within Plato’s plan; that men’s life +was in that age so separate and predominant that it could be delineated +by itself and apart; and no doubt these remarks are very true. But what +led Plato to form that plan? What led him to select that peculiar +argumentative aspect of life, in which the masculine element is in so +high a degree superior? We believe that he did it because he felt that +he could paint that kind of scene much better than he could paint any +other. If a person will consider the sort of conversation that was held +in the cool summer morning, when Socrates was knocked up early to talk +definitions and philosophy with Protagoras, he will feel, not only +that women would fancy such dialogues to be certainly stupid, and very +possibly to be without meaning, but also that the side of character +which is there presented is one from which not only the feminine but +even the epicene element is nearly if not perfectly excluded. It is +the intellect surveying and delineating intellectual characteristics. +We have a dialogue of thinking faculties; the character of every man +is delineated by showing us, not his mode of action or feeling, but +his mode of thinking, alone and by itself. The pure mind, purged of +all passion and affection, strives to view and describe others in like +manner; and the singularity is, that the likenesses so taken are so +good,—that the accurate copying of the merely intellectual effects and +indications of character gives so true and so firm an impression of the +whole character,—that a daguerreotype of the mind should almost seem to +be a delineation of the life. But though in the hand of a consummate +artist, such a way of representation may in some sense succeed in the +case of men, it would certainly seem sure to fail in the case of women. +The mere intellect of a woman is a mere nothing. It originates nothing, +it transmits nothing, it retains nothing; it has little life of its own, +and therefore it can hardly be expected to attain any vigour. Of the +lofty Platonic world of the ideas, which the soul in the old doctrine +was to arrive at by pure and continuous reasoning, women were never +expected to know anything. Plato (though Mr. Grote denies that he was a +practical man) was much too practical for that; he reserved his teaching +for people whose belief was regulated and induced in some measure by +abstract investigations; who had an interest in the pure and (as it +were) geometrical truth itself; who had an intellectual character (apart +from and accessory to their other character) capable of being viewed as +a large and substantial existence, Shakespeare’s being, like a woman’s, +worked as a whole. He was capable of intellectual abstractedness, but +commonly he was touched with the sense of earth. One thinks of him as +firmly set on our coarse world of common clay, but from it he could paint +the moving essence of thoughtful feeling—which is the best refinement +of the best women. Imogen or Juliet would have thought little of the +conversation of Gorgias. + +On few subjects has more nonsense been written than on the learning of +Shakespeare. In former times, the established tenet was, that he was +acquainted with the entire range of the Greek and Latin classics, and +familiarly resorted to Sophocles and Æschylus as guides and models. +This creed reposed not so much on any painful or elaborate criticism of +Shakespeare’s plays, as on one of the _à priori_ assumptions permitted +to the indolence of the wise old world. It was then considered clear, +by all critics, that no one could write good English who could not also +write bad Latin. Questioning scepticism has rejected this axiom, and +refuted with contemptuous facility the slight attempt which had been made +to verify this case of it from the evidence of the plays themselves. But +the new school, not content with showing that Shakespeare was no formed +or elaborate scholar, propounded the idea that he was quite ignorant, +just as Mr. Croker ‘demonstrates’ that Napoleon Bonaparte could scarcely +write or read. The answer is, that Shakespeare wrote his plays, and that +those plays show not only a very powerful, but also a very cultivated +mind. A hard student Shakespeare was not, yet he was a happy and pleased +reader of interesting books. He was a natural reader; when a book was +dull he put it down, when it looked fascinating he took it up, and the +consequence is, that he remembered and mastered what he read. Lively +books, read with lively interest, leave strong and living recollections; +the instructors, no doubt, say that they ought not to do so, and +inculcate the necessity of dry reading. Yet the good sense of a busy +public has practically discovered that what is read easily is recollected +easily, and what is read with difficulty is remembered with more. It is +certain that Shakespeare read the novels of his time, for he has founded +on them the stories of his plays; he read Plutarch, for his words still +live in the dialogue of the ‘proud Roman’ plays; and it is remarkable +that Montaigne is the only philosopher that Shakespeare can be proved +to have read, because he deals more than any other philosopher with the +first impressions of things which exist. On the other hand, it may be +doubted if Shakespeare would have perused his commentators. Certainly, +he would have never read a page of this review, and we go so far as to +doubt whether he would have been pleased with the admirable discourses of +M. Guizot, which we ourselves, though ardent admirers of his style and +ideas, still find it a little difficult to _read_—and what would he have +thought of the following speculations of an anonymous individual, whose +notes have been recently published in a fine octavo by Mr. Collier, and, +according to the periodical essayists, ‘contribute valuable suggestions +to the illustration of the immortal bard’? + + ‘THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. + + ‘ACT I. SCENE I. + + ‘P. 92. The reading of the subsequent line has hitherto been + + “’Tis true; for you are over boots in love;” + + but the manuscript corrector of the Folio, 1632, has changed it + to + + “’Tis true; _but_ you are over boots in love,” + + which seems more consistent with the course of the dialogue; + for Proteus, remarking that Leander had been “more than over + shoes in love,” with Hero, Valentine answers, that Proteus was + even more deeply in love than Leander. Proteus observes of the + fable of Hero and Leander— + + “That’s a deep story of a deeper love, + _For_ he was more than over shoes in love.” + + Valentine retorts— + + “’Tis true; _but_ you are over boots in love.” + + _For_ instead of _but_ was perhaps caught by the compositor + from the preceding line.’ + +It is difficult to fancy Shakespeare perusing a volume of such +annotations, though we allow that we admire them ourselves. As to the +controversy on his school learning, we have only to say, that though +the alleged imitations of the Greek tragedians are mere nonsense, yet +there is clear evidence that Shakespeare received the ordinary grammar +school education of his time, and that he had derived from the pain +and suffering of several years, not exactly an acquaintance with Greek +or Latin, but, like Eton boys, a firm conviction that there are such +languages. + +Another controversy has been raised as to whether Shakespeare was +religious. In the old editions it is commonly enough laid down that, +when writing his plays, he had no desire to fill the Globe Theatre, +but that his intentions were of the following description. ‘In this +play,’ Cymbeline, ‘Shakespeare has strongly depicted the frailties of +our nature, and the effect of vicious passions on the human mind. In +the fate of the Queen we behold the adept in perfidy justly sacrificed +by the arts she had, with unnatural ambition, prepared for others; and +in reviewing her death and that of Cloten, we may easily call to mind +the words of Scripture,’ &c. And of King Lear it is observed with great +confidence, that Shakespeare, ‘_no doubt_, intended to mark particularly +the afflicting character of children’s ingratitude to their parents, +and the conduct of Goneril and Regan to each other; _especially_ in the +former’s poisoning the latter, and laying hands on _herself_, we are +taught that those who want gratitude towards their parents (who gave +them their being, fed them, nurtured them to _man’s_ estate) will not +scruple to commit more barbarous crimes, and easily to forget that, by +destroying their body, they destroy their soul also.’ And Dr. Ulrici, +a very learned and illegible writer, has discovered that in every one +of his plays Shakespeare had in view the inculcation of the peculiar +sentiments and doctrines of the Christian religion, and considers the +‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ to be a specimen of the lay or amateur sermon. +This is what Dr. Ulrici thinks of Shakespeare; but what would Shakespeare +have thought of Dr. Ulrici? We believe that ‘_Via_, goodman Dull,’ is +nearly the remark which the learned professor would have received from +the poet to whom his very careful treatise is devoted. And yet, without +prying into the Teutonic mysteries, a gentleman of missionary aptitudes +might be tempted to remark that in many points Shakespeare is qualified +to administer a rebuke to people of the prevalent religion. Meeting +a certain religionist is like striking the corner of a wall. He is +possessed of a firm and rigid persuasion that you must leave off this and +that, stop, cry, be anxious, be advised, and, above all things, refrain +from doing what you like, for nothing is so bad for any one as that. And +in quite another quarter of the religious hemisphere, we occasionally +encounter gentlemen who have most likely studied at the feet of Dr. +Ulrici, or at least of an equivalent Gamaliel, and who, when we, or such +as we, speaking the language of mortality, remark of a pleasing friend, +‘Nice fellow, so and so! Good fellow as ever lived!’ reply sternly, +upon an unsuspecting reviewer, with—‘Sir, is he an _earnest_ man?’ To +which, in some cases, we are unable to return a sufficient answer. Yet +Shakespeare, differing, in that respect at least, from the disciples of +Carlyle, had, we suspect, an objection to grim people, and we fear would +have liked the society of Mercutio better than that of a dreary divine, +and preferred Ophelia or ‘that Juliet’ to a female philanthropist of +sinewy aspect. And, seriously, if this world is not all evil, he who +has understood and painted it best must probably have some good. If +the underlying and almighty essence of this world be good, then it is +likely that the writer who most deeply approached to that essence will be +himself good. There is a religion of week-days as well as of Sundays, +of ‘cakes and ale’ as well as of pews and altar cloths. This England lay +before Shakespeare as it lies before us all, with its green fields, and +its long hedgerows, and its many trees, and its great towns, and its +endless hamlets, and its motley society, and its long history, and its +bold exploits, and its gathering power, and he saw that they were good. +To him, perhaps, more than to any one else, has it been given to see that +they were a great unity, a great religious object; that if you could only +descend to the inner life, to the deep things, to the secret principles +of its noble vigour, to the essence of character, to what we know of +Hamlet and seem to fancy of Ophelia, we might, so far as we are capable +of so doing, understand the nature which God has made. Let us, then, +think of him not as a teacher of dry dogmas, or a sayer of hard sayings, +but as + + ‘A priest to us all, + Of the wonder and bloom of the world’— + +a teacher of the hearts of men and women; one from whom may be learned +something of that inmost principle that ever modulates + + ‘With murmurs of the air, + And motions of the forests and the sea, + And voice of living beings, and woven hymns + Of night and day and the deep heart of man.’ + +We must pause, lest our readers reject us, as the Bishop of Durham the +poor curate, because he was ‘mystical and confused.’ + +Yet it must be allowed that Shakespeare was worldly, and the proof of it +is, that he succeeded in the world. Possibly this is the point on which +we are most richly indebted to tradition. We see generally indeed in +Shakespeare’s works the popular author, the successful dramatist; there +is a life and play in his writings rarely to be found, except in those +who have had habitual good luck, and who, by the tact of experience, +feel the minds of their readers at every word, as a good rider feels +the mouth of his horse. But it would have been difficult quite to make +out whether the profits so accruing had been profitably invested—whether +the genius to create such illusions was accompanied with the care and +judgment necessary to put out their proceeds properly in actual life. +We could only have said that there was a general impression of entire +calmness and equability in his principal works, rarely to be found where +there is much pain, which usually makes gaps in the work and dislocates +the balance of the mind. But happily here, and here almost alone, we +are on sure historical ground. The reverential nature of Englishmen has +carefully preserved what they thought the great excellence of their +poet—that he made a fortune.[28] It is certain that Shakespeare was +proprietor of the Globe Theatre—that he made money there, and invested +the same in land at Stratford-on-Avon, and probably no circumstance +in his life ever gave him so much pleasure. It was a great thing that +he, the son of the wool-comber, the poacher, the good-for-nothing, the +vagabond (for so we fear the phrase went in Shakespeare’s youth), should +return upon the old scene a substantial man, a person of capital, a +freeholder, a gentleman to be respected, and over whom even a burgess +could not affect the least superiority. The great pleasure in life is +doing what people say you cannot do. Why did Mr. Disraeli take the +duties of the Exchequer with so much relish? Because people said he was +a novelist, an _ad captandum_ man, and—_monstrum horrendum!_—a Jew, that +could not add up. No doubt it pleased his inmost soul to do the work of +the red-tape people better than those who could do nothing else. And so +with Shakespeare: it pleased him to be respected by those whom he had +respected with boyish reverence, but who had rejected the imaginative +man—on their own ground and in their own subject, by the only title +which they would regard—in a word, as a moneyed man. We seem to see him +eying the burgesses with good-humoured fellowship and genial (though +suppressed and half-unconscious) contempt, drawing out their old stories, +and acquiescing in their foolish notions, with everything in his head +and easy sayings upon his tongue,—a full mind and a deep dark eye, that +played upon an easy scene—now in fanciful solitude, now in cheerful +society; now occupied with deep thoughts, now, and equally so, with +trivial recreations, forgetting the dramatist in the man of substance, +and the poet in the happy companion; beloved and even respected, with a +hope for every one and a smile for all. + + + + +_JOHN MILTON._[29] + +(1859.) + + +The ‘Life of Milton,’ by Professor Masson, is a difficulty for the +critics. It is very laborious, very learned, and in the main, we believe, +very accurate. It is exceedingly long,—there are 780 pages in this +volume, and there are to be two volumes more: it touches on very many +subjects, and each of these has been investigated to the very best of +the author’s ability. No one can wish to speak with censure of a book on +which so much genuine labour has been expended; and yet we are bound, as +true critics, to say that we think it has been composed upon a principle +that is utterly erroneous. In justice to ourselves we must explain our +meaning. + +There are two methods on which biography may consistently be written. +The first of these is what we may call the exhaustive method. Every fact +which is known about the hero may be told us; every thing which he did, +every thing which he would not do, every thing which other people did to +him, every thing which other people would not do to him,—may be narrated +at full length. We may have a complete picture of all the events of his +life; of all which he underwent, and all which he achieved. We may, as +Mr. Carlyle expresses it, have a complete account ‘of his effect upon +the universe, and of the effect of the universe upon him.’ We admit +that biographies of this species would be very long and generally very +tedious, we know that the world could not contain very many of them; but +nevertheless the principle on which they may be written is intelligible. + +The second method on which the life of a man may be written is the +selective. Instead of telling everything, we may choose what we will +tell. We may select out of the numberless events, from among the +innumerable actions of his life, those events and those actions which +exemplify his true character, which prove to us what were the true limits +of his talents, what was the degree of his deficiencies, which were his +defects, which his vices,—in a word, we may select the traits and the +particulars which seem to give us the best idea of the man as he lived +and as he was. On this side the flood, as Sydney Smith would have said, +we should have fancied that this was the only practicable principle on +which biographies can be written about persons of whom many details are +recorded. For ancient heroes the exhaustive method is possible. All +that can be known of them is contained in a few short passages of Greek +and Latin, and it is quite possible to say whatever can be said about +every one of these: the result would not be unreasonably bulky, though +it might be dull. But in the case of men who have lived in the thick of +the crowded modern world, no such course is admissible; overmuch _may_ +be said, and we must choose what we will say. Biographers, however, are +rarely bold enough to adopt the selective method consistently. They +have, we suspect, the fear of the critics before their eyes. They do +not like that it should be said that ‘the work of the learned gentleman +contains serious omissions: the events of 1562 are not mentioned; those +of October 1579 are narrated but very cursorily:’ and we fear that in any +case such remarks will be made. Very learned people are pleased to show +that they know what is _not_ in the book; sometimes they may hint that +perhaps the author did not know it, or surely he would have mentioned +it. But a biographer who wishes to write what most people of cultivation +will be pleased to read must be courageous enough to face the pain of +such censures. He must choose, as we have explained, the characteristic +parts of his subject; and all that he has to take care of besides, is +so to narrate them that their characteristic elements shall be shown: +to give such an account of the general career as may make it clear what +these chosen events really were; to show their respective bearings to one +another; to delineate what is expressive in such a manner as to make it +expressive. + +This plan of biography is, however, by no means that of Mr. Masson. He +has no dread of overgrown bulk and overwhelming copiousness. He finds, +indeed, what we have called the exhaustive method insufficient. He not +only wishes to narrate in full the life of Milton, but to add those of +his contemporaries likewise: he seems to wish to tell us not only what +Milton did, but also what every one else did in Great Britain during +his lifetime. He intends his book to be not ‘merely a biography of +Milton, but also in some sort a continuous history of his time.... The +suggestions of Milton’s life have indeed determined the tracks of these +historical researches and expositions, sometimes through the literature +of the period, sometimes through its civil and ecclesiastical politics; +but the extent to which I have pursued them, and the space which I have +assigned to them, have been determined by my desire to present, by their +combination, something like a connected historical view of British +thought and British society in general prior to the Revolution.’ We need +not do more than observe that this union of heterogeneous aims must +always end, as it has in this case, in the production of a work at once +overgrown and incomplete. A great deal which has only a slight bearing +on the character of Milton is inserted; much that is necessary to a true +history of ‘British thought and British society’ is of necessity left +out. The period of Milton’s life which is included in the published +volume makes the absurdity especially apparent. In middle life Milton +was a great controversialist on contemporary topics; and though it would +not be proper for a biographer to load his pages with a full account +of all such controversies, yet some notice of the most characteristic +of them would be expected from him. In this part of Milton’s life some +reference to public events would be necessary; and we should not severely +censure a biographer, if the great interest of those events induced him +to stray a little from his topic. But the first thirty years of Milton’s +life require a very different treatment. He passed those years in the +ordinary musings of a studious and meditative youth; it was the period of +‘Lycidas’ and of ‘Comus;’ he then dreamed the + + ‘Sights which youthful poets dream + On summer eve by haunted stream.’ + +We do not wish to have this part of his life disturbed, to a greater +extent than may be necessary, with the harshness of public affairs. +Nor is it necessary that it should be so disturbed. A life of poetic +retirement requires but little reference to anything except itself. In +a biography of Mr. Tennyson we should not expect to hear of the Reform +Bill, or the Corn Laws. Mr. Masson is, however, of a different opinion. +He thinks it necessary to tell us, not only all which Milton did, but +every thing also that he might have heard of. + +The biography of Mr. Keightley is on a very different scale. He tells +the story of Milton’s career in about half a small volume. Probably this +is a little too concise, and the narrative is somewhat dry and bare. It +is often, however, acute, and is always clear; and even were its defects +greater than they are, we should think it unseemly to criticise the last +work of one who has performed so many useful services to literature with +extreme severity. + +The bare outline of Milton’s life is very well known. We have all heard +that he was born in the latter years of King James, just when Puritanism +was collecting its strength for the approaching struggle; that his father +and mother were quiet good people, inclined, but not immoderately, to +that persuasion; that he went up to Cambridge early, and had some kind of +dissension with the authorities there; that the course of his youth was +in a singular degree pure and staid; that in boyhood he was a devourer of +books, and that he early became, and always remained, a severely studious +man; that he married, and had difficulties of a peculiar character with +his first wife; that he wrote on Divorce; that after the death of his +first wife, he married a second time a lady who died very soon, and a +third time a person who survived him more than fifty years; that he wrote +early poems of singular beauty, which we still read; that he travelled +in Italy, and exhibited his learning in the academies there; that he +plunged deep in the theological and political controversies of his +time; that he kept a school, or rather, in our more modern phrase, took +pupils; that he was a republican of a peculiar kind, and of ‘no church,’ +which Dr. Johnson thought dangerous; that he was Secretary for Foreign +Languages under the Long Parliament, and retained that office after +the coup-d’état of Cromwell; that he defended the death of Charles the +First, and became blind from writing a book in haste upon that subject; +that after the Restoration he was naturally in a position of some danger +and much difficulty; that in the midst of that difficulty he wrote +‘Paradise Lost;’ that he did not fail in heart or hope, but lived for +fourteen years after the destruction of all for which he had laboured, +in serene retirement, ‘though fallen on evil days, though fallen on evil +times;’—all this we have heard from our boyhood. How much is wanting to +complete the picture—how many traits, both noble and painful, might be +recovered from the past—we shall never know, till some biographer skilled +in interpreting the details of human nature shall select this subject for +his art. + +All that we can hope to do in an essay like this is, to throw together +some miscellaneous remarks on the character of the Puritan poet, and on +the peculiarities of his works; and if in any part of them we may seem +to make unusual criticisms, and to be over-ready with depreciation or +objection, our excuse must be that we wish to paint a likeness, and that +the harsher features of the subject should have a prominence, even in an +outline. + +There are two kinds of goodness conspicuous in the world, and often +made the subject of contrast there; for which, however, we seem to want +exact words, and which we are obliged to describe rather vaguely and +incompletely. These characters may in one aspect be called the sensuous +and the ascetic. The character of the first is that which is almost +personified in the poet-king of Israel, whose actions and whose history +have been ‘improved’ so often by various writers, that it now seems trite +even to allude to them. Nevertheless, the particular virtues and the +particular career of David seem to embody the idea of what may be called +sensuous goodness far more completely than a living being in general +comes near to an abstract idea. There may have been shades in the actual +man which would have modified the resemblance; but in the portrait which +has been handed down to us, the traits are perfect and the approximation +exact. The principle of this character is its sensibility to outward +stimulus; it is moved by all which occurs, stirred by all which happens, +open to the influences of whatever it sees, hears, or meets with. The +certain consequence of this mental constitution is a peculiar liability +to temptation. Men are, according to the divine, ‘put upon their trial +through the senses.’ It is through the constant suggestions of the outer +world that our minds are stimulated, that our will has the chance of +a choice, that moral life becomes possible. The sensibility to this +external stimulus brings with it, when men have it to excess, an unusual +access of moral difficulty. Everything acts on them, and everything has +a chance of turning them aside; the most tempting things act upon them +very deeply, and their influence, in consequence, is extreme. Naturally, +therefore, the errors of such men are great. We need not point the moral— + + ‘Dizzied faith and guilt and woe, + Loftiest aims by earth defiled, + Gleams of wisdom sin-beguiled, + Sated power’s tyrannic mood, + Counsels shared with men of blood, + Sad success, parental tears, + And a dreary gift of years.’ + +But, on the other hand, the excellence of such men has a charm, a kind +of sensuous sweetness, that is its own. Being conscious of frailty, +they are tender to the imperfect; being sensitive to this world, they +sympathise with the world; being familiar with all the moral incidents of +life, their goodness has a richness and a complication: they fascinate +their own age, and in their deaths they are ‘not divided’ from the +love of others. Their peculiar sensibility gives a depth to their +religion; it is at once deeper and more human than that of other men. +As their sympathetic knowledge of those whom they have seen is great, +so it is with their knowledge of Him whom they have not seen; and as is +their knowledge, so is their love; it is deep, from their nature; rich +and intimate, from the variety of their experience; chastened by the +ever-present sense of their weakness and of its consequences. + +In extreme opposition to this is the ascetic species of goodness. +This is not, as is sometimes believed, a self-produced ideal—a simply +voluntary result of discipline and restraint. Some men have by nature +what others have to elaborate by effort. Some men have a repulsion from +the world. All of us have, in some degree, a protective instinct; an +impulse, that is to say, to start back from what may trouble us, to shun +what may fascinate us, to avoid what may tempt us. On the moral side of +human nature this preventive check is occasionally imperious; it holds +the whole man under its control,—makes him recoil from the world, be +offended at its amusements, be repelled by its occupations, be scared by +its sins. The consequences of this tendency, when it is thus in excess, +upon the character are very great and very singular. It secludes a man in +a sort of natural monastery; he lives in a kind of moral solitude; and +the effects of his isolation for good and for evil on his disposition +are very many. The best result is a singular capacity for meditative +religion. Being aloof from what is earthly, such persons are shut up with +what is spiritual; being unstirred by the incidents of time, they are +alone with the eternal; rejecting this life, they are alone with what +is beyond. According to the measure of their minds, men of this removed +and secluded excellence become eminent for a settled and brooding piety, +for a strong and predominant religion. In human life too, in a thousand +ways, their isolated excellence is apparent. They walk through the +whole of it with an abstinence from sense, a zeal of morality, a purity +of ideal, which other men have not. Their religion has an imaginative +grandeur, and their life something of an unusual impeccability. And these +are obviously singular excellences. But the deficiencies to which the +same character tends are equally singular. In the first place, their +isolation gives them a certain pride in themselves, and an inevitable +ignorance of others. They are secluded by their constitutional δαίμων +from life; they are repelled from the pursuits which others care for; +they are alarmed at the amusements which others enjoy. In consequence, +they trust in their own thoughts; they come to magnify both them and +themselves—for being able to think and to retain them. The greater the +nature of the man, the greater is this temptation. His thoughts are +greater, and, in consequence, the greater is his tendency to prize them, +the more extreme is his tendency to overrate them. This pride, too, goes +side by side with a want of sympathy. Being aloof from others, such a +mind is unlike others; and it feels, and sometimes it feels bitterly, its +own unlikeness. Generally, however, it is too wrapt up in its own exalted +thoughts to be sensible of the pain of moral isolation; it stands apart +from others, unknowing and unknown. It is deprived of moral experience +in two ways,—it is not tempted itself, and it does not comprehend the +temptations of others. And this defect of moral experience is almost +certain to produce two effects, one practical and the other speculative. +When such a man is wrong, he will be apt to believe that he is right. +If his own judgment err, he will not have the habit of checking it by +the judgment of others; he will be accustomed to think most men wrong; +differing from them would be no proof of error, agreeing with them would +rather be a basis for suspicion. He may, too, be very wrong, for the +conscience of no man is perfect on all sides. The strangeness of secluded +excellence will be sometimes deeply shaded by very strange errors. To +be commonly above others, still more to think yourself above others, is +to be below them every now and then, and sometimes much below. Again, +on the speculative side, this defect of moral experience penetrates +into the distinguishing excellence of the character,—its brooding and +meditative religion. Those who see life under only one aspect, can see +religion under only one likewise. This world is needful to interpret +what is beyond; the seen must explain the unseen. It is from a tried and +a varied and a troubled moral life that the deepest and truest idea of +God arises. The ascetic character wants these; therefore in its religion +there will be a harshness of outline, a bareness, so to say, as well as a +grandeur. In life we may look for a singular purity; but also, and with +equal probability, for singular self-confidence, a certain unsympathising +straitness, and perhaps a few singular errors. + +The character of the ascetic, or austere species of goodness, is almost +exactly embodied in Milton. Men, indeed, are formed on no ideal type. +Human nature has tendencies too various, and circumstances too complex. +All men’s characters have sides and aspects not to be comprehended +in a single definition; but in this case, the extent to which the +character of the man, as we find it delineated, approaches to the moral +abstraction which we sketch from theory, is remarkable. The whole being +of Milton may, in some sort, be summed up in the great commandment +of the austere character, ‘Reverence thyself.’ We find it expressed +in almost every one of his singular descriptions of himself,—of those +striking passages which are scattered through all his works, and which +add to whatever interest may intrinsically belong to them one of the +rarest of artistic charms, that of magnanimous autobiography. They have +been quoted a thousand times, but one of them may perhaps be quoted +again. ‘I had my time, readers, as others have, who have good learning +bestowed upon them, to be sent to those places, where the opinion was it +might be soonest attained; and as the manner is, was not unstudied in +those authors which are most commended; whereof some were grave orators +and historians, whose matter methought I loved indeed, but as my age +then was, so I understood them; others were the smooth elegiac poets, +whereof the schools are not scarce, whom both for the pleasing sound of +their numerous writing, which in imitation I found most easy, and most +agreeable to nature’s part in me, and for their matter, which what it is, +there be few who know not, I was so allured to read, that no recreation +came to me better welcome: for that it was then those years with me which +are excused, though they be least severe, I may be saved the labour to +remember ye. Whence having observed them to account it the chief glory +of their wit, in that they were ablest to judge, to praise, and by that +could esteem themselves worthiest to love those high perfections, which +under one or other name they took to celebrate, I thought with myself +by every instinct and presage of nature, which is not wont to be false, +that what emboldened them to this task, might with such diligence as +they used embolden me; and that what judgment, wit, or elegance was my +share, would herein best appear, and best value itself, by how much more +wisely, and with more love of virtue I should choose (let rude ears be +absent) the object of not unlike praises: for albeit these thoughts to +some will seem virtuous and commendable, to others only pardonable, to +a third sort perhaps idle; yet the mentioning of them now will end in +serious. Nor blame it, readers, in those years to propose to themselves +such a reward, as the noblest dispositions above other things in this +life have sometimes preferred: whereof not to be sensible when good and +fair in one person meet, argues both a gross and shallow judgment, and +withal an ungentle and swainish breast. For by the firm settling of these +persuasions, I became, to my best memory, so much a proficient, that if +I found those authors any where speaking unworthy things of themselves, +or unchaste of those names which before they had extolled, this effect +it wrought with me, from that time forward their art I still applauded, +but the men I deplored; and above them all, preferred the two famous +renowners of Beatrice and Laura, who never write but honour of them +to whom they devote their verse, displaying sublime and pure thoughts +without transgression. And long it was not after, when I was confirmed +in this opinion, that he who would not be frustrate of his hope to write +well hereafter in laudable things, ought himself to be a true poem; that +is, a composition and pattern of the best and honourablest things; not +presuming to sing high praises of heroic men, or famous cities, unless +he have in himself the experience and the practice of all that which is +praiseworthy.’ + +It may be fanciful to add, and we may be laughed at, but we believe +that the self-reverencing propensity was a little aided by his singular +personal beauty. All the describers of his youth concur in telling us +that this was very remarkable. Mr. Masson has the following account of +it:— + + ‘When Milton left Cambridge in July 1632, he was twenty-three + years and eight months old. In stature, therefore, at least, + he was already whatever he was to be. “In stature,” he says + himself at a latter period, when driven to speak on the + subject, “I confess I am not tall, but still of what is nearer + to middle height than to little: and what if I were of little; + of which stature have often been very great men both in peace + and war—though why should that be called little which is great + enough for virtue?” (“_Staturâ, fateor, non sum procerâ, sed + quæ mediocri tamen quàm parvæ propior sit; sed quid si parvâ, + quâ et summi sæpe tum pace tum bello viri fuere—quanquam + parva cur dicitur, quæ ad virtutem satis magna est?_”) This is + precise enough; but we have Aubrey’s words to the same effect: + “He was scarce so tall as I am,” says Aubrey; to which, to make + it more intelligible, he appends the marginal note:—“_Qu._ + _Quot_ feet I am high? _Resp._ Of middle stature;”—i.e. Milton + was a little under middle height. “He had light brown hair,” + continues Aubrey,—putting the word “abrown” (“auburn”) in the + margin by way of synonym for “light brown;”—“his complexion + exceeding fair; oval face; his eye a dark gray.”’ + +We are far from accusing Milton of personal vanity. His character was too +enormous, if we may be allowed so to say, for a fault so petty. But a +little tinge of excessive self-respect will cling to those who can admire +themselves. Ugly men are and ought to be ashamed of their existence. +Milton was not so. + +The peculiarities of the austere type of character stand out in Milton +more remarkably than in other men who partake of it, because of the +extreme strength of his nature. In reading him this is the first thing +that strikes us. We seem to have left the little world of ordinary +writers. The words of some authors are said to have ‘hands and feet;’ +they seem, that is, to have a vigour and animation which only belong to +things which live and move. Milton’s words have not this animal life. +There is no rude energy about them. But, on the other hand, they have, +or seem to have, a soul, a spirit which other words have not. He was +early aware that what he wrote, ‘by certain vital signs it had,’ was +such as the world would not ‘willingly let die.’ After two centuries we +feel the same. There is a solemn and firm music in the lines; a brooding +sublimity haunts them; the spirit of the great writer moves over the +face of the page. In life there seems to have been the same peculiar +strength that his works suggest to us. His moral tenacity is amazing. +He took his own course, and he kept his own course; and we may trace in +his defects the same characteristics. ‘Energy and ill-temper,’ some say, +‘are the same thing;’ and though this is a strong exaggeration, yet there +is a basis of truth in it. People who labour much will be cross if they +do not obtain that for which they labour; those who desire vehemently +will be vexed if they do not obtain that which they desire. As is the +strength of the impelling tendency, so, other things being equal, is +the pain which it will experience if it be baffled. Those, too, who are +set on what is high will be proportionately offended by the intrusion +of what is low. Accordingly, Milton is described by those who knew him +as a ‘harsh and choleric man.’ ‘He had,’ we are told, ‘a gravity in his +temper, not melancholy, or not till the latter part of his life,—not +sour, not morose, not ill-natured; but a certain severity of mind, +not condescending to little things;’—and this, although his daughter +remembered that he was delightful company, the life of conversation, +and that he was so ‘on account of a flow of subjects and an unaffected +cheerfulness and civility.’ Doubtless this may have been so when he was +at ease, and at home. But there are unmistakable traces of the harsher +tendency in almost all his works. + +Some of the peculiarities of the ascetic character were likewise +augmented by his studious disposition. This began very early in life, +and continued till the end. ‘My father,’ he says, ‘destined me to the +study of polite literature, which I embraced with such avidity, that +from the twelfth year of my age I hardly ever retired to rest from my +studies till midnight; which was the first source of injury to my eyes, +to the natural weakness of which were added frequent headaches: all of +which not retarding my eagerness after knowledge, he took care to have +me instructed,’ &c. Every page of his works shows the result of this +education. In spite of the occupations of manhood, and the blindness and +melancholy of old age, he still continued to have his principal pleasure +in that ‘studious and select’ reading, which, though often curiously +transmuted, is perpetually involved in the very texture of his works. +We need not stay to observe how a habit in itself so austere conduces +to the development of an austere character. Deep study, especially deep +study which haunts and rules the imagination, necessarily removes men +from life, absorbs them in themselves; purifies their conduct, with some +risk of isolating their sympathies; developes that loftiness of mood +which is gifted with deep inspirations and indulged with great ideas, +but which tends in its excess to engender a contempt for others, and a +self-appreciation which is even more displeasing to them. + +These same tendencies were aggravated also by two defects which are +exceedingly rare in great English authors, and which perhaps Milton +alone amongst those of the highest class is in a remarkable degree +chargeable with. We mean a deficiency in humour, and a deficiency in a +knowledge of plain human nature. Probably when, after the lapse of ages, +English literature is looked at in its larger features only, and in +comparison with other literatures which have preceded or which may follow +it, the critics will lay down that its most striking characteristic +as a whole is its involution, so to say, in life; the degree to which +its book-life resembles real life; the extent to which the motives, +dispositions, and actions of common busy persons are represented in +a medium which would seem likely to give us peculiarly the ideas of +secluded, and the tendencies of meditative men. It is but an aspect of +this fact, that English literature abounds,—some critics will say abounds +excessively,—with humour. This is in some sense the imaginative element +of ordinary life,—the relieving charm, partaking at once of contrast and +similitude, which gives a human and an intellectual interest to the world +of clowns and cottages, of fields and farmers. The degree to which Milton +is deficient in this element is conspicuous in every page of his writings +where its occurrence could be looked for; and if we do not always look +for it, this is because the subjects of his most remarkable works are +on a removed elevation, where ordinary life, the world of ‘cakes and +ale,’ is never thought of and never expected. It is in his dramas, as we +should expect, that Milton shows this deficiency the most. ‘Citizens’ +never talk in his pages, as they do in Shakespeare. We feel instinctively +that Milton’s eye had never rested with the same easy pleasure on the +easy, ordinary, shop-keeping world. Perhaps, such is the complication +of art, that it is on the most tragic occasions that we feel this want +the most. It may seem an odd theory, and yet we believe it to be a true +principle, that catastrophes require a comic element. We appear to feel +the same principle in life. We may read solemn descriptions of great +events in history,—say of Lord Strafford’s trial, and of his marvellous +speech, and his appeal to his ‘saint in heaven;’ but we comprehend +the whole transaction much better when we learn from Mr. Baillie, the +eye-witness, that people ate nuts and apples, and talked, and laughed, +and betted on the great question of acquittal and condemnation. Nor +is it difficult to understand why this should be so. It seems to be a +law of the imagination, at least in most men, that it will not bear +concentration. It is essentially a glancing faculty. It goes and comes, +and comes and goes, and we hardly know whence or why. But we most of us +know that when we try to fix it, in a moment it passes away. Accordingly, +the proper procedure of art is to let it go in such a manner as to ensure +its coming back again. The force of artistic contrasts effects exactly +this result. Skilfully-disposed opposites suggest the notion of each +other. We realise more perfectly and easily the great idea, the tragic +conception, when we are familiarised with its effects on the minds of +little people,—with the petty consequences which it causes, as well as +with the enormous forces from which it comes. The catastrophe of Samson +Agonistes discloses Milton’s imperfect mastery of this element of effect. +If ever there was an occasion which admitted its perfect employment, +it was this. The kind of catastrophe is exactly that which is sure to +strike, and strike forcibly, the minds of common persons. If their +observations on the occasion were really given to us, we could scarcely +avoid something rather comic. The eccentricity, so to speak, of ordinary +persons, shows itself peculiarly at such times, and they say the queerest +things. Shakespeare has exemplified this principle most skilfully on +various occasions: it is the sort of art which is just in his way. His +imagination always seems to be floating between the contrasts of things; +and if his mind had a resting-place that it liked, it was this ordinary +view of extraordinary events. Milton was under the great obligation to +use this relieving principle of art in the catastrophe of Samson, because +he has made every effort to heighten the strictly tragic element, which +requires that relief. His art, always serious, was never more serious. +His Samson is not the incarnation of physical strength which the popular +fancy embodies in the character; nor is it the simple and romantic +character of the Old Testament. On the contrary, Samson has become a +Puritan: the observations he makes would have done much credit to a +religious pikeman in Cromwell’s army. In consequence, his death requires +some lightening touches to make it a properly artistic event. The pomp of +seriousness becomes too oppressive. + + ‘At length for intermission sake they led him + Between the pillars; he his guide requested + (For so from such as nearer stood we heard), + As over-tired, to let him lean a while + With both his arms on those two massy pillars + That to the arched roof gave main support. + He unsuspicious led him; which when Samson + Felt in his arms, with head a while inclined, + And eyes fast fix’d, he stood, as one who pray’d, + Or some great matter in his mind revolved: + At last with head erect thus cry’d aloud, + “Hitherto, lords, what your commands imposed + I have perform’d, as reason was, obeying, + Not without wonder or delight beheld: + Now of my own accord such other trial + I mean to show you of my strength, yet greater, + As with amaze shall strike all who behold.” + This utter’d, straining all his nerves he bow’d, + As with the force of winds and waters pent + When mountains tremble, those two massy pillars + With horrible convulsion to and fro. + He tugg’d, he shook, till down they came, and drew + The whole roof after them, with burst of thunder, + Upon the heads of all who sat beneath,—Lords, + ladies, captains, counsellors, or priests, + Their choice nobility and flower, not only + Of this, but each Philistian city round, + Met from all parts to solemnise this feast. + Samson with these immix’d, inevitably + Pull’d down the same destruction on himself; + The vulgar only ’scaped who stood without. + + _Chor._ O dearly-bought revenge, yet glorious! + Living or dying thou hast fulfill’d + The work for which thou wast foretold + To Israel, and now ly’st victorious + Among thy slain self-kill’d, + Not willingly, but tangled in the fold + Of dire necessity, whose law in death conjoin’d + Thee with thy slaughter’d foes, in number more + Than all thy life hath slain before.’ + +This is grave and fine; but Shakespeare would have done it differently +and better. + +We need not pause to observe how certainly this deficiency in humour +and in the delineation of ordinary human feeling is connected with a +recluse, a solitary, and to some extent an unsympathising life. If we +combine a certain natural aloofness from common men with literary habits +and an incessantly studious musing, we shall at once see how powerful a +force is brought to bear on an instinctively austere character, and how +sure it will be to develope the peculiar tendencies of it, both good and +evil. It was to no purpose that Milton seems to have practised a sort of +professional study of life. No man could rank more highly the importance +to a poet of an intellectual insight into all-important pursuits and +‘seemly arts.’ But it is not by the mere intellect that we can take in +the daily occupations of mankind; we must sympathise with them, and see +them in their human relations. A chimney-sweeper, _quâ_ chimney-sweeper, +is not very sentimental; it is in himself that he is so interesting. + +Milton’s austere character is in some sort the more evident, because he +possessed in large measure a certain relieving element, in which those +who are eminent in that character are very deficient. Generally such +persons have but obtuse senses. We are prone to attribute the purity of +their conduct to the dullness of their sensations. Milton had no such +obtuseness. He had every opportunity for knowing the world of eye and +ear. You cannot open his works without seeing how much he did know of +it. The austerity of his nature was not caused by the deficiency of his +senses, but by an excess of the warning instinct. Even when he professed +to delineate the world of sensuous delight, this instinct shows itself. +Dr. Johnson thought he could discern melancholy in ‘L’Allegro.’ If he had +said solitariness, it would have been correct. + +The peculiar nature of Milton’s character is very conspicuous in the +events of his domestic life, and in the views which he took of the great +public revolutions of his age. We can spare only a very brief space for +the examination of either of these; but we will endeavour to say a few +words upon each of them. + +The circumstances of Milton’s first marriage are as singular as any in +the strange series of the loves of the poets. The scene opens with an +affair of business. Milton’s father, as is well known, was a scrivener—a +kind of professional money-lender, then well known in London; and having +been early connected with the vicinity of Oxford, continued afterwards to +have pecuniary transactions of a certain nature with country gentlemen +of that neighbourhood. In the course of these he advanced 500_l._ to a +certain Mr. Richard Powell, a squire of fair landed estate, residing +at Forest Hill, which is about four miles from the city of Oxford. The +money was lent on the 11th of June 1627; and a few months afterwards Mr. +Milton the elder gave 312_l._ of it to his son the poet, who was then a +youth at college, and made a formal memorandum of the same in the form +then usual, which still exists. The debt was never wholly discharged; +for in 1651 we find Milton declaring on oath that he had never received +more than 180_l._, ‘in part satisfaction of his said just and principal +debt, with damages for the same and his costs of suit.’ Mr. Keightley +supposes him to have ‘taken many a ride over to Forest Hill’ after he +left Cambridge and was living at Horton, which is not very far distant; +but of course this is only conjecture. We only know that about 1643 ‘he +took,’ as his nephew relates, ‘a journey into the country, nobody about +him certainly knowing the reason, or that it was more than a journey of +recreation. After a month’s stay he returns a married man, who set out a +bachelor; his wife being Mary, the eldest daughter of Mr. Richard Powell, +then a justice of the peace’ for the county of Oxford. The suddenness of +the event is rather striking; but Philips was at the time one of Milton’s +pupils, and it is possible that some pains may have been taken to conceal +the love-affair from the ‘young gentlemen.’ Still, as Philips was +Milton’s nephew, he was likely to hear such intelligence tolerably early; +and as he does not seem to have done so, the _dénouement_ was probably +rather prompt. At any rate, he was certainly married at that time, and +took his bride home to his house in Aldersgate Street; and there was +feasting and gaiety according to the usual custom of such events. A +few weeks after, the lady went home to her friends, in which there was +of course nothing remarkable; but it is singular that when the natural +limit of her visit at home was come, she absolutely refused to return to +her husband. The grounds of so strange a resolution are very difficult +to ascertain. Political feeling ran very high: old Mr. Powell adhered +to the side of the king, and Milton to that of the parliament; and this +might be fancied to have caused an estrangement. But on the other hand, +these circumstances must have been well known three months before. +Nothing had happened in that quarter of a year to change very materially +the position of the two parties in the State. Some other cause for Mrs. +Milton’s conduct must be looked for. She herself is said to have stated +that she did not like her husband’s ‘spare diet and hard study.’ No +doubt, too, she found it dull in London; she had probably always lived +in the country, and must have been quite unaccustomed to the not very +pleasant scene in which she found herself. Still, many young ladies have +married schoolmasters, and many young ladies have gone from Oxfordshire +to London; and nevertheless, no such dissolution of matrimonial harmony +is known to have occurred. + +The fact we believe to be, that the bride took a dislike to her husband. +We cannot but have a suspicion that she did not like him before marriage, +and that pecuniary reasons had their influence. If, however, Mr. Powell +exerted his paternal influence, it may be admitted that he had unusual +considerations to advance in favour of the alliance he proposed. It is +not every father whose creditors are handsome young gentlemen with fair +incomes. Perhaps it seemed no extreme tyranny to press the young lady a +little to do that which some others might have done without pressing. +Still, all this is but hypothesis; our evidence as to the love-affairs of +the time of King Charles I. is but meagre. But, whatever the feelings of +Miss Powell may have been, those of Mrs. Milton are exceedingly certain. +She would not return to her husband; she did not answer his letters; and +a messenger whom he sent to bring her back was handled rather roughly. +Unquestionably, she was deeply to blame, by far the most to blame of the +two. Whatever may be alleged against him, is as nothing compared with her +offence in leaving him. To defend so startling a course, we must adopt +views of divorce even more extreme than those which Milton was himself +driven to inculcate; and whatever Mrs. Milton’s practice may have been, +it may be fairly conjectured that her principles were strictly orthodox. +Yet, if she could be examined by a commission to the ghosts, she would +probably have some palliating circumstances to allege in mitigation +of judgment. There were, perhaps, peculiarities in Milton’s character +which a young lady might not improperly dislike. The austere and ascetic +character is of course far less agreeable to women than the sensuous +and susceptible. The self-occupation, the pride, the abstraction of the +former are to the female mind disagreeable; studious habits and unusual +self-denial seem to it purposeless; lofty enthusiasm, public spirit, the +solitary pursuit of an elevated ideal, are quite out of its way: they +rest too little on the visible world to be intelligible, they are too +little suggested by the daily occurrences of life to seem possible. The +poet in search of an imaginary phantom has never been successful with +women; there are innumerable proofs of that; and the ascetic moralist +is even less interesting. A character combined out of the two—and this +to some extent was Milton’s—is singularly likely to meet with painful +failure; with a failure the more painful, that it could never anticipate +or explain it. Possibly he was absorbed in an austere self-conscious +excellence; it may never have occurred to him that a lady might prefer +the trivial detail of daily happiness. + +Milton’s own view of the matter he has explained to us in his book on +divorce; and it is a very odd one. His complaint was that his wife would +not talk. What he wished in marriage was an ‘intimate and speaking +help;’ he encountered a ‘mute and spiritless mate.’ One of his principal +incitements to the ‘pious necessity of divorcing,’ was an unusual +deficiency in household conversation. A certain loquacity in their +wives has been the complaint of various eminent men; but his domestic +affliction was a different one. The ‘ready and reviving associate,’ whom +he had hoped to have found, appeared to be a ‘co-inhabiting mischief,’ +who was sullen, and perhaps seemed bored and tired. And at times he is +disposed to cast the blame of his misfortune on the uninstructive nature +of youthful virtue. The ‘soberest and best-governed men,’ he says, are +least practised in such affairs, are not very well aware that ‘the +bashful muteness’ of a young lady ‘may oft-times hide the unliveliness +and natural sloth which is really unfit for conversation;’ and are rather +in too great haste to light the nuptial torch: whereas those ‘who have +lived most loosely, by reason of their bold accustoming, prove most +successful in their matches; because their wild affections, unsettling +at will, have been as so many divorces to teach them experience.’ And +he rather wishes to infer that the virtuous man should, in case of +mischance, have his resource of divorce likewise. + +In truth, Milton’s book on divorce—though only containing principles +which he continued to believe long after he had any personal reasons +for wishing to do so—were clearly suggested at first by the unusual +phenomena of his first marriage. His wife began by not speaking to him, +and finished by running away from him. Accordingly, like most books which +spring out of personal circumstances, his treatises on this subject have +a frankness, and a mastery of detail, which others on the same topic +sometimes want. He is remarkably free from one peculiarity of modern +writers on such matters. Several considerate gentlemen are extremely +anxious for the ‘rights of woman.’ They think that women will benefit by +removing the bulwarks which the misguided experience of ages has erected +for their protection. A migratory system of domestic existence might suit +Madame Dudevant, and a few cases of singular exception; but we cannot +fancy that it would be, after all, so much to the taste of most ladies +as the present more permanent system. We have some reminiscence of the +stories of the wolf and the lamb, when we hear amiable men addressing +a female auditory (in books, of course) on the advantages of a freer +‘development.’ We are perhaps wrong, but we cherish an indistinct +suspicion that an indefinite extension of the power of selection would +rather tend to the advantage of the sex which more usually chooses. +But we have no occasion to avow such opinions now. Milton had no such +modern views. He is frankly and honestly anxious for the rights of +the man. Of the doctrine that divorce is only permitted for the help +of wives, he exclaims, ‘Palpably uxorious! who can be ignorant, that +a woman was created for man, and not man for woman? What an injury is +it after wedlock to be slighted! what to be contended with in point of +house-rule who shall be the head; not for any parity of wisdom, for that +were something reasonable, but out of a female pride! “I suffer not,” +saith St. Paul, “the woman to usurp authority over the man.” If the +Apostle could not suffer it,’ he naturally remarks, ‘into what mould is +he mortified that can?’ He had a sincere desire to preserve men from the +society of unsocial and unsympathising women; and that was his principal +idea. + +His theory, to a certain extent, partakes of the same notion. The +following passage contains a perspicuous exposition of it: ‘Moses, Deut. +xxiv. 1, established a grave and prudent law, full of moral equity, full +of due consideration towards nature, that cannot be resisted, a law +consenting with the wisest men and civilest nations; that when a man hath +married a wife, if it come to pass that he cannot love her by reason of +some displeasing natural quality or unfitness in her, let him write her +a bill of divorce. The intent of which law undoubtedly was this, that if +any good and peaceable man should discover some helpless disagreement +or dislike, either of mind or body, whereby he could not cheerfully +perform the duty of a husband without the perpetual dissembling of +offence and disturbance to his spirit; rather than to live uncomfortably +and unhappily both to himself and to his wife; rather than to continue +undertaking a duty, which he could not possibly discharge, he might +dismiss her, whom he could not tolerably, and so not conscionably, +retain. And this law the Spirit of God by the mouth of Solomon, Prov. +xxx. 21, 23, testifies to be a good and a necessary law, by granting +it that “a hated woman” (for so the Hebrew word signifies, rather than +“odious,” though it come all to one), that “a hated woman, when she +is married, is a thing that the earth cannot bear.”’ And he complains +that the civil law of modern states interferes with the ‘domestical +prerogative of the husband.’ + +His notion would seem to have been that a husband was bound not to +dismiss his wife, except for a reason really sufficient; such as a +thoroughly incompatible temper, an incorrigible ‘muteness,’ and a +desertion like that of Mrs. Milton. But he scarcely liked to admit that, +in the use of this power, he should be subject to the correction of +human tribunals. He thought that the circumstances of each case depended +upon ‘utterless facts;’ and that it was practically impossible for a +civil court to decide on a subject so delicate in its essence, and so +imperceptible in its data. But though amiable men doubtless suffer much +from the deficiencies of their wives, we should hardly like to intrust +them, in their own cases, with a jurisdiction so prompt and summary. + +We are far from being concerned, however, just now with the doctrine of +divorce on its intrinsic merits: we were only intending to give such an +account of Milton’s opinions upon it as might serve to illustrate his +character. We think we have shown that it is possible there may have +been, in his domestic relations, a little overweening pride; a tendency +to overrate the true extent of masculine rights, and to dwell on his +wife’s duty to be social towards him rather than on his duty to be social +towards her,—to be rather sullen whenever she was not quite cheerful. +Still, we are not defending a lady for leaving her husband for defects of +such inferior magnitude. Few households would be kept together, if the +right of transition were exercised on such trifling occasions. We are +but suggesting that she may share the excuse which our great satirist +has suggested for another unreliable lady: ‘My mother was an angel; but +angels are not always _commodes à vivre_.’ + +This is not a pleasant part of our subject, and we must leave it. It +is more agreeable to relate that on no occasion of his life was the +substantial excellence of Milton’s character more conclusively shown, +than in his conduct at the last stage of this curious transaction. After +a very considerable interval, and after the publication of his book on +divorce, Mrs. Milton showed a disposition to return to her husband; and, +in spite of his theories, he received her with open arms. With great +Christian patience, he received her relations too. The Parliamentary +party was then victorious; and old Mr. Powell, who had suffered very much +in the cause of the king, lived until his death untroubled, and ‘wholly +to his devotion,’ as we are informed, in the house of his son-in-law. + +Of the other occurrences of Milton’s domestic life we have left ourselves +no room to speak; we must turn to our second source of illustration for +his character,—his opinions on the great public events of his time. It +may seem odd, but we believe that a man of austere character naturally +tends _both_ to an excessive party spirit and to an extreme isolation. Of +course, the circumstances which develope the one must be different from +those which are necessary to call out the other: party-spirit requires +companionship; isolation, if we may be pardoned so original a remark, +excludes it. But though, as we have shown, this species of character is +prone to mental solitude, tends to an intellectual isolation where it is +possible and as soon as it can, yet when invincible circumstances throw +it into mental companionship, when it is driven into earnest association +with earnest men on interesting topics, its zeal becomes excessive. Such +a man’s mind is at home only with its own enthusiasm; it is cooped up +within the narrow limits of its own ideas, and it can make no allowance +for those who differ from or oppose them. We may see something of this +excessive party-zeal in Burke. No one’s reasons are more philosophical; +yet no one who acted with a party went further in aid of it or was more +violent in support of it. He forgot what could be said for the tenets of +the enemy; his imagination made that enemy an abstract incarnation of his +tenets. A man, too, who knows that he formed his opinions originally by a +genuine and intellectual process, is but little aware of the undue energy +those ideas may obtain from the concurrence of those around. Persons who +first acquired their ideas at second-hand are more open to a knowledge of +their own weakness, and better acquainted with the strange force which +there is in the sympathy of others. The isolated mind, when it acts with +the popular feeling, is apt to exaggerate that feeling for the most part +by an almost inevitable consequence of the feelings which render it +isolated. Milton is an example of this remark. In the commencement of the +struggle between Charles I. and the Parliament, he sympathised strongly +with the popular movement, and carried to what seems now a strange +extreme his partisanship. No one could imagine that the first literary +Englishman of his time could write the following passage on Charles I.: + +‘Who can with patience hear this filthy, rascally Fool speak so +irreverently of Persons eminent both in Greatness and Piety? Dare you +compare King _David_ with King _Charles_; a most Religious King and +Prophet, with a Superstitious Prince, and who was but a Novice in the +Christian Religion; a most prudent, wise Prince with a weak one; a +valiant Prince with a cowardly one; finally, a most just Prince with +a most unjust one? Have you the impudence to commend his Chastity and +Sobriety, who is known to have committed all manner of Leudness in +company with his Confident the Duke of _Buckingham_? It were to no +purpose to inquire into the private Actions of his Life, who publickly at +Plays would embrace and kiss the Ladies.’ + +Whatever may be the faults of that ill-fated monarch—and they assuredly +were not small—no one would now think this absurd invective to be even +an excusable exaggeration. It misses the true mark altogether, and is +the expression of a strongly imaginative mind, which has seen something +that it did not like, and is unable in consequence to see anything that +has any relation to it distinctly or correctly. But with the supremacy +of the Long Parliament Milton’s attachment to their cause ceased. No one +has drawn a more unfavourable picture of the rule which they established. +Years after their supremacy had passed away, and the restoration of the +monarchy had covered with a new and strange scene the old actors and +the old world, he thrust into a most unlikely part of his _History of +England_ the following attack on them:— + +‘But when once the superficiall zeal and popular fumes that acted their +New Magistracy were cool’d and spent in them, strait every one betook +himself (setting the Commonwealth behind, his privat ends before) to +doe as his own profit or ambition ledd him. Then was justice delay’d, +and soon after deni’d: spight and favour determin’d all: hence faction, +thence treachery, both at home and in the field: ev’ry where wrong, and +oppression: foull and horrid deeds committed daily, or maintain’d, in +secret, or in open. Som who had bin call’d from shops and warehouses, +without other merit, to sit in Supreme Councills and Committees as thir +breeding was, fell to huckster the Commonwealth. Others did therafter as +men could soothe and humour them best; so hee who would give most, or, +under covert of hypocriticall zeale, insinuat basest, enjoy’d unworthily +the rewards of lerning and fidelity; or escap’d the punishment of his +crimes and misdeeds. Thir Votes and Ordinances, which men looked should +have contain’d the repealing of bad laws, and the immediat constitution +of better, resounded with nothing els, but new Impositions, Taxes, +Excises; yeerly, monthly, weekly. Not to reckon the Offices, Gifts, and +Preferments bestow’d and shar’d among themselvs.’ + +His dislike of this system of committees, and of the generally dull +and unemphatic administration of the Commonwealth, attached him to the +Puritan army and to Cromwell; but in the continuation of the passage we +have referred to, he expresses, with something, let it be said, of a +schoolmaster feeling, an unfavourable judgment on their career. + +‘For _Britan_, to speak a truth not oft’n spok’n, as it is a Land +fruitful enough of men stout and courageous in warr, soe it is naturally +not over-fertill of men able to govern justly and prudently in peace, +trusting onely in thir Motherwit; who consider not justly, that civility, +prudence, love of the Publick good, more then of money or vaine honour, +are to this soile in a manner outlandish; grow not here, but in mindes +well implanted with solid and elaborat breeding, too impolitic els and +rude, if not headstrong and intractable to the industry and vertue either +of executing or understanding true Civill Government. Valiant indeed, +and prosperous to win a field; but to know the end and reason of winning, +unjudicious, and unwise: in good or bad succes, alike unteachable. For +the Sun, which wee want, ripens wits as well as fruits; and as Wine and +Oil are imported to us from abroad, soe must ripe understanding, and +many Civill Vertues, be imported into our mindes from Foren Writings, +and examples of best Ages; we shall els miscarry still, and com short +in the attempts of any great enterprize. Hence did thir Victories prove +as fruitles, as thir Losses dang’rous; and left them still conq’ring +under the same greevances, that Men suffer conquer’d: which was indeed +unlikely to goe otherwise, unles Men more then vulgar bred up, as few of +them were, in the knowledg of antient and illustrious deeds, invincible +against many and vaine Titles, impartial to Freindships and Relations, +had conducted thir Affairs: but then from the Chapman to the Retailer, +many whose ignorance was more audacious then the rest, were admitted +with all thir sordid Rudiments to bear no meane sway among them, both in +Church and State.’ + +We need not speak of Milton’s disapprobation of the Restoration. Between +him and the world of Charles II. the opposition was inevitable and +infinite. Therefore the general fact remains, that except in the early +struggles, when he exaggerated the popular feeling, he remained solitary +in opinion, and had very little sympathy with any of the prevailing +parties of his time. + +Milton’s own theory of government is to be learned from his works. He +advocated a free commonwealth, without rule of a single person, or House +of Lords: but the form of his projected commonwealth was peculiar. He +thought that a certain perpetual council, which should be elected by +the nation once for all, and the number of which should be filled up +as vacancies might occur, was the best possible machine of government. +He did not confine his advocacy to abstract theory, but proposed the +immediate establishment of such a council in this country. We need not +go into an elaborate discussion to show the errors of this conclusion. +Hardly any one, then or since, has probably adopted it. The interest of +the theoretical parts of Milton’s political works is entirely historical. +The tenets advocated are not of great value, and the arguments by which +he supports them are perhaps of less; but their relation to the times in +which they were written gives them a very singular interest. The time +of the Commonwealth was the only period in English history in which the +fundamental questions of government have been thrown open for popular +discussion in this country. We read in French literature discussions +on the advisability of establishing a monarchy, on the advisability +of establishing a republic, on the advisability of establishing an +empire; and, before we proceed to examine the arguments, we cannot help +being struck at the strange contrast which this multiplicity of open +questions presents to our own uninquiring acquiescence in the hereditary +polity which has descended to us. ‘King, Lords, and Commons’ are, we +think, ordinances of nature. Yet Milton’s political writings embody the +reflections of a period when, for a few years, the government of England +was nearly as much a subject of fundamental discussion as that of France +was in 1851. An ‘invitation to thinkers,’ to borrow the phrase of Neckar, +was given by the circumstances of the time; and, with the habitual +facility of philosophical speculation, it was accepted, and used to the +utmost. + +Such are not the kind of speculations in which we expect assistance from +Milton. It is not in its transactions with others, in its dealings with +the manifold world, that the isolated and austere mind shows itself to +the most advantage. Its strength lies in itself. It has ‘a calm and +pleasing solitariness.’ It hears thoughts which others cannot hear. +It enjoys the quiet and still air of delightful studies; and is ever +conscious of such musing and poetry ‘as is not to be obtained by the +invocation of Dame Memory and her twin daughters, but by devout prayer to +that Eternal Spirit, who can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, +and sends out his Seraphim with the hallowed fire of His altar.’ + + ‘Descend from Heav’n, Urania, by that name + If rightly thou art call’d, whose voice divine + Following, above th’ Olympian hill I soar, + Above the flight of Pegaséan wing. + The meaning, not the name, I call; for thou + Nor of the Muses nine, nor on the top + Of old Olympus dwell’st, but heav’nly born: + Before the hills appear’d, or fountain flow’d, + Thou with eternal Wisdom didst converse, + Wisdom thy sister, and with her didst play + In presence of th’ Almighty Father, pleased + With thy celestial song. Up led by Thee + Into the Heav’n of Heav’ns I have presumed, + An earthly guest, and drawn empyreal air, + Thy temp’ring. With like safety guided down, + Return me to my native element; + Lest from this flying steed, unrein’d (as once + Bellerophon, though from a lower clime), + Dismounted, on th’ Aleian field I fall + Erroneous there to wander and forlorn. + Half yet remains unsung, but narrower bound + Within the visible diurnal sphere; + Standing on earth, not rapt above the pole, + More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchanged + To hoarse or mute, though fall’n on evil days, + On evil days though fall’n, and evil tongues; + In darkness, and with dangers compass’d round, + And solitude; yet not alone, while thou + Visit’st my slumbers nightly, or when morn + Purples the east: still govern thou my song, + Urania, and fit audience find, though few; + But drive far off the barb’rous dissonance + Of Bacchus and his revellers, the race + Of that wild rout that tore the Thracian bard + In Rhodope, where woods and rocks had ears + To rapture, till the savage clamour drown’d + Both harp and voice; nor could the Muse defend + Her son. So fail not thou, who thee implores; + For thou art heav’nly, she an empty dream.’ + +‘An ancient clergyman of Dorsetshire, Dr. Wright, found John Milton in +a small chamber hung with rusty green, sitting in an elbow-chair, and +dressed neatly in black: pale, but not cadaverous.’ ‘He used also to sit +in a gray coarse cloth coat at the door of his house near Bunhill Fields, +in warm, sunny weather;’ and the common people said he was inspired. + +If from the man we turn to his works, we are struck at once with two +singular contrasts. The first of them is this. The distinction between +ancient and modern art is sometimes said, and perhaps truly, to consist +in the simple bareness of the imaginative conceptions which we find in +ancient art, and the comparatively complex clothing in which all modern +creations are embodied. If we adopt this distinction, Milton seems in +some sort ancient, and in some sort modern. Nothing is so simple as the +subject-matter of his works. The two greatest of his creations, the +character of Satan and the character of Eve, are two of the simplest—the +latter probably the very simplest—in the whole field of literature. On +this side Milton’s art is classical. On the other hand, in no writer +is the imagery more profuse, the illustrations more various, the dress +altogether more splendid. And in this respect the style of his art seems +romantic and modern. In real truth, however, it is only ancient art in a +modern disguise. The dress is a mere dress, and can be stripped off when +we will. We all of us do perhaps in memory strip it off for ourselves. +Notwithstanding the lavish adornments with which her image is presented, +the character of Eve is still the simplest sort of feminine essence—the +pure embodiment of that inner nature, which we believe and hope that +women have. The character of Satan, though it is not so easily described, +has nearly as few elements in it. The most purely modern conceptions will +not bear to be unclothed in this matter. Their romantic garment clings +inseparably to them. Hamlet and Lear are not to be thought of except as +complex characters, with very involved and complicated embodiments. They +are as difficult to draw out in words as the common characters of life +are; that of Hamlet, perhaps, is more so. If we make it, as perhaps we +should, the characteristic of modern and romantic art that it presents +us with creations which we cannot think of or delineate except as very +varied, and, so to say, circumstantial, we must not rank Milton among +the masters of romantic art. And without involving the subject in the +troubled sea of an old controversy, we may say that the most striking of +the poetical peculiarities of Milton is the bare simplicity of his ideas, +and the rich abundance of his illustrations. + +Another of his peculiarities is equally striking. There seems to be such +a thing as second-hand poetry. Some poets, musing on the poetry of other +men, have unconsciously shaped it into something of their own: the new +conception is like the original, it would never probably have existed had +not the original existed previously; still it is sufficiently different +from the original to be a new thing, not a copy or a plagiarism; it is +a creation, though, so to say, a suggested creation. Gray is as good an +example as can be found of a poet whose works abound in this species +of semi-original conceptions. Industrious critics track his best lines +back, and find others like them which doubtless lingered near his fancy +while he was writing them. The same critics have been equally busy with +the works of Milton, and equally successful. They find traces of his +reading in half his works; not, which any reader could do, in overt +similes and distinct illustrations, but also in the very texture of the +thought and the expression. In many cases, doubtless, they discover more +than he himself knew. A mind like his, which has an immense store of +imaginative recollections, can never know which of his own imaginations +is exactly suggested by which recollection. Men awake with their best +ideas; it is seldom worth while to investigate very curiously whence +they came. Our proper business is to adapt, and mould, and act upon +them. Of poets perhaps this is true even more remarkably than of other +men; their ideas are suggested in modes, and according to laws, which +are even more impossible to specify than the ideas of the rest of the +world. Second-hand poetry, so to say, often seems quite original to the +poet himself; he frequently does not know that he derived it from an old +memory; years afterwards it may strike him as it does others. Still, in +general, such inferior species of creation is not so likely to be found +in minds of singular originality as in those of less. A brooding, placid, +cultivated mind, like that of Gray, is the place where we should expect +to meet with it. Great originality disturbs the adaptive process, removes +the mind of the poet from the thoughts of other men, and occupies it +with its own heated and flashing thoughts. Poetry of the second degree +is like the secondary rocks of modern geology—a still, gentle, alluvial +formation; the igneous glow of primary genius brings forth ideas like +the primeval granite, simple, astounding, and alone. Milton’s case is an +exception to this rule. His mind has marked originality, probably as much +of it as any in literature; but it has as much of moulded recollection +as any mind too. His poetry in consequence is like an artificial park, +green, and soft, and beautiful, yet with outlines bold, distinct, and +firm, and the eternal rock ever jutting out; or, better still, it is like +our own lake scenery, where nature has herself the same combination—where +we have Rydal-water side by side with the everlasting upheaved mountain. +Milton has the same union of softened beauty with unimpaired grandeur; +and it is his peculiarity. + +These are the two contrasts which puzzle us at first in Milton, and which +distinguish him from other poets in our remembrance afterwards. We have +a superficial complexity in illustration, and imagery, and metaphor; and +in contrast with it we observe a latent simplicity of idea, an almost +rude strength of conception. The underlying thoughts are few, though +the flowers on the surface are so many. We have likewise the perpetual +contrast of the soft poetry of the memory, and the firm, as it were +fused, and glowing poetry of the imagination. His words, we may half +fancifully say, are like his character. There is the same austerity in +the real essence, the same exquisiteness of sense, the same delicacy of +form which we know that he had, the same music which we imagine there was +in his voice. In both his character and his poetry there was an ascetic +nature in a sheath of beauty. + +No book perhaps which has ever been written is more difficult to +criticise than _Paradise Lost_. The only way to criticise a work of the +imagination, is to describe its effect upon the mind of the reader—at any +rate, of the critic; and this can only be adequately delineated by strong +illustrations, apt similes, and perhaps a little exaggeration. The task +is in its very nature not an easy one; the poet paints a picture on the +fancy of the critic, and the critic has in some sort to copy it on the +paper. He must say what it is before he can make remarks upon it. But +in the case of _Paradise Lost_ we hardly like to use illustrations. The +subject is one which the imagination rather shrinks from. At any rate, it +requires courage, and an effort to compel the mind to view such a subject +as distinctly and vividly as it views other subjects. Another peculiarity +of _Paradise Lost_ makes the difficulty even greater. It does not profess +to be a mere work of art; or rather, it claims to be by no means that, +and that only. It starts with a dogmatic aim; it avowedly intends to + + ‘assert eternal Providence, + And justify the ways of God to man.’ + +In this point of view we have always had a sympathy with the Cambridge +mathematician who has been so much abused. He said, ‘After all, _Paradise +Lost_ proves nothing;’ and various persons of poetical tastes and +temperament have been very severe on the prosaic observation. Yet, +‘after all,’ he was right. Milton professed to prove something. He was +too profound a critic—rather, he had too profound an instinct of those +eternal principles of art which criticism tries to state—not to know +that on such a subject he must prove something. He professed to deal with +the great problem of human destiny; to show why man was created, in what +kind of universe he lives, whence he came, and whither he goes. He dealt +of necessity with the greatest of subjects. He had to sketch the greatest +of objects. He was concerned with infinity and eternity even more than +with time and sense; he undertook to delineate the ways, and consequently +the character of Providence, as well as the conduct and the tendencies +of man. The essence of success in such an attempt is to satisfy the +religious sense of man; to bring home to our hearts what we know to be +true; to teach us what we have not seen; to awaken us to what we have +forgotten; to remove the ‘covering’ from all people, and ‘the veil’ that +is spread over all nations; to give us, in a word, such a conception of +things divine and human as we can accept, believe, and trust. The true +doctrine of criticism demands what Milton invites—an examination of the +degree in which the great epic attains this aim. And if, in examining it, +we find it necessary to use unusual illustrations, and plainer words than +are customary, it must be our excuse that we do not think the subject can +be made clear without them. + +The defect of _Paradise Lost_ is that, after all, it is founded on a +_political_ transaction. The scene is in heaven very early in the history +of the universe, before the creation of man or the fall of Satan. We have +a description of a court. The angels, + + ‘By imperial summons called,’ + +appear + + ‘Under their hierarchs in orders bright: + Ten thousand thousand ensigns high advanced, + Standards and gonfalons ’twixt van and rear + Stream in the air, and for distinction serve + Of hierarchies, and orders, and degrees.’ + +To this assemblage ‘th’ Omnipotent’ speaks: + + ‘Hear, all ye Angels, progeny of light, + Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Pow’rs, + Hear my decree, which unrevoked shall stand: + This day I have begot whom I declare + My only Son; and on this holy hill + Him have anointed, whom ye now behold + At my right hand; your Head I him appoint; + And by myself have sworn, to him shall bow + All knees in Heav’n, and shall confess him Lord: + Under his great vicegerent reign abide + United as one individual soul + For ever happy. Him who disobeys, + Me disobeys, breaks union, and that day, + Cast out from God and blessed vision, falls + Int’ utter darkness, deep ingulph’d, his place + Ordain’d without redemption, without end.’ + +This act of patronage was not popular at court; and why should it have +been? The religious sense is against it. The worship which sinful men +owe to God is not transferable to lieutenants and vicegerents. The whole +scene of the court jars upon a true feeling. We seem to be reading about +some emperor of history, who admits his son to a share in the empire, who +confers on him a considerable jurisdiction, and requires officials, with +‘standards and gonfalons,’ to bow before him. The orthodoxy of Milton is +quite as questionable as his accuracy. The old Athanasian creed was not +made by persons who would allow such a picture as that of Milton to stand +before their imaginations. The generation of the Son was to them a fact +‘before all time;’ an eternal fact. There was no question in their minds +of patronage or promotion. The Son was the Son before all time, just as +the Father was the Father before all time. Milton had in such matters +a bold but not very sensitive imagination. He accepted the inevitable +materialism of biblical, and, to some extent, of all religious language +as distinct revelation. He certainly believed, in contradiction to the +old creed, that God had both ‘parts and passions.’ He imagined that earth + + ‘Is but the shadow of heaven and things therein, + Each to other like more than on earth is thought.’ + +From some passages it would seem that he actually thought of God as +having ‘the members and form’ of a man. Naturally, therefore, he would +have no toleration for the mysterious notions of time and eternity +which are involved in the traditional doctrine. We are not, however, +now concerned with Milton’s belief, but with his representation of his +creed—his picture, so to say, of it in _Paradise Lost_; still, as we +cannot but think, that picture is almost irreligious, and certainly +different from that which has been generally accepted in Christendom. +Such phrases as ‘before all time,’ ‘eternal generation,’ are doubtless +very vaguely interpreted by the mass of men; nevertheless, no sensitively +orthodox man _could_ have drawn the picture of a generation, not to say +an exaltation, _in_ time. + +We shall see this more clearly by reading what follows in the poem: + + ‘All seemed well pleased; all seemed, but were not all.’ + +One of the archangels, whose name can be guessed, decidedly disapproved, +and calls a meeting, at which he explains that + + ‘orders and degrees + Jar not with liberty, but well consist;’ + +but still, that the promotion of a new person, on grounds of relationship +merely, above, even infinitely above, the old angels, with imperial +titles, was ‘a new law,’ and rather tyrannical. Abdiel, + + ‘than whom none with more zeal adored + The Deity, and with divine commands obeyed,’ + +attempts a defence: + + ‘Grant it thee unjust, + That equal over equals monarch reign: + Thyself, though great and glorious, dost thou count, + Or all angelic nature join’d in one, + Equal to him begotten Son? by whom + As by his Word the mighty Father made + All things, ev’n thee; and all the Spirits of Heav’n + By him created in their bright degrees, + Crown’d them with glory, and to their glory named + Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Pow’rs, + Essential Pow’rs; nor by his reign obscured, + But more illustrious made; since he the Head, + One of our number thus reduced becomes; + His laws our laws; all honour to him done + Returns our own. Cease then this impious rage, + And tempt not these; but hasten to appease + Th’ incensed Father and th’ incensed Son, + While pardon may be found, in time besought.’ + +Yet though Abdiel’s intentions were undeniably good, his argument is +rather specious. Acting as an instrument in the process of creation would +scarcely give a valid claim to the obedience of the created being. Power +may be shown in the act, no doubt; but mere power gives no true claim to +the obedience of moral beings. It is a kind of principle of all manner +of idolatries and false religions to believe that it does so. Satan, +besides, takes issue on the fact: + + ‘That we were formed then, say’st thou? and the work + Of secondary hands, by task transferr’d + From Father to his Son? Strange point and new! + Doctrine which we would know whence learned.’ + +And we must say that the speech in which the new ruler is introduced to +the ‘thrones, dominations, princedoms, powers,’ is hard to reconcile with +Abdiel’s exposition. ‘_This day_’ he seems to have come into existence, +and could hardly have assisted at the creation of the angels, who are not +young, and who converse with one another like old acquaintances. + +We have gone into this part of the subject at length, because it is the +source of the great error which pervades _Paradise Lost_. Satan is made +_interesting_. This has been the charge of a thousand orthodox and even +heterodox writers against Milton. Shelley, on the other hand, has gloried +in it; and fancied, if we remember rightly, that Milton intentionally +ranged himself on the Satanic side of the universe, just as Shelley +himself would have done, and that he wished to show the falsity of the +ordinary theology. But Milton was born an age too early for such aims, +and was far too sincere to have advocated any doctrine in a form so +indirect. He believed every word he said. He was not conscious of the +effect his teaching would produce in an age like this, when scepticism +is in the air, and when it is not possible to help looking coolly on his +delineations. Probably in our boyhood we can recollect a period when +any solemn description of celestial events would have commanded our +respect; we should not have dared to read it intelligently, to canvass +its details and see what it meant: it was a religious book; it sounded +reverential, and that would have sufficed. Something like this was the +state of mind of the seventeenth century. Even Milton probably shared in +a vague reverence for religious language. He hardly felt the moral effect +of the pictures he was drawing. His artistic instinct too, often hurries +him away. His Satan was to him, as to us, the hero of his poem. Having +commenced by making him resist on an occasion which in an earthly kingdom +would have been excusable and proper, he probably a little sympathised +with him, just as his readers do. + +The interest of Satan’s character is at its height in the first two +books. Coleridge justly compared it to that of Napoleon. There is the +same pride, the same satanic ability, the same will, the same egotism. +His character seems to grow with his position. He is far finer after +his fall, in misery and suffering, with scarcely any resource except +in himself, than he was originally in heaven; at least, if Raphael’s +description of him can be trusted. No portrait which imagination or +history has drawn of a revolutionary anarch is nearly so perfect; there +is all the grandeur of the greatest human mind, and a certain infinitude +in his circumstances which humanity must ever want. Few Englishmen feel +a profound reverence for Napoleon I. There was no French alliance in +_his_ time; we have most of us some tradition of antipathy to him. +Yet hardly any Englishman can read the account of the campaign of 1814 +without feeling his interest in the Emperor to be strong, and without +perhaps being conscious of a latent wish that he may succeed. Our opinion +is against him, our serious wish is of course for England; but the +imagination has a sympathy of its own, and will not give place. We read +about the great general—never greater than in that last emergency—showing +resources of genius that seem almost infinite, and that assuredly +have never been surpassed, yet vanquished, yielding to the power of +circumstances, to the combined force of adversaries, each of whom singly +he outmatches in strength, and all of whom together he surpasses in +majesty and in mind. Something of the same sort of interest belongs to +the Satan of the first two books of _Paradise Lost_. We know that he will +be vanquished; his name is not a recommendation. Still we do not imagine +distinctly the minds by which he is to be vanquished; we do not take the +same interest in them that we do in him; our sympathies, our fancy, are +on his side. + +Perhaps much of this was inevitable; yet what a defect it is! especially +what a defect in Milton’s own view, and looked at with the stern realism +with which he regarded it! Suppose that the author of evil in the +universe were the most attractive being in it; suppose that the source +of all sin were the origin of all interest to us! We need not dwell upon +this. + +As we have said, much of this was difficult to avoid, if indeed it +could be avoided in dealing with such a theme. Even Milton shrank, in +some measure, from delineating the Divine character. His imagination +evidently halts when it is required to perform that task. The more +delicate imagination of our modern world would shrink still more. Any +person who will consider what such an attempt must end in, will find +his nerves quiver. But by a curiously fatal error, Milton has selected +for delineation exactly that part of the Divine nature which is most +beyond the reach of the human faculties, and which is also, when we try +to describe our fancy of it, the least effective to our minds. He has +made God _argue_. Now the procedure of the Divine mind from truth to +truth must ever be incomprehensible to us; the notion, indeed, of His +proceeding at all, is a contradiction: to some extent, at least, it is +inevitable that we should use such language, but we know it is in reality +inapplicable. A long train of reasoning in such a connection is so out +of place as to be painful; and yet Milton has many. He relates a series +of family prayers in heaven, with sermons afterwards, which are very +tedious. Even Pope was shocked at the notion of Providence talking like +‘a school-divine.’ And there is the still worse error, that if you once +attribute reasoning to Him, subsequent logicians may discover that He +does not reason very well. + +Another way in which Milton has contrived to strengthen our interest in +Satan, is the number and insipidity of the good angels. There are old +rules as to the necessity of a supernatural machinery for an epic poem, +worth some fraction of the paper on which they are written, and derived +from the practice of Homer, who believed his gods and goddesses to be +real beings, and would have been rather harsh with a critic who called +them machinery. These rules had probably an influence with Milton, and +induced him to manipulate these serious angels more than he would have +done otherwise. They appear to be excellent administrators with very +little to do; a kind of grand chamberlains with wings, who fly down +to earth and communicate information to Adam and Eve. They have no +character; they are essentially messengers, merely conductors, so to say, +of the providential will: no one fancies that they have an independent +power of action; they seem scarcely to have minds of their own. No effect +can be more unfortunate. If the struggle of Satan had been with Deity +directly, the natural instincts of religion would have been awakened; but +when an angel possessed of mind is contrasted with angels possessed only +of wings, we sympathise with the former. + +In the first two books, therefore, our sympathy with Milton’s Satan is +great; we had almost said unqualified. The speeches he delivers are of +well-known excellence. Lord Brougham, no contemptible judge of emphatic +oratory, has laid down, that if a person had not an opportunity of access +to the great Attic master-pieces, he had better choose these for a model. +What is to be regretted about the orator is, that he scarcely acts up to +his sentiments. ‘Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven,’ is, at +any rate, an audacious declaration. But he has no room for exhibiting +similar audacity in action. His offensive career is limited. In the +nature of the subject there was scarcely any opportunity for the fallen +archangel to display in the detail of his operations the surpassing +intellect with which Milton has endowed him. He goes across chaos, gets +into a few physical difficulties; but these are not much. His grand aim +is the conquest of our first parents; and we are at once struck with the +enormous inequality of the conflict. Two beings just created, without +experience, without guile, without knowledge of good and evil, are +expected to contend with a being on the delineation of whose powers every +resource of art and imagination, every subtle suggestion, every emphatic +simile, has been lavished. The idea in every reader’s mind is, and must +be, not surprise that our first parents should yield, but wonder that +Satan should not think it beneath him to attack them. It is as if an army +should invest a cottage. + +We have spoken more of theology than we intended; and we need not say how +much the monstrous inequalities attributed to the combatants affect our +estimate of the results of the conflict. The state of man is what it is, +because the defenceless Adam and Eve of Milton’s imagination yielded to +the nearly all-powerful Satan whom he has delineated. Milton has in some +sense invented this difficulty; for in the book of Genesis there is no +such inequality. The serpent may be subtler than any beast of the field; +but he is not necessarily subtler or cleverer than man. So far from +Milton having justified the ways of God to man, he has loaded the common +theology with a new encumbrance. + +We may need refreshment after this discussion; and we cannot find it +better than in reading a few remarks of Eve. + + ‘That day I oft remember, when from sleep + I first awaked, and found myself reposed + Under a shade on flow’rs, much wond’ring where + And what I was, whence thither brought, and how. + Not distant far from thence a murm’ring sound + Of waters issued from a cave, and spread + Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved + Pure as th’ expanse of Heav’n.... I thither went + With unexperienced thought, and laid me down + On the green bank, to look into the clear + Smooth lake, that to me seem’d another sky. + As I bent down to look, just opposite + A shape within the wat’ry gleam appear’d, + Bending to look on me. I started back; + It started back: but pleased I soon return’d; + Pleased it return’d as soon with answ’ring looks + Of sympathy and love: there I had fix’d + Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire, + Had not a voice thus warn’d me. What thou seest, + What there thou seest, fair Creature, is thyself; + With thee it came and goes: but follow me, + And I will bring thee where no shadow stays + Thy coming, and thy soft embraces, he + Whose image thou art; him thou shalt enjoy + Inseparably thine: to him shalt bear + Multitudes like thyself, and thence be call’d + Mother of Human Race. What could I do + But follow straight, invisibly thus led? + Till I espy’d thee, fair indeed and tall + Under a platan; yet methought less fair, + Less winning soft, less amiably mild, + Than that smooth wat’ry image. Back I turn’d: + Thou following cry’dst aloud, Return, fair Eve; + Whom fly’st thou?’ + +Eve’s character, indeed, is one of the most wonderful efforts of the +human imagination. She is a kind of abstract woman; essentially a +typical being; an official ‘mother of all living.’ Yet she is a real +interesting woman, not only full of delicacy and sweetness, but with all +the undefinable fascination, the charm of personality, which such typical +characters hardly ever have. By what consummate miracle of wit this charm +of individuality is preserved, without impairing the general idea which +is ever present to us, we cannot explain, for we do not know. + +Adam is far less successful. He has good hair,—‘hyacinthine locks’ that +‘from his parted forelock manly hung;’ a ‘fair large front’ and ‘eye +sublime;’ but he has little else that we care for. There is, in truth, +no opportunity of displaying manly virtues, even if he possessed them. +He has only to yield to his wife’s solicitations, which he does. Nor are +we sure that he does it well. He is very tedious; he indulges in sermons +which are good; but most men cannot but fear that so delightful a being +as Eve must have found him tiresome. She steps away, however, and goes to +sleep at some of the worst points. + +Dr. Johnson remarked, that, after all, _Paradise Lost_ was one of the +books which no one wished longer: we fear, in this irreverent generation, +some wish it shorter. Hardly any reader would be sorry if some portions +of the later books had been spared him. Coleridge, indeed, discovered +profound mysteries in the last; but in what could not Coleridge find a +mystery if he wished? Dryden more wisely remarked that Milton became +tedious when he entered upon a ‘tract of Scripture.’ Nor is it surprising +that such is the case. The style of many parts of Scripture is such that +it will not bear addition or subtraction. A word less, or an idea more, +and the effect upon the mind is the same no longer. Nothing can be more +tiresome than a sermonic amplification of such passages. It is almost +too much when, as from the pulpit, a paraphrastic commentary is prepared +for our spiritual improvement. In deference to the intention we bear it, +but we bear it unwillingly; and we cannot endure it at all when, as +in poems, the object is to awaken our fancy rather than to improve our +conduct. The account of the creation in the book of Genesis is one of the +compositions from which no sensitive imagination would subtract an iota, +to which it could not bear to add a word. Milton’s paraphrase is alike +copious and ineffective. The universe is, in railway phrase, ‘opened,’ +but not created; no green earth springs in a moment from the indefinite +void. Instead, too, of the simple loneliness of the Old Testament, +several angelic officials are in attendance, who help in nothing, but +indicate that heaven must be plentifully supplied with tame creatures. + +There is no difficulty in writing such criticisms, and, indeed, other +unfavourable criticisms on _Paradise Lost_. There is scarcely any book +in the world which is open to a greater number, or which a reader who +allows plain words to produce a due effect will be less satisfied with. +Yet what book is really greater? In the best parts the words have a magic +in them; even in the inferior passages you are hardly sensible of their +inferiority till you translate them into your own language. Perhaps no +style ever written by man expressed so adequately the conceptions of a +mind so strong and so peculiar; a manly strength, a haunting atmosphere +of enhancing suggestions, a firm continuous music, are only some of its +excellences. To comprehend the whole of the others, you must take the +volume down and read it,—the best defence of Milton, as has been said +most truly, against all objections. + +Probably no book shows the transition which our theology has made since +the middle of the seventeenth century, at once so plainly and so fully. +We do not now compose long narratives to ‘justify the ways of God to +man.’ The more orthodox we are, the more we shrink from it; the more +we hesitate at such a task, the more we allege that we have no powers +for it. Our most celebrated defences of established tenets are in the +style of Butler, not in that of Milton. They do not profess to show a +satisfactory explanation of human destiny; on the contrary, they hint +that probably we could not understand such an explanation if it were +given us; at any rate, they allow that it is not given us. Their course +is palliative. They suggest an ‘analogy of difficulties.’ If our minds +were greater, so they reason, we should comprehend these doctrines: +now we cannot explain analogous facts which we see and know. No style +can be more opposite to the bold argument, the boastful exposition of +Milton. The teaching of the eighteenth century is in the very atmosphere +we breathe. We read it in the teachings of Oxford; we hear it from the +missionaries of the Vatican. The air of the theology is clarified. We +know our difficulties, at least; we are rather prone to exaggerate the +weight of some than to deny the reality of any. + +We cannot continue a line of thought which would draw us on too far for +the patience of our readers. We must, however, make one more remark, and +we shall have finished our criticism on _Paradise Lost_. It is analogous +to that which we have just made. The scheme of the poem is based on an +offence against positive morality. The offence of Adam was not against +nature or conscience, nor against any thing of which we can see the +reason, or conceive the obligation, but against an unexplained injunction +of the Supreme Will. The rebellion in heaven, as Milton describes it, +was a rebellion, not against known ethics, or immutable spiritual laws, +but against an arbitrary selection and an unexplained edict. We do not +say that there is no such thing as positive morality: we do not think +so; even if we did, we should not insert a proposition so startling at +the conclusion of a literary criticism. But we are sure that wherever a +positive moral edict is promulgated, it is no subject, except perhaps +under a very peculiar treatment, for literary art. By the very nature of +it, it cannot satisfy the heart and conscience. It is a difficulty; we +need not attempt to explain it away. There are mysteries enough which +will never be explained away. But it is contrary to every principle of +criticism to state the difficulty as if it were not one; to bring forward +the puzzle, yet leave it to itself; to publish so strange a problem, and +give only an untrue solution of it: and yet such, in its bare statement, +is all that Milton has done. + +Of Milton’s other writings we have left ourselves no room to speak; and +though every one of them, or almost every one of them, would well repay a +careful criticism, yet few of them seem to throw much additional light on +his character, or add much to our essential notion of his genius, though +they may exemplify and enhance it. _Comus_ is the poem which does so the +most. Literature has become so much lighter than it used to be, that we +can scarcely realise the position it occupied in the light literature +of our forefathers. We have now in our own language many poems that are +pleasanter in their subject, more graceful in their execution, more +flowing in their outline, more easy to read. Dr. Johnson, though perhaps +no very excellent authority on the more intangible graces of literature, +was disposed to deny to Milton the capacity of creating the lighter +literature: ‘Milton, madam, was a genius that could cut a colossus from a +rock, but could not carve heads upon cherry-stones.’ And it would not be +surprising if this generation, which has access to the almost indefinite +quantity of lighter compositions which have been produced since Johnson’s +time, were to echo his sentence. In some degree, perhaps, the popular +taste does so. _Comus_ has no longer the peculiar exceptional popularity +which it used to have. We can talk without general odium of its defects. +Its characters are nothing, its sentiments are tedious, its story is not +interesting. But it is only when we have realised the magnitude of its +deficiencies that we comprehend the peculiarity of its greatness. Its +power is in its style. A grave and firm music pervades it: it is soft, +without a thought of weakness; harmonious and yet strong; impressive, as +few such poems are, yet covered with a bloom of beauty and a complexity +of charm that few poems have either. We have, perhaps, light literature +in itself better, that we read oftener and more easily, that lingers more +in our memories; but we have not any, we question if there ever will be +any, which gives so true a conception of the capacity and the dignity of +the mind by which it was produced. The breath of solemnity which hovers +round the music attaches us to the writer. Every line, here as elsewhere, +in Milton excites the idea of indefinite power. + +And so we must draw to a close. The subject is an infinite one, and if +we pursued it, we should lose ourselves in miscellaneous commentary, and +run on far beyond the patience of our readers. What we have said has at +least a defined intention. We have wished to state the impression which +the character of Milton and the greatest of Milton’s works are likely to +produce on readers of the present generation—a generation different from +his own almost more than any other. + + + + +_LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU._[30] + +(1862.) + + +Nothing is so transitory as second-class fame. The name of Lady Mary +Wortley Montagu is hardly now known to the great mass of ordinary +English readers. A generation has arisen which has had time to forget +her. Yet only a few years since, an allusion to the ‘Lady Mary’ would +have been easily understood by every well-informed person; young ladies +were enjoined to form their style upon hers; and no one could have +anticipated that her letters would seem in 1862 as different from what +a lady of rank would then write or publish as if they had been written +in the times of paganism. The very change, however, of popular taste and +popular morality gives these letters now a kind of interest. The farther +and the more rapidly we have drifted from where we once lay, the more +do we wish to learn what kind of port it was. We venture, therefore, to +recommend the letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu as an instructive and +profitable study, not indeed to the youngest of young ladies, but to +those maturer persons of either sex ‘who have taken all knowledge to be +their province,’ and who have commenced their readings in ‘universality’ +by an assiduous perusal of Parisian fiction. + +It is, we admit, true that these letters are not at the present day very +agreeable reading. What our grandfathers and grandmothers thought of them +it is not so easy to say. But it now seems clear that Lady Mary was +that most miserable of human beings, an ambitious and wasted woman; that +she brought a very cultivated intellect into a very cultivated society; +that she gave to that society what it was most anxious to receive, and +received from it all which it had to bestow;—and yet that this all was to +her as nothing. The high intellectual world of England has never been so +compact, so visible in a certain sense, so enjoyable, as it was in her +time. She had a mind to understand it, beauty to adorn it, and wit to +amuse it; but she chose to pass a great part of her life in exile, and +returned at last to die at home among a new generation, whose name she +hardly knew, and to whom she herself was but a spectacle and a wonder. + +Lady Mary Pierrepont—for that was by birth her name—belonged to a +family which had a traditional reputation for ability and cultivation. +The _Memoirs of Lucy Hutchinson_—(almost the only legacy that remains +to us from the first generation of refined Puritans, the only book, +at any rate, which effectually brings home to us how different +they were in taste and in temper from their more vulgar and feeble +successors)—contains a curious panegyric on _wise William_ Pierrepont, to +whom the Parliamentary party resorted as an oracle of judgment, and whom +Cromwell himself, if tradition may be trusted, at times condescended to +consult and court. He did not, however, transmit much of his discretion +to his grandson, Lady Mary’s father. This nobleman, for he inherited from +an elder branch of the family both the marquisate of Dorchester and the +dukedom of Kingston, was a mere man ‘about town,’ as the homely phrase +then went, who passed a long life of fashionable idleness interspersed +with political intrigue, and who signalised his old age by marrying +a young beauty of fewer years than his youngest daughter, who, as he +very likely knew, cared nothing for him and much for another person. +He had the ‘grand air,’ however, and he expected his children, when he +visited them, to kneel down immediately and ask his blessing, which, +if his character was what is said, must have been _very_ valuable. The +only attention he ever (that we know of) bestowed upon Lady Mary was +a sort of theatrical outrage, pleasant enough to her at the time, but +scarcely in accordance with the educational theories in which we now +believe. He was a member of the Kit-Cat, a great Whig club, the Brooks’s +of Queen Anne’s time, which, like Brooks’s, appears not to have been +purely political, but to have found time for occasional relaxation and +for somewhat unbusiness-like discussions. They held annually a formal +meeting to arrange the female toasts for that year; and we are told that +a whim seized her father to nominate Lady Mary, ‘then not eight years +old, a candidate; alleging that she was far prettier than any lady on +their list.’ The other members demurred, because the rules of the club +forbade them to elect a beauty whom they had never seen. ‘Then you shall +see her,’ cried he; and in the gaiety of the moment sent orders home to +have her finely dressed and brought to him at the tavern, where she was +received with acclamations, her claim unanimously allowed, her health +drunk by every one present, and her name engraved in due form upon a +drinking-glass. The company consisting of some of the most eminent men +in England, she went from the lap of one poet, or patriot, or statesman, +to the arms of another, was feasted with sweetmeats, overwhelmed with +caresses, and what perhaps already pleased her better than either, heard +her wit and beauty loudly extolled on every side. Pleasure, she said, +was too poor a word to express her sensations; they amounted to ecstasy: +never again, throughout her whole future life, did she pass so happy +a day. Nor, indeed, could she; for the love of admiration, which this +scene was calculated to excite or increase, could never again be so fully +gratified; there is always some alloying ingredient in the cup, some +drawback upon the triumphs, of grown people. Her father carried on the +frolic, and we may conclude, confirmed the taste, by having her picture +painted for the club-room, that she might be enrolled a regular toast. +Perhaps some young ladies of more than eight years old would not much +object to have lived in those times. Fathers may be wiser now than they +were then, but they rarely make themselves so thoroughly agreeable to +their children. + +This stimulating education would leave a weak and vain girl still +more vain and weak; but it had not that effect on Lady Mary. Vain she +probably was, and her father’s boastfulness perhaps made her vainer; but +her vanity took an intellectual turn. She read vaguely and widely; she +managed to acquire some knowledge—how much is not clear—of Greek and +Latin, and certainly learned with sufficient thoroughness French and +Italian. She used to say that she had the worst education in the world, +and that it was only by the ‘help of an uncommon memory and indefatigable +labour’ that she had acquired her remarkable attainments. Her father +certainly seems to have been capable of any degree of inattention and +neglect; but we should not perhaps credit too entirely all the legends +which an old lady recounted to her grandchildren of the intellectual +difficulties of her youth. + +She seems to have been encouraged by her grandmother, one of the +celebrated Evelyn family, whose memory is thus enigmatically but still +expressively enshrined in the diary of the author of _Sylva_:—‘Under this +date,’ we are informed, ‘of the 2d of July 1649, he records a day spent +at Godstone, where Sir John’ (this lady’s father) ‘was on a visit with +his daughter;’ and he adds, ‘Mem. The prodigious memory of Sir John of +Wilts’s daughter, since married to Mr. W. Pierrepont.’ The lady who was +thus formidable in her youth deigned in her old age to write frequently, +as we should now say,—to open a ‘regular commerce’ of letters, as was +said in that age—with Lady Mary when quite a girl, which she always +believed to have been beneficial to her, and probably believed rightly; +for she was intelligent enough to comprehend what was said to her, and +the old lady had watched many changes in many things. + +Her greatest intellectual guide, at least so in after life she used to +relate, was Mr. Wortley, whom she afterwards married. ‘When I was young,’ +she said, ‘I was a great admirer of Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_, and that was +one of the chief reasons that set me upon the thoughts of stealing the +Latin language. Mr. Wortley was the only person to whom I communicated +my design, and he encouraged me in it. I used to study five or six hours +a day for two years in my father’s library; and so got that language, +whilst everybody else thought I was reading nothing but novels and +romances.’ She perused, however, some fiction also; for she possessed, +till her death, the whole library of Mrs. Lennox’s _Female Quixote_, a +ponderous series of novels in folio, in one of which she had written, in +her fairest youthful hand, the names and characteristic qualities of ‘the +beautiful Diana, the volatile Clemene, the melancholy Doris, Celadon the +faithful, Adamas the wise, and so on, forming two columns.’ + +Of Mr. Wortley’s character it is not difficult, from the materials before +us, to decipher the features; he was a slow man, with a taste for quick +companions. Swift’s diary to Stella mentions an evening spent over a +bottle of old wine with Mr. Wortley and Mr. Addison. Mr. Wortley was +a rigid Whig, and Swift’s transition to Toryism soon broke short that +friendship. But with Addison he maintained an intimacy which lasted +during their joint lives, and survived the marriages of both. With Steele +likewise he was upon the closest terms, is said to have written some +papers in the _Tatler_ and _Spectator_; and the second volume of the +former is certainly dedicated to him in affectionate and respectful terms. + +Notwithstanding, however, these conspicuous testimonials to high ability, +Mr. Wortley was an orderly and dull person. Every letter received by him +from his wife during five-and-twenty years of absence, was found, at +his death, carefully endorsed with the date of its arrival, and with a +_synopsis_ of its contents. ‘He represented,’ we are told, ‘at various +times, Huntingdon, Westminster, and Peterborough in Parliament, and +appears to have been a member of that class who win respectful attention +by sober and business-like qualities; and his name is constantly found in +the drier and more formal part of the politics of the time.’ He answered +to the description given more recently of a similar person: ‘Is not,’ it +was asked, ‘Sir John —— a very methodical person?’ ‘Certainly he is,’ +was the reply, ‘he files his invitations to dinner.’ The Wortley papers, +according to the description of those who have inspected them, seem to +contain the accumulations of similar documents during many years. He +hoarded money, however, to more purpose, for he died one of the richest +commoners in England; and a considerable part of the now marvellous +wealth of the Bute family seems at first to have been derived from him. + +Whatever good qualities Addison and Steele discovered in Mr. Wortley, +they were certainly not those of a good writer. We have from his pen and +from that of Lady Mary a description of the state of English politics +during the three first years of George III., and any one who wishes to +understand how much readability depends upon good writing would do well +to compare the two. Lady Mary’s is a clear and bright description of +all the superficial circumstances of the time; Mr. Wortley’s is equally +superficial, often unintelligible and always lumbering, and scarcely +succeeds in telling us more than that the writer was wholly unsuccessful +in all which he tried to do. As to Mr. Wortley’s contributions to the +periodicals of his time, we may suspect that the jottings preserved +at Loudon are all which he ever wrote of them, and that the style and +arrangement were supplied by more skilful writers. Even a county member +might furnish headings for the _Saturday Review_. He might say: ‘Trent +British vessel—Americans always intrusive—Support Government—Kill all +that is necessary.’ + +What Lady Mary discovered in Mr. Wortley it is easier to say and shorter, +for he was very handsome. If his portrait can be trusted, there was +a placid and business-like repose about him, which might easily be +attractive to a rather excitable and wild young lady, especially when +combined with imposing features and a quiet sweet expression. He attended +_to her_ also. When she was a girl of fourteen, he met her at a party, +and evinced his admiration. And a little while later, it is not difficult +to fancy that a literary young lady might be much pleased with a +good-looking gentleman not uncomfortably older than herself, yet having a +place in the world, and well known to the literary men of the age. He was +acquainted with the classics too, or was supposed to be so; and whether +it was a consequence of or a preliminary to their affections, Lady Mary +wished to know the classics also. + +Bishop Burnet was so kind as to superintend the singular studies—for +such they were clearly thought—of this aristocratic young lady; and the +translation of the _Enchiridion_ of Epictetus, which he revised, is +printed in this edition of her works. But even so grave an undertaking +could not wholly withdraw her from more congenial pursuits. She commenced +a correspondence with Miss Wortley, Mr. Wortley’s unmarried sister, +which still remains, though Miss Wortley’s letters are hardly to be +called hers, for her brother composed, and she merely copied them. The +correspondence is scarcely in the sort of English or in the tone which +young ladies, we understand, now use. + + ‘It is as impossible,’ says Miss Wortley, ‘for my dearest + Lady Mary to utter thought that can seem dull as to put on a + look that is not beautiful. Want of wit is a fault that those + who envy you most would not be able to find in your kind + compliments. To me they seem perfect, since repeated assurances + of your kindness forbid me to question their sincerity. You + have often found that the most angry, nay, the most neglectful + air you can assume, has made as deep a wound as the kindest; + and these lines of yours, that you tax with dulness (perhaps + because they were writ when you was not in a right humour, + or when your thoughts were elsewhere employed), are so far + from deserving the imputation, that the very turn of your + expression, had I forgot the rest of your charms, would be + sufficient to make me lament the only fault you have—your + inconstancy.’ + +To which the reply is: + + ‘I am infinitely obliged to you, my dear Mrs. Wortley, for the + wit, beauty, and other fine qualities, you so generously bestow + upon me. Next to receiving them from Heaven, you are the person + from whom I would choose to receive gifts and graces: I am very + well satisfied to owe them to your own delicacy of imagination, + which represents to you the idea of a fine lady, and you have + good nature enough to fancy I am she. All this is mighty well, + but you do not stop there; imagination is boundless. After + giving me imaginary wit and beauty, you give me imaginary + passions, and you tell me I’m in love: if I am, ’tis a perfect + sin of ignorance, for I don’t so much as know the man’s name: + I have been studying these three hours, and cannot guess who + you mean. I passed the days of Nottingham races [at] Thoresby + without seeing, or even wishing to see, one of the sex. Now, + if I am in love, I have very hard fortune to conceal it so + industriously from my own knowledge, and yet discover it so + much to other people. ’Tis against all form to have such a + passion as that, without giving one sigh for the matter. Pray + tell me the name of him I love, that I may (according to + the laudable custom of lovers) sigh to the woods and groves + hereabouts, and teach it to the echo.’ + +After some time Miss Wortley unfortunately died, and there was an obvious +difficulty in continuing the correspondence without the aid of an +appropriate sisterly screen. Mr. Wortley seems to have been tranquil and +condescending; perhaps he thought placid tactics would be most effective, +for Lady Mary was not so calm. He sent her some _Tatlers_, and received, +by way of thanks, the following tolerably encouraging letter: + + ‘_To Mr. Wortley Montagu._ + + ‘I am surprised at one of the _Tatlers_ you send me; is it + possible to have any sort of esteem for a person one believes + capable of having such trifling inclinations? Mr. Bickerstaff + has very wrong notions of our sex. I can say there are some + of us that despise charms of show, and all the pageantry of + greatness, perhaps with more ease than any of the philosophers. + In contemning the world, they seem to take pains to contemn + it; we despise it, without taking the pains to read lessons + of morality to make us do it. At least I know I have always + looked upon it with contempt, without being at the expense of + one serious reflection to oblige me to it. I carry the matter + yet farther; was I to choose of two thousand pounds a year + or twenty thousand, the first would be my choice. There is + something of an unavoidable _embarras_ in making what is called + a great figure in the world; [it] takes off from the happiness + of life; I hate the noise and hurry inseparable from great + estates and titles, and look upon both as blessings that ought + only to be given to fools, for ’tis only to them that they are + blessings. The pretty fellows you speak of, I own entertain + me sometimes; but is it impossible to be diverted with what + one despises? I can laugh at a puppet-show; at the same time + I know there is nothing in it worth my attention or regard. + General notions are generally wrong. Ignorance and folly are + thought the best foundations for virtue, as if not knowing + what a good wife is was necessary to make one so. I confess + that can never be my way of reasoning; as I always forgive an + _injury_ when I think it not done out of malice, I can never + think myself _obliged_ by what is done without design. Give + me leave to say it (I know it sounds vain), I know how to + make a man of sense happy; but then that man must resolve to + contribute something towards it himself. I have so much esteem + for you, I should be very sorry to hear you was unhappy; but + for the world I would not be the instrument of making you so; + which (of the humour you are) is hardly to be avoided if I am + your wife. You distrust me—I can neither be easy, nor loved, + where I am distrusted. Nor do I believe your passion for me is + what you pretend it; at least I am sure was I in love I could + not talk as you do. Few women would have spoke so plainly as + I have done; but to dissemble is among the things I never do. + I take more pains to approve my conduct to myself than to + the world; and would not have to accuse myself of a minute’s + deceit. I wish I loved you enough to devote myself to be for + ever miserable, for the pleasure of a day or two’s happiness. I + cannot resolve upon it. You must think otherwise of me, or not + all. + + ‘I don’t enjoin you to burn this letter. I know you will. ’Tis + the first I ever writ to one of your sex, and shall be the + last. You must never expect another. I resolve against all + correspondence of the kind; my resolutions are seldom made, and + never broken.’ + +Mr. Wortley, however, still grumbled. He seems to have expected a young +lady to do something even more decisive than ask him to marry her. He +continued to hesitate and pause. The lady in the comedy says, ‘What right +has a man to intend unless he states his intentions?’ and Lady Mary’s +biographers are entirely of that opinion. They think her exceedingly +ill-used, and Mr. Wortley exceedingly to blame. And so it may have been; +certainly a love-correspondence is rarely found where activity and +intrepidity on the lady’s side so much contrasts with quiescence and +timidity on the gentleman’s. If, however, we could summon him before +us, probably Mr. Wortley would have something to answer on his own +behalf. It is tolerably plain that he thought Lady Mary too excitable. +‘Certainly,’ he doubtless reasoned, ‘she is a handsome young lady, and +very witty; but beauty and wit are dangerous as well as attractive. +Vivacity is delightful; but my esteemed friend Mr. Addison has observed +that excessive quickness of parts is not unfrequently the cause of +extreme rapidity in action. Lady Mary makes love to me before marriage, +and I like it; but may she not make love also to some one else after +marriage, and then I shall not like it.’ Accordingly he writes to her +timorously as to her love of pleasure, her love of romantic reading, her +occasional toleration of younger gentlemen and quicker admirers. At last, +however, he proposed; and, as far as the lady was concerned, there was no +objection. + +We might have expected, from a superficial view of the facts, that there +would have been no difficulty either on the side of her father. Mr. +Wortley died one of the richest commoners in England; was of the first +standing in society, of good family, and he had apparently, therefore, +money to settle and station to offer to his bride. And he did offer both. +He was ready to settle an ample sum on Lady Mary, both as his wife and +as his widow, and was anxious that, if they married, they should live +in a manner suitable to her rank and his prospects. But nevertheless +there was a difficulty. The _Tatler_ had recently favoured its readers +with dissertations upon social ethics not altogether dissimilar to those +with which the _Saturday Review_ frequently instructs its readers. One +of these dissertations contained an elaborate exposure of the folly of +settling your estate upon your unborn children. The arguments were of +a sort very easily imaginable. ‘Why,’ it was said, ‘should you give +away that which you have to a person whom you do not know; whom you may +never see; whom you may not like when you do see; who may be undutiful, +unpleasant, or idiotic? Why, too, should each generation surrender its +due control over the next? When the family estate is settled, men of the +world know that the father’s control is gone, for disinterested filial +affection is an unfrequent though doubtless possible virtue; but so long +as _property_ is in suspense, all expectants will be attentive to those +who have it in their power to give or not to give it.’ These arguments +had converted Mr. Wortley, who is said even to have contributed notes +for the article, and they seem to have converted Lady Mary also. She +was to have her money, and the most plain-spoken young ladies do not +commonly care to argue much about the future provision for their possible +children; the subject is always delicate and a little frightful, and on +the whole, must be left to themselves. But Lord Dorchester, her father, +felt it his duty to be firm. It is an old saying, that ‘you never know +where a man’s conscience may turn up,’ and the advent of ethical feeling +was in this case even unusually beyond calculation. Lord Dorchester had +never been an anxious father, and was not now going to be a liberal +father. He had never cared much about Lady Mary, except in so far as he +could himself gain _éclat_ by exhibiting her youthful beauty, and he +was not now at her marriage about to do at all more than was necessary +and decent in his station. It was not therefore apparently probable +that he would be irritatingly obstinate respecting the income of his +daughter’s children. He was so, however. He deemed it a duty to see +that ‘_his_ grandchild never should be a beggar,’ and, for what reason +does not so clearly appear, wished that his eldest male grandchild +should be immensely richer than all his other grandchildren. The old +feudal aristocrat, often in modern Europe so curiously disguised in the +indifferent exterior of a careless man of the world, was, as became him, +dictatorial and unalterable upon the duty of founding a family. Though +he did not care much for his daughter, he cared much for the position of +his daughter’s eldest son. He had probably stumbled on the fundamental +truth that ‘girls were girls, and boys were boys,’ and was disinclined +to disregard the rule of primogeniture by which he had obtained his +marquisate, and from which he expected a dukedom. + +Mr. Wortley, however, was through life a man, if eminent in nothing else, +eminent at least in obstinacy. He would not give up the doctrine of the +_Tatler_ even to obtain Lady Mary. The match was accordingly abandoned, +and Lord Dorchester looked out for and found another gentleman whom he +proposed to make his son-in-law; for he believed, according to the old +morality, ‘that it was the duty of the parents to find a husband for a +daughter, and that when he was found, it was the daughter’s duty to marry +him.’ It was as wrong in her to attempt to choose as in him to neglect +to seek. Lady Mary was, however, by no means disposed to accept this +passive theory of female obligation. She _had_ sought and chosen; and +to her choice she intended to adhere. The conduct of Mr. Wortley would +have offended some ladies, but it rather augmented her admiration. She +had exactly that sort of irritable intellect which sets an undue value +on new theories of society and morality, and is pleased when others do +so too. She thought Mr. Wortley was quite right not to ‘defraud himself +for a possible infant,’ and admired his constancy and firmness. She +determined to risk a step, as she herself said, unjustifiable to her own +relatives, but which she nevertheless believed that she could justify to +herself. She decided on eloping with Mr. Wortley. + +Before, however, taking this audacious leap, she looked a little. Though +she did not object to the sacrifice of the customary inheritance of her +contingent son, she by no means approved of sacrificing the settlement +which Mr. Wortley had undertaken at a prior period of the negotiation to +make upon herself. And, according to common sense, she was undoubtedly +judicious. She was going from her father, and foregoing the money which +he had promised her; and therefore it was not reasonable that, by going +_to_ her lover, she should forfeit also the money which _he_ had promised +her. And there is nothing offensive in her mode of expression. ‘’Tis +something odd for a woman that brings nothing to expect anything; but +after the way of my education, I dare not pretend to live but in some +degree suitable to it. I had rather die than return to a dependency upon +relations I have disobliged. Save me from that fear, if you love me. If +you cannot, or think I ought not to expect it, be sincere and tell me so. +’Tis better I should not be yours at all, than, for a short happiness, +involve myself in ages of misery. I hope there will never be occasion +for this precaution; but, however, ’tis necessary to make it.’ But true +and rational as all this seems, perhaps it is still truer and still more +rational to say, that if a woman has not sufficient confidence in her +lover to elope with him without a previous promise of a good settlement, +she had better not elope with him at all. After all, if he declines to +make the stipulated settlement, the lady will have either to return to +her friends or to marry without it, and she would have the full choice +between these satisfactory alternatives, even if she asked no previous +promise from her lover. At any rate, the intrusion of coarse money among +the refined materials of romance is, in this case, even more curious and +remarkable than usual. + +After some unsuccessful attempts, Lady Mary and Mr. Wortley did elope +and did marry, and, after a certain interval, of course, Lord Dorchester +received them, notwithstanding their contempt of his authority, into +some sort of favour and countenance. They had probably saved him money +by their irregularity, and economical frailties are rarely judged +severely by men of fashion who are benefited by them. Lady Mary, however, +was long a little mistrusted by her own relations, and never seems to +have acquired much family influence; but her marriage was not her only +peculiarity, or the only one which impartial relations might dislike. + +The pair appear to have been for a little while tolerably happy. Lady +Mary was excitable, and wanted letters when absent, and attention when +present: Mr. Wortley was heavy and slow; could not write letters when +away, and seemed torpid in her society when at home. Still, these are +common troubles. Common, too, is the matrimonial correspondence upon +baby’s deficiency in health, and on Mrs. Behn’s opinion that ‘the cold +bath is the best medicine for weak children.’ It seems an odd end to +a deferential perusal of Latin authors in girlhood, and to a spirited +elopement with the preceptor in after years; but the transition is only +part of the usual irony of human life. + +The world, both social and political, into which Lady Mary was introduced +by her marriage was singularly calculated to awaken the faculties, to +stimulate the intellect, to sharpen the wit, and to harden the heart of +an intelligent, witty, and hard-headed woman. The world of London—even +the higher world—is now too large to be easily seen, or to be pithily +described. The elements are so many, their position is so confused, the +display of their mutual counteraction is so involved, that many years +must pass away before even a very clever woman can thoroughly comprehend +it all. She will cease to be young and handsome long ere she does +comprehend it. And when she at last understands it, it does not seem a +fit subject for concise and summary wit. Its evident complexity refuses +to be condensed into pithy sayings and brilliant _bons-mots_. It has +fallen into the hands of philosophers, with less brains perhaps than the +satirists of our fathers, but with more anxiety to tell the whole truth, +more toleration for the many-sidedness of the world, with less of sharp +conciseness, but, perhaps, with more of useful completeness. As are the +books, so are the readers. People do not wish to read satire nowadays. +The epigrams even of Pope would fall dull and dead upon this serious and +investigating time. The folly of the last age affected levity; the folly +of this, as we all know, encases itself in ponderous volumes which defy +refutation, in elaborate arguments which prove nothing, in theories which +confuse the uninstructed, and which irritate the well-informed. The folly +of a hundred years since was at least the folly of Vivien, but ours is +the folly of Merlin: + + ‘_You_ read the book, my pretty Vivien, + And none can read the text, not even I, + And none can read the comments but myself— + Oh, the results are simple!’ + +Perhaps people did not know then as much as they know now: indisputably +they knew nothing like so much in a superficial way _about_ so many +things; but they knew far more correctly where their knowledge began and +where it stopped; what they thought and why they thought it: they had +readier illustrations and more summary phrases; they could say at once +what it _came to_, and to what action it should lead. + +The London of the eighteenth century was an aristocratic world, which +lived to itself, which displayed the virtues and developed the vices of +an aristocracy which was under little fear of external control or check; +which had emancipated itself from the control of the crown; which had +not fallen under the control of the _bourgeoisie_; which saw its own +life, and saw that, according to its own maxims, it was good. Public +opinion now rules, and it is an opinion which constrains the conduct, +and narrows the experience, and dwarfs the violence, and minimises the +frankness of the highest classes, while it diminishes their vices, +supports their conscience, and precludes their grossness. There was +nothing like this in the last century, especially in the early part of +it. The aristocracy came to town from their remote estates,—where they +were uncontrolled by any opinion or by any equal society, and where the +eccentricities and personalities of each character were fostered and +exaggerated,—to a London which was like a large county town, in which +everybody of rank knew everybody of rank, where the eccentricities +of each rural potentate came into picturesque collision with the +eccentricities of other rural potentates, where the most minute allusions +to the peculiarities and the career of the principal persons were +instantly understood, where squibs were on every table, and where satire +was in the air. No finer field of social observation could be found for +an intelligent and witty woman. Lady Mary understood it at once. + +Nor was the political life of the last century so unfavourable to the +influence and so opposed to the characteristic comprehension of women +as our present life. We are now ruled by political discussion and by +a popular assembly, by leading articles, and by the House of Commons. +But women can scarcely ever compose leaders, and no woman sits in our +representative chamber. The whole tide of abstract discussion, which +fills our mouths and deafens our ears, the whole complex accumulation +of facts and figures to which we refer every thing, and which we apply +to every thing, is quite unfemale. A lady has an insight into what she +sees; but how will this help her with the case of the _Trent_, with +the proper structure of a representative chamber, with Indian finance +or parliamentary reform? Women are clever, but cleverness of itself +is nothing at present. A sharp Irish writer described himself ‘as +bothered intirely by the want of preliminary information;’ women are +in the same difficulty now. Their nature may hereafter change, as some +sanguine advocates suggest. But the visible species certainly have not +the intellectual providence to acquire the vast stores of dry information +which alone can enable them to judge adequately of our present +controversies. We are ruled by a machinery of oratory and discussion, +in which women have no share, and which they hardly comprehend: we are +engaged on subjects which need an arduous learning, to which they have no +pretensions. + +In the last century much of this was very different. The Court still +counted for much in English politics. The House of Commons was the +strongest power in the State machine, but it was not so immeasurably the +strongest power as now. It was absolutely supreme within its sphere, +but that sphere was limited. It could absolutely control the money, and +thereby the policy of the State. Whether there should be peace or war, +excise or no excise, it could and did despotically determine. It was +supreme in its choice of _measures_. But, on the other hand, it had only +a secondary influence in the choice of _persons_. Who the Prime Minister +was to be, was a question not only theoretically determinable, but in +fact determined by the Sovereign. The House of Commons could despotically +impose two conditions: first, that the Prime Minister should be a man +of sufficient natural ability, and sufficient parliamentary experience, +to conduct the business of his day; secondly, that he should adopt the +policy which the nation wished. But, subject to a conformity with these +prerequisites, the selection of the king was nearly uncontrolled. Sir +Robert Walpole was the greatest master of parliamentary tactics and +political business in his generation; he was a statesman of wide views +and consummate dexterity; but these intellectual gifts, even joined to +immense parliamentary experience, were not alone sufficient to make him +and to keep him Prime Minister of England. He also maintained, during +two reigns, a complete system of court-strategy. During the reign of +George II. he kept a _queen-watcher_. Lord Hervey, one of the cleverest +men in England, the keenest observer, perhaps, in England, was induced, +by very dexterous management, to remain at court during many years—to +observe the queen, to hint to the queen, to remove wrong impressions +from the queen, to confirm the Walpolese predilections of the queen, to +report every incident to Sir Robert. The records of politics tell us few +stranger tales than that it should have been necessary for the Sir Robert +Peel of the age to hire a subordinate as safe as Eldon, and as witty as +Canning, for the sole purpose of managing a clever German woman, to whom +the selection of a Prime Minister was practically intrusted. Nor was this +the only court-campaign which Sir Robert had to conduct, or in which he +was successful. Lady Mary, who hated him much, has satirically described +the foundation upon which his court favour rested during the reign of +George I.:— + + ‘The new Court with all their train was arrived before I left + the country. The Duke of Marlborough was returned in a sort of + triumph, with the apparent merit of having suffered for his + fidelity to the succession, and was reinstated in his office of + general, &c. In short, all people who had suffered any hardship + or disgrace during the late ministry would have it believed + that it was occasioned by their attachment to the House of + Hanover. Even Mr. Walpole, who had been sent to the Tower for + a piece of bribery proved upon him, was called a confessor to + the cause. But he had another piece of good luck that yet more + contributed to his advancement; he had a very handsome sister, + whose folly had lost her reputation in London; but the yet + greater folly of Lord Townshend, who happened to be a neighbour + in Norfolk to Mr. Walpole, had occasioned his being drawn in to + marry her some months before the queen died. + + ‘Lord Townshend had that sort of understanding which commonly + makes men honest in the first part of their lives; they follow + the instructions of their tutor, and, till somebody thinks it + worth their while to show them a new path, go regularly on in + the road where they are set. Lord Townshend had then been many + years an excellent husband to a sober wife, a kind master + to all his servants and dependents, a serviceable relation + wherever it was in his power, and followed the instinct of + nature in being fond of his children. Such a sort of behaviour + without any glaring absurdity, either in prodigality or + avarice, always gains a man the reputation of reasonable and + honest; and this was his character when the Earl of Godolphin + sent him envoy to the States, not doubting but he would be + faithful to his orders, without giving himself the trouble of + criticising on them, which is what all ministers wish in an + envoy. Robotun, a French refugee (secretary to Bernstoff, one + of the Elector of Hanover’s ministers), happened then to be at + the Hague, and was civilly received at Lord Townshend’s, who + treated him at his table with the English hospitality, and he + was charmed with a reception which his birth and education did + not entitle him to. Lord Townshend was recalled when the queen + changed her ministry; his wife died, and he retired into the + country, where (as I have said before) Walpole had art enough + to make him marry his sister Dolly. At that time, I believe, he + did not propose much more advantage by the match than to get + rid of a girl that lay heavy on his hands. + + ‘When King George ascended the throne, he was surrounded by + all his German ministers and playfellows, male and female. + Baron Goritz was the most considerable among them both for + birth and fortune. He had managed the king’s treasury thirty + years with the utmost fidelity and economy; and had the true + German honesty, being a plain, sincere, and unambitious man. + Bernstoff, the secretary, was of a different turn. He was + avaricious, artful, and designing; and had got his share in the + king’s councils by bribing his women. Robotun was employed in + these matters, and had the sanguine ambition of a Frenchman. He + resolved there should be an English ministry of his choosing; + and, knowing none of them personally but Townshend, he had + not failed to recommend him to his master, and his master + to the king, as the only proper person for the important + post of Secretary of State; and he entered upon that office + with universal applause, having at that time a very popular + character, which he might possibly have retained for ever if he + had not been entirely governed by his wife and her brother R. + Walpole, whom he immediately advanced to be paymaster, esteemed + a post of exceeding profit, and very necessary for his indebted + estate.’ + +And it is indisputable that Lord Townshend, who thought he was a very +great statesman, and who began as the patron of Sir Robert Walpole, +nevertheless was only his Court-agent—the manager on his behalf of the +king and of the king’s mistresses. + +We need not point out at length, for the passage we have cited of itself +indicates how well suited this sort of politics is to the comprehension +and to the pen of a keen-sighted and witty woman. + +Nor was the Court the principal improver of the London society of the +age. The House of Commons was then a part of society. This separate, +isolated, aristocratic world, of which we have spoken, had an almost +undisputed command of both Houses in the Legislature. The letter of the +constitution did not give it them, and no law appointed that it should +be so. But the aristocratic class were by far the most educated, by +far the most respected, by far the most _eligible_ part of the nation. +Even in the boroughs, where there was universal suffrage, or something +near it, they were the favourites. Accordingly, they gave the tone to +the House of Commons; they required the small community of members who +did not belong to their order to conform as far as they could to their +usages, and to guide themselves by their code of morality and of taste. +In the main the House of Commons obeyed these injunctions, and it was +repaid by being incorporated within the aristocratic world: it became +not only the council of the nation, but the debating-club of fashion. +That which was ‘received’ modified the recipient. The remains of the +aristocratic society, wherever we find them, are penetrated not only +with an aristocratic but with a political spirit. They breathe a sort +of atmosphere of politics. In the London of the present day, the vast +miscellaneous _bourgeois_ London, we all know that this is not so. ‘In +the country,’ said a splenetic observer, ‘people talk politics; at London +dinners you talk nothing; between two pillars of crinoline you eat and +are resigned.’ A hundred and fifty years ago, as far as our rather ample +materials inform us, people in London talked politics just as they now +talk politics in Worcestershire; and being on the spot, and cooped up +with politicians in a small social world, their talk was commonly better. +They knew the people of whom they spoke, even if they did not know the +subjects with which they were concerned. + +No element is better fitted to counteract the characteristic evil of an +aristocratic society. The defect of such societies in all times has been +frivolity. All talk has tended to become gossip; it has ceased to deal +with important subjects, and has devoted itself entirely to unimportant +incidents. Whether the Duc de —— has more or less prevailed with the +Marquise de —— is a sort of common form into which any details may be +fitted, and any names inserted. The frivolities of gallantry—never very +important save to some woman who has long been dead—fill the records +of all aristocracies who lived under a despotism, who had no political +authority, no daily political cares. The aristocracy of England in the +last century was, at any rate, exempt from _this_ reproach. There is +in the records of it not only an intellectuality, which would prove +little,—for every clever describer, by the subtleties of his language +and the arrangement of his composition, gives a sort of intellectuality +even to matters which have no pretension to it themselves,—but likewise +a pervading medium of political discussion. The very language in which +they are written is the language of political business. Horace Walpole +was certainly by nature no politician and no orator; yet no discerning +critic can read a page of his voluminous remains without feeling that +the writer has through life lived with politicians and talked with +politicians. A keen observant mind, not naturally political, but capable +of comprehending and viewing any subject which was brought before it, has +chanced to have this particular subject—politics—presented to it for a +lifetime; and all its delineations, all its efforts, all its thoughts, +reflect it, and are coloured by it. In all the records of the eighteenth +century the tonic of business is seen to combat the relaxing effect of +habitual luxury. + +This element, too, is favourable to a clever woman. The more you can +put before such a person the greater she will be; the less her world, +the less she is. If you place the most keen-sighted lady in the midst +of the pure futilities and unmitigated flirtations of an aristocracy, +she will sink to the level of those elements, and will scarcely seem to +wish for anything more, or to be competent for anything higher. But if +she is placed in an intellectual atmosphere, in which political or other +important subjects are currently passing, you will probably find that +she can talk better upon them than you can, without your being able to +explain whence she derived either her information or her talent. + +The subjects, too, which were discussed in the political society of the +last age were not so inscrutable to women as our present subjects; and +even when there were great difficulties they were more on a level with +men in the discussion of them than they now are. It was no disgrace to +be destitute of preliminary information at a time in which there were +no accumulated stores from which such information could be derived. A +lightening element of female influence is therefore to be found through +much of the politics of the eighteenth century. + +Lady Mary entered easily into all this world, both social and political. +She had beauty for the fashionable, satire for the witty, knowledge for +the learned, and intelligence for the politician. She was not too refined +to shrink from what we now consider the coarseness of that time. Many +of her verses themselves are scarcely adapted for our decorous pages. +Perhaps the following give no unfair idea of her ordinary state of mind: + + ‘TOWN ECLOGUES. + + ‘ROXANA; OR, THE DRAWING-ROOM. + + ‘Roxana, from the Court retiring late, + Sigh’d her soft sorrows at St. James’s gate. + Such heavy thoughts lay brooding in her breast, + Not her own chairmen with more weight oppress’d; + They groan the cruel load they’re doom’d to bear; + She in these gentle sounds express’d her care. + “Was it for this that I these roses wear? + For this new-set the jewels for my hair? + Ah! Princess! with what zeal have I pursued! + Almost forgot the duty of a prude. + Thinking I never could attend too soon, + I’ve miss’d my prayers, to get me dress’d by noon. + For thee, ah! what for thee did I resign! + My pleasures, passions, all that e’er was mine. + I sacrific’d both modesty and ease, + Left operas and went to filthy plays; + Double-entendres shock my tender ear; + Yet even this for thee I choose to bear. + In glowing youth, when nature bids be gay, + And every joy of life before me lay, + By honour prompted, and by pride restrain’d, + The pleasures of the young my soul disdain’d: + Sermons I sought, and with a mien severe + Censur’d my neighbours, and said daily prayer. + “Alas! how chang’d—with the same sermon-mien + That once I pray’d, the _What d’ye call’t_ I’ve seen. + Ah! cruel Princess, for thy sake I’ve lost + That reputation which so dear had cost: + I, who avoided every public place, + When bloom and beauty bade me show my face, + Now near thee constant every night abide + With never-failing duty by thy side; + Myself and daughters standing on a row, + To all the foreigners a goodly show! + Oft had your drawing-room been sadly thin, + And merchants’ wives close by the chair been seen, + Had not I amply filled the empty space, + And saved your highness from the dire disgrace. + “Yet Coquetilla’s artifice prevails, + When all my merit and my duty fails; + That Coquetilla, whose deluding airs + Corrupt our virgins, still our youth ensnares; + So sunk her character, so lost her fame, + Scarce visited before your highness came: + Yet for the bed-chamber ’tis her you choose, + When zeal and fame and virtue you refuse. + Ah! worthy choice! not one of all your train + Whom censure blasts not, and dishonours stain! + Let the nice hind now suckle dirty pigs, + And the proud pea-hen hatch the cuckoo’s eggs! + Let Iris leave her paint and own her age, + And grave Suffolka wed a giddy page! + A greater miracle is daily view’d, + A virtuous Princess with a Court so lewd. + “I know thee, Court! with all thy treach’rous wiles, + Thy false caresses and undoing smiles! + Ah! Princess, learn’d in all the courtly arts, + To cheat our hopes, and yet to gain our hearts! + “Large lovely bribes are the great statesman’s aim; + And the neglected patriot follows fame. + The Prince is ogled; some the king pursue; + But your Roxana only follows you. + Despis’d Roxana, cease, and try to find + Some other, since the Princess proves unkind: + Perhaps it is not hard to find at Court, + If not a greater, a more firm support.”’ + +There was every kind of rumour as to Lady Mary’s own conduct, and we +have no means of saying whether any of these rumours were true. There +is no evidence against her which is worthy of the name. So far as can +be proved, she was simply a gay, witty, bold-spoken, handsome woman, +who made many enemies by unscrupulous speech, and many friends by +unscrupulous flirtation. We may believe, but we cannot prove, that +she found her husband tedious, and was dissatisfied that his slow, +methodical, _borné_ mind made so little progress in the political world, +and understood so little of what really passed there. Unquestionably +she must have much preferred talking to Lord Hervey to talking with Mr. +Montagu. But we must not credit the idle scandals of a hundred years +since, because they may have been true, or because they appear not +inconsistent with the characters of those to whom they relate. There were +legends against every attractive and fashionable woman in that age, +and most of the legends were doubtless exaggerations and inventions. We +cannot know the truth of such matters now, and it would hardly be worth +searching into if we could; but the important fact is certain, Lady Mary +lived in a world in which the worst rumours were greedily told, and often +believed, about her and others; and the moral refinement of a woman must +always be impaired by such a contact. + +Lady Mary was so unfortunate as to incur the partial dislike of one of +the great recorders of that age, and the bitter hostility of the other. +She was no favourite with Horace Walpole, and the bitter enemy of Pope. +The first is easily explicable. Horace Walpole never loved his father, +but recompensed himself by hating his father’s enemies. No one connected +with the opposition to Sir Robert is spared by his son, if there be a +fair opportunity for unfavourable insinuation. Mr. Wortley Montagu was +the very man for a grave mistake. He made the very worst that could be +made in that age. He joined the party of constitutional exiles on the +Opposition bench, who had no real objection to the policy of Sir Robert +Walpole; who, when they had a chance, adopted that policy themselves; +who were discontented because they had no power, and he had all the +power. Probably too, being a man eminently respectable, Mr. Montagu was +frightened at Sir Robert’s unscrupulous talk and not very scrupulous +actions. At any rate, he opposed Sir Robert; and thence many a little +observation of Horace Walpole’s against Lady Mary. + +Why Pope and Lady Mary quarrelled is a question on which much discussion +has been expended, and on which a judicious German professor might even +now compose an interesting and exhaustive monograph. A curt English +critic will be more apt to ask, ‘Why they should _not_ have quarrelled?’ +We know that Pope quarrelled with almost every one; we know that Lady +Mary quarrelled or half quarrelled with most of her acquaintances. Why, +then, should they not have quarrelled with one another? + +It is certain that they were very intimate at one time; for Pope wrote +to her some of the most pompous letters of compliment in the language. +And the more intimate they were to begin with, the more sure they were +to be enemies in the end. Human nature will not endure that sort of +proximity. An irritable, vain poet, who always fancies that people are +trying to hurt him, whom no argument could convince that every one is +not perpetually thinking about him, cannot long be friendly with a witty +woman of unscrupulous tongue, who spares no one, who could sacrifice +a good friend for a bad _bon-mot_, who thinks of the person whom she +is addressing, not of those about whom she is speaking. The natural +relation of the two is that of victim and torturer, and no other will +long continue. There appear also to have been some money matters (of +all things in the world) between the two. Lady Mary was intrusted by +Pope with some money to use in speculation during the highly fashionable +panic which derives its name from the South-Sea Bubble,—and as of course +it was lost, Pope was very angry. Another story goes, that Pope made +serious love to Lady Mary, and that she laughed at him; upon which a +very personal, and not always very correct, controversy has arisen as to +the probability or improbability of Pope’s exciting a lady’s feelings. +Lord Byron took part in it with his usual acuteness and incisiveness, +and did not leave the discussion more decent than he found it. Pope +doubtless was deformed, and had not the large red health that uncivilised +women admire; yet a clever lady might have taken a fancy to him, for the +little creature knew what he was saying. There is, however, no evidence +that Lady Mary did so. We only know that there was a sudden coolness or +quarrel between them, and that it was the beginning of a long and bitter +hatred. + +In their own times Pope’s sensitive disposition probably gave Lady +Mary a great advantage. Her tongue perhaps gave him more pain than his +pen gave her. But in later times she has fared the worse. What between +Pope’s sarcasms and Horace Walpole’s anecdotes, Lady Mary’s reputation +has suffered very considerably. As we have said, her offences are _non +proven_; there is no evidence to convict her; but she is likely to be +condemned upon the general doctrine that a person who is accused of much +is probably guilty of something. + +During many years Lady Mary continued to live a distinguished fashionable +and social life, with a single remarkable break. This interval was her +journey to Constantinople. The powers that then were, thought fit to send +Mr. Wortley as ambassador to Constantinople, and his wife accompanied +him. During that visit she kept a journal, and wrote sundry real letters, +out of which, after her return, she composed a series of unreal letters +as to all she saw and did in Turkey, and on the journey there and back, +which were published, and which are still amusing, if not always select, +reading. The Sultan was not then the ‘dying man’; he was the ‘Grand +Turk.’ He was not simply a potentate to be counted with, but a power to +be feared. The appearance of a Turkish army on the Danube had in that +age much the same effect as the appearance of a Russian army now. It +was an object of terror and dread. A mission at Constantinople was not +then a _bureau_ for interference in Turkey, but a serious office for +transacting business with a great European power. A European ambassador +at Constantinople now presses on the Government there impracticable +reforms; he then asked for useful aid. Lady Mary was evidently impressed +by the power of the country in which she sojourned; and we observe in +her letters evident traces of the notion that the Turk was the dread of +Christendom,—which is singular now, when the Turk is its _protégé_. + +Lady Mary had another advantage too. Many sorts of books make steady +progress; a scientific treatise published now is sure to be fuller and +better than one on the same subject written long ago. But with books of +travel in a stationary country the presumption is the contrary. In that +case the old book is probably the better book. The first traveller writes +out a plain, straightforward description of the most striking objects +with which he meets; he believes that his readers know nothing of the +country of which he is writing, for till he visited it he probably knew +nothing himself; and, if he is sensible, he describes simply and clearly +all which most impresses him. He has no motive for not dwelling upon the +principal things, and most likely will do so, as they are probably the +most conspicuous. The second traveller is not so fortunate. He is always +in terror of the traveller who went before. He fears the criticism,—‘this +is all very well, _but_ we knew the whole of it before. No. 1 said +that at page 103.’ In consequence he is timid. He picks and skips. He +fancies that you are acquainted with all which is great and important, +and he dwells, for your good and to your pain, upon that which is small +and unimportant. For ordinary readers no result can be more fatal. +They perhaps never read,—they certainly do not remember anything upon +the subject. The curious _minutiæ_ so elaborately set forth, are quite +useless, for they have not the general framework in which to store them. +Not knowing much of the first traveller’s work, that of the second is a +supplement to a treatise with which they are unacquainted. In consequence +they do not read it. Lady Mary made good use of her position in the front +of the herd of tourists. She told us what she saw in Turkey,—all the best +of what she saw, and all the most remarkable things,—and told it very +well. + +Nor was this work the only fruit of her Turkish travels; she brought home +the notion of inoculation. Like most improvers, she was roughly spoken +to. Medical men were angry because the practice was not in their books, +and conservative men were cross at the agony of a new idea. Religious +people considered it wicked to have a disease which Providence did not +think fit to send you; and simple people ‘did not like to make themselves +ill of their own accord.’ She triumphed, however, over all obstacles; +inoculation, being really found to lengthen life and save complexions, +before long became general. + +One of the first patients upon whom Lady Mary tried the novelty was her +own son, and many considerate people thought it ‘worthy of observation’ +that he turned out a scamp. When he ran away from school, the mark of +inoculation, then rare, was used to describe him, and after he was +recovered, he never did anything which was good. His case seems to have +been the common one in which nature (as we speak) requites herself for +the strongheadedness of several generations by the weakness of one. +His father’s and his mother’s family had been rather able for some +generations; the latter remarkably so. But this boy had always a sort of +practical imbecility. He was not stupid, but he never did anything right. +He exemplified another curious trait of nature’s practice. Mr. Montagu +was obstinate, though sensible; Lady Mary was flighty, though clever. +Nature combined the defects. Young Edward Montagu was both obstinate and +flighty. The only pleasure he can ever have given his parents was the +pleasure of _feeling_ their own wisdom. He showed that they were right +before marriage in not settling the paternal property upon him, for he +ran through every shilling he possessed. He was not sensible enough to +keep his property, and just not fool enough for the law to take it from +him. + +After her return from Constantinople, Lady Mary continued to lead the +same half-gay and half-literary life as before; but at last she did +not like it. Various ingenious inquirers into antiquated minutiæ have +endeavoured, without success, to discover reasons of detail which might +explain her dissatisfaction. They have suggested that some irregular +love-affair was unprosperous, and hinted that she and her husband were +not on good terms. The love-affair, however, when looked for, cannot +be found; and though she and her husband would appear to have been but +distantly related, they never had any great quarrel which we know of. +Neither seems to have been fitted to give the other much pleasure, and +each had the fault of which the other was most impatient. Before marriage +Lady Mary had charmed Mr. Montagu, but she had also frightened him; +after marriage she frightened, but did not charm him. He was formal and +composed; she was flighty and _outrée_. ‘What _will_ she do next?’ was +doubtless the poor man’s daily feeling; and ‘Will he ever do anything?’ +was probably also hers. Torpid business, which is always going on, but +which never seems to come to anything, is simply aggravating to a clever +woman. Even the least impatient lady can hardly endure a perpetual +process for which there is little visible and nothing theatrical to +show; and Lady Mary was by no means the least impatient. But there was +no abrupt quarrel between the two; and a husband and wife who have lived +together more than twenty years can generally manage to continue to +live together during a second twenty years. These reasons of detail are +scarcely the reasons for Lady Mary’s wishing to break away from the life +to which she had so long been used. Yet there was clearly some reason, +for Lady Mary went abroad, and stayed there during many years. + +We believe that the cause was not special and peculiar to the case, but +general, and due to the invariable principles of human nature, at all +times and everywhere. If historical experience proves anything, it proves +that the earth is not adapted for a life of mere intellectual pleasure. +The life of a brute on earth, though bad, is possible. It is not even +difficult to many persons to destroy the higher part of their nature by a +continual excess in sensual pleasure. It is even more easy and possible +to dull all the soul and most of the mind by a vapid accumulation of +torpid comfort. Many of the middle classes spend their whole lives in a +constant series of petty pleasures, and an undeviating pursuit of small +material objects. The gross pursuit of pleasure, and the tiresome pursuit +of petty comfort, are quite suitable to such ‘a being as man in such +a world as the present one.’ What is not possible is, to combine the +pursuit of pleasure and the enjoyment of comfort with the characteristic +pleasures of a strong mind. If you wish for luxury, you must not nourish +the inquisitive instinct. The great problems of human life are in the +air; they are without us in the life we see, within us in the life we +feel. A quick intellect feels them in a moment. It says, ‘Why am I here? +What is pleasure, that I desire it? What is comfort, that I seek it? What +are carpets and tables? What is the lust of the eye? What is the pride +of life, that they should satisfy _me_? I was not made for such things. +I hate them, because I have liked them; I loathe them, because it seems +that there is nothing else for me.’ An impatient woman’s intellect comes +to this point in a moment; it says, ‘Society is good, but I have seen +society. What is the use of talking, or hearing _bon-mots_? I have done +both till I am tired of doing either. I have laughed till I have no wish +to laugh again, and made others laugh till I have hated them for being +such fools. As for instruction, I have seen the men of genius of my +time; and they tell me nothing,—nothing of what I want to know. They are +choked with intellectual frivolities. They cannot say “whence I came, and +whither I go.” What do they know of themselves? It is not from literary +people that we can learn anything; more likely, they will copy, or try to +copy, the manners of lords, and make ugly love, in bad imitation of those +who despise them.’ Lady Mary felt this, as we believe. She had seen all +the world of England, and it did not _satisfy_. She turned abroad, not in +pursuit of definite good, nor from fear of particular evil, but from a +vague wish for some great change—from a wish to escape from a life which +harassed the soul, but did not calm it; which awakened the intellect +without answering its questions. + +She lived abroad for more than twenty years, at Avignon and Venice +and elsewhere; and, during that absence, she wrote the letters which +compose the greater part of her works. And there is no denying that they +are good letters. The art of note-writing may become classical—it is +for the present age to provide models of that sort of composition—but +letters have perished. Nobody but a bore now takes pains enough to make +them pleasant; and the only result of a bore’s pains is to make them +unpleasant. The correspondence of the present day is a continual labour +without any visible achievement. The dying penny-a-liner said with +emphasis, ‘That which I have written has perished.’ We might all say so +of the mass of petty letters we write. They are a heap of small atoms, +each with some interest individually, but with no interest as a whole; +all the items concern us, but they all add up to nothing. In the last +century, cultivated people who sat down to write a letter took pains to +have something to say, and took pains to say it. The postage was perhaps +ninepence; and it would be impudent to make a correspondent pay ninepence +for nothing. Still more impudent was it, _after_ having made him pay +ninepence, to give him the additional pain of making out what was half +expressed. People, too, wrote to one another then, not unfrequently, +who had long been separated, and who required much explanation and +many details to make the life of each intelligible to the other. The +correspondence of the nineteenth century is like a series of telegrams +with amplified headings. There is not more than one idea; and that idea +comes soon, and is soon over. The best correspondence of the last age +is rather like a good light article,—in which the points are studiously +made,—in which the effort to make them is studiously concealed,—in which +a series of selected circumstances is set forth,—in which you feel, but +are not told, that the principle of the writer’s selection was to make +his composition pleasant. + +In letter-writing of this kind Lady Mary was very skilful. She has the +highest merit of letter-writing—she is concise without being affected. +Fluency, which a great orator pronounced to be the curse of orators, is +at least equally the curse of writers. There are many people, many ladies +especially, who can write letters at any length, in any number, and at +any time. We may be quite sure that the letters so written are not good +letters. Composition of any sort implies consideration; you must see +where you are going before you can go straight, or can pick your steps +as you go. On the other hand, too much consideration is unfavourable +to the ease of letter-writing, and perhaps of all writing. A letter +too much studied wants flow; it is a museum of hoarded sentences. Each +sentence sounds effective; but the whole composition wants vitality. It +was written with the memory instead of the mind; and every reader feels +the effect, though only the critical reader can detect the cause. Lady +Mary understood all this. She said what she had to say in words that were +always graphic and always sufficiently good, but she avoided curious +felicity. Her expressions seem choice, but not chosen. + +At the end of her life Lady Mary pointed a subordinate but not a useless +moral. The masters of mundane ethics observe that ‘you should stay in +the world, or stay out of the world.’ Lady Mary did neither. She went +out and tried to return. Horace Walpole thus describes the result: ‘Lady +Mary Wortley is arrived; I have seen her; I think her avarice, her +art, and her vivacity are all increased. Her dress, like her language, +is a _galimatias_ of several countries; the groundwork rags, and the +embroidery nastiness. She needs no cap, no handkerchief, no gown, no +petticoat, and no shoes. An old black laced hood represents the first; +the fur of a horseman’s coat, which replaces the third, serves for the +second; a dimity petticoat is deputy and officiates for the fourth; +and slippers act the part of the last. When I was at Florence, and she +was expected there, we were drawing _sortes Virgilianas_ for her; we +literally drew + + “Insanam vatem aspicies.” + +It would have been a stranger prophecy now even than it was then.’ There +is a description of what the favourite of society becomes after leaving +it for years, and after indulging eccentricities for years! There is a +commentary on the blunder of exposing yourself in your old age to young +people, to whom you have always been a tradition and a name! Horace +Walpole doubtless painted up a few trivialities a little. But one of the +traits is true. Lady Mary lived before the age in which people waste half +their lives in washing the whole of their persons. + +Lady Mary did not live long after her return to England. Horace Walpole’s +letter is written on the 2nd February 1762, and she died on the 21st +August in the same year. Her husband had died just before her return, and +perhaps, after so many years, she would not have returned unless he had +done so. _Requiescat in pace_; for she quarrelled all her life. + + + + +_WILLIAM COWPER._[31] + +(1855.) + + +For the English, after all, the best literature is the English. We +understand the language; the manners are familiar to us; the scene at +home: the associations our own. Of course, a man who has not read Homer +is like a man who has not seen the ocean. There is a great object of +which he has no idea. But we cannot be always seeing the ocean. Its face +is always large; its smile is bright; the ever-sounding shore sounds on. +Yet we have no property in them. We stop and gaze; we pause and draw +our breath; we look and wonder at the grandeur of the other world; but +we live on shore. We fancy associations of unknown things and distant +climes, of strange men and strange manners. But we are ourselves. +Foreigners do not behave as we should, nor do the Greeks. What a strength +of imagination, what a long practice, what a facility in the details +of fancy is required to picture their past and unknown world! They are +deceased. They are said to be immortal, because they have written a good +epitaph; but they are gone. Their life and their manners have passed +away. We read with interest in the catalogue of the ships— + + ‘The men of Argos and Tyrintha next, + And of Hermione, that stands retired + With Asine, within her spacious bay; + Of Epidaurus, crowned with purple vines, + And of Træzena, with the Achaian youth + Of sea-begirt Ægina, and with thine + Maseta, and the dwellers on thy coast, + Waveworn Eïonæ; ... + And from Caristus and from Styra came + Their warlike multitudes, in front of whom + Elphenor marched, Calchodon’s mighty son. + With foreheads shorn and wavy locks behind, + They followed, and alike were eager all + To split the hauberk with the shortened spear.’ + +But they are dead. ‘“So am not I,” said the foolish fat scullion.’ We +are the English of the present day. We have cows and calves, corn and +cotton; we hate the Russians; we know where the Crimea is; we believe in +Manchester the great. A large expanse is around us; a fertile land of +corn and orchards, and pleasant hedgerows, and rising trees, and noble +prospects, and large black woods, and old church towers. The din of +great cities comes mellowed from afar. The green fields, the half-hidden +hamlets, the gentle leaves, soothe us with ‘a sweet inland murmur.’ We +have before us a vast seat of interest, and toil, and beauty, and power, +and this our own. Here is our home. The use of foreign literature is +like the use of foreign travel. It imprints in early and susceptible +years a deep impression of great, and strange, and noble objects; but we +cannot live with these. They do not resemble our familiar life; they do +not bind themselves to our intimate affection; they are picturesque and +striking, like strangers and wayfarers, but they are not of our home, +or homely; they cannot speak to our ‘business and bosoms’; they cannot +touch the hearth of the soul. It would be better to have no outlandish +literature in the mind than to have it the principal thing. We should +be like accomplished vagabonds without a country, like men with a +hundred acquaintances and no friends. We need an intellectual possession +analogous to our own life; which reflects, embodies, improves it; on +which we can repose; which will recur to us in the placid moments—which +will be a latent principle even in the acute crises of our life. Let us +be thankful if our researches in foreign literature enable us, as rightly +used they will enable us, better to comprehend our own. Let us venerate +what is old, and marvel at what is far. Let us read our own books. Let us +understand ourselves. + +With these principles, if such they may be called, in our minds, we +gladly devote these early pages of our journal[32] to the new edition +of Cowper, with which Mr. Bell has favoured us. There is no writer +more exclusively English. There is no one—or hardly one, perhaps—whose +excellences are more natural to our soil, and seem so little able to +bear transplantation. We do not remember to have seen his name in any +continental book. Professed histories of English literature, we dare say, +name him; but we cannot recall any such familiar and cursory mention as +would evince a real knowledge and hearty appreciation of his writings. + +The edition itself is a good one. The life of Cowper, which is +prefixed to it, though not striking, is sensible. The notes are clear, +explanatory, and, so far as we know, accurate. The special introductions +to each of the poems are short and judicious, and bring to the mind at +the proper moment the passages in Cowper’s letters most clearly relating +to the work in hand. The typography is not very elegant, but it is plain +and business-like. There is no affectation of cheap ornament. + +The little book which stands second on our list belongs to a class of +narratives written for a peculiar public, inculcating peculiar doctrines, +and adapted, at least in part, to a peculiar taste. We dissent from many +of these tenets, and believe that they derive no support, but rather the +contrary, from the life of Cowper. In previous publications, written for +the same persons, these opinions have been applied to that melancholy +story in a manner which it requires strong writing to describe. In this +little volume they are more rarely expressed, and when they are it is +with diffidence, tact, and judgment. + +Only a most pedantic critic would attempt to separate the criticism on +Cowper’s works from a narrative of his life. Indeed, such an attempt +would be scarcely intelligible. Cowper’s poems are almost as much +connected with his personal circumstances as his letters, and his +letters are as purely autobiographical as those of any man can be. If +all information concerning him had perished save what his poems contain, +the attention of critics would be diverted from the examination of their +interior characteristics to a conjectural dissertation on the personal +fortunes of the author. The Germans would have much to say. It would be +debated in Tübingen who were the Three Hares, why ‘The Sofa’ was written, +why John Gilpin was not called William. Halle would show with great +clearness that there was no reason why he _should_ be called William; +that it appeared by the bills of mortality that several other persons +born about the same period had also been called John; and the ablest of +all the professors would finish the subject with a monograph showing +that there was a special fitness in the name John, and that any one +with the æsthetic sense who (like the professor) had devoted many years +exclusively to the perusal of the poem, would be certain that any other +name would be quite ‘paralogistic, and in every manner impossible and +inappropriate.’ It would take a German to write upon the Hares. + +William Cowper, the poet, was born on November 26, 1731, at his father’s +parsonage, at Berkhampstead. Of his father, who was chaplain to the +king, we know nothing of importance. Of his mother, who had been named +Donne, and was a Norfolk lady, he has often made mention, and it appears +that he regarded the faint recollection which he retained of her—for she +died early—with peculiar tenderness. In later life, and when his sun was +going down in gloom and sorrow, he recurred eagerly to opportunities +of intimacy with her most distant relatives, and wished to keep alive +the idea of her in his mind. That idea was not of course very definite; +indeed, as described in his poems, it is rather the abstract idea of what +a mother should be, than anything else; but he was able to recognise her +picture, and there is a suggestion of cakes and sugar-plums, which gives +a life and vividness to the rest. Soon after her death he was sent to a +school kept by a man named Pitman, at which he always described himself +as having suffered exceedingly from the cruelty of one of the boys. He +could never see him, or think of him, he has told us, without trembling. +And there must have been some solid reason for this terror, since—even +in those days, when τύπτω meant ‘I strike,’ and ‘boy’ denoted a thing +to be beaten—this juvenile inflicter of secret stripes was actually +expelled. From Mr. Pitman, Cowper, on account of a weakness in the eyes, +which remained with him through life, was transferred to the care of an +oculist,—a dreadful fate even for the most cheerful boy, and certainly +not likely to cure one with any disposition to melancholy; hardly indeed +can the boldest mind, in its toughest hour of manly fortitude, endure to +be domesticated with an operation chair. Thence he went to Westminster, +of which he has left us discrepant notices, according to the feeling +for the time being uppermost in his mind. From several parts of the +‘Tirocinium,’ it would certainly seem that he regarded the whole system +of public school teaching not only with speculative disapproval, but with +the painful hatred of a painful experience. A thousand genial passages +in his private letters, however, really prove the contrary; and in a +changing mood of mind, the very poem which was expressly written to +‘recommend private tuition at home’ gives some idea of school happiness. + + ‘Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, + We love the play-place of our early days; + The scene is touching, and the heart is stone + That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. + The wall on which we tried our graving skill, + The very name we carved subsisting still, + The bench on which we sat while deep employed, + Though mangled, hacked, and hewed, not yet destroyed; + The little ones unbuttoned, glowing hot, + Playing our games, and on the very spot, + As happy as we once, to kneel and draw + The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw; + To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, + Or drive it devious with a dextrous pat; + The pleasing spectacle at once excites + Such recollections of our own delights, + That viewing it, we seem almost t’ obtain + Our innocent sweet simple years again. + This fond attachment to the well-known place, + Whence first we started into life’s long race, + Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, + We feel it e’en in age, and at our latest day.’ + +Probably we pursue an insoluble problem in seeking a suitable education +for a morbidly melancholy mind. At first it seems a dreadful thing to +place a gentle and sensitive nature in contact, in familiarity, and +even under the rule of coarse and strong buoyant natures. Nor should +this be in general attempted. The certain result is present suffering, +and the expected good is remote and disputable. Nevertheless, it is no +artificial difficulty which we here encounter—none which we can hope by +educational contrivances to meet or vanquish. The difficulty is in truth +the existence of the world. It is the fact, that by the constitution of +society the bold, the vigorous, and the buoyant, rise and rule; and that +the weak, the shrinking, and the timid, fall and serve. In after-life, +in the actual commerce of men, even too in those quiet and tranquil +pursuits in which a still and gentle mind should seem to be under the +least disadvantage, in philosophy and speculation, the strong and active, +who have confidence in themselves and their ideas, acquire and keep +dominion. It is idle to expect that this will not give great pain—that +the shrinking and timid, who are often just as ambitious as others, +will not repine—that the rough and strong will not often consciously +inflict grievous oppression—will not still more often, without knowing +it, cause to more tremulous minds a refined suffering which their coarser +texture could never experience, which it does not sympathise with, nor +comprehend. Some time in life—it is but a question of a very few years +at most—this trial must be undergone. There may be a short time, more or +less, of gentle protection and affectionate care, but the leveret grows +old—the world waits at the gate—the hounds are ready, and the huntsman +too, and there is need of strength, and pluck, and speed. Cowper indeed, +himself, as we have remarked, does not, on an attentive examination, seem +to have suffered exceedingly. In subsequent years, when a dark cloud +had passed over him, he was apt at times to exaggerate isolated days of +melancholy and pain, and fancy that the dislike which he entertained +for the system of schools, by way of speculative principle, was in fact +the result of a personal and suffering experience. But, as we shall +have (though we shall not, in fact, perhaps use them all) a thousand +occasions to observe, he had, side by side with a morbid and melancholy +humour, an easy nature, which was easily satisfied with the world as he +found it, was pleased with the gaiety of others, and liked the sight +of, and sympathy with, the more active enjoyments which he did not care +to engage in or to share. Besides, there is every evidence that cricket +and marbles (though he sometimes in his narratives suppresses the fact, +in condescension to those of his associates who believed them to be the +idols of wood and stone which are spoken of in the prophets) really +exercised a laudable and healthy supremacy over his mind. The animation +of the scene—the gay alertness which Gray looked back on so fondly in +long years of soothing and delicate musing, exerted, as the passage which +we cited shows, a great influence over a genius superior to Gray’s in +facility and freedom, though inferior in the ‘little footsteps’ of the +finest fancy,—in the rare and carefully-hoarded felicities, unequalled +save in the immeasurable abundance of the greatest writers. Of course +Cowper was unhappy at school, as he was unhappy always; and of course too +we are speaking of Westminster only. For Dr. Pitman and the oculist there +is nothing to say. + +In scholarship Cowper seems to have succeeded. He was not, indeed, at +all the sort of man to attain to that bold, strong-brained, confident +scholarship which Bentley carried to such an extreme, and which, in +almost every generation since, some Englishman has been found of hard +head and stiff-clayed memory to keep up and perpetuate. His friend +Thurlow was the man for this pursuit, and the man to prolong the just +notion that those who attain early proficiency in it are likely men to +become Lord Chancellors. Cowper’s scholarship was simply the general and +delicate _impression_ which the early study of the classics invariably +leaves on a nice and susceptible mind. In point of information it was +strictly of a common nature. It is clear that his real knowledge was +mostly confined to the poets, especially the ordinary Latin poets +and Homer, and that he never bestowed any regular attention on the +historians, or orators, or philosophers of antiquity, either at school +or in after years. Nor indeed would such a course of study have in +reality been very beneficial to him. The strong, analytic, comprehensive, +reason-giving powers which are required in these dry and rational +pursuits were utterly foreign to his mind. All that was congenial to him, +he acquired in the easy intervals of apparent idleness. The friends whom +he made at Westminster, and who continued for many years to be attached +to him, preserved the probable tradition that he was a gentle and +gradual, rather than a forcible or rigorous learner. + +The last hundred years have doubtless seen a vast change in the common +education of the common boy. The small and pomivorous animal which we so +call is now subjected to a treatment very elaborate and careful,—that +contrasts much with the simple alternation of classics and cuffs which +was formerly so fashionable. But it may be doubted whether for a +peculiar mind such as Cowper’s, on the intellectual side at least, the +tolerant and corpuscular theory of the last century was not preferable +to the intolerant and never-resting moral influence that has succeeded +to it. Some minds learn most when they seem to learn least. A certain, +placid, unconscious, equable in-taking of knowledge suits them, and alone +suits them. To succeed in forcing such men to attain great learning is +simply impossible; for you cannot put the fawn into the ‘Land Transport.’ +The only resource is to allow them to acquire gently and casually in +their own way; and in that way they will often imbibe, as if by the mere +force of existence, much pleasant and well-fancied knowledge. + +From Westminster Cowper went at once into a solicitor’s office. Of the +next few years (he was then about eighteen) we do not know much. His +attention to legal pursuits was, according to his own account, not +very profound; yet it could not have been wholly contemptible, for his +evangelical friend, Mr. Newton, who, whatever may be the worth of his +religious theories, had certainly a sound, rough judgment on topics +terrestrial, used in after years to have no mean opinion of the value of +his legal counsel. In truth, though nothing could be more out of Cowper’s +way than abstract and recondite jurisprudence, an easy and sensible +mind like his would find a great deal which was very congenial to it in +the well-known and perfectly settled maxims which regulate and rule the +daily life of common men. No strain of capacity or stress of speculative +intellect is necessary for the apprehension of these. A fair and easy +mind, which is placed within their reach, will find it has learnt them, +without knowing when or how. + +After some years of legal instruction, Cowper chose to be called to the +bar, and took chambers in the Temple accordingly. He never, however, even +pretended to practise. He passed his time in literary society, in light +study, in tranquil negligence. He was intimate with Colman, Lloyd, and +other wits of those times. He wrote an essay in the _Connoisseur_, the +kind of composition then most fashionable, especially with such literary +gentlemen as were most careful not to be confounded with the professed +authors. In a word, he did ‘nothing,’ as that word is understood among +the vigorous, aspiring, and trenchant part of mankind. Nobody could seem +less likely to attain eminence. Every one must have agreed that there +was no harm in him, and few could have named any particular good which +it was likely that he would achieve. In after days he drew up a memoir +of his life, in which he speaks of those years with deep self-reproach. +It was not indeed the secular indolence of the time which excited his +disapproval. The course of life had not made him more desirous of worldly +honours, but less; and nothing could be further from his tone of feeling +than regret for not having strenuously striven to attain them. He spoke +of those years in the Puritan manner, using words which literally express +the grossest kind of active Atheism in a vague and vacant way; leaving +us to gather from external sources whether they are to be understood in +their plain and literal signification, or in that out-of-the-way and +technical sense in which they hardly have a meaning. In this case the +external evidence is so clear that there is no difficulty. The regrets of +Cowper had reference to offences which the healthy and sober consciences +of mankind will not consider to deserve them. A vague, literary, +omnitolerant idleness was perhaps their worst feature. He was himself +obliged to own that he had always been considered ‘as one religiously +inclined, if not actually religious,’ and the applicable testimony, as +well as the whole form and nature of his character, forbid us to ascribe +to him the slightest act of licence or grossness. A reverend biographer +has called his life at this time, ‘an unhappy compound of guilt and +wretchedness.’ But unless the estimable gentleman thinks it sinful to +be a barrister and wretched to live in the Temple, it is not easy to +make out what he would mean. In point of intellectual cultivation, and +with a view to preparing himself for writing his subsequent works, it +is not possible he should have spent his time better. He then acquired +that easy, familiar knowledge of terrestrial things—the vague and general +information of the superficies of all existence—the acquaintance with +life, business, hubbub, and rustling matter of fact, which seem odd +in the recluse of Olney—and enliven so effectually the cucumbers of +the ‘Task.’ It has been said that at times every man wishes to be a +man of the world, and even the most rigid critic must concede it to be +nearly essential to a writer on real life and actual manners. If a man +has not seen his brother, how can he describe him? As this world calls +happiness and blamelessness, it is not easy to fancy a life more happy—at +least with more of the common elements of happiness,—or more blameless +than those years of Cowper. An easy temper, light fancies,—hardly as +yet broken by shades of melancholy brooding;—an enjoying habit, rich +humour, literary, but not pedantic companions, a large scene of life and +observation, polished acquaintance and attached friends: these were his, +and what has a light life more? A rough hero Cowper was not and never +became, but he was then, as ever, a quiet and tranquil gentleman. If De +Béranger’s doctrine were true, ‘_Le bonheur tient au savoir-vivre_,’ +there were the materials of existence here. What, indeed, would not De +Béranger have made of them? + +One not unnatural result or accompaniment of such a life was that +Cowper fell in love. There were in those days two young ladies, cousins +of Cowper, residents in London, to one of whom, the Lady Hesketh of +after years, he once wrote:—‘My dear Cousin,—I wonder how it happened, +that much as I love you, I was never in love with you.’ No similar +providence protected his intimacy with her sister. Theodora Cowper, +‘One of the cousins with whom Thurlow used to giggle and make giggle in +Southampton-row,’ was a handsome and vigorous damsel. ‘What!’ said her +father, ‘What will you do if you marry William Cowper?’ meaning, in the +true parental spirit, to intrude mere pecuniary ideas. ‘Do, sir!’ she +replied, ‘Wash all day, and ride out on the great dog all night!’ a +spirited combination of domestic industry and exterior excitement. It +is doubtful, however, whether either of these species of pastime and +occupation would have been exactly congenial to Cowper. A gentle and +refined indolence must have made him an inferior washerman, and perhaps +to accompany the canine excursions of a wife ‘which clear-starched,’ +would have hardly seemed enough to satisfy his accomplished and placid +ambition. At any rate, it certainly does seem that he was not a very +vigorous lover. The young lady was, as he himself oddly said:— + + ‘Through tedious years of doubt and pain, + Fixed in her choice and faithful ... _but in vain_.’ + +The poet does indeed partly allude to the parental scruples of Mr. +Cowper, her father; but house-rent would not be so high as it is, if +fathers had their way. The profits of builders are eminently dependent on +the uncontrollable nature of the best affections; and that intelligent +class of men have had a table compiled from trustworthy data, in which +the chances of parental victory are rated at ·0000000001, and those of +the young people themselves at ·999999999,—in fact, as many nines as you +can imagine. ‘It has been represented to me,’ says the actuary, ‘that +few young people ever marry without some objection, more or less slight, +on the part of their parents; and from a most laborious calculation, +from data collected in quarters both within and exterior to the bills of +mortality, I am led to believe that the above figures represent the state +of the case accurately enough to form a safe guide for the pecuniary +investments of the gentlemen, &c. &c.’ It is not likely that Theodora +Cowper understood decimals, but she had a strong opinion in favour of +her cousin, and a great idea, if we rightly read the now obscure annals +of old times, that her father’s objections might pretty easily have +been got over. In fact, we think so even now, without any prejudice of +affection, in our cool and mature judgment. Mr. Cowper the aged had +nothing to say, except that the parties were cousins—a valuable remark, +which has been frequently repeated in similar cases, but which has not +been found to prevent a mass of matches both then and since. Probably +the old gentleman thought the young gentleman by no means a working +man, and objected—believing that a small income can only be made more +by unremitting industry,—and the young gentleman admitting this horrid +and abstract fact, and agreeing, though perhaps tacitly, in his uncle’s +estimate of his personal predilections, did not object to being objected +to. The nature of Cowper was not, indeed, passionate. He required beyond +almost any man the daily society of amiable and cultivated women. It +is clear that he preferred such gentle excitement to the rough and +argumentative pleasures of more masculine companionship. His easy and +humorous nature loved and learned from female detail. But he had no +overwhelming partiality for a particular individual. One refined lady, +the first moments of shyness over, was nearly as pleasing as another +refined lady. Disappointment sits easy on such a mind. Perhaps, too, +he feared the anxious duties, the rather contentious tenderness of +matrimonial existence. At any rate, he acquiesced. Theodora never +married. Love did not, however, kill her—at least, if it did, it was +a long time at the task, as she survived these events more than sixty +years. She never, seemingly, forgot the past. + +But a dark cloud was at hand. If there be any truly painful fact about +the world now tolerably well established by ample experience and ample +records, it is that an intellectual and indolent happiness is wholly +denied to the children of men. That most valuable author, Lucretius, who +has supplied us and others with an inexhaustible supply of metaphors on +this topic, ever dwells on the life of his gods with a sad and melancholy +feeling that no such life was possible on a crude and cumbersome earth. +In general, the two opposing agencies are marriage and money; either +of these breaks the lot of literary and refined inaction at once and +for ever. The first of these, as we have seen, Cowper had escaped. His +reserved and negligent reveries were still free, at least from the +invasion of affection. To this invasion, indeed, there is commonly +requisite the acquiescence or connivance of mortality; but all men are +born, not free and equal, as the Americans maintain, but, in the old +world at least, basely subjected to the yoke of coin. It is in vain that +in this hemisphere we endeavour after impecuniary fancies. In bold and +eager youth we go out on our travels. We visit Baalbec, and Paphos, and +Tadmor, and Cythera,—ancient shrines and ancient empires, seats of eager +love or gentle inspiration. We wander far and long. We have nothing to +do with our fellow-men. What are we, indeed, to diggers and counters? +We wander far; we dream to wander for ever, but we dream in vain. A +surer force than the subtlest fascination of fancy is in operation. +The purse-strings tie us to our kind. Our travel-coin runs low, and we +must return, away from Tadmor and Baalbec back to our steady, tedious +industry and dull work, to ‘_la vieille Europe_ (as Napoleon said) _qui +m’ennuie_.’ It is the same in thought. In vain we seclude ourselves in +elegant chambers, in fascinating fancies, in refined reflections. ‘By +this time,’ says Cowper, ‘my patrimony being nearly all spent, and there +being no appearance that I should ever repair the damage by a fortune +of my own getting, I began to be a little apprehensive of approaching +want.’ However little one is fit for it, it is necessary to attack some +drudgery. The vigorous and sturdy rouse themselves to the work. They find +in its regular occupation, clear decisions, and stern perplexities, a +bold and rude compensation for the necessary loss or diminution of light +fancies and delicate musings,— + + ‘The sights which youthful poets dream, + On summer eve by haunted stream.’ + +But it was not so with Cowper. A peculiar and slight nature unfitted him +for so rough and harsh a resolution. The lion may eat straw like the ox, +and the child put his head on the cockatrice’ den; but will even then the +light antelope be equal to the heavy plough? Will the gentle gazelle, +even in those days, pull the slow waggon of ordinary occupation? + +The outward position of Cowper was, indeed, singularly fortunate. Instead +of having to meet the long labours of an open profession, or the anxious +decisions of a personal business, he had the choice among several +lucrative and quiet public offices, in which very ordinary abilities +would suffice, and scarcely any degree of incapacity would entail +dismissal, or reprimand, or degradation. It seemed at first scarcely +possible that even the least strenuous of men should be found unequal to +duties so little arduous or exciting. He has himself said— + + ‘Lucrative offices are seldom lost + For want of powers proportioned to the post; + Give e’en a dunce the employment he desires, + And he soon finds the talents it requires; + A business with an income at its heels, + Furnishes always oil for its own wheels.’ + +The place he chose was called the Clerkship of the Journals of the House +of Lords, one of the many quiet haunts which then slumbered under the +imposing shade of parliamentary and aristocratic privilege. Yet the idea +of it was more than he could bear. + + ‘In the beginning,’ he writes, ‘a strong opposition to my + friend’s right of nomination began to show itself. A powerful + party was formed among the Lords to thwart it, in favour of + an old enemy of the family, though one much indebted to its + bounty; and it appeared plain that, if we succeeded at last, + it would only be by fighting our ground by inches. Every + advantage, as I was told, would be sought for, and eagerly + seized, to disconcert us. I was bid to expect an examination + at the bar of the House, touching my sufficiency for the post + I had taken. Being necessarily ignorant of the nature of + that business, it became expedient that I should visit the + office daily, in order to qualify myself for the strictest + scrutiny. All the horror of my fears and perplexities now + returned. A thunderbolt would have been as welcome to me as + this intelligence. I knew, to demonstration, that upon these + terms the clerkship of the journals was no place for me. To + require my attendance at the bar of the House, that I might + there publicly entitle myself to the office, was, in effect, to + exclude me from it. In the meantime, the interest of my friend, + the honour of his choice, my own reputation and circumstances, + all urged me forward; all pressed me to undertake that which + I saw to be impracticable. They whose spirits are formed like + mine, to whom _a public exhibition of themselves, on any + occasion, is mortal poison_, may have some idea of the horrors + of my situation; others can have none. + + ‘My continual misery at length brought on a nervous fever: + quiet forsook me by day, and peace by night; a finger raised + against me was more than I could stand against. In this + posture of mind, I attended regularly at the office; where, + instead of a soul upon the rack, the most active spirits were + essentially necessary for my purpose. I expected no assistance + from anybody there, all the inferior clerks being under the + influence of my opponent; and accordingly I received none. + The journal books were indeed thrown open to me—a thing which + could not be refused; and from which, perhaps, a man in health, + and with a head turned to business, might have gained all + the information he wanted; but it was not so with me. I read + without perception, and was so distressed, that, had every + clerk in the office been my friend, it could have availed me + little; for I was not in a condition to receive instruction, + much less to elicit it out of manuscripts, without direction. + Many months went over me thus employed; constant in the use of + means, despairing as to the issue.’ + +As the time of trial drew near, his excitement rapidly increased. A short +excursion into the country was attended with momentary benefit; but as +soon as he returned to town he became immediately unfit for occupation, +and as unsettled as ever. He grew first to wish to become mad, next to +believe that he should become so, and only to be afraid that the expected +delirium might not come on soon enough to prevent his appearance for +examination before the lords,—a fear, the bare existence of which shows +how slight a barrier remained between him and the insanity which he +fancied that he longed for. He then began to contemplate suicide, and +not unnaturally called to mind a curious circumstance: + + ‘I well recollect, too,’ he writes, ‘that when I was about + eleven years of age, my father desired me to read a vindication + of self-murder, and give him my sentiments upon the question: I + did so, and argued against it. My father heard my reasons, and + was silent, neither approving nor disapproving; from whence I + inferred that he sided with the author against me; though all + the time, I believe, the true motive for his conduct was, that + he wanted, if he could, to think favourably of the state of a + departed friend, who had some years before destroyed himself, + and whose death had struck him with the deepest affliction. But + this solution of the matter never once occurred to me, and the + circumstance now weighed mightily with me.’ + +And he made several attempts to execute his purpose, all which are +related in a ‘Narrative,’ which he drew up after his recovery; and of +which the elaborate detail shows a strange and most painful tendency +to revive the slightest circumstances of delusions which it would +have been most safe and most wholesome never to recall. The curiously +careful style, indeed, of the narration, as elegant as that of the most +flowing and felicitous letter, reminds one of nothing so much as the +studiously beautiful and compact handwriting in which Rousseau used to +narrate and describe the most incoherent and indefinite of his personal +delusions. On the whole, nevertheless—for a long time, at least—it does +not seem that the life of Cowper was in real danger. The hesitation and +indeterminateness of nerve which rendered him liable to these fancies, +and unequal to ordinary action, also prevented his carrying out these +terrible visitations to their rigorous and fearful consequences. At last, +however, there seems to have been possible, if not actual danger: + + ‘Not one hesitating thought now remained, but I fell greedily + to the execution of my purpose. My garter was made of a broad + piece of scarlet binding, with a sliding buckle, being sewn + together at the ends; by the help of the buckle I formed a + noose, and fixed it about my neck, straining it so tight + that I hardly left a passage for my breath, or for the blood + to circulate; the tongue of the buckle held it fast. At each + corner of the bed was placed a wreath of carved work, fastened + by an iron pin, which passed up through the midst of it: the + other part of the garter, which made a loop, I slipped over one + of these, and hung by it some seconds, drawing up my feet under + me, that they might not touch the floor; but the iron bent, and + the carved work slipped off, and the garter with it. I then + fastened it to the frame of the tester, winding it round, and + tying it in a strong knot. The frame broke short, and let me + down again. + + ‘The third effort was more likely to succeed. I set the door + open, which reached within a foot of the ceiling; by the help + of a chair I could command the top of it, and the loop being + large enough to admit a large angle of the door, was easily + fixed so as not to slip off again. I pushed away the chair with + my feet, and hung at my whole length. While I hung there, I + distinctly heard a voice say three times, “_’Tis over!_” Though + I am sure of the fact, and was so at the time, yet it did not + at all alarm me, or affect my resolution. I hung so long that I + lost all sense, all consciousness of existence. + + ‘When I came to myself again, I thought myself in hell; the + sound of my own dreadful groans was all that I heard, and + a feeling like that produced by a flash of lightning just + beginning to seize upon me, passed over my whole body. In a few + seconds I found myself fallen on my face to the floor. In about + half a minute I recovered my feet: and, reeling and staggering, + tumbled into bed again. + + ‘By the blessed providence of God, the garter which had held + me till the bitterness of temporal death was past, broke just + before eternal death had taken place upon me. The stagnation + of the blood under one eye, in a broad crimson spot, and a + red circle round my neck, showed plainly that I had been on + the brink of eternity. The latter, indeed, might have been + occasioned by the pressure of the garter, but the former was + certainly the effect of strangulation; for it was not attended + with the sensation of a bruise, as it must have been, had I, in + my fall, received one in so tender a part. And I rather think + the circle round my neck was owing to the same cause; for the + part was not excoriated, not at all in pain. + + ‘Soon after I got into bed, I was surprised to hear a noise + in the dining-room, where the laundress was lighting a fire; + she had found the door unbolted, notwithstanding my design to + fasten it, and must have passed the bed-chamber door while I + was hanging on it, and yet never perceived me. She heard me + fall, and presently came to ask me if I was well; adding, she + feared I had been in a fit. + + ‘I sent her to a friend, to whom I related the whole affair, + and dispatched him to my kinsman at the coffee-house. As soon + as the latter arrived, I pointed to the broken garter, which + lay in the middle of the room, and apprised him also of the + attempt I had been making. His words were, “My dear Mr. Cowper, + you terrify me! To be sure you cannot hold the office at this + rate,—where is the deputation?” I gave him the key of the + drawer where it was deposited; and his business requiring his + immediate attendance, he took it away with him; and thus ended + all my connection with the Parliament office.’ + +It must have been a strange scene; for, so far as appears, the outward +manners of Cowper had undergone no remarkable change. There was always +a mild composure about them, which would have deceived any but the most +experienced observer; and it is probable that Major Cowper, his ‘kinsman’ +and intimate friend, had very little or no suspicion of the conflict +which was raging beneath his tranquil and accomplished exterior. What +a contrast is the ‘broad piece of scarlet binding’ and the red circle, +‘showing plainly that I had been on the brink of eternity,’ to the daily +life of the easy gentleman ‘who contributed some essays to the “St. +James’s Magazine,” and more than one to the “St. James’s Chronicle,”’ +living ‘soft years’ on a smooth superficies of existence, away from the +dark realities which are, as it were, the skeleton of our life,—which +seem to haunt us like a death’s head throughout the narrative that has +been quoted! + +It was doubtless the notion of Cowper’s friends, that when all idea of +an examination before the Lords was removed, by the abandonment of his +nomination to the office in question, the excitement which that idea had +called forth would very soon pass away. But that notion was an error. A +far more complicated state of mind ensued. If we may advance a theory on +a most difficult as well as painful topic, we would say that religion is +very rarely the proximate or impulsive cause of madness. The real and +ultimate cause (as we speak) is of course that unknown something which we +variously call predisposition, or malady, or defect. But the critical and +exciting cause seems generally to be some comparatively trivial external +occasion, which falls within the necessary lot and life of the person who +becomes mad. The inherent excitability is usually awakened by some petty +casual stimulant, which looks positively not worth a thought—certainly +a terribly slight agent for the wreck and havoc which it makes. The +constitution of the human mind is such, that the great general questions, +problems, and difficulties of our state of being are not commonly capable +of producing that result. They appear to lie too far in the distance, +to require too great a stretch of imagination, to be too apt (for the +very weakness of our minds’ sake, perhaps) to be thrust out of view by +the trivial occurrences of this desultory world,—to be too impersonal, +in truth, to cause the exclusive, anxious, aching occupation which is +the common prelude and occasion of insanity. Afterwards, on the other +hand, when the wound is once struck, when the petty circumstance has been +allowed to work its awful consequence, religion very frequently becomes +the predominating topic of delusion. It would seem as if, when the mind +was once set apart by the natural consequences of the disease, and +secluded from the usual occupations of, and customary contact with, other +minds, it searched about through all the universe for causes of trouble +and anguish. A certain pain probably exists; and even in insanity, man is +so far a rational being that he seeks and craves at least the outside and +semblance of a reason for a suffering, which is really and truly without +reason. Something must be found to justify its anguish to itself. And +naturally the great difficulties inherent in the very position of man in +this world, and trying so deeply the faith and firmness of the wariest +and wisest minds, are ever ready to present plausible justifications +or causeless depression. An anxious melancholy is not without very +perplexing sophisms and very painful illustrations, with which a morbid +mind can obtain not only a fair logical position, but even apparent +argumentative victories, on many points, over the more hardy part of +mankind. The acuteness of madness soon uses these in its own wretched and +terrible justification. No originality of mind is necessary for so doing. +Great and terrible systems of divinity and philosophy lie round about +us, which, if true, might drive a wise man mad—which read like professed +exculpations of a contemplated insanity. + +‘To this moment,’ writes Cowper, immediately after the passage which +has been quoted, ‘I had felt no concern of a spiritual kind.’ But now +a conviction fell upon him that he was eternally lost. ‘All my worldly +sorrows,’ he says, ‘seemed as if they had never been; the terrors which +succeeded them seemed so great and so much more afflicting. One moment I +thought myself expressly excluded by one chapter; next by another.’ He +thought the curse of the barren fig-tree was pronounced with an especial +and designed reference to him. All day long these thoughts followed +him. He lived nearly alone, and his friends were either unaware of the +extreme degree to which his mind was excited, or unalive to the possible +alleviation with which new scenes and cheerful society might have been +attended. He fancied the people in the street stared at and despised +him—that ballads were made in ridicule of him—that the voice of his +conscience was eternally audible. He then bethought him of a Mr. Madan, +an evangelical minister, at that time held in much estimation, but who +afterwards fell into disrepute by the publication of a work on marriage +and its obligations (or rather its _non_-obligations), which Cowper has +commented on in a controversial poem. That gentleman visited Cowper at +his request, and began to explain to him the gospel. + + ‘He spoke,’ says Cowper, ‘of original sin, and the corruption + of every man born into the world, whereby every one is a child + of wrath. I perceived something like hope dawning in my heart. + This doctrine set me more on a level with the rest of mankind, + and made my condition appear less desperate.’ + + ‘Next he insisted on the all-atoning efficacy of the blood of + Jesus, and His righteousness, for our justification. While I + heard this part of his discourse, and the Scriptures on which + he founded it, my heart began to burn within me; my soul was + pierced with a sense of my bitter ingratitude to so merciful + a Saviour; and those tears, which I thought impossible, burst + forth freely. I saw clearly that my case required such a + remedy, and had not the least doubt within me but that this was + the gospel of salvation. + + ‘Lastly, he urged the necessity of a lively faith in Jesus + Christ; not an assent only of the understanding, but a faith of + application, an actually laying hold of it, and embracing it as + a salvation wrought out for me personally. Here I failed, and + deplored my want of such a faith. He told me it was the gift + of God, which he trusted He would bestow upon me. I could only + reply, “I wish He would:” a very irreverent petition, but a + very sincere one, and such as the blessed God, in His due time, + was pleased to answer.’ + +It does not appear that previous to this conversation he had ever +distinctly realised the tenets which were afterwards to have so much +influence over him. For the moment they produced a good effect, but +in a few hours their novelty was over—the dark hour returned, and he +awoke from slumber with a ‘stronger alienation from God than ever.’ The +tenacity with which the mind in moments of excitement appropriates and +retains very abstract tenets, that bear even in a slight degree on the +topic of its excitement, is as remarkable as the facility and accuracy +with which it apprehends them in the midst of so great a tumult. Many +changes and many years rolled over Cowper—years of black and dark +depression, years of tranquil society, of genial labour, of literary +fame, but never in the lightest or darkest hour was he wholly unconscious +of the abstract creed of Martin Madan. At the time indeed, the body had +its rights, and maintained them. + + ‘While I traversed the apartment, expecting every moment that + the earth would open her mouth and swallow me, my conscience + scaring me, and the city of refuge out of reach and out of + sight, a strange and horrible darkness fell upon me. If it + were possible that a heavy blow could light on the brain + without touching the skull, such was the sensation I felt. I + clapped my hand to my forehead, and cried aloud, through the + pain it gave me. At every stroke my thoughts and expressions + became more wild and incoherent; all that remained clear was + the sense of sin, and the expectation of punishment. These + kept undisturbed possession all through my illness, without + interruption or abatement.’ + +It is idle to follow details further. The deep waters had passed over +him, and it was long before the face of his mind was dry or green again. + +He was placed in a lunatic asylum, where he continued many months, and +which he left apparently cured. After some changes of no moment, but +which by his own account evinced many traces of dangerous excitement, +he took up his abode at Huntingdon, with the family of Unwin; and it +is remarkable how soon the taste for easy and simple, yet not wholly +unintellectual society, which had formerly characterised him, revived +again. The delineation cannot be given in any terms but his own:— + + ‘We breakfast commonly between eight and nine; till eleven, + we read either the Scripture, or the sermons of some faithful + preacher of these holy mysteries; at eleven we attend divine + service, which is performed here twice every day; and from + twelve to three we separate, and amuse ourselves as we please. + During that interval, I either read, in my own apartment, or + walk, or ride, or work in the garden. We seldom sit an hour + after dinner, but if the weather permits, adjourn to the + garden, where, with Mrs. Unwin and her son, I have generally + the pleasure of religious conversation till tea-time. If it + rains, or is too windy for walking, we either converse within + doors, or sing some hymns of Martin’s collection, and by the + help of Mrs. Unwin’s harpsichord, make up a tolerable concert, + in which our hearts, I hope, are the best and most musical + performers. After tea we sally forth to walk in good earnest. + Mrs. Unwin is a good walker, and we have generally travelled + about four miles before we see home again. When the days are + short, we make this excursion in the former part of the day, + between church time and dinner. At night we read, and converse, + as before, till supper, and commonly finish the evening either + with hymns, or a sermon, and last of all the family are called + to prayers. I need not tell _you_, that such a life as this is + consistent with the utmost cheerfulness; accordingly we are all + happy, and dwell together in unity as brethren. Mrs. Unwin + has almost a maternal affection for me, and I have something + very like a filial one for her, and her son and I are brothers. + Blessed be the God of our salvation for such companions, and + for such a life—above all, for a heart to like it.’ + +The scene was not however to last as it was. Mr. Unwin, the husband of +Mrs. Unwin, was suddenly killed soon after, and Cowper removed with Mrs. +Unwin to Olney, where a new epoch of his life begins. + +The curate of Olney at this time was John Newton, a man of great energy +of mind, and well known in his generation for several vigorous books, +and still more for a very remarkable life. He had been captain of a +Liverpool slave ship—an occupation in which he had quite energy enough +to have succeeded, but was deeply influenced by serious motives, and +became one of the strongest and most active of the Low Church clergymen +of that day. He was one of those men who seem intended to make excellence +disagreeable. He was a converting engine. The whole of his own enormous +vigour of body—the whole steady intensity of a pushing, impelling, +compelling, unoriginal mind—all the mental or corporeal exertion he +could exact from the weak or elicit from the strong, were devoted to +one sole purpose—the effectual impact of the Calvinistic tenets on the +parishioners of Olney. Nor would we hint that his exertions were at +all useless. There is no denying that there is a certain stiff, tough, +agricultural, clayish English nature, on which the aggressive divine +produces a visible and good effect. The hardest and heaviest hammering +seems required to stir and warm that close and coarse matter. To impress +any sense of the supernatural on so secular a substance is a great good, +though that sense be expressed in false or irritating theories. It is +unpleasant, no doubt, to hear the hammering; the bystanders are in an +evil case; you might as well live near an iron-ship yard. Still the blows +do not hurt the iron. Something of the sort is necessary to beat the +coarse ore into a shining and useful shape; certainly that does so beat +it. But the case is different when the hundred-handed divine desires +to hit others. The very system which, on account of its hard blows, is +adapted to the tough and ungentle, is by that very reason unfit for the +tremulous and tender. The nature of many men and many women is such that +it will not bear the daily and incessant repetition of some certain and +indisputable truths. The universe has of course its dark aspect. Many +tremendous facts and difficulties can be found which often haunt the +timid and sometimes incapacitate the feeble. To be continually insisting +on these, and these only, will simply render both more and more unfit for +the duties to which they were born. And if this is the case with certain +fact and clear truth, how much more with uncertain error and mystic +exaggeration! Mr. Newton was alive to the consequence of his system: ‘I +believe my name is up about the country for preaching people mad; for +whether it is owing to the sedentary life women lead here, &c. &c., I +suppose we have near a dozen in different degrees disordered in their +heads, and most of them, I believe, _truly gracious people_.’ He perhaps +found his peculiar views more generally appreciated among this class of +young ladies than among more healthy and rational people, and clearly +did not wholly condemn the delivering them, even at this cost, from the +tyranny of the ‘carnal reason.’ + +No more dangerous adviser, if this world had been searched over, +could have been found for Cowper. What the latter required was prompt +encouragement to cheerful occupation, quiet amusement, gentle and +unexhausting society. Mr. Newton thought otherwise. His favourite motto +was _Perimus in licitis_. The simple round of daily pleasures and genial +employments which give instinctive happiness to the happiest natures, +and best cheer the common life of common men, was studiously watched +and scrutinised with the energy of a Puritan and the watchfulness of an +inquisitor. Mr. Newton had all the tastes and habits which go to form +what in the Catholic system is called a spiritual director. Of late years +it is well known that the institution, or rather practice of confession, +has expanded into a more potent and more imperious organisation. You +are expected by the priests of the Roman Church not only to confess +to them what you have done, but to take their advice as to what you +shall do. The future is under their direction, as the past was beneath +their scrutiny. This was exactly the view which Mr. Newton took of his +relation to Cowper. A natural aptitude for dictation—a steady, strong, +compelling decision,—great self-command, and a sharp perception of +all impressible points in the characters of others,—made the task of +guiding ‘weaker brethren’ a natural and pleasant pursuit. To suppose a +shrinking, a wounded, and tremulous mind, like that of Cowper’s, would +rise against such bold dogmatism, such hard volition, such animal nerve, +is to fancy that the beaten slave will dare the lash which his very eyes +instinctively fear and shun. Mr. Newton’s great idea was that Cowper +ought to be of some use. There was a great deal of excellent hammering +hammered in the parish, and it was sinful that a man with nothing to do +should sit tranquil. Several persons in the street had done what they +ought not; football was not unknown; cards were played; flirtation was +not conducted ‘improvingly.’ It was clearly Cowper’s duty to put a stop +to such things. Accordingly he made him a parochial implement; he set +him to visit painful cases, to attend at prayer meetings, to compose +melancholy hymns, even to conduct or share in conducting public services +himself. It never seems to have occurred to him that so fragile a mind +would be unequal to the burden—that a bruised reed does often break; +or rather if it did occur to him, he regarded it as a subterranean +suggestion, and expected a supernatural interference to counteract the +events at which it hinted. Yet there are certain rules and principles +in this world which seem earthly, but which the most excellent may not +on that account venture to disregard. The consequence of placing Cowper +in exciting situations was a return of his excitement. It is painful to +observe, that though the attack resembled in all its main features his +former one, several months passed before Mr. Newton would permit any +proper physical remedies to be applied, and then it was too late. We need +not again recount details. Many months of dark despondency were to be +passed before he returned to a simple and rational mind. + +The truth is, that independently of the personal activity and dauntless +energy which made Mr. Newton so little likely to sympathise with +such a mind as Cowper’s, the former lay under a still more dangerous +disqualification for Cowper’s predominant adviser, viz., an erroneous +view of his case. His opinion exactly coincided with that which Cowper +first heard from Mr. Madan during his first illness in London. This view +is in substance that the depression which Cowper originally suffered +from was exactly what almost all mankind, if they had been rightly aware +of their true condition, would have suffered also. They were ‘children +of wrath,’ just as he was; and the only difference between them was, +that he appreciated his state and they did not,—showing, in fact, that +Cowper was not, as common persons imagined, on the extreme verge of +insanity, but, on the contrary, a particularly rational and right-seeing +man. So far, Cowper says, with one of the painful smiles which make his +‘Narrative’ so melancholy, ‘my condition was less desperate.’ That is, +his counsellors had persuaded him that his malady was rational, and his +sufferings befitting his true position,—no difficult task, for they had +the poignancy of pain and the pertinacity of madness on their side: the +efficacy of their arguments was less when they endeavoured to make known +the sources of consolation. We have seen the immediate effect of the +first exposition of the evangelical theory of faith. When applied to the +case of the morbidly-despairing sinner, that theory has one argumentative +imperfection which the logical sharpness of madness will soon discover +and point out. The simple reply is, ‘I do not feel the faith which you +describe. I wish I could feel it; but it is no use trying to conceal the +fact, I am conscious of nothing like it.’ And this was substantially +Cowper’s reply on his first interview with Mr. Madan. It was a simple +denial of a fact solely accessible to his personal consciousness; and, +as such, unanswerable. And in this intellectual position (if such it can +be called) his mind long rested. At the commencement of his residence +at Olney, however, there was a decided change. Whether it were that +he mistook the glow of physical recovery for the peace of spiritual +renovation, or that some subtler and deeper agency was, as he supposed, +at work, the outward sign is certain; and there is no question but +that during the first months of his residence at Olney, and his daily +intercourse with Mr. Newton, he did feel, or supposed himself to feel, +the faith which he was instructed to deem desirable, and he lent himself +with natural pleasure to the diffusion of it among those around him. But +this theory of salvation requires a metaphysical postulate, which to many +minds is simply impossible. A prolonged meditation on unseen realities +is sufficiently difficult, and seems scarcely the occupation for which +common human nature was intended; but more than this is said to be +essential. The meditation must be successful in exciting certain feelings +of a kind peculiarly delicate, subtle, and (so to speak) unstable. The +wind bloweth where it listeth; but it is scarcely more partial, more +quick, more unaccountable, than the glow of an emotion excited by a +supernatural and unseen object. This depends on the vigour of imagination +which has to conceive that object—on the vivacity of feeling which has to +be quickened by it—on the physical energy which has to support it. The +very watchfulness, the scrupulous anxiety to find and retain the feeling, +are exactly the most unfavourable to it. In a delicate disposition like +that of Cowper, such feelings revolt from the inquisition of others, +and shrink from the stare of the mind itself. But even this was not the +worst. The mind of Cowper was, so to speak, naturally terrestrial. If a +man wishes for a nice appreciation of the details of time and sense, let +him consult Cowper’s miscellaneous letters. Each simple event of every +day—each petty object of external observation or inward suggestion, is +there chronicled with a fine and female fondness, a wise and happy +faculty, let us say, of deriving a gentle happiness from the tranquil and +passing hour. The fortunes of the hares—Bess who died young, and Tiney +who lived to be nine years old—the miller who engaged their affections +at once, his powdered coat having charms that were irresistible—the +knitting-needles of Mrs. Unwin—the qualities of his friend Hill, who +managed his money transactions— + + ‘An honest man, close buttoned to the chin, + Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within’— + +live in his pages, and were the natural, insensible, unbiassed occupants +of his fancy. It is easy for a firm and hard mind to despise the minutiæ +of life, and to pore and brood over an abstract proposition. It may be +possible for the highest, the strongest, the most arduous imagination to +live aloof from common things—alone with the unseen world, as some have +lived their whole lives in memory with a world which has passed away. +But it seems hardly possible that an imagination such as Cowper’s—which +was rather a detective fancy, perceiving the charm and essence of things +which are seen, than an eager, actuating, conceptive power, embodying, +enlivening, empowering those which are not seen—should leave its own +home—the _domus et tellus_—the sweet fields and rare orchards which it +loved,—and go out alone apart from all flesh into the trackless and +fearful and unknown Infinite. Of course, his timid mind shrank from it at +once, and returned to its own fireside. After a little, the idea that he +had a true faith faded away. Mr. Newton, with misdirected zeal, sought to +revive it by inciting him to devotional composition; but the only result +was the volume of ‘Olney Hymns’—a very painful record, of which the +burden is + + ‘My former hopes are fled, + My terror now begins; + I feel, alas! that I am dead + In trespasses and sins. + + ‘Ah, whither shall I fly? + I hear the thunder roar; + The law proclaims destruction nigh, + And vengeance at the door.’ + +‘The Preacher’ himself did not conceive such a store of melancholy +forebodings. + +The truth is, that there are two remarkable species of minds on which +the doctrine of Calvinism acts as a deadly and fatal poison. One is the +natural, vigorous, bold, defiant, hero-like character, abounding in +generosity, in valour, in vigour, and abounding also in self-will, and +pride, and scorn. This is the temperament which supplies the world with +ardent hopes and keen fancies, with springing energies, and bold plans, +and noble exploits; but yet, under another aspect and in other times, is +equally prompt in desperate deeds, awful machinations, deep and daring +crimes. It one day is ready by its innate heroism to deliver the world +from any tyranny; the next it ‘hungers to become a tyrant’ in its turn. +Yet the words of the poet are ever true and are ever good, as a defence +against the cold narrators who mingle its misdeeds and exploits, and +profess to believe that each is a set-off and compensation for the other. +You can ever say— + + ‘Still he retained, + ’Mid much abasement, what he had received + From Nature, an intense and glowing mind.’ + +It is idle to tell such a mind that, by an arbitrary irrespective +election, it is chosen to happiness or doomed to perdition. The evil and +the good in it equally revolt at such terms. It thinks, ‘Well, if the +universe be a tyranny, if one man is doomed to misery for no fault, and +the next is chosen to pleasure for no merit—if the favouritism of time +be copied into eternity—if the highest heaven be indeed like the meanest +earth,—then, as the heathen say, it is better to suffer injustice than to +inflict it, better to be the victims of the eternal despotism than its +ministers, better to curse in hell than serve in heaven.’ And the whole +burning soul breaks away into what is well called Satanism—into wildness, +and bitterness, and contempt. + +Cowper had as little in common with this proud, Titanic, aspiring genius +as any man has or can have, but his mind was equally injured by the same +system. On a timid, lounging, gentle, acquiescent mind, the effect is +precisely the contrary—singularly contrasted, but equally calamitous. +‘I am doomed, you tell me, already. One way or other the matter is +already settled. It can be no better, and it is as bad as it can be. Let +me alone; do not trouble me at least these few years. Let me at least +sit sadly and bewail myself. Action is useless. I will brood upon my +melancholy and be at rest;’ the soul sinks into ‘passionless calm and +silence unreproved,’ flinging away ‘the passionate tumult of a clinging +hope,’ which is the allotted boon and happiness of mortality. It was, +as we believe, straight towards this terrible state that Mr. Newton +directed Cowper. He kept him occupied with subjects which were too great +for him; he kept him away from his natural life; he presented to him +views and opinions but too well justifying his deep and dark insanity; he +convinced him that he ought to experience emotions which were foreign to +his nature; he had nothing to add by way of comfort, when told that those +emotions did not and could not exist. Cowper seems to have felt this. His +second illness commenced with a strong dislike to his spiritual adviser, +and it may be doubted if there ever was again the same cordiality +between them. Mr. Newton, too, as was natural, was vexed at Cowper’s +calamity. His reputation in the ‘religious world’ was deeply pledged to +conducting this most ‘interesting case’ to a favourable termination. A +failure was not to be contemplated, and yet it was obviously coming and +coming. It was to no purpose that Cowper acquired fame and secular glory +in the literary world. This was rather adding gall to bitterness. The +unbelievers in evangelical religion would be able to point to one at +least, and that the best known among its proselytes, to whom it had not +brought peace—whom it had rather confirmed in wretchedness. His literary +fame, too, took Cowper away into a larger circle, out of the rigid +decrees and narrow ordinances of his father-confessor, and of course the +latter remonstrated. Altogether there was not a cessation, but a decline +and diminution of intercourse. But better, according to the saying, had +they never met or never parted. If a man is to have a father-confessor, +let him at least choose a sensible one. The dominion of Mr. Newton had +been exercised, not indeed with mildness, or wisdom, or discrimination, +but, nevertheless, with strong judgment and coarse acumen—with a bad +choice of ends, but at least a vigorous selection of means. Afterwards it +was otherwise. In the village of Olney there was a schoolmaster, whose +name often occurs in Cowper’s letters,—a foolish, vain, worthy sort of +man: what the people of the west call a ‘scholard,’ that is, a man of +more knowledge and less sense than those about him. He sometimes came +to Cowper to beg old clothes, sometimes to instruct him with literary +criticisms, and is known in the ‘Correspondence’ as ‘Mr. Teedon, who +reads the “Monthly Review,”’ ‘Mr. Teedon, whose smile is fame.’ Yet to +this man, whose harmless follies his humour had played with a thousand +times, Cowper, in his later years, and when the dominion of Mr. Newton +had so far ceased as to leave him, after many years, the use of his own +judgment, resorted for counsel and guidance. And the man had visions, and +dreams, and revelations!! But enough of such matters. + +The peculiarity of Cowper’s life is its division into marked periods. +From his birth to his first illness he may be said to have lived in one +world, and for some twenty years afterwards, from his thirty-second to +about his fiftieth year, in a wholly distinct one. Much of the latter +time was spent in hopeless despondency. His principal companions during +that period were Mr. Newton, about whom we have been writing, and Mrs. +Unwin, who may be said to have broken the charmed circle of seclusion in +which they lived by inciting Cowper to continuous literary composition. +Of Mrs. Unwin herself ample memorials remain. She was, in truth, a most +excellent person—in mind and years much older than the poet—as it were +by profession elderly, able in every species of preserve, profound in +salts, and pans, and jellies; culinary by taste; by tact and instinct +motherly and housewifish. She was not, however, without some less +larderiferous qualities. Lady Hesketh and Lady Austen, neither of them +very favourably-prejudiced critics, decided so. The former has written, +‘She is very far from grave; on the contrary, she is cheerful and gay, +and laughs _de bon cœur_ upon the smallest provocation. Amidst all the +little puritanical words which fall from her _de tems en tems_, she seems +to have by nature a great fund of gaiety.... I must say, too, that she +seems to be very well read in the English poets, as appears by several +little quotations which she makes from time to time, and has a true taste +for what is excellent in that way.’ This she showed by persuading Cowper +to the composition of his first volume. + +As a poet, Cowper belongs, though with some differences, to the school +of Pope. Great question, as is well known, has been raised whether that +very accomplished writer was a poet at all; and a secondary and equally +debated question runs side by side, whether, if a poet, he were a great +one. With the peculiar genius and personal rank of Pope we have in this +article nothing to do. But this much may be safely said, that according +to the definition which has been ventured of the poetical art, by the +greatest and most accomplished master of the other school, his works are +delicately-finished specimens of artistic excellence in one branch of it. +‘Poetry,’ says Shelley, who was surely a good judge, ‘is the expression +of the imagination,’ by which he meant of course not only the expression +of the interior sensations accompanying the faculty’s employment, but +likewise, and more emphatically, the exercise of it in the delineation +of objects which attract it. Now society, viewed as a whole, is clearly +one of those objects. There is a vast assemblage of human beings, of +all nations, tongues, and languages, each with ideas, and a personality +and a cleaving mark of its own, yet each having somewhat that resembles +something of all, much that resembles a part of many—a motley regiment, +of various forms, of a million impulses, passions, thoughts, fancies, +motives, actions; a ‘many-headed monstered thing;’ a Bashi Bazouk array; +a clown to be laughed at; a hydra to be spoken evil of; yet, in fine, +our all—the very people of the whole earth. There is nothing in nature +more attractive to the fancy than this great spectacle and congregation. +Since Herodotus went to and fro to the best of his ability over all the +earth, the spectacle of civilisation has ever drawn to itself the quick +eyes and quick tongues of seeing and roving men. Not only, says Goethe, +is man ever interesting to man, but ‘properly there is nothing else +interesting.’ There is a distinct subject for poetry—at least according +to Shelley’s definition—in selecting and working out, in idealising, +in combining, in purifying, in intensifying the great features and +peculiarities which make society, as a whole, interesting, remarkable, +fancy-taking. No doubt it is not the object of poetry to versify the +works of the eminent narrators, ‘to prose,’ according to a disrespectful +description, ‘o’er books of travelled seamen,’ to chill you with didactic +icebergs, to heat you with torrid sonnets. The difficulty of reading such +local narratives is now great—so great that a gentleman in the reviewing +department once wished ‘one man would go everywhere and say everything,’ +in order that the limit of his labour at least might be settled and +defined. And it would certainly be much worse if palm trees were of +course to be in rhyme, and the dinner of the migrator only recountable in +blank verse. We do not wish this. We only maintain that there are certain +principles, causes, passions, affections, acting on and influencing +communities at large, permeating their life, ruling their principles, +directing their history, working as a subtle and wandering principle +over all their existence. These have a somewhat abstract character, as +compared with the soft ideals and passionate incarnations of purely +individual character, and seem dull beside the stirring lays of eventful +times in which the earlier and bolder poets delight. Another cause +cooperates. The tendency of civilisation is to pare away the oddness and +licence of personal character, and to leave a monotonous agreeableness as +the sole trait and comfort of mankind. This obviously tends to increase +the efficacy of general principles, to bring to view the daily efficacy +of constant causes, to suggest the hidden agency of subtle abstractions. +Accordingly, as civilisation augments and philosophy grows, we commonly +find a school of ‘common-sense poets,’ as they may be called, arise and +develop, who proceed to depict what they see around them, to describe +its _natura naturans_, to delineate its _natura naturata_, to evolve +productive agencies, to teach subtle ramifications. Complete, as the most +characteristic specimen of this class of poets, stands Pope. He was, +some one we think has said, the sort of person we cannot even conceive +existing in a barbarous age. His subject was not life at large, but +fashionable life. He described the society in which he was thrown—the +people among whom he lived. His mind was a hoard of small maxims, a +quintessence of petty observations. When he described character, he +described it, not dramatically, nor as it is in itself; but observantly +and from without, calling up in the mind not so much a vivid conception +of the man, of the real, corporeal, substantial being, as an idea of +the idea which a metaphysical bystander might refine and excruciate +concerning him. Society in Pope is scarcely a society of people, but +of pretty little atoms, coloured and painted with hoops or in coats—a +miniature of metaphysics, a puppet-show of sylphs. He elucidates the +doctrine, that the tendency of civilised poetry is towards an analytic +sketch of the existing civilisation. Nor is the effect diminished by the +pervading character of keen judgment and minute intrusive sagacity; for +no great painter of English life can be without a rough sizing of strong +sense, or he would fail from want of sympathy with his subject. Pope +exemplifies the class and type of ‘common-sense’ poets who substitute +an animated ‘_catalogue raisonné_’ of working thoughts and operative +principles—a sketch of the then present society, as a whole and as an +object, for the κλέα ἀνδρῶν, the tale of which is one subject of early +verse, and the stage effect of living, loving, passionate, impetuous men +and women, which is the special topic of another. + +What Pope is to our fashionable and town life, Cowper is to our domestic +and rural life. This is perhaps the reason why he is so national. It +has been said no foreigner can live in the country. We doubt whether +any people, who felt their whole heart and entire exclusive breath of +their existence to be concentrated in a great capital, could or would +appreciate such intensely provincial pictures as are the entire scope of +Cowper’s delineation. A good many imaginative persons are really plagued +with him. Everything is so comfortable; the tea-urn hisses so plainly, +the toast is so warm, the breakfast so neat, the food so edible, that +one turns away, in excitable moments, a little angrily from anything so +quiet, tame, and sober. Have we not always hated this life? What can be +worse than regular meals, clock-moving servants, a time for everything, +and everything then done, a place for everything, without the Irish +alleviation—‘Sure, and I’m rejiced to say, that’s jist and exactly where +it isn’t,’ a common gardener, a slow parson, a heavy assortment of near +relations, a placid house flowing with milk and sugar—all that the fates +can stuff together of substantial comfort, and fed and fatted monotony? +Aspiring and excitable youth stoutly maintains it can endure anything +much better than the ‘gross fog Bœotian’—the torpid, in-door, tea-tabular +felicity. Still a great deal of tea is really consumed in the English +nation. A settled and practical people are distinctly in favour of heavy +relaxations, placid prolixities, slow comforts. A state between the mind +and the body, something intermediate, half-way from the newspaper to a +nap—this is what we may call the middle-life theory of the influential +English gentleman—the true aspiration of the ruler of the world. + + ‘’Tis then the understanding takes repose + In indolent vacuity of thought, + And sleeps and is refreshed. Meanwhile the face + Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask + Of deep deliberation.’ + +It is these in-door scenes, this common world, this gentle round of ‘calm +delights,’ the trivial course of slowly-moving pleasures, the petty +detail of quiet relaxation, that Cowper excels in. The post-boy, the +winter’s evening, the newspaper, the knitting needles, the stockings, the +waggon—these are his subjects. His sure popularity arises from his having +held up to the English people exact delineations of what they really +prefer. Perhaps one person in four hundred understands Wordsworth, about +one in eight thousand may appreciate Shelley, but there is no expressing +the small fraction who do not love dulness, who do not enter into + + ‘Homeborn happiness, + Fireside enjoyments, intimate delights, + And all the comforts that the lowly roof + Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours + Of long uninterrupted evening know.’ + +His objection to the more exciting and fashionable pleasures was perhaps, +in an extreme analysis, that they put him out. They were too great a task +for his energies—asked too much for his spirits. His comments on them +rather remind us of Mr. Rushworth—Miss Austen’s heavy hero’s remark on +the theatre, ‘I think we went on much better by ourselves before this was +thought of, doing, doing, doing _nothing_.’ + +The subject of these pictures, in point of interest, may be what we +choose to think it, but there is no denying great merit to the execution. +The sketches have the highest merit—suitableness of style. It would be +absurd to describe a post-boy as sonneteers their mistress—to cover his +plain face with fine similes—to put forward the ‘brow of Egypt’—to stick +metaphors upon him, as the Americans upon General Washington. The only +merit such topics have room for is an easy and dextrous plainness—a sober +suit of well-fitting expressions—a free, working, flowing, picturesque +garb of words adapted to the solid conduct of a sound and serious world, +and this merit Cowper’s style has. On the other hand, it entirely wants +the higher and rarer excellences of poetical expression. There is none +of the choice art which has studiously selected the words of one class +of great poets, or the rare, untaught, unteachable felicity which has +vivified those of others. No one, in reading Cowper, stops as if to draw +his breath more deeply over words which do not so much express or clothe +poetical ideas, as seem to intertwine, coalesce, and be blended with the +very essence of poetry itself. + +Of course a poet could not deal in any measure with such subjects as +Cowper dealt with, and not become inevitably, to a certain extent, +satirical. The ludicrous is in some sort the imagination of common life. +The ‘dreary intercourse’ of which Wordsworth makes mention, would be +dreary, unless some people possessed more than he did the faculty of +making fun. A universe in which Dignity No. I. conversed decorously with +Dignity No. II. on topics befitting their state, would be perhaps a levee +of great intellects and a tea-table of enormous thoughts; but it would +want the best charm of this earth—the medley of great things and little, +of things mundane and things celestial, things low and things awful, of +things eternal and things of half a minute. It is in this contrast that +humour and satire have their place—pointing out the intense unspeakable +incongruity of the groups and juxtapositions of our world. To all of +these which fell under his own eye, Cowper was alive. A gentle sense of +propriety and consistency in daily things was evidently characteristic of +him; and if he fail of the highest success in this species of art, it is +not from an imperfect treatment of the scenes and conceptions which he +touched, but from the fact that the follies with which he deals are not +the greatest follies—that there are deeper absurdities in human life than +John Gilpin touches upon—that the superficial occurrences of ludicrous +life do not exhaust, or even deeply test, the mirthful resources of our +minds and fortunes. + +As a scold, we think Cowper failed. He had a great idea of the use of +railing, and there are many pages of laudable invective against various +vices which we feel no call whatever to defend. But a great vituperator +had need to be a great hater; and of any real rage, any such gall and +bitterness as great and irritable satirists have in other ages let loose +upon men, of any thorough, brooding, burning, abiding detestation, he +was as incapable as a tame hare. His vituperation reads like the mild +man’s whose wife ate up his dinner, ‘Really, Sir, I feel quite _angry_!’ +Nor has his language any of the sharp intrusive acumen which divides in +sunder both soul and spirit, and makes fierce and unforgettable reviling. + +Some people may be surprised, notwithstanding our lengthy explanation, at +hearing Cowper treated as of the school of Pope. It has been customary, +at least with some critics, to speak of him as one of those who recoiled +from the artificiality of that great writer, and at least commenced a +return to a simple delineation of outward nature. And of course there +is considerable truth in this idea. The poetry (if such it is) of Pope +would be just as true if all the trees were yellow and all the grass +flesh-colour. He did not care for ‘snowy scalps,’ or ‘rolling streams,’ +or ‘icy halls,’ or ‘precipice’s gloom.’ Nor, for that matter, did Cowper +either. He, as Hazlitt most justly said, was as much afraid of a shower +of rain as any man that ever lived. At the same time, the fashionable +life described by Pope has no reference whatever to the beauties of +the material universe, never regards them, could go on just as well in +the soft, sloppy, gelatinous existence which Dr. Whewell (who knows) +says is alone possible in Jupiter and Saturn. But the rural life of +Cowper’s poetry has a constant and necessary reference to the country, +is identified with its features, cannot be separated from it even in +fancy. Green fields and a slow river seem all the material of beauty +Cowper had given him. But what was more to the purpose, his attention +was well concentrated upon them. As he himself said, he did not go more +than thirteen miles from home for twenty years, and very seldom as far. +He was, therefore, well able to find out all that was charming in Olney +and its neighbourhood, and as it presented nothing which is not to be +found in any of the fresh rural parts of England, what he has left us is +really a delicate description and appreciative delineation of the simple +essential English country. + +However, it is to be remarked that the description of nature in Cowper +differs altogether from the peculiar delineation of the same subject, +which has been so influential in more recent times, and which bears, +after its greatest master, the name Wordsworthian. To Cowper nature +is simply a background, a beautiful background no doubt, but still +essentially a _locus in quo_—a space in which the work and mirth of life +pass and are performed. A more professedly formal delineation does not +occur than the following:— + + ‘O Winter! ruler of the inverted year, + Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled, + Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks + Fringed with a beard made white with other snows + Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, + A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne + A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, + But urged by storms along its slippery way; + I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest, + And dreaded as thou art. Thou holdest the sun + A prisoner in the yet undawning east, + Shortening his journey between morn and noon, + And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, + Down to the rosy west; but kindly still + Compensating his loss with added hours + Of social converse and instructive ease, + And gathering, at short notice, in one group + The family dispersed, and fixing thought, + Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. + I crown thee King of intimate delights, + Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, + And all the comforts that the lowly roof + Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours + Of long uninterrupted evening know. + No rattling wheels stop short before these gates.’ + +After a very few lines he returns within doors to the occupation of +man and woman—to human tasks and human pastimes. To Wordsworth, on the +contrary, nature is a religion. So far from being unwilling to treat +her as a special object of study, he hardly thought any other equal or +comparable. He was so far from holding the doctrine that the earth was +made for men to live in, that it would rather seem as if he thought men +were created to see the earth. The whole aspect of nature was to him +a special revelation of an immanent and abiding power—a breath of the +pervading art—a smile of the Eternal Mind—according to the lines which +every one knows,— + + ‘A sense sublime + Of something far more deeply interfused; + Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, + And the round ocean, and the living air, + And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: + A motion and a spirit, that impels + All thinking things, all objects of all thought, + And rolls through all things.’ + +Of this haunting, supernatural, mystical view of nature Cowper never +heard. Like the strong old lady who said, ‘_She_ was born before nerves +were invented,’ he may be said to have lived before the awakening of the +detective sensibility which reveals this deep and obscure doctrine. + +In another point of view, also, Cowper is curiously contrasted with +Wordsworth, as a delineator of nature. The delineation of Cowper is +a simple delineation. He makes a sketch of the object before him, +and there he leaves it. Wordsworth, on the contrary, is not satisfied +unless he describe not only the bare outward object which others see, +but likewise the reflected high-wrought feelings which that object +excites in a brooding, self-conscious mind. His subject was not so much +nature, as nature reflected by Wordsworth. Years of deep musing and long +introspection had made him familiar with every shade and shadow in the +many-coloured impression which the universe makes on meditative genius +and observant sensibility. Now these feelings Cowper did not describe, +because, to all appearance, he did not perceive them. He had a great +pleasure in watching the common changes and common aspects of outward +things, but he was not invincibly prone to brood and pore over their +reflex effects upon his own mind: + + ‘A primrose by the river’s brim, + A yellow primrose was to him, + And it was nothing more.’ + +According to the account which Cowper at first gave of his literary +occupations, his entire design was to communicate the religious views +to which he was then a convert. He fancied that the vehicle of verse +might bring many to listen to truths which they would be disinclined to +have stated to them in simple prose. And however tedious the recurrence +of these theological tenets may be to the common reader, it is certain +that a considerable portion of Cowper’s peculiar popularity may be +traced to their expression. He is the one poet of a class which have no +poets. In that once large and still considerable portion of the English +world, which regards the exercise of the fancy and the imagination as +dangerous—snares, as they speak—distracting the soul from an intense +consideration of abstract doctrine, Cowper’s strenuous inculcation of +those doctrines has obtained for him a certain toleration. Of course +all verse is perilous. The use of single words is harmless, but the +employment of two, in such a manner as to form a rhyme—the regularities +of interval and studied recurrence of the same sound, evince an attention +to time, and a partiality to things of sense. Most poets must be +prohibited; the exercise of the fancy requires watching. But Cowper is a +ticket-of-leave man. He has the chaplain’s certificate. He has expressed +himself ‘with the utmost propriety.’ The other imaginative criminals must +be left to the fates, but he may be admitted to the sacred drawing-room, +though with constant care and scrupulous _surveillance_. Perhaps, +however, taken in connection with his diseased and peculiar melancholy, +these tenets really add to the artistic effect of Cowper’s writings. The +free discussion of daily matters, the delicate delineation of domestic +detail, the passing narrative of fugitive occurrences, would seem light +and transitory, if it were not broken by the interruption of a terrible +earnestness, and relieved by the dark background of a deep and foreboding +sadness. It is scarcely artistic to describe the ‘painted veil which +those who live call life,’ and leave wholly out of view and undescribed +‘the chasm sightless and drear,’ which lies always beneath and around it. + +It is of the _Task_ more than of Cowper’s earlier volume of poems that +a critic of his poetry must more peculiarly be understood to speak. All +the best qualities of his genius are there concentrated, and the alloy +is less than elsewhere. He was fond of citing the saying of Dryden, that +the rhyme had often helped him to a thought—a great but very perilous +truth. The difficulty is, that the rhyme so frequently helps to the wrong +thought—that the stress of the mind is recalled from the main thread +of the poem, from the narrative, or sentiment, or delineation, to some +wayside remark or fancy, which the casual resemblance of final sound +suggests. This is fatal, unless either a poet’s imagination be so hot +and determined as to bear down upon its objects, and to be unwilling +to hear the voice of any charmer who might distract it, or else the +nature of the poem itself should be of so desultory a character that it +does not much matter about the sequence of the thought—at least within +great and ample limits, as in some of Swift’s casual rhymes, where the +sound is in fact the connecting link of unity. Now Cowper is not often +in either of these positions; he always has a thread of argument on +which he is hanging his illustrations, and yet he has not the exclusive +interest or the undeviating energetic downrightness of mind which would +ensure his going through it without idling or turning aside; consequently +the thoughts which the rhyme suggests are constantly breaking in upon +the main matter, destroying the emphatic unity which is essential to +rhythmical delineation. His blank verse of course is exempt from this +defect, and there is moreover something in the nature of the metre which +fits it for the expression of studious and quiet reflection. The _Task_ +too was composed at the healthiest period of Cowper’s later life, in the +full vigour of his faculties, and with the spur the semi-recognition of +his first volume had made it a common subject of literary discussion, +whether he was a poet or not. Many men could endure—as indeed all but +about ten do actually in every generation endure—to be without this +distinction; but few could have an idea that it was a frequent point of +argument whether they were duly entitled to possess it or not, without +at least a strong desire to settle the question by some work of decisive +excellence. This the _Task_ achieved for Cowper. Since its publication +his name has been a household word—a particularly household word in +English literature. The story of its composition is connected with one of +the most curious incidents in Cowper’s later life, and has given occasion +to a good deal of writing. + +In the summer of 1781 it happened that two ladies called at a shop +exactly opposite the house at Olney where Cowper and Mrs. Unwin +resided. One of these was a familiar and perhaps tame object,—a Mrs. +Jones,—the wife of a neighbouring parson; the other, however, was so +striking, that Cowper, one of the shyest and least demonstrative of men, +immediately asked Mrs. Unwin to invite her to tea. This was a great +event, as it would appear that few or no social interruptions, casual +or contemplated, then varied what Cowper called the ‘duality of his +existence.’ This favoured individual was Lady Austen, a person of what +Mr. Hayley terms ‘colloquial talents;’ in truth an energetic, vivacious, +amusing, and rather handsome lady of the world. She had been much in +France, and is said to have caught the facility of manner and love of +easy society, which is the unchanging characteristic of that land of +change. She was a fascinating person in the great world, and it is not +difficult to imagine she must have been an excitement indeed at Olney. +She was, however, most gracious; fell in love, as Cowper says, not only +with him but with Mrs. Unwin; was called ‘Sister Ann,’ laughed and made +laugh, was every way so great an acquisition that his seeing her appeared +to him to show ‘strong marks of providential interposition.’ He thought +her superior to the curate’s wife, who was a ‘valuable person,’ but had +a family, &c. &c. The new acquaintance had much to contribute to the +Olney conversation. She had seen much of the world, and probably seen it +well, and had at least a good deal to narrate concerning it. Among other +interesting matters, she one day recounted to Cowper the story of John +Gilpin, as one which she had heard in childhood, and in a short time the +poet sent her the ballad, which every one has liked ever since. It was +written, he says, no doubt truly, in order to relieve a fit of terrible +and uncommon despondency; but altogether, for a few months after the +introduction of this new companion, he was more happy and animated than +at any other time after his first illness. Clouds, nevertheless, began +to show themselves soon. The circumstances are of the minute and female +kind, which it would require a good deal of writing to describe, even +if we knew them perfectly. The original cause of misconstruction was a +rather romantic letter of Lady Austen, drawing a sublime picture of what +she expected from Cowper’s friendship. Mr. Scott, the clergyman at Olney, +who had taken the place of Mr. Newton, and who is described as a dry +and sensible man, gave a short account of what he thought was the real +embroilment. ‘Who,’ said he, ‘can be surprised that two women should be +daily in the society of one man and then quarrel with _one another_?’ +Cowper’s own description shows how likely this was. + + ‘From a scene of the most uninterrupted retirement,’ he + says to Mr. Unwin, ‘we have passed at once into a state of + constant engagement. Not that our society is much multiplied; + the addition of an individual has made all this difference. + Lady Austen and we pass our days alternately at each other’s + _château_. In the morning I walk with one or other of the + ladies, and in the afternoon wind thread. Thus did Hercules, + and thus probably did Samson, and thus do I; and were both + those heroes living, I should not fear to challenge them to a + trial of skill in that business, or doubt to beat them both. As + to killing lions and other amusements of that kind, with which + they were so delighted, I should be their humble servant and + beg to be excused.’ + +Things were in this state when she suggested to him the composition of a +new poem of some length in blank verse, and on being asked to suggest a +subject, said, Well, write upon that ‘sofa,’ whence is the title of the +first book of the _Task_. According to Cowper’s own account, it was this +poem which was the cause of the ensuing dissension. + + ‘On her first settlement in our neighbourhood, I made it my + own particular business (for at that time I was not employed + in writing, having published my first volume, and not begun + my second) to pay my devoirs to her ladyship every morning at + eleven. Customs very soon become laws. I began the _Task_; for + she was the lady who gave me the Sofa for a subject. Being once + engaged in the work, I began to feel the inconvenience of my + morning attendance. We had seldom breakfasted ourselves till + ten: and the intervening hour was all the time that I could + find in the whole day for writing; and occasionally it would + happen that the half of that hour was all that I could secure + for the purpose. But there was no remedy. Long usage had made + that which at first was optional, a point of good manners, and + consequently of necessity, and I was forced to neglect the + _Task_, to attend upon the Muse who had inspired the subject. + But she had ill health, and before I had quite finished the + work was obliged to repair to Bristol.’ + +And it is possible that this is the true account of the matter. Yet +we fancy there is a kind of awkwardness and constraint in the manner +in which it is spoken of. Of course, the plain and literal portion of +mankind have set it down at once that Cowper was in love with Lady +Austen, just as they married him over and over again to Mrs. Unwin. But +of a strong passionate love, as we have before explained, we do not think +Cowper capable, and there are certainly no signs of it in this case. +There is, however, one odd circumstance. Years after, when no longer +capable of original composition, he was fond of hearing all his poems +read to him except ‘John Gilpin.’ There were recollections, he said, +connected with those verses which were too painful. Did he mean, the worm +that dieth not—the reminiscence of the animated narratress of that not +intrinsically melancholy legend? + +The literary success of Cowper opened to him a far larger circle +of acquaintance, and connected him in close bonds with many of his +relations, who had looked with an unfavourable eye at the peculiar tenets +which he had adopted, and the peculiar and recluse life which he had +been advised to lead. It is to these friends and acquaintance that we +owe that copious correspondence on which so much of Cowper’s fame at +present rests. The complete letter-writer is now an unknown animal. In +the last century, when communications were difficult, and epistles rare, +there were a great many valuable people who devoted a good deal of time +to writing elaborate letters. You wrote letters to a man whom you knew +nineteen years and a half ago, and told him what you had for dinner, and +what your second cousin said, and how the crops got on. Every detail of +life was described and dwelt on, and improved. The art of writing, at +least of writing easily, was comparatively rare, which kept the number +of such compositions within narrow limits. Sir Walter Scott says he knew +a man who remembered that the London post-bag once came to Edinburgh +with only one letter in it. One can fancy the solemn conscientious +elaborateness with which a person would write, with the notion that his +letter would have a whole coach and a whole bag to itself, and travel two +hundred miles alone, the exclusive object of a red guard’s care. The only +thing like it now—the deferential minuteness with which one public office +writes to another, conscious that the letter will travel on her Majesty’s +service three doors down the passage—sinks by comparison into cursory +brevity. No administrative reform will be able to bring even the official +mind of these days into the grave inch-an-hour conscientiousness with +which a confidential correspondent of a century ago related the growth +of apples, the manufacture of jams, the appearance of flirtations, and +other such things. All the ordinary incidents of an easy life were made +the most of; a party was epistolary capital, a race a mine of wealth. So +deeply sentimental was this intercourse, that it was much argued whether +the affections were created for the sake of the ink, or ink for the sake +of the affections. Thus it continued for many years, and the fruits +thereof are written in the volumes of family papers, which daily appear, +are praised as ‘materials for the historian,’ and consigned, as the case +may be, to posterity or oblivion. All this has now passed away. Sir +Rowland Hill is entitled to the credit, not only of introducing stamps, +but also of destroying letters. The amount of annotations which will be +required to make the notes of this day intelligible to posterity is a +wonderful idea, and no quantity of comment will make them readable. You +might as well publish a collection of telegraphs. The careful detail, the +studious minuteness, the circumstantial statement of a former time, is +exchanged for a curt brevity or only half-intelligible narration. In old +times, letters were written for people who knew nothing and required to +be told everything. Now they are written for people who know everything +except the one thing which the letter is designed to explain to them. +It is impossible in some respects not to regret the old practice. It +is well that each age should write for itself a faithful account of +its habitual existence. We do this to a certain extent in novels, but +novels are difficult materials for an historian. They raise a cause and +a controversy as to how far they are really faithful delineations. Lord +Macaulay is even now under criticism for his use of the plays of the +seventeenth century. Letters are generally true on certain points. The +least veracious man will tell truly the colour of his coat, the hour of +his dinner, the materials of his shoes. The unconscious delineation of a +recurring and familiar life is beyond the reach of a fraudulent fancy. +Horace Walpole was not a very scrupulous narrator; yet it was too much +trouble even for him to tell lies on many things. His set stories and +conspicuous scandals are no doubt often unfounded, but there is a gentle +undercurrent of daily unremarkable life and manners which he evidently +assumed as a datum for his historical imagination. Whence posterity will +derive this for the times of Queen Victoria it is difficult to fancy. +Even memoirs are no resource; they generally leave out the common life, +and try at least to bring out the uncommon events. + +It is evident that this species of composition exactly harmonised with +the temperament and genius of Cowper. Detail was his forte and quietness +his element. Accordingly, his delicate humour plays over perhaps a +million letters, mostly descriptive of events which no one else would +have thought worth narrating, and yet which, when narrated, show to +us, and will show to persons to whom it will be yet more strange, the +familiar, placid, easy, ruminating, provincial existence of our great +grandfathers. Slow, Olney might be,—indescribable, it certainly was not. +We seem to have lived there ourselves. + +The most copious subject of Cowper’s correspondence is his translation +of Homer. This was published by subscription, and it is pleasant to +observe the healthy facility with which one of the shyest men in the +world set himself to extract guineas from every one he had ever heard of. +In several cases he was very successful. The University of Oxford, he +tells us, declined, as of course it would, to recognise the principle of +subscribing towards literary publications; but other public bodies and +many private persons were more generous. It is to be wished that their +aid had contributed to the production of a more pleasing work. The fact +is, Cowper was not like Agamemnon. The most conspicuous feature in the +Greek heroes is a certain brisk, decisive activity, which always strikes +and always likes to strike. This quality is faithfully represented in the +poet himself. Homer is the briskest of men. The Germans have denied that +there was any such person; but they have never questioned his extreme +activity. ‘From what you tell me, sir,’ said an American, ‘I should like +to have read Homer. I should say he was a go-ahead party.’ Now this is +exactly what Cowper was not. His genius was domestic, and tranquil, and +calm. He had no sympathy, or little sympathy, even with the common, +half-asleep activities of a refined society; an evening party was too +much for him; a day’s hunt a preposterous excitement. It is absurd to +expect a man like this to sympathise with the stern stimulants of a +barbaric age, with a race who fought because they liked it, and a poet +who sang of fighting because he thought their taste judicious. As if to +make matters worse, Cowper selected a metre in which it would be scarcely +possible for any one, however gifted, to translate Homer. The two kinds +of metrical composition most essentially opposed to one another are +ballad poetry and blank verse. The very nature of the former requires a +marked pause and striking rhythm. Every line should have a distinct end +and a clear beginning. It is like martial music, there should be a tramp +in the very versification of it:— + + ‘Armour rusting in his halls + On the blood of Clifford calls; + “Quell the Scot,” exclaims the lance, + Bear me to the heart of France, + Is the longing of the shield: + Tell thy name, thou trembling field, + Field of death, where’er thou be, + Groan thou with our victory.’ + +And this is the tone of Homer. The grandest of human tongues marches +forward with its proudest steps: the clearest tones call forward—the most +marked of metres carries him on:— + + ‘Like a reappearing star, + Like a glory from afar—’ + +he ever heads, and will head, ‘the flock of war.’ Now blank verse is +the exact opposite of all this. Dr. Johnson laid down that it was verse +only to the eye, which was a bold dictum. But without going this length +it will be safe to say, that of all considerable metres in our language +it has the least distinct conclusion, least decisive repetition, the +least trumpet-like rhythm; and it is this of which Cowper made choice. +He had an idea that extreme literalness was an unequalled advantage, +and logically reasoned that it was easier to do this in that metre +than in any other. He did not quite hold with Mr. Cobbett that the +‘gewgaw fetters of rhyme were invented by the monks to enslave the +people;’ but as a man who had due experience of both, he was aware +that it is easier to write two lines of different endings than two +lines of the same ending, and supposed that by taking advantage of +this to preserve the exact grammatical meaning of his author, he was +indisputably approximating to a good translation. ‘Whether,’ he writes, +‘a translation of Homer may be best executed in blank verse or in rhyme +is a question in the decision of which no man finds difficulty who has +ever duly considered what translation ought to be, or who is in any +degree practically acquainted with those kinds of versification.... No +human ingenuity can be equal to the task of closing every couplet with +sounds homotonous, expressing at the same time the full sense, and only +the full sense, of the original.’ And if the true object of translation +were to save the labour and dictionaries of construing schoolboys, there +is no question but this slavish adherence to the original would be the +most likely to gain the approbation of those diminutive but sure judges. +But if the object is to convey an idea of the general tone, scope, and +artistic effect of the original, the mechanical copying of the details +is as likely to end in a good result as a careful cast from a dead man’s +features to produce a living and speaking being. On the whole, therefore, +the condemnation remains, that Homer is not dull, and Cowper is. + +With the translation of Homer terminated all the brightest period of +Cowper’s life. There is little else to say. He undertook an edition +of Milton—a most difficult task, involving the greatest and most +accurate learning, in theology, in classics, in Italian—in a word, in +all ante-Miltonic literature. By far the greater portion of this lay +quite out of Cowper’s path. He had never been a hard student, and his +evident incapacity for the task troubled and vexed him. A man who had +never been able to assume any real responsibility was not likely to +feel comfortable under the weight of a task which very few men would be +able to accomplish. Mrs. Unwin too fell into a state of helplessness +and despondency; and instead of relying on her for cheerfulness and +management, he was obliged to manage for her, and cheer her. His mind +was unequal to the task. Gradually the dark cloud of melancholy, which +had hung about him so long, grew and grew, and extended itself day by +day. In vain Lord Thurlow, who was a likely man to know, assured him +that his spiritual despondency was without ground; he smiled sadly, but +seemed to think that at any rate he was not going into Chancery. In vain +Hayley, a rival poet, but a good-natured, blundering, well-intentioned, +incoherent man, went to and fro, getting the Lord Chief Justice and +other dignitaries to attest, under their hands, that they concurred in +Thurlow’s opinion. In vain, with far wiser kindness, his relatives, +especially many of his mother’s family, from whom he had been long +divided, but who gradually drew nearer to him as they were wanted, +endeavoured to divert his mind to healthful labour and tranquil society. +The day of these things had passed away—the summer was ended. He became +quite unequal to original composition, and his greatest pleasure was +hearing his own writings read to him. After a long period of hopeless +despondency he died on April 25, in the first year of this century; and +if he needs an epitaph, let us say, that not in vain was he Nature’s +favourite. As a higher poet sings:— + + ‘And all day long I number yet, + All seasons through, another debt, + Which I, wherever thou art met, + To thee am owing; + An instinct call it, a blind sense, + A happy, genial influence, + Coming one knows not how nor whence, + Nor whither going.’ + + ... + + ‘If stately passions in me burn, + And one chance look to thee should turn, + I drink out of an humbler urn, + A lowlier pleasure; + The homely sympathy that heeds + The common life our nature breeds; + A wisdom fitted to the needs + Of hearts at leisure.’ + + + + +APPENDIX. + + + + +LETTERS ON THE FRENCH COUP D’ÉTAT OF 1851. + +(_Addressed to the Editor of ‘THE INQUIRER.’_) + + +LETTER I. + +_THE DICTATORSHIP._ + + PARIS: Jan. 8, 1852. + +SIR,—You have asked me to tell you what I think of French affairs. I +shall be pleased to do so; but I ought perhaps to begin by cautioning +you against believing, or too much heeding, what I say. However, I do +not imagine that I need do so; for with your experience of the public +journals, you will be quite aware that it is not difficult to be an +‘occasional correspondent.’ Have your boots polished in a blacking-shop, +and call the interesting officiator an ‘intelligent _ouvrier_;’ be +shaved, and cite the _coiffeur_ as ‘a person in rather a superior +station;’ call your best acquaintance ‘a well-informed person,’ and all +others ‘persons whom I have found to be occasionally not in error,’ +and—abroad, at least—you will soon have matter for a newspaper letter. +I should quite deceive you if I professed to have made these profound +researches; nor, like Sir Francis Head, ‘do I no longer know where I +am,’ because the French President has asked me to accompany him in his +ride. My perception of personal locality has not as yet been so tried. I +only know what a person who is in a foreign country during an important +political catastrophe cannot avoid knowing, what he runs against, what is +beaten into him, what he can hardly help hearing, seeing, and reflecting. + +That Louis Napoleon has gone to Notre Dame to return thanks to God +for the seven millions and odd suffrages of the French people—that +he has taken up his abode at the Tuileries, and that he has had new +napoleons coined in his name—that he has broken up the trees of liberty +for firewood—that he has erased, or is erasing (for they are many), +_Liberté_, _Egalité_, and _Fraternité_ from the National buildings,—all +these things are so easy and so un-English, that I am pretty sure, with +you, they will be thought signs of pompous impotence, and I suppose +many people will be inclined to believe the best comment to be the one +which I heard—‘_Mon Dieu, il a sauvé la France: la rue du Coq s’appelle +maintenant la rue de l’Aigle!_’[33] + +I am inclined, however, to imagine that this idea would be utterly +erroneous; that, on the contrary, the President is just now, at least, +really strong and really popular; that the act of December 2nd did +succeed and is succeeding; that many, that most, of the inferior people +do really and sincerely pray _Domine Salvum fac Napoleonem_. + +In what I have seen of the comments of the English press upon recent +events here, two things are not quite enough kept apart—I mean the +temporary dictatorship of Louis Napoleon to meet and cope with the +expected crisis of ’52, and the continuance of that dictatorship +hereafter,—the new, or as it is called, the _Bas_-Empire—in a word, the +coming Constitution and questionable political machinery with which ‘the +nephew of my uncle’ is now proposing to endow France. Of course, in +reality these two things _are_ separate. It is one thing to hold that a +military rule is required to meet an urgent and temporary difficulty: +another, to advocate the continuance of such a system, when so critical a +necessity no longer exists. + +It seems to me, or would seem, if I did not know that I was contradicted +both by much English writing and opinion, and also by many most +competent judges here, that the first point, the temporary dictatorship, +is a tolerably clear case; that it is not to be complicated with the +perplexing inquiry what form of government will permanently suit the +French people;—that the President was, under the actual facts of +the case, quite justified in assuming the responsibility, though of +course I allow that responsibility to be tremendous. My reasons for so +believing I shall in this letter endeavour to explain, except that I +shall not, I fancy, have room to say much on the moral defensibility or +indefensibility of the _coup d’état_; nor do I imagine that you want +from me any ethical speculation—that is manufactured in Printing-house +Square; but I shall give the best account I can of the matter-of-fact +consequences and antecedents of the New Revolution, of which, in some +sense, a resident in France may feel without presumption that he knows +something hardly so well known to those at home. + +The political justification of Louis Napoleon is, as I apprehend, to be +found in the state of the public mind which immediately preceded the +_coup d’état_. It is very rarely that a country expects a revolution at +a given time; indeed, it is perhaps not common for ordinary persons in +any country to anticipate a revolution at all; though profound people +may speculate, the mass will ever expect to-morrow to be as this day +at least, if not more abundant. But once name the day, and all this +is quite altered. As a general rule the very people who would be most +likely to neglect general anticipation are exactly those most likely to +exaggerate the proximate consequences of a certain impending event. At +any rate, in France five weeks ago, the tradespeople talked of May, ’52, +as if it were the end of the world. Civilisation and Socialism might +probably endure, but buying and selling would surely come to an end; in +fact, they anticipated a worse era than February, ’48, when trade was +at a standstill so long that it has hardly yet recovered, and when the +Government stocks fell 40 per cent. It is hardly to be imagined upon +what petty details the dread of political dissolution at a fixed and +not distant time will condescend to intrude itself. I was present when +a huge _Flamande_, in appearance so intrepid that I respectfully pitied +her husband, came to ask the character of a _bonne_. I was amazed to hear +her say, ‘I hope the girl is strong, for when the revolution comes next +May, and I have to turn off my helper, she will have enough to do.’ It +seemed to me that a political apprehension must be pretty general, when +it affected that most non-speculative of speculations, the _reckoning_ of +a housewife. With this feeling, everybody saved their money: who would +spend in luxuries that which might so soon be necessary and invaluable! +This economy made commerce,—especially the peculiarly Parisian trade, +which is almost wholly in articles that _can_ be spared—worse and worse; +the more depressed trade became, the more the traders feared, and the +more they feared, the worse all trade inevitably grew. + +I apprehend that this feeling extended very generally among all the +classes who do not find or make a livelihood by literature or by +politics. Among the clever people, who understood the subject, very +likely the expectation was extremely different; but among the stupid +ones who mind their business, and have a business to mind, there was a +universal and excessive tremor. The only notion of ’52 was ‘_on se battra +dans la rue_.’ Their dread was especially of Socialism; they expected +that the followers of M. Proudhon, who advisedly and expressly maintains +‘anarchy’ to be the best form of Government, would attempt to carry out +their theories in action, and that the division between the Legislative +and Executive power would so cripple the party of order as to make +their means of resistance for the moment feeble and difficult to use. +The more sensible did not, I own, expect the annihilation of mankind: +civilisation dies hard; the organised sense in all countries is strong; +but they expected vaguely and crudely that the party which in ’93 ruled +for many months, and which in June ’48 fought so fanatically against +the infant republic, would certainly make a desperate attack,—_might_ +for some time obtain the upper hand. Of course, it is now matter of +mere argument whether the danger was real or unreal, and it is in some +quarters rather the fashion to quiz the past fear, and to deny that +any Socialists anywhere exist. In spite of the literary exertions of +Proudhon and Louis Blanc, in spite of the prison quarrels of Blanqui and +Barbès—there are certainly found people who question whether anybody buys +the books of the two former, or cares for the incarcerated dissensions +of the two latter. But however this may be, it is certain that two days +after the _coup d’état_ a mass of persons thought it worth while to +erect some dozen barricades, and among these, and superintending and +directing their every movement, there certainly were, for I saw them +myself, men whose physiognomy and accoutrements exactly resembled the +traditional Montagnard, sallow, stern, compressed, with much marked +features, which expressed but resisted suffering, and brooding one-ideaed +thought, men who from their youth upward had for ever imagined, like +Jonah, that they did well—immensely well—to be angry, men armed to the +teeth, and ready, like the soldiers of the first Republic, to use their +arms savagely and well in defence of theories broached by a Robespierre, +a Blanqui, or a Barbès, gloomy fanatics, over-principled ruffians. I +may perhaps be mistaken in reading in their features the characters of +such men, but I know that when one of them disturbed my superintendence +of barricade-making with a stern _allez vous-en_, it was not too slowly +that I departed, for I _felt_ that he would rather shoot me than not. +Having seen these people, I conceive that they exist. But supposing that +they were all simply fabulous, it would not less be certain that they +were _believed_ to be, and to be active; nor would it impair the fact +that the quiet classes awaited their onslaught in morbid apprehension, +with miserable and craven, and I fear we ought to say, _commercial_ +disquietude. + +You will not be misled by any highflown speculations about liberty or +equality. You will, I imagine, concede to me that the first duty of +a government is to ensure the security of that industry which is the +condition of social life and civilised cultivation; that especially in so +excitable a country as France it is necessary that the dangerous classes +should be saved from the strong temptation of long idleness; and that +no danger could be more formidable than six months’ beggary among the +revolutionary _ouvriers_, immediately preceding the exact period fixed +by European as well as French opinion for an apprehended convulsion. +It is from this state of things, whether by fair means or foul, that +Louis Napoleon has delivered France. The effect was magical. Like people +who have nearly died because it was prophesied they would die at a +specified time, and instantly recovered when they found or thought that +the time was gone and past, so France, timorously anticipating the fated +revolution, in a moment revived when she found or fancied that it was +come and over. Commerce instantly improved; New Year’s Day, when all the +Boulevards are one continued fair, has not (as I am told) been for some +years so gay and splendid; people began to buy, and consequently to sell; +for though it is quite possible, or even probable, that new misfortunes +and convulsions may be in store for the French people, yet no one can say +when they will be, and to wait till revolutions be exhausted is but the +best Parisian for our old acquaintance _Rusticus expectat_. Clever people +may now prove that the dreaded peril was a simple chimera, but they can’t +deny that the fear of it was very real and painful, nor can they dispute +that in a week after the _coup d’état_ it had at once, and apparently for +ever, passed away. + +I fear it must be said that no legal or constitutional act could have +given an equal confidence. What was wanted was the assurance of an +audacious Government, which would stop at nothing, scruple at nothing, +to secure its own power and the tranquillity of the country. That +assurance all now have; a man who will in this manner dare to dissolve +an assembly constitutionally his superiors, then prevent their meeting +by armed force; so well and so sternly repress the first beginning of an +outbreak, with so little misgiving assume and exercise sole power,—may +have enormous other defects, but is certainly a bold ruler—most probably +an unscrupulous one—little likely to flinch from any inferior trial. + +Of Louis Napoleon, whose personal qualities are, for the moment, so +important, I cannot now speak at length. But I may say that, with +whatever other deficiencies he may have, he has one excellent advantage +over other French statesmen—he has never been a professor, nor a +journalist, nor a promising barrister, nor, by taste, a _littérateur_. +He has not confused himself with history; he does not think in leading +articles, in long speeches, or in agreeable essays. But he is capable +of observing facts rightly, of reflecting on them simply, and acting on +them discreetly. And his motto is Danton’s, _De l’audace et toujours de +l’audace_, and this you know, according to Bacon, in time of revolution, +will carry a man far, perhaps even to ultimate victory, and that +ever-future millennium ‘_la consolidation de la France_.’ + +But on these distant questions I must not touch. I have endeavoured to +show you what was the crisis, how strong the remedy, and what the need of +a dictatorship. I hope to have convinced you that the first was imminent, +the second effectual, and the last expedient. I remain yours, + + AMICUS. + + +LETTER II. + +_THE MORALITY OF THE COUP D’ÉTAT._ + + PARIS: Jan. 15, 1852. + +SIR,—I know quite well what will be said about, or in answer to, my +last letter. It will be alleged that I think everything in France is to +be postponed to the Parisian commerce—that a Constitution, Equality, +Liberty, a Representative Government, are all to be set aside if +they interfere even for a moment with the sale of _étrennes_ or the +manufacture of gimcracks. + +I, as you know, hold no such opinions: it would not be necessary for me +to undeceive you, who would, I rather hope, never suspect me of _that_ +sort of folly. But as St. Athanasius aptly observes, ‘for the sake of +the women who may be led astray, I will this very instant explain my +sentiments.’ + +Contrary to Sheridan’s rule, I commence by a concession. I certainly +admit, indeed I would, upon occasion, maintain, _bonbons_ and bracelets +to be things less important than common law and Constitutional action. +A _coup d’état_ would, I may allow, be mischievously supererogatory if +it only promoted the enjoyment of what a lady in the highest circles is +said to call ‘bigotry and virtue.’ But the real question is not to be so +disposed of. The Parisian trade, the jewellery, the baubles, the silks, +the luxuries, which the Exhibition showed us to be the characteristic +industry of France, are very dust in the balance if weighed against the +hands and arms which their manufacture employs—the industrial habits +which their regular sale rewards—the hunger and idle weariness which +the certain demand for them prevents. For this is the odd peculiarity +of commercial civilisation. The life, the welfare, the existence of +thousands depend on their being paid for doing what seems nothing when +done. That gorgeous dandies should wear gorgeous studs—that pretty +girls should be prettily dressed—that pleasant drawing-rooms should +be pleasantly attired—may seem, to people of our age, sad trifling. +But grave as we are, we must become graver still when we reflect on +the horrid suffering which the sudden cessation of large luxurious +consumption would certainly create, if we imagine such a city as Lyons +to be, without warning, turned out of work, and the population feelingly +told ‘to cry in the streets when no man regardeth.’ + +The first duty of society is the preservation of society. By the sound +work of old-fashioned generations—by the singular painstaking of the +slumberers in churchyards—by dull care—by stupid industry, a certain +social fabric somehow exists; people contrive to go out to their work, +and to find work to employ them actually until the evening, body and soul +are kept together, and this is what mankind have to show for their six +thousand years of toil and trouble. + +To keep up this system we must sacrifice everything. Parliaments, +liberty, leading articles, essays, eloquence,—all are good, but they are +secondary; at all hazards, and if we can, mankind must be kept alive. And +observe, as time goes on, this fabric becomes a tenderer and a tenderer +thing. Civilisation can’t bivouac; dangers, hardships, sufferings, +lightly borne by the coarse muscle of earlier times, are soon fatal to +noble and cultivated organisation. Women in early ages are masculine, +and, as a return match, the men of late years are becoming women. The +strong apprehension of a Napoleonic invasion has, perhaps, just now +caused more substantial misery in England than once the wars of the Roses. + +To apply this ‘screed of doctrine’ to the condition of France. I do not +at all say that, but for the late _coup d’état_, French civilisation +would certainly have soon come to a final end. _Some_ people might have +continued to take their meals. Even Socialism would hardly abolish _eau +sucrée_. But I do assert that, according to the common belief of the +common people, their common comforts were in considerable danger. The +debasing torture of acute apprehension was eating into the crude pleasure +of stupid lives. No man liked to take a long bill: no one could imagine +to himself what was coming. Fear was paralysing life and labour, and as I +said at length, in my last, fear, so intense, whether at first reasonable +or unreasonable, will, ere long, invincibly justify itself. May 1852 +would, in all likelihood, have been an evil and bloody time, if it had +been preceded by six months’ famine among the starvable classes. + +At present all is changed. Six weeks ago society was living from hand to +mouth: now she feels sure of her next meal. And this, in a dozen words, +is the real case—the political excuse for Prince Louis Napoleon. You ask +me, or I should not do so, to say a word or two on the moral question +and the oath. You are aware how limited my means of doing so are. I have +forgotten Paley, and have never read the Casuists. But it certainly does +not seem to me proved or clear, that a man who has sworn, even in the +most solemn manner, to see another drown, is therefore quite bound, or +even at liberty, to stand placidly on the bank. What ethical philosopher +has demonstrated this? Coleridge said it was difficult to advance a new +error in morals,—yet this, I think, would be one; and the keeping of +oaths is peculiarly a point of mere science, for Christianity, in terms +at least, only forbids them all. And supposing I am right, such certainly +was the exact position of Louis Napoleon. He saw society, I will not say +dying or perishing—for I hate unnecessarily to overstate my point,—in +danger of incurring extreme and perhaps lasting calamities, likely not +only to impair the happiness, but moreover to debase the character of the +French nation, and these calamities he could prevent. Now who has shown +that ethics require of him to have held his hand? + +The severity with which the riot was put down on the first Thursday in +December has, I observe, produced an extreme effect in England; and with +our happy exemption from martial bloodshed, it must, of course, do so. +But better one _émeute_ now than many in May, be it ever remembered. +There are things more demoralising than death, and among these is the +sickly-apprehensive suffering for long months of an entire people. + +Of course you understand that I am not holding up Louis Napoleon as +a complete standard either of ethical scrupulosity or disinterested +devotedness; veracity has never been the family failing—for the great +Emperor was a still greater liar. And Prince Louis has been long +playing what, morality apart, is the greatest political misfortune to +any statesman—a visibly selfish game. Very likely, too, the very high +heroes of history—a Washington, an Aristides, by Carlyle profanely called +‘favourites of Dryasdust,’ would have extricated the country more easily, +and perhaps more completely from its scrape. Their ennobling rectitude +would have kept M. de Girardin consistent, and induced M. Thiers to vote +for the Revision of the Constitution; and even though, as of old, the +Mountain were deafer than the uncharmed adder, a sufficient number of +self-seeking Conservatives might have been induced by perfect confidence +in a perfect President, to mend a crotchety performance, that was visibly +ruining, what the poet calls, ‘The ever-ought-to-be-conserved-thing,’ +their country. + +I remember reading, several years ago, an article in the _Westminster +Review_, on the lamented Armand Carrel, in which the author, well known +to be one of our most distinguished philosphers, took occasion to +observe that what the French most wanted was, ‘_un homme de caractère_.’ +Everybody is aware—for all except myself know French quite perfectly—that +this expression is not by any means equivalent to our common phrase, a +‘man of character,’ or ‘respectable individual,’ it does not at all refer +to mere goodness: it is more like what we sometimes say of an eccentric +country gentleman, ‘He is a character;’ for it denotes a singular +preponderance of peculiar qualities, an accomplished obstinacy, an +inveterate fixedness of resolution and idea that enables him to get done +what he undertakes. The Duke of Wellington is, ‘_par excellence, homme de +caractère_;’ Lord Palmerston rather so; Mr. Cobden a little; Lord John +Russell not at all. Now exactly this, beyond the immense majority of +educated men, Louis Napoleon is, as a pointed writer describes him:—‘The +President is a superior man, but his superiority is of the sort that +is hidden under a dubious exterior: his life is entirely internal; his +speech does not betray his inspiration; his gesture does not copy his +audacity; his look does not reflect his ardour; his step does not reveal +his resolution; his whole mental nature is in some sort repressed by +his physical: he thinks and does not discuss; he decides and does not +deliberate; he acts without agitation; he speaks, and assigns no reason; +his best friends are unacquainted with him; he obtains their confidence, +but never asks it.’ Also his whole nature is, and has been, absorbed +in the task which he has undertaken. For many months, his habitual +expression has been exactly that of a gambler who is playing for his +highest and last stake; in society it is said to be the same—a general +and diffusive politeness, but an ever-ready reflection and a constant +reserve. His great qualities are rather peculiar. He is not, like his +uncle, a creative genius, who will leave behind him social institutions +such as those which nearly alone, in this changeful country, seem to be +always exempt from every change; he will suggest little; he has hardly an +organising mind; but he will coolly estimate his own position and that +of France; he will observe all dangers and compute all chances. He can +act—he can be idle: he may work what is; he may administer the country. +Any how _il fera son possible_, and you know, in the nineteenth century, +how much and how rare that is. + +I see many people are advancing beautiful but untrue ethics about his +private character. Thus I may quote as follows from a very estimable +writer:—‘On the 15th of October, he requested his passports and left +Aremberg for London. In this capital he remained from the end of 1838 to +the month of August 1840. In these twenty months, instead of learning to +command armies and govern empires, his days and nights, when not given +to frivolous pleasures, were passed on the turf, in the betting-room, or +in clubs where high play and desperate stakes roused the jaded energy of +the _blasé_ gambler.’—(A. V. Kirwan, Esq., Barrister-at-Law, in _Fraser’s +Magazine_.) + +The notion of this gentleman clearly is, that a betting man can’t +in nature be a good statesman; that horse-racing is providentially +opposed to political excellence; that ‘by an interesting illustration +of the argument from design, we notice an antithesis alike marvellous +and inevitable,’ between turf and tariffs. But, setting Paley for a +moment apart, how is a man, by circumstances excluded from military +and political life, and by birth from commercial pursuits, really and +effectually to learn administration? Mr. Kirwan imagines that he should +read all through Burke, common-place Tacitus, collate Cicero, and +annotate Montesquieu. Yet take an analogous case. Suppose a man, shut out +from trading life, is to qualify himself for the practical management +of a counting-house. Do you fancy he will do it ‘by a judicious study +of the principles of political economy,’ and by elaborately re-reading +Adam Smith and John Mill? He had better be at Newmarket, and devote +his _heures perdues_ to the Oaks and the St. Leger. He may learn there +what he will never acquire from literary study—the instinctive habit +of applied calculation, which is essential to a merchant and extremely +useful to a statesman. Where, too, did Sir Robert Walpole learn business, +or Charles Fox, or anybody in the eighteenth century? And after all, M. +Michel de Bourges gave the real solution of the matter. ‘Louis Napoleon,’ +said the best orator of the Mountain, ‘may have had rather a stormy +youth (laughter). But don’t suppose that any one in all France imagines +you, you _Messieurs_, of the immaculate majority, to be the least better +(sensation). I am not speaking to saints’ (uproar). If compared with +contemporary French statesmen, and the practical choice is between him +and them, the President will not seem what he appears when measured by +the notions of a people who exact at least from inferior functionaries _a +rigid decorum in the pettiest details of their private morals_. + +I have but one last point to make about this _coup d’état_, and then I +will release you from my writing. I do not know whether you in England +rightly realise the French Socialism. Take, for instance, M. Proudhon, +who is perhaps their ideal and perfect type. He was _représentant de +la Seine_ in the late Assembly, elected, which is not unimportant, +after the publication of his books and on account of his opinions. In +his ‘_Confessions d’un Révolutionnaire_,’ a very curious book—for he +writes extremely well—after maintaining that our well-known but, as we +imagine, advanced friends, Ledru Rollin, and Louis Blanc, and Barbès, and +Blanqui are all _réactionnaires_, and clearly showing, to the grief of +mankind, that once the legislator of the Luxembourg wished to preserve +‘equilibrium,’ and the author of the provincial circulars to maintain the +‘tranquillity,’ he gives the following _bonâ fide_ and amusing account of +his own investigations:— + + ‘I commenced my task of solitary conspiracy by the study + of the socialisms of antiquity, necessary, in my judgment, + to determine the law, whether practical or theoretical, of + progress. These socialisms I found in the Bible. A memoir + on the institution of the Sabbath—considered with regard to + morals, to health, and in its relation to the family and the + city—procured for me a bronze medal from my academy. From the + faith in which I had been reared, I had precipitated myself + head-long, head-foremost, into pure reason, and already, what + was wonderful and a good omen, when I made Moses a philosopher + and a socialist, I was greeted with applause. If I am now in + error, the fault is not merely mine. Was there ever a similar + seduction? + + ‘But I studied, above all, with a view to action. I cared + little for academical laurels. I had no leisure to become + _savant_, still less a _littérateur_ or an archæologist. I + began immediately upon political economy. + + ‘I had assumed as the rule of my investigations that every + principle which, pushed to its consequences, should end in a + contradiction, must be considered false and null; and that if + this principle had been developed into an institution, the + institution itself must be considered as factitious, as utopian. + + ‘Furnished with this criterion, I chose for the subject of + investigation what I found in society the most ancient, + the most respectable, the most universal, the least + controverted,—property. Everybody knows what happened; after + a long, a minute, and, above all, an impartial analysis, I + arrived, as an algebraist guided by his equations, to this + surprising conclusion. Property, consider it as you will,—refer + it to what principle you may, is a contradictory idea; and as + the denial of property carries with it of necessity that of + authority, I deduced immediately from my first axiom also this + corollary, not less paradoxical, the true form of government + is _anarchy_. Lastly, finding by a mathematical demonstration + that no amelioration in the economy of society could be arrived + at by its natural constitution, or without the concurrence and + reflective adhesion of its members; observing, also, that there + is a definite epoch in the life of societies, in which their + progress, at first unreflecting, requires the intervention of + the free reason of man, I concluded that this spontaneous and + impulsive force (_cette force d’impulsion spontanée_), which + we call Providence, is not everything in the affairs of this + world: from that moment, without being an Atheist, I ceased to + worship God. He’ll get on without your so doing, said to me one + day the _Constitutionnel_. Well: perhaps he may.’ + +These theories have been expanded into many and weary volumes, and +condensed into the famous phrase, ‘_La Propriété c’est le vol_;’ and have +procured their author, in his own sect, reputation and authority. + +The _Constitutionnel_ had another hit against M. Proudhon, a day or two +ago. They presented their readers with two decrees in due official form +(the walls were at the moment covered with those of the 2nd of December), +as the last ideal of what the straightest sect of the Socialists +particularly desire. It was as follows:—‘Nothing any longer exists. +Nobody is charged with the execution of the aforesaid decree. Signed, +Vacuum.’ + +Such is the speculation of the new reformers—what their practices would +be I can hardly tell you. My feeble income does not allow me to travel to +the Basses Alpes and really investigate the subject; but if one quarter +of the stories in circulation are in the least to be believed (we are +quite dependent on oral information, for the Government papers deal in +asterisks and ‘details unfit for publication,’ and the rest are devoted +to the state of the navy and say nothing), the atrocities rival the +nauseous corruption of what our liberal essayist calls ‘Jacobin carrion,’ +the old days of Carrier and Barère. This is what people here are afraid +of; and that is why I write such things,—and not to horrify you, or amuse +you, or bore you—anything rather than that; and they think themselves +happy in finding a man who, with or without whatever other qualities or +defects, will keep them from the vaunted Millennium and much-expected +_Jacquerie_. I hope you think so, too—and that I am not, as they say in +my native Tipperary, ‘Whistling jigs to a milestone.’ I am, sir, yours +truly, + + AMICUS. + +P.S.—You will perhaps wish me to say something on the great event of +this week, the exile of the more dangerous members of the late Assembly, +and the transportation of the Socialists to Cayenne. Both measures were +here expected; though I think that both lists are more numerous than was +anticipated: but no one really knew what would be done by this silent +Government. You will laugh at me when I tell you that both measures have +been well received: but properly limited and understood, I am persuaded +that the fact is so. + +Of course, among the friends of exiled _représentants_, among the +_littérateurs_ throughout whose ranks these measures are intended to +‘strike terror and inspire respect,’ you would hear that there never was +such tyranny since the beginning of mankind. But among the mass of the +industrious classes—between whom and the politicians there is internecine +war—I fancy that on turning the conversation to either of the most recent +events, you would hear something of this sort:—‘_Ça ne m’occupe pas_.’ +‘What is that _to me_?’ ‘_Je suis pour la tranquillité, moi._’ ‘I sold +four brooches yesterday.’ The Socialists who have been removed from +prison to the colony, it is agreed were ‘pestilent fellows perverting +the nation,’ and forbidding to pay tribute to M. Bonaparte. Indeed, they +can hardly expect commercial sympathy. ‘Our national honour rose—our +stocks fell,’ is Louis Blanc’s perpetual comment on his favourite events, +and it is difficult to say which of its two clauses he dwells upon with +the intenser relish. It is generally thought by those who think about +the matter, that both the transportation, and in all cases, certainly, +the exile will only be a temporary measure, and that the great mass of +the people in both lists will be allowed to return to their homes when +the present season of extreme excitement has passed over. Still, I am +not prepared to defend the _number_ of the transportations. That strong +measures of the sort were necessary, I make no doubt. If Socialism +exist, and the fear of it exist, something must be done to re-assure +the people. You will understand that it is not a judicial proceeding +either in essence or in form; it is not to be considered as a punishment +for what men have done, but as a perfect precaution against what they +may do. Certainly, it is to be regretted that the cause of order is so +weak as to need such measures; but if it _is_ so weak, the Government +must no doubt take them. Of course, however, ‘our brethren,’ who are +retained in such numbers to write down Prince Louis, are quite right +to use without stint or stopping this most un-English proceeding; it +is their case, and you and I from old misdeeds know pretty well how it +is to be managed. There will be no imputation of reasonable or humane +motives to the Government, and no examination of the existing state of +France:—let both these come from the other side—but elegiac eloquence +is inexhaustibly exuded—the cruel corners of history are ransacked +for petrifying precedents—and I observe much excellent weeping on the +Cromwellian deportations and the ten years’ exile of Madame de Staël. +But after all they have missed the tempting parallel—I mean the ‘rather +long’ proscription list which Octavius—‘_l’ancien neveu de l’ancien +oncle_’—concocted with Mark Antony in the marshes of Bononia, and whereby +they thoroughly purged old Rome of its turbulent and revolutionary +elements. I suspect our estimable contemporaries regret to remember of +how much good order, long tranquillity, ‘_beata pleno copia cornu_’ and +other many ‘little comforts’ to the civilised world that very ‘strong’ +proceeding, whether in ethics justifiable or not, certainly was in fact +the beginning and foundation. + +The fate of the African generals is much to be regretted, and the +Government will incur much odium if the exile of General Changarnier +is prolonged any length of time. He is doubtless ‘dangerous’ for the +moment, for his popularity with the army is considerable, and he divides +the party of order; he is also a practical man and an unpleasant enemy, +but he is much respected and little likely (I fancy) to attempt anything +against any settled Government. + +As for M. Thiers and M. Emile de Girardin—the ablest of the exiles—I +have heard no one pity them; they have played a selfish game—they have +encountered a better player—they have been beaten—and this is the whole +matter. You will remember that it was the adhesion of these two men that +procured for M. Bonaparte a large part of his _first_ six millions. +M. de Girardin, whom General Cavaignac had discreetly imprisoned and +indiscreetly set free, wrote up the ‘opposition candidate’ daily, in the +_Presse_ (he has since often and often tried to write him down,) and M. +Thiers was his Privy Councillor. ‘_Mon cher Prince_,’ they say, said the +latter, ‘your address to the people won’t do at all. I’ll get one of the +_rédacteurs of the Constitutionnel_ to draw you up something tolerable.’ +You remember the easy patronage with which Cicero speaks in his letter +of the ‘boy’ that was outwitting him all the while. But, however, observe +I do not at all, notwithstanding my Latin, insinuate or assert that +Louis Napoleon, though a considerable man, is exactly equal to keep the +footsteps of Augustus. A feeble parody may suffice for an inferior stage +and not too gigantic generation. Now I really _have_ done. + + +LETTER III. + +_ON THE NEW CONSTITUTION OF FRANCE, AND THE APTITUDE OF THE FRENCH +CHARACTER FOR NATIONAL FREEDOM._ + + Paris: January 20, 1852. + +SIR,—We have now got our Constitution. The Napoleonic era has commenced; +the term of the dictatorship is fixed and the consolidation of France +is begun. You will perhaps anticipate from the conclusion of the last +letter, that _à propos_ of this great event, I should gratify you with +bright anticipations of an Augustan age, and a quick revival of Catonic +virtue, with an assurance that the night is surely passed and the day +altogether come, with a solemn invocation to the rising luminary, and an +original panegyric on the ‘golden throned morning.’ + +I must always regret to disappoint any one; but I feel obliged to +entertain you instead with torpid philosophy, constitutional details, and +a dull disquisition on national character. + +The details of the new institutions you will have long ago learnt from +the daily papers. I believe they may be fairly and nearly accurately +described as the Constitution of the Consulate, _minus_ the ideas of the +man who made it. You will remember that, besides the First Magistrate, +the Senate, the House of Representatives, the Council of State (which +we may call, in legal language, the ‘common form’ of continental +constitution), the ingenious Abbé Sièyes had devised some four principal +peculiarities, which were to be remembered to all time as master-pieces +of political invention. These were the utter inaction of the First +Magistrate, copied, as I believe, from the English Constitution—the +subordination to him of two Consuls, one to administer peace and the +other war, who were intended to be the real hands and arms of the +Government—the silence of the Senate—the double and very peculiar +election of the House of Representatives. Napoleon the Great, as we +are now to speak, struck out the first of these, being at the moment +working some fifteen hours a day at the reorganisation of France. He said +plainly and rather sternly that he had no intention of doing nothing—the +_idéologue_ went to the wall—the ‘excellent idea’ put forth in happy +forgetfulness of real facts and real people was instantly abandoned—for +the Grand Elector was substituted a First Consul, who, so far from being +nothing, was very soon the whole Government. Napoleon the Little, as +I fear the Parisian multitude may learn to call him, has effaced the +other three ‘strokes of statesmanship.’ The new Constitution of France +is exactly the ‘common form’ of political conveyancing, _plus_ the _Idée +Napoléonienne_ of an all-suggesting and all-administering mind. + +I have extremely little to tell you about its reception; it has made no +‘sensation,’ not so much as even the ‘fortified camps’ which his Grace +is said to be devising for the defence of our own London. Indeed, ‘_Il a +peur_’ is a very common remark (conceivable to everybody who knows ‘the +Duke,’) and it would seem even a refreshing alleviation of their domestic +sorrows. In fact, home politics are now _the_ topic; geography and the +state of foreign institutions are not, indeed, the true Parisian line—but +it has, in fine, been distinctly discovered that there are no _salons_ +in Cayenne, which, once certain, the logical genius of the nation, with +incredible swiftness, deduced the clear conclusion that it was better +not to go there. Seriously, I fancy—for I have no data on which to found +real knowledge of so delicate a point—the new Constitution is regarded +merely as what Father Newman would call a ‘preservative addition’ or +a ‘necessary development,’ essential to the ‘chronic continuance’ of +the Napoleonic system; for the moment the mass of the people wish the +President to govern them, but they don’t seem to me to care how. The +political people, I suppose, hate it, because for some time it will +enable him, if not shot, to govern effectually. I say, if not shot—for +people are habitually recounting under their breath some new story of +an attempt at assassination, which the papers suppress. I am inclined +to think that these rumours are pure lies; but they show the feeling. +You know, according to the Constitution of 1848, the President would now +be a mere outlaw, and whoever finds him may slay him, if he can. It is +true that the elaborate masterpiece of M. Marrast is already fallen into +utter oblivion (it is no more remembered than yesterday’s _Times_, or the +political institutions of Saxon Mercia); but nevertheless such, according +to the antediluvian _régime_, would be the law, and it is possible that +a mindful Montagnard may upon occasion recall even so insignificant a +circumstance. + +I have a word to say on the Prologue of the President. When I first began +to talk politics with French people, I was much impressed by the fact to +which he has there drawn attention. You know that all such conversation, +when one of the interlocutors is a foreigner, speaking slowly and but +imperfectly the language of the country in which he is residing, is +pretty much in the style of that excellent work which was the terror +of our childhood—Joyce’s ‘Scientific Dialogues’—wherein, as you may +remember, an accomplished tutor, with a singular gift of scholastic +improvisation, instructs a youthful pupil exceedingly given to feeble +questions and auscultatory repose. Now, when I began in Parisian society +thus to enact the _rôle_ of ‘George’ or ‘Caroline,’ I was, I repeat, much +struck with the fact that the Emperor had done everything: to whatever +subject my diminutive inquiry related, the answer was nearly universally +the same—an elegy on Napoleon. Nor is this exactly absurd; for whether +or not ‘the nephew’ is right in calling the uncle the greatest of modern +statesmen, he is indisputably the modern statesman who has founded the +greatest number of existing institutions. In the pride of philosophy and +in the madness of an hour, the Constituent Assembly and the Convention +swept away not only the monstrous abuses of the old _régime_, but that +_régime_ itself—its essence and its mechanism, utterly and entirely. They +destroyed whatever they could lay their hands on. The consequence was +certain—when they tried to construct they found they had no materials. +They left a vacuum. No greater benefit could have been conferred on +politicians gifted with the creative genius of Napoleon. It was like the +fire of London to Sir Christopher Wren. With a fertility of invention and +an obstinacy in execution, equalling, if not surpassing, those of Cæsar +and Charlemagne, he had before him an open stage, more clear and more +vast than in historical times fortune has ever offered to any statesman. +He was nearly in the position of the imagined legislator of the Greek +legends and the Greek philosophers—he could enact any law, and rescind +any law. Accordingly, the educational system, the banking system, the +financial system, the municipal system, the administrative system, the +civil legislation, the penal legislation, the commercial legislation +(besides all manner of secondary creations—public buildings and public +institutions without number), all date from the time, and are more or +less deeply inscribed with the genius, the firm will, and unresting +energies of Napoleon. And this, which is the great strength of the +present President, is the great difficulty—I fear the insurmountable +difficulty—in the way of Henry the Fifth. The first revolution is to +the French what the deluge is to the rest of mankind; the whole system +then underwent an entire change. A French politician will no more cite +as authority the domestic policy of Colbert or Louvois than we should +think of going for ethics and æsthetics to the bigamy of Lamech, or the +musical accomplishments of Tubal Cain. If the Comte de Chambord be (as it +is quite on the cards that he may be), within a few years restored, he +must govern by the instrumentality of laws and systems, devised by the +politicians whom he execrates and denounces, and devised, moreover, often +enough, especially to keep out him and his. It is difficult to imagine +that a strong Government can be composed of materials so inharmonious. +Meanwhile, to the popular imagination, ‘the Emperor’ is the past; the +House of Bourbon is as historical as the House of Valois; a peasant is +little oftener reminded of the ‘third dynasty’ than of the long-haired +kings. + +In discussing any Constitution, there are two ideas to be first got rid +of. The first is the idea of our barbarous ancestors—now happily banished +from all civilised society, but still prevailing in old manor-houses, in +rural parsonages, and other curious repositories of mouldering ignorance, +and which in such arid solitudes is thus expressed: ‘Why can’t they have +Kings, Lords and Commons, _like we have_? What fools foreigners are.’ +The second pernicious mistake is, like the former, seldom now held upon +system, but so many hold it in bits and fragments, and without system, +that it is still rather formidable. I allude to the old idea which +still here creeps out in conversation, and sometimes in writing,—that +politics are simply a subdivision of immutable ethics; that there are +certain rights of men in all places and all times, which are the sole and +sufficient foundation of all government, and that accordingly a single +stereotype Government is to make the tour of the world—that you have +no more right to deprive a Dyak of his vote in a ‘possible’ Polynesian +Parliament, than you have to steal his mat. + +Burke first taught the world at large, in opposition to both, and +especially to the latter of these notions, that politics are made of +time and place—that institutions are shifting things, to be tried by +and adjusted to the shifting conditions of a mutable world—that, in +fact, politics are but a piece of business—to be determined in every +case by the exact exigencies of that case; in plain English—by sense and +circumstances. + +This was a great step in political philosophy—though it _now_ seems the +events of 1848 have taught thinking persons (I fancy) further. They +have enabled us to say that of all these circumstances so affecting +political problems, by far and out of all question the most important is +_national character_. In that year the same experiment—the experiment, +as its friends say, of Liberal and Constitutional Government—as its +enemies say, of Anarchy and Revolution—was tried in every nation of +Europe—with what varying futures and differing results! The effect +has been to teach men—not only speculatively to know, but practically +to feel, that no absurdity is so great as to imagine the same species +of institutions suitable or possible for Scotchmen and Sicilians, for +Germans and Frenchmen, for the English and the Neapolitans. With a +well-balanced national character (we now know) liberty is a stable thing. +A really practical people will work in political business, as in private +business, almost the absurdest, the feeblest, the most inconsistent +set of imaginable regulations. Similarly, or rather reversely, the +best institutions will not keep right a nation that _will_ go wrong. +Paper is but paper, and no virtue is to be discovered in it to retain +within due boundaries the undisciplined passions of those who have +never set themselves seriously to restrain them. In a word—as people +of ‘large roundabout common-sense’ will (as a rule) somehow get on in +life—(no matter what their circumstances or their fortune)—so a nation +which applies good judgment, forbearance, a rational and compromising +habit to the management of free institutions, will certainly succeed; +while the more eminently gifted national character will but be a source +and germ of endless and disastrous failure, if, with whatever other +eminent qualities, it be deficient in these plain, solid, and essential +requisites. + +The formation of _this_ character is one of the most secret of marvellous +mysteries. Why nations have the character we see them to have is, +speaking generally, as little explicable to our shallow perspicacity, +as why individuals, our friends or our enemies, for good or for evil, +have the character which they have; why one man is stupid and another +clever—why another volatile and a fourth consistent—this man by +instinct generous, that man by instinct niggardly. I am not speaking +of actions, you observe, but of tendencies and temptations. These and +other similar problems daily crowd on our observation in millions and +millions, and only do not puzzle us because we are too familiar with +their difficulty to dream of attempting their solution. Only this much +is most certain,—all men and all nations have a character, and that +character, when once taken, is, I do not say unchangeable—religion +modifies it, catastrophe annihilates it—but the least changeable thing +in this ever-varying and changeful world. Take the soft mind of the boy, +and (strong and exceptional aptitudes and tendencies excepted) you may +make him merchant, barrister, butcher, baker, surgeon, or apothecary. +But once make him an apothecary, and he will never afterwards bake +wholesome bread—make him a butcher, and he will kill too extensively, +even for a surgeon—make him a barrister, and he will be dim on double +entry, and crass on bills of lading. Once conclusively form him to one +thing, and no art and no science will ever twist him to another. Nature, +says the philosopher, has no Delphic daggers!—no men or maids of all +work—she keeps one being to one pursuit—to each is a single choice +afforded, but no more again thereafter for ever. And it is the same with +nations. The Jews of to-day are the Jews in face and form of the Egyptian +sculptures; in character they are the Jews of Moses—the negro is the +negro of a thousand years—the Chinese, by his own account, is the mummy +of a million. ‘Races and their varieties,’ says the historian, ‘seem to +have been created with an inward _nisus_ diminishing with the age of +the world.’ The people of the South are yet the people of the South, +fierce and angry as their summer sun—the people of the North are still +cold and stubborn like their own North wind—the people of the East ‘mark +not, but are still’—the people of the West ‘are going through the ends +of the earth, and walking up and down in it.’ The fact is certain, the +cause beyond us. The subtle system of obscure causes, whereby sons and +daughters resemble not only their fathers and mothers, but even their +great-great-grandfathers and their great-great-grandmothers, may very +likely be destined to be very inscrutable. But as the fact is so, so +moreover, in history, nations have one character, one set of talents, one +list of temptations, and one duty—to use the one and get the better of +the other. There are breeds in the animal man just as in the animal dog. +When you hunt with greyhounds and course with beagles, then, and not till +then, may you expect the inbred habits of a thousand years to pass away, +that Hindoos can be free, or that Englishmen will be slaves. + +I need not prove to you that the French _have_ a national character. +Nor need I try your patience with a likeness of it. I have only to +examine whether it be a fit basis for national freedom. I fear you will +laugh when I tell you what I conceive to be about the most essential +mental quality for a free people, whose liberty is to be progressive, +permanent, and on a large scale; it is much _stupidity_. I see you are +surprised—you are going to say to me, as Socrates did to Polus, ‘My +young friend, _of course_, you are right; but will you explain what you +mean?—as yet you are not intelligible.’ I will do so as well as I can, or +endeavour to make good what I say—not by an _à priori_ demonstration of +my own, but from the details of the present, and the facts of history. +Not to begin by wounding any present susceptibilities, let me take +the Roman character—for, with one great exception—I need not say to +whom I allude—they are the great political people of history. Now, is +not a certain dullness their most visible characteristic? What is the +history of their speculative mind?—a blank. What their literature?—a +copy. They have left not a single discovery in any abstract science; +not a single perfect or well-formed work of high imagination. The +Greeks, the perfection of narrow and accomplished genius, bequeathed to +mankind the ideal forms of self-idolising art—the Romans imitated and +admired; the Greeks explained the laws of nature—the Romans wondered and +despised; the Greeks invented a system of numerals second only to that +now in use—the Romans counted to the end of their days with the clumsy +apparatus which we still call by their name; the Greeks made a capital +and scientific calendar—the Romans began their month when the Pontifex +Maximus happened to spy out the new moon. Throughout Latin literature, +this is the perpetual puzzle—Why are we free and they slaves? we prætors +and they barbers? Why do the stupid people always win, and the clever +people always lose? I need not say that, in real sound stupidity, the +English are unrivalled. You’ll hear more wit, and better wit, in an Irish +street row than would keep Westminster Hall in humour for five weeks. Or +take Sir Robert Peel—our last great statesman, the greatest Member of +Parliament that ever lived, an absolutely perfect transacter of public +business—the type of the nineteenth century Englishman, as Sir R. Walpole +was of the eighteenth. Was there ever such a dull man? Can any one, +without horror, foresee the reading of his memoirs? A _clairvoyante_, +with the book shut, may get on; but who now, in the flesh, will ever +endure the open _vision_ of endless recapitulation of interminable +Hansard. Or take Mr. Tennyson’s inimitable description:— + + ‘No little lily-handed Baronet he, + A great broad-shouldered genial Englishman, + A lord of fat prize oxen and of sheep, + A raiser of huge melons and of pine, + A patron of some thirty charities, + A pamphleteer on guano and on grain, + A quarter sessions chairman, abler none.’ + +Whose company so soporific? His talk is of truisms and bullocks; his head +replete with rustic visions of mutton and turnips, and a cerebral edition +of Burn’s ‘Justice!’ Notwithstanding, he is the salt of the earth, the +best of the English breed. Who is like him for sound sense? But I must +restrain my enthusiasm. You don’t want me to tell you that a Frenchman—a +real Frenchman—can’t be stupid; _esprit_ is his essence, wit is to him +as water, _bons-mots_ as _bonbons_. He reads and he learns by reading; +levity and literature are essentially his line. Observe the consequence. +The outbreak of 1848 was accepted in every province in France; the +decrees of the Parisian mob were received and registered in all the +municipalities of a hundred cities; the Revolution ran like the fluid of +the telegraph down the _Chemin de fer du Nord_; it stopped at the Belgian +frontier. Once brought into contact with the dull phlegm of the stupid +Fleming, the poison was powerless. You remember what the Norman butler +said to Wilkin Flammock, of the fulling mills, at the castle of the Garde +Douloureuse: ‘that draught which will but warm your Flemish hearts, +will put wildfire into Norman brains; and what may only encourage your +countrymen to man the walls, will make ours fly over the battlements.’ +_Les braves Belges_, I make no doubt, were quite pleased to observe what +folly was being exhibited by those very clever French, whose tongue they +want to speak, and whose literature they try to imitate. In fact, what +we opprobriously call stupidity, though not an enlivening quality in +common society, is nature’s favourite resource for preserving steadiness +of conduct and consistency of opinion. It enforces concentration; people +who learn slowly, learn only what they must. The best security for +people’s doing their duty is, that they should not know anything else to +do; the best security for fixedness of opinion is, that people should be +incapable of comprehending what is to be said on the other side. These +valuable truths are no discoveries of mine. They are familiar enough to +people whose business it is to know them. Hear what a dense and aged +attorney says of your peculiarly promising barrister:—‘Sharp! oh yes, +yes! he’s too sharp by half. He is not _safe_; not a minute, isn’t that +young man.’ ‘What style, sir,’ asked of an East India Director some +youthful aspirant for literary renown, ‘is most to be preferred in the +composition of official despatches?’ ‘My good fellow,’ responded the +ruler of Hindostan, ‘the style _as we_ like is the Humdrum.’ I extend +this, and advisedly maintain that nations, just as individuals, may be +too clever to be practical, and not dull enough to be free. + +How far this is true of the French, and how far the gross deficiency I +have indicated is modified by their many excellent qualities, I hope at a +future time to inquire. + + I am, sir, yours truly, + + AMICUS. + + +LETTER IV. + +_ON THE APTITUDE OF THE FRENCH CHARACTER FOR NATIONAL SELF-GOVERNMENT._ + + Paris: Jan. 29, 1852. + +SIR,—There is a simple view of the subject on which I wrote to you last +week, that I wish to bring under your notice. The experiment (as it is +called) of establishing political freedom in France is now sixty years +old; and the best that we can say of it is, that it is an experiment +still. There have been perhaps half-a-dozen new beginnings—half-a-dozen +complete failures. I am aware that each of these failures can be +excellently explained—each beginning shown to be quite necessary. But +there are certain reasonings which, though outwardly irrefragable, +the crude human mind is always most unwilling to accept. Among these +are different and subtle explications of several apparently similar +facts. Thus, to choose an example suited to the dignity of my subject, +if a gentleman from town takes a day’s shooting in the country, and +should chance (as has happened) at first going off, to miss some six +times running, how luminously soever he may ‘explain’ each failure +as it occurs, however ‘expanded a view’ he may take of the whole +series, whatever popular illustrations of projectile philosophy he +may propound to the bird-slaying agriculturists—the impression on the +crass intelligence of the gamekeeper will quite clearly be ‘He beint +noo shot homsoever—aint thickeer.’ Similarly, to compare small things +with great, when I myself read in Thiers and the many other philosophic +historians of this literary country, various and excellent explanations +of their many mischances;—of the failure of the constitution of 1791—of +the constitution of the year 3—of the constitution of the year 5—of +the _charte_—of the system of 1830—and now we may add, of the second +republic—the annotated constitution of M. Dupin,—I can’t help feeling +a suspicion lingering in my crude and uncultivated intellect—that some +common principle is at work in all and each of these several cases—that +over and above all odd mischances, so many bankruptcies a little suggest +an unfitness for the trade; that besides the ingenious reasons of +ingenious gentlemen, there is some lurking quality, or want of a quality, +in the national character of the French nation which renders them but +poorly adapted for the form of freedom and constitution which they have +so often, with such zeal and so vainly, attempted to establish. + +In my last letter I suggested that this might be what I ventured to call +a ‘want of stupidity.’ I will now try to describe what I mean in more +accurate, though not, perhaps, more intelligible words. + +I believe that I am but speaking what is agreed on by competent +observers, when I say that the essence of the French character is a +certain mobility; that is, as it has been defined, a certain ‘excessive +sensibility to _present_ impressions,’ which is sometimes ‘levity,’—for +it issues in a postponement of seemingly fixed principles to a momentary +temptation or a transient whim; sometimes ‘impatience’—as leading to +an exaggerated sense of existing evils; often excitement,’—a total +absorption in existing emotion; oftener ‘inconsistency’—the sacrifice of +old habits to present emergencies; and yet other unfavourable qualities. +But it has also its favourable side. The same man who is drawn aside +from old principles by small pleasures, who can’t bear pain, who forgets +his old friends when he ceases to see them, who is liable in time of +excitement to be a one-idea being, with no conception of anything but the +one exciting object, yet who nevertheless is apt to have one idea to-day +and quite another to-morrow (and this, and more than this, may I fancy be +said of the ideal Frenchman) may and will have the subtlest perception +of existing niceties, the finest susceptibility to social pleasure, the +keenest tact in social politeness, the most consummate skilfulness in +the details of action and administration,—may, in short, be the best +companion, the neatest man of business, the lightest _homme de salon_, +the acutest diplomat of the existing world. + +It is curious to observe how this reflects itself in their literature. +‘I will believe,’ remarks Montaigne, ‘in anything rather than in any +man’s consistency.’ What observer of English habits—what person inwardly +conscious of our dull and unsusceptible English nature, would ever say +so. Rather in our country obstinacy is the commonest of the vices, and +perseverance the cheapest of the virtues. Again, when they attempt +history, the principal peculiarity (a few exceptions being allowed for) +is an utter incapacity to describe graphically a long-passed state of +society. Take, for instance—assuredly no unfavourable example—M. Guizot. +His books, I need not say, are nearly unrivalled for eloquence, for +philosophy and knowledge; you read there, how in the middle age there +were many ‘principles:’ the principle of Legitimacy, the principle of +Feudalism, the principle of Democracy; and you come to know how one +grew, and another declined, and a third crept slowly on; and the mind is +immensely edified, when perhaps at the 315th page a proper name occurs, +and you mutter, ‘Dear me, why, if there were not _people_ in the time of +Charlemagne! Who would have thought that?’ But in return for this utter +incapacity to describe the people of past times, a Frenchman has the gift +of perfectly describing the people of his own. No one knows so well—no +one can tell so well—the facts of his own life. The French memoirs, the +French letters are, and have been, the admiration of Europe. Is not now +Jules Janin unrivalled at pageants and _prima donnas_? + +It is the same in poetry. As a recent writer excellently remarks, ‘A +French Dante, or Michael Angelo, or Cervantes, or Murillo, or Goethe, +or Shakespeare, or Milton, we at once perceive to be a mere anomaly; a +supposition which may indeed be proposed in terms, but which in reality +is inconceivable and impossible.’ Yet, in requital as it were of this +great deficiency, they have a wonderful capacity for expressing and +delineating the poetical and voluptuous element of every-day life. +We know the biography of De Béranger. The young ladies whom he has +admired—the wine that he has preferred—the fly that buzzed on the +ceiling, and interrupted his delicious and dreaming solitude, are as well +known to us as the recollections of our own lives. As in their common +furniture, so in their best poetry. The materials are nothing; reckon up +what you have been reading, and it seems a _congeries_ of stupid trifles; +begin to read,—the skill of the workmanship is so consummate, the art +so high and so latent, that while time flows silently on, our fancies +are enchanted and our memories indelibly impressed. How often, asks Mr. +Thackeray, have we read De Béranger—how often Milton? Certainly, since +Horace, there has been no such manual of the philosophy of this world. + +I will not say that the quality which I have been trying to delineate +is exactly the same thing as ‘cleverness.’ But I do allege that it is +sufficiently near it for the rough purposes of popular writing. For this +_quickness_ in taking in—so to speak—the present, gives a corresponding +celerity of intellectual apprehension, an amazing readiness in catching +new ideas and maintaining new theories, a versatility of mind which +enters into and comprehends everything as it passes, a concentration +in what occurs, so as to use it for every purpose of illustration, and +consequently (if it happen to be combined with the least fancy), quick +repartee on the subject of the moment, and _bons-mots_ also without +stint and without end—and these qualities are rather like what we style +cleverness. And what I call a proper stupidity keeps a man from all the +defects of this character; it chains the gifted possessor mainly to his +old ideas; it takes him seven weeks to comprehend an atom of a new one; +it keeps him from being led away by new theories—for there is nothing +which bores him so much; it restrains him within his old pursuits, his +well-known habits, his tried expedients, his verified conclusions, his +traditional beliefs. He is not tempted to ‘levity,’ or ‘impatience,’ +for he does not see the joke, and is thick-skinned to present evils. +Inconsistency puts him out,—‘What I says is this here, as I was a +saying yesterday,’ is his notion of historical eloquence and habitual +discretion. He is very slow indeed to be ‘excited,’—his passions, his +feelings, and his affections are dull and tardy strong things, falling in +a certain known direction, fixing on certain known objects, and for the +most part acting in a moderate degree, and at a sluggish pace. You always +know where to find his mind. + +Now this is exactly what, in politics at least, you do not know about +a Frenchman. I like—I have heard a good judge say—to hear a Frenchman +talk. He strikes a light, but what light he will strike it is impossible +to predict. I think he doesn’t know himself. Now, I know you see at once +how this would operate on a Parliamentary Government, but I give you a +gentle illustration. All England knows Mr. Disraeli, the witty orator, +the exceedingly clever _littérateur_, the versatile politician; and +all England has made up its mind that the stupidest country gentleman +would be a better Home Secretary than the accomplished descendant of the +‘Caucasian race.’ Now suppose, if you only can, a House of Commons all +Disraelis, and do you imagine that Parliament would work? It would be +what M. Proudhon said of some French assemblies, ‘a box of matches.’ + +The same quality acts in another way, and produces to English ideas a +most marvellous puzzle, both in the philosophical literature and the +political discussion of the French. I mean their passion for logical +deduction. The habitual mode of argument is to get hold of some +large principle; to begin to deduce immediately; and to reason down +from it to the most trivial details of common action. _Il faut être +conséquent avec soi-même_—is their fundamental maxim; and in a world +the essence of which is compromise, they could not well have a worse. I +hold, metaphysically perhaps, that this is a consequence of that same +impatience of disposition to which I have before alluded. Nothing is such +a bore as looking for your principles—nothing so pleasant as working them +out. People who have thought, know that inquiry is suffering. A child a +stumbling timidly in the dark is not more different from the same child +playing on a sunny lawn, than is the philosopher groping, hesitating, +doubting and blundering about his primitive postulates, from the same +philosopher proudly deducing and commenting on the certain consequences +of his established convictions. On this account Mathematics have been +called the paradise of the mind. In Euclid at least, you have your +principles, and all that is required is acuteness in working them out. +The long annals of science are one continued commentary on this text. +Read in Bacon, the beginner of intellectual philosophy in England, and +every page of the ‘Advancement of Learning’ is but a continued warning +against the tendency of the human mind to start at once to the last +generalities from a few and imperfectly observed particulars. Read in +the ‘Meditations’ of Descartes, the beginner of intellectual philosophy +in France, and in every page (once I read five) you will find nothing +but the strictest, the best, the most lucid, the most logical deduction +of all things actual and possible, from a few principles obtained +without evidence, and retained in defiance of probability. Deduction +is a game, and induction a grievance. Besides, clever impatient people +want not only to learn, but to teach. And instruction expresses at least +the alleged possession of knowledge. The obvious way is to shorten the +painful, the slow, the tedious, the wearisome process of preliminary +inquiry—to assume something pretty—to establish its consequences—discuss +their beauty—exemplify their importance—extenuate their absurdities. +A little vanity helps all this. Life is short—art is long—truth lies +deep—take some side—found your school—open your lecture-rooms—tuition is +dignified—learning is low. + +I do not know that I can exhibit the way these qualities of the French +character operate on their opinions, better than by telling you how +the Roman Catholic Church deals with them. I have rather attended to +it since I came here; it gives sermons almost an interest, their being +in French—and to those curious in intellectual matters it is worth +observing. In other times, and even now in out-of-the-way Spain, I +suppose it may be so, the Catholic Church was opposed to inquiry and +reasoning. But it is not so now, and here. Loudly—from the pens of a +hundred writers—from the tongues of a thousand pulpits—in every note of +thrilling scorn and exulting derision, she proclaims the contrary. Be she +Christ’s workman, or Antichrist’s, she knows her work too well.—‘Reason, +Reason, Reason!’—exclaims she to the philosophers of this world—‘Put +in practice what you teach, if you would have others believe it; be +consistent; do not prate to us of private judgment when you are but +yourselves repeating what you heard in the nursery—ill-mumbled remnants +of a Catholic tradition. No! exemplify what you command, inquire and +make search—seek, though we warn you that ye will never find—yet do as +ye will. Shut yourself up in a room—make your mind a blank—go down (as +ye speak) into the “depths of your consciousness”—scrutinise the mental +structure—inquire for the elements of belief—spend years, your best +years, in the occupation; and at length—when your eyes are dim, and your +brain hot, and your hand unsteady—then reckon what you have gained: see +if you cannot count on your fingers the certainties you have reached: +reflect which of them you doubted yesterday, which you may disbelieve +to-morrow; or rather, make haste—assume at random some essential +_credenda_—write down your inevitable postulates—enumerate your necessary +axioms—toil on, toil on—spin your spider’s web—adore your own souls—or, +if you prefer it, choose some German nostrum—try the intellectual +intuition, or the “pure reason,” or the “intelligible” ideas, or the +mesmeric _clairvoyance_—and when so or somehow you have attained your +results, try them on mankind. Don’t go out into the highways and +hedges—it’s unnecessary. Ring the bell—call in the servants—give them a +course of lectures—cite Aristotle—review Descartes—panegyrise Plato—and +see if the bonne will understand you. It is you that say “_Vox populi—Vox +Dei_;” but you see the people reject you. Or, suppose you succeed—what +you call succeeding—your books are read; for three weeks, or even a +season, you are the idol of the _salons_; your hard words are on the +lips of women; then a change comes—a new actress appears at the Théâtre +Français or the Opéra—her charms eclipse your theories; or a great +catastrophe occurs—political liberty (it is said) is annihilated—_il faut +se faire mouchard_, is the observation of scoffers. Any how, _you_ are +forgotten—fifty years may be the gestation of a philosophy, not three +its life—before long, before you go to your grave, your six disciples +leave you for some newer master, or to set up for themselves. The poorest +priest in the remote region of the _Basses Alpes_ has more power over +men’s souls than human cultivation; his ill-mouthed masses move women’s +souls—can you? Ye scoff at Jupiter. Yet he at least was believed in—you +never have been; idol for idol, the _de_throned is better than the +_un_throned. No, if you would reason—if you would teach—if you would +speculate, come to us. We have our _premises_ ready; years upon years +before you were born, intellects whom the best of you delight to magnify, +toiled to systematise the creed of ages; years upon years after you are +dead, better heads than yours will find new matter there to define, to +divide, to arrange. Consider the hundred volumes of Aquinas—which of you +desire a higher life than that? To deduce, to subtilise, discriminate, +systematise, and decide the highest truth, and to be believed. Yet such +was his luck, his enjoyment. He was what you would be. No, no—_Credite, +credite_. Ours is the life of speculation—the cloister is the home for +the student. Philosophy is stationary—Catholicism progressive. You +call—we are heard,’ &c., &c., &c. So speaks each preacher according to +his ability. And when the dust and noise of present controversies have +passed away, and in the silence of the night, some grave historian writes +out the tale of half-forgotten times, let him not forget to observe that +skilfully as the mediæval church subdued the superstitious cravings of +a painful and barbarous age—in after years she dealt more discerningly +still with the feverish excitement, the feeble vanities, and the dogmatic +impatience of an over-intellectual generation. + +And as in religion—so in politics, we find the same desire to teach +rather than to learn—the same morbid appetite for exhaustive and original +theories. It is as necessary for a public writer to have a system as it +is for him to have a pen. His course is obvious; he assumes some grand +principle—the principle of Legitimacy, or the principle of Equality, or +the principle of Fraternity—and thence he reasons down without fear or +favour to the details of every-day politics. Events are judged of, not by +their relation to simple causes, but by their bearing on a remote axiom. +Nor are these speculations mere exercises of philosophic ingenuity. Four +months ago, hundreds of able writers were debating with the keenest +ability and the most ample array of generalities, whether the country +should be governed by a Legitimate Monarchy, or an illegitimate; by a +Social, or an old-fashioned Republic; by a two-chambered Constitution, +or a one-chambered Constitution; on ‘Revision,’ or Non-revision; on +the claims of Louis Napoleon, or the divine right of the national +representation. Can any intellectual food be conceived more dangerous +or more stimulating for an over-excitable population? It is the same in +Parliament. The description of the Church of Corinth may stand for a +description of the late Assembly: every one had a psalm, had a doctrine, +had a tongue, had a revelation, had an interpretation. Each member of +the Mountain had his scheme for the regeneration of mankind; each member +of the vaunted majority had his scheme for newly consolidating the +Government; Orleanist hated Legitimist, Legitimist Orleanist; moderate +Republican detested undiluted Republican; scheme was set against scheme, +and theory against theory. No two Conservatives would agree what to +conserve; no Socialist could practically associate with any other. No +deliberative assembly can exist with every member wishing to lead, and no +one wishing to follow. Not the meanest Act of Parliament could be carried +without more compromise than even the best French statesmen were willing +to use on the most important and critical affairs of their country. +Rigorous reasoning would not manage a parish-vestry, much less a great +nation. In England, to carry half your own crotchets, you must be always +and everywhere willing to carry half another man’s. Practical men must +submit as well as rule, concede as well as assume. Popular government has +many forms, a thousand good modes of procedure; but no one of those modes +can be worked, no one of those forms will endure, unless by the continual +application of sensible heads and pliable judgments to the systematic +criticism of stiff axioms, rigid principles, and incarnated propositions. +I am, &c., + + AMICUS. + +P.S.—I was in hopes that I should have been able to tell you of the +withdrawal of the decree relative to the property of the Orleans family. +The withdrawal was announced in the _Constitutionnel_ of yesterday; but I +regret to add was contradicted in the _Patrie_ last evening. I need not +observe to you that it is an act for which there is no defence, moral or +political. It has immensely weakened the Government. + +The change of Ministry is also a great misfortune to Louis Napoleon. +M. de Morny, said to be a son of Queen Hortense (if you believe the +people in the _salons_, the President is not the son of his father, and +everybody else is the son of his mother), was a statesman of the class +best exemplified in England by the late Lord Melbourne—an acute, witty, +fashionable man, acquainted with Parisian persons and things, and a +consummate judge of public opinion. M. Persigny was in exile with the +President, is said to be much attached to him, to repeat his sentiments +and exaggerate his prejudices. I need not point out which of the two is +just now the sounder counsellor. + + +LETTER V. + +_ON THE CONSTITUTION OF THE PRINCE-PRESIDENT._ + +SIR,—The many failures of the French in the attempt to establish a +predominantly Parliamentary Government have a strong family likeness. +Speaking a little roughly, I shall be right in saying that the +Constitutions of France have perished, both lately and formerly, either +in a street-row or under the violence of a military power, aided and +abetted by a diffused dread of impending street-rows, and a painful +experience of the effects of past ones. Thus the Constitution of 1791 +(the first of the old series) perished on August 10, amid the exultation +of the brewer Santerre. The last of the old series fell on the 18 +Brumaire, under the hands of Napoleon, when the 5 per cents. were at +12, the whole country in disorder, and all ruinable persons ruined. The +Monarchy of 1830 began in the riot of the three days, and ended in the +riot of February 24; the Republic of February perished but yesterday, +mainly from terror that Paris might again see such days as the ‘days of +June.’ + +I think all sensible Englishmen who review this history (the history of +more than sixty years) will not be slow to divine a conclusion peculiarly +agreeable to our orderly national habits, viz., that the first want +of the French is somebody or something able and willing to keep down +street-rows, to repress the frightful elements of revolution and disorder +which, every now and then, astonish Europe; capable of maintaining, and +desirous to maintain, the order and tranquillity which are (all agree) +the essential and primary prerequisites of industry and civilisation. If +any one seriously and calmly doubts this, I am afraid nothing that I can +further say will go far in convincing him. But let him read the account +of any scene in any French revolution, old or new, or, better, let him +come here and learn how people look back to the time I have mentioned +(to June, 1848), when the Socialists,—not under speculative philosophers +like Proudhon or Louis Blanc, but under practical rascals and energetic +murderers, like Sobrier and Caussidière—made their last and final stand, +and against them, on the other side, the National Guard (mostly solid +shopkeepers, three-parts ruined by the events of February) fought (I will +not say bravely or valiantly, but) furiously, frantically, savagely, as +one reads in old books that half-starved burgesses in beleaguered towns +have sometimes fought for the food of their children; let any sceptic +hear of the atrocities of the friends of order and the atrocities of the +advocates of disorder, and he will, I imagine, no longer be sceptical +on two points,—he will hope that if he ever have to fight it will not +be with a fanatic Socialist, nor against a demi-bankrupt fighting for +‘his shop;’ and he will admit, that in a country subject to collisions +between two such excited and excitable combatants, no earthly blessing is +in any degree comparable to a power which will stave off, long delay, or +permanently prevent the actual advent and ever-ready apprehension of such +bloodshed. I therefore assume that the first condition of good government +in this country is a really strong, a reputedly strong, a continually +strong Executive power. + +Now, on the face of matters, it is certainly true that such a power +is perfectly consistent with the most perfect, the most ideal type +of Parliamentary government. Rather I should say, such and so strong +an executive is a certain consequence of the existence of that ideal +and rarely found type. If there is among the people, and among their +representatives, a strong, a decided, an unflinching preference for +particular Ministers, or a particular course of policy, that course of +policy can be carried out, and will be carried out, as certainly as +by the Czar Nicholas, whose Ministers can do exactly what they will. +There was something very like this in the old days of King George III., +of Mr. Pitt, and Mr. Perceval. In those times, I have been told, the +great Treasury official of the day, Mr. George Rose (still known to the +readers of Sydney Smith) had a habit of observing, upon occasion of +anything utterly devoid of decent defence, ‘Well, well, this is a little +too bad; we must apply our _majority_ to this difficulty.’ The effect +is very plain; while Mr. George Rose and his betters respected certain +prejudices and opinions, then all but universal in Parliament, they in +all other matters might do precisely what they would; and in all out +of the way matters, in anything that Sir John could not understand, on +a point of cotton-spinning or dissent, be as absolute as the Emperor +Napoleon. But the case is (as we know by experience of what passes under +our daily observation) immensely altered, when there is no longer this +strong, compact, irrefragable, ‘following;’ no distinctly divided, +definite faction, no regular opposition to be daily beaten, no regular +official party to be always victorious—but, instead, a mere aggregate +of ‘independent members,’ each thinking for himself, propounding, as +the case may be, his own sense or his own nonsense—one, profound ideas +applicable to all time; another, something meritorious from the Eton +Latin grammar, and a mangled republication of the morning’s newspaper; +some exceedingly philosophical, others only crotchetty, but, what +is my point, each acting on his own head, assuming not Mr. Pitt’s +infallibility, but his own. Again, divide a political assembly into three +parties, any two of which are greater than the third, and it will be +always possible for an adroit and dexterous intriguer (M. Thiers has his +type in most assemblies) to combine, three or four times a fortnight, the +two opposition parties into a majority on some interesting question—on +some matter of importance. The best government possible under the +existing circumstances will be continually and, in a hazardous state of +society, even desperately and fatally weakened. We have had in our own +sensible House of Commons—aye, and among the most stupid and sensible +portion of it, the country gentlemen—within these few years, a striking +example of how far party zeal, the heat of disputation, and a strong +desire for a deep revenge will carry the best intentioned politicians in +destroying the executive efficiency of an obnoxious Government. I mean +the division of the House of Commons on the Irish Army Bill, which ended +in the resignation of Sir Robert Peel. You remember on that occasion +the country party, under the guidance of Lord G. Bentinck, in the teeth +of the Irish policy which they had been advocating and supporting all +their lives, and which they would advocate and support again now, in the +teeth of their previous votes, and (I am not exaggerating the history) +almost of their avowed present convictions, defeated a Government, not +on a question of speculative policy or recondite importance, but upon +the precautionary measures necessary (according to every idea that a +Tory esquire is capable of entertaining) for preventing a rebellion, the +occurrence of which they were told (and as the event proved, told truly) +might be speedy, hourly, and immediate. Of course I am not giving any +opinion of my own about the merits of the question. The Whigs may be +right; it may be good to have shown the world how little terrible is the +bluster of Irish agitation. But I cite the event as a striking example of +an essential evil in a three-sided Parliamentary system, as practically +showing that a generally well-meaning opposition will, in defiance of +their own habitual principles, cripple an odious executive, even in a +matter of street-rows and rebellions. I won’t weary you with tediously +pointing the moral. If such things are done in the green tree, what may +be done in the dry? If party zeal and disputation excitement so hurry +men away in our own grave, business-like experienced country—what may we +expect from a vain, a volatile, an ever-changing race? + +Nor am I drawing a French Assembly from mere history, or from my own +imagination. In the late Chamber, the great subject of the very last +_Annual Register_, there were not only three parties but four. There +was a perpetually shifting element of 200 members, calling itself the +Mountain, which had in its hands the real casting vote between the +President’s Government and the Constitutional opposition. In the very +last days of the Constitution they voted against, and thereby negatived, +the proposition of the questors for arming the Assembly; partly because +they disliked General Changarnier, and detested General Cavaignac; partly +because, being extreme Socialists, they would not arm anybody who was +likely to use his arms against their friends on the barricades. The +same party was preparing to vote for the Bill on the Responsibility of +the President, actually, and according to the design of its promoters, +in the nature of a bill of indictment against him, because they feared +his rigour and efficiency in repressing the anticipated convulsion. The +question, the critical question, _Who_ shall prevent a new revolution? +was thus actually, and owing to the lamentable divisions of the friends +of order, in the hands of the Parliamentary representatives of the very +men who wished to effect that revolution, was determined, I may say, +ultimately, and in the last resort by the party of disorder. + +Nor on lesser questions was there any steady majority, any distinctive +deciding faction, any administering phalanx, anybody regularly voting +with anybody else, often enough, or in number enough, to make the +legislative decision regular, consistent, or respectable. Their very +debates were unseemly. On anything not pleasing to them, the Mountain +(as I said) a yellow and fanatical generation—had (I am told) an +engaging knack of rising _en masse_ and screaming until they were tired. +It will be the same, I do not say in degree (for the Mountain would +certainly lose several votes now, and the numbers of the late Chamber +were unreasonably and injudiciously large), but, in a measure, you will +be always subject to the same disorder—a fluctuating majority, and a +minority, often a ruling minority, favourable to rebellion. The cause, as +I believe, is to be sought in the peculiarities of the French character, +on which I dwelt, prolixly, I fear, and _ad nauseam_, in my last two +letters. If you have to deal with a _mobile_, a clever, a versatile, +an intellectual, a dogmatic nation, inevitably, and by necessary +consequence, you will have conflicting systems—every man speaking his +own words, and always giving his own suffrage to what seems good in his +own eyes—many holding to-day what they will regret to-morrow—a crowd of +crotchetty theories and a heavy percentage of philosophical nonsense—a +great opportunity for subtle stratagem and intriguing selfishness—a +miserable division among the friends of tranquillity, and a great power +thrown into the hands of those who, though often with the very best +intentions, are practically, and in matter of fact, opposed both to +society and civilisation. And, moreover, beside minor inconveniences +and lesser hardships, you will indisputably have periodically—say three +or four times in fifty years—a great crisis; the public mind much +excited, the people in the streets swaying to and fro with the breath of +every breeze, the discontented _ouvriers_ meeting in a hundred knots, +discussing their real sufferings and their imagined grievances, with +lean features and angry gesticulations; the Parliament, all the while in +permanence, very ably and eloquently expounding the whole subject, one +man proposing this scheme, and another that; the Opposition expecting to +oust the Ministers, and ride in on the popular commotion; the Ministers +fearing to take the odium of severe or adequate repressive measures, +lest they should lose their salary, their places and their majority: +finally, a great crash, a disgusted people, overwhelmed by revolutionary +violence, or seeking a precarious, a pernicious, but after all a precious +protection from the bayonets of military despotism. Louis Philippe met +these dangers and difficulties in a thoroughly characteristic manner. +He bought his majority. Being a practical and not over sentimental +public functionary, he went into the market and purchased a sufficient +number of constituencies and members. Of course the _convenances_ were +carefully preserved; grossness of any kind is too jarring for French +susceptibility; the purchase money was not mere coin (which indeed the +buyers had not to offer), but a more gentlemanly commodity—the patronage +of the Government. The electoral colleges were extremely small, the +number of public functionaries is enormous; so that a very respectable +body of electors could always be expected to have, like a four-year +old barrister (since the County Courts), an immense prejudice for the +existing Government. One man hoped to be _Maire_, another wanted his +son got into St. Cyr or the Polytechnic School, and this could be got, +and was daily got (I am writing what is hardly denied) by voting for +the Government candidate. In a word, a sufficient proportion of the +returns of the electoral colleges resembled the returns from Harwich +or Devonport, only that the Government was the only bidder; for there +are not, I fancy, in any country but England, people able and willing +to spend, election after election, great sums of money for procuring +the honour of a seat in a representative assembly. In fact, to copy the +well-known phrase, just as in the time of Burke, certain gentlemen had +the expressive nickname of the King’s friends, so these constituencies +may aptly be called the King’s constituencies. Of course, on the face of +it, this system worked, as far as business went, excellently well. For +eighteen years the tranquillity was maintained. France, it may be, has +never enjoyed so much calm civilisation, so much private happiness; and +yet, after all such and so long blessings, it fell in a mere riot—it fell +unregretted. It is a system which no wise man can wish to see restored; +it was a system of regulated corruption. + +But it does not at all follow, nor I am sure will you be apt so to +deduce, that because I imagine that France is unfit for a Government +in which a House of Commons is, as with us, the sovereign power in the +State, I therefore believe that it is fit for no freedom at all. Our own +constitutional history is the completest answer to any such idea. For +centuries, the House of Commons was habitually, we know, but a third-rate +power in the State. First the Crown, then the House of Lords, enjoyed the +ordinary and supreme dominion; and down almost to our own times the Crown +and House of Lords, taken together, were much more than a sufficient +match for the people’s House; but yet we do not cease to proclaim, daily +and hourly, in season and out of season, that the English people never +have been slaves. It may, therefore, well be that our own country having +been free under a Constitution in which the representative element +was but third-rate in power and dignity, France and other nations may +contrive to enjoy the advantage from institutions in which it is only +second-rate. + +Now, of this sort is the Constitution of Louis Napoleon. I am not going +now, after prefacing so much, to discuss its details; indeed, I do not +feel competent to do so. What should we say to a Frenchman’s notion of +a 5_l._ householder, or the fourth and fifth clauses of the New Reform +Bill? and I quite admit that a paper building of this sort can hardly be +safely criticised till it is carried out on _terra firma_, till we see +not only the theoretic ground-plan, but the actual inhabited structure. +The life of a constitution is in the spirit and disposition of those +who work it; and we can’t yet say in the least what that, in this case, +will be; but so far as the constitution shows its meaning on the face +of it, it clearly belongs to the class which I have named. The _Corps +Législatif_ is not the administering body, it is not even what perhaps +it might with advantage have been, a petitioning and remonstrating body; +but it possesses the Legislative veto, and the power of stopping _en +masse_ the supplies. It is not a working, a ruling, or an initiative, or +supremely decisive, but an immense checking power. It will be unable to +change Ministers, or aggravate the course of revolutions; but it could +arrest an unpopular war—it could reject an unpopular law—it is, at least +in theory, a powerful and important drag-chain. Out of the mouths of its +adversaries this system possesses what I have proved, or conjectured, or +assumed to be the prime want of the French nation—a strong executive. The +objection to it is that the objectors find nothing else in it. We confess +there is no doubt now of a power adequate to repress street-rows and +revolutions. + +At the same time, I guard myself against intimating any opinion on the +particular minutiæ of this last effort of institutional invention. I do +not know enough to form a judgment; I sedulously, at present, confine +myself to this one remark, that the new Government of France belongs, +in theory at least, to the right class of Constitutions—the class +that is most exactly suited to French habits, French nature, French +social advantages, French social dangers—the class I mean, in which the +representative body has a consultative, a deliberative, a checking and a +minatory—not as with us a supreme, nearly an omnipotent, and exclusively +initiatory function. + + I am, yours, &c. + + AMICUS. + +P.S.—You may like five words on a French invasion. I can’t myself +imagine, and what is more to the point, I do not observe that anybody +here has any notion of, any such inroad into England as was contemplated +and proposed by General Changarnier. No one in the actual conduct of +affairs, with actual responsibility for affairs, not, as the event +proved, even Ledru Rollin, could, according to me, encounter the risk and +odium of such a hateful and horribly dangerous attempt. But, I regret +to add, there is a contingency which sensible people here (so far as I +have had the means of judging) do not seem to regard as at all beyond the +limits of rational probability, by which a war between England and France +would most likely be superinduced; that is, a French invasion of Belgium. +I do not mean to assure you that this week or next the Prince-President +will make a razzia in Brussels. But I do mean that it is thought not +improbable that somehow or other, on some wolf-and-the-lamb pretext, +he may pick a quarrel with King Leopold, and endeavour to restore to +the French the ‘natural limit’ of the Rhine. Now, I have never seen the +terms of the guarantee which the shrewd and cautious Leopold exacted +from England before he would take the throne of Belgium; but as the +only real risk was a French aggression upon this tempting territory, I +do not make any doubt but that the expressions of that instrument bind +us to go to war in defence of the country whose limits and independence +we have guaranteed. And in this case, an invasion of England would be +as admissible a military movement as an invasion of France. I hope, +therefore, you will use your best rhetoric to induce people to put our +pleasant country in a state of adequate and tolerable defence. + +I see by the invaluable _Galignani_, that some excellent people at +Manchester are indulging in a little arithmetic. ‘Suppose,’ say they, +‘all the French got safe, and each took away 50_l._, now how much do you +fancy it would come to (40,000 men by 50_l._, nought’s nought is nought, +nought and carry two)—compared to the _existing_ burden of the National +Debt?’ Was there ever such amiable infatuation! It is not what the French +could carry off, but what they would leave behind them, which is in the +reasonable apprehension of reasonable persons. The funds at 50—broken +banks—the _Gazette_ telling you who had _not_ failed—Downing-street +_vide_ Wales—destitute families, dishonoured daughters, one-legged +fathers—the mourning shops utterly sacked—the customers in tears—a +pale widow in a green bonnet—the Exchange in ruins—five notches on St. +Paul’s—and a big hole in the Bank of England;—these, though but a few of +the certain consequences of a French visit to London, are quite enough to +terrify even an adamantine editor and a rather reckless correspondent. + + +LETTER VI. + +_THE FRENCH NEWSPAPER PRESS._ + + PARIS: Feb. 10. + +SIR,—We learn from an Oriental narrative in considerable circulation, +that the ancient Athenians were fond of news. Of course they were. It is +in the nature of a mass of clever and intellectual people living together +to want something to talk about. Old ideas—common ascertained truths—are +good things enough to live by, but are very rare, and soon sufficiently +discussed. Something else—true or false, rational or nonsensical—is quite +essential; and, therefore, in the old literary world men gathered round +the travelling sophist, to learn from him some thought, crotchet, or +speculation. And what the vagabond speculators were once, that, pretty +exactly, is the newspaper now. To it the people of this intellectual +capital look for that daily mental bread, which is as essential to them +as the less ethereal sustenance of ordinary mortals. With the spread +of education this habit travels downward. Not the literary man only, +but the _ouvrier_ and the _bourgeois_, live on the same food. This +day’s _Siècle_ is discussed not only in gorgeous drawing-rooms, but in +humble reading-rooms, and still humbler workshops. According to the +printed notions of us journalists, this is a matter of pure rejoicing. +The influence of the Press, if you believe writers and printers, is +the one sufficient condition of social well-being. Yet there are many +considerations which make very much against this idea: I can’t go into +several of them now, but those that I shall mention are suggested at +once by matters before me. First, newspaper people are the only traders +that thrive upon convulsion. In quiet times, who cares for the paper? +In times of tumult, who does not? Commonly, the _Patrie_ (the _Globe_ +of this country) sells, I think, for three sous: on the evening of the +_coup d’état_, itinerant ladies were crying under my window, ‘_Demandez +la_ Patrie—_Journal du soir—trente sous—Journal du soir_;’ and I remember +witnessing, even in our sober London, in February 1848, how bald fathers +of families paid large sums, and encountered bare-headed the unknown +inclemencies of the night air, that they might learn the last news of +Louis Philippe, and, if possible, be in at the death of the revolutionary +Parisians. ‘Happy,’ says the sage, ‘are the people whose annals are +vacant;’ but ‘woe! woe! woe!’ he might add, ‘to the wretched journalists +that have to compose and sell leading articles therein.’ + +I am constrained to say that, even in England, this is not without its +unfavourable influence on literary morals. Take in the _Times_, and you +will see it assumed that every year ought to be an era. ‘The Government +does nothing,’ is the indignant cry, and simple people in the country +don’t know that this is merely a civilised _façon de parler_ for ‘I have +nothing to say.’ Lord John Russell must alter the suffrage, that we may +have something pleasant in our columns. + +I am afraid matters are worse here. The leading French journalist is, +as you know, the celebrated Emile de Girardin, and, so far as I can +learn anything about him, he is one of the most fickle politicians in +existence. Since I have read the _Presse_ regularly, it has veered from +every point of the compass well-nigh to every other—now for, now against, +the revision of the constitution,—now lauding Louis Napoleon to the +skies—now calling him plain M. Bonaparte, and insinuating that he had +not two ideas, and was incapable of moral self-government—now connected +with the Red party, now praising the majority; but all and each of +these veerings and shiftings determined by one most simple and certain +principle—to keep up the popular excitement, to maintain the gifted M. de +Girardin at the head of it. Now a man who spends his life in stimulating +excitement and convulsion is really a political incendiary; and however +innocent and laudable his brother exiles may be, the old editor and +founder of the _Presse_ is, as I believe, now only paying the legitimate +penalty of systematic political _arson_. + +When a foreigner—at least an Englishman—begins to read the French papers, +his first idea is ‘How well these fellows write! Why, every one of them +has a style, and a good style too. Really, how clear, how acute, how +clever, how perspicuous; I wish our journalists would learn to write +like this;’ but a little experience will modify this idea—at least I +have found it so. I read for a considerable time these witty periodicals +with pleasure and admiration; after a little while I felt somehow that +I took them up with an effort, but I fancied, knowing my disposition, +that this was laziness; when on a sudden, in the waste of _Galignani_, +I came across an article of the _Morning Herald_. Now you’ll laugh at +me, if I tell you it was a real enjoyment. There was no toil, no sharp +theory, no pointed expression, no fatiguing brilliancy, in fact, what +the man in Lord Byron desired, ‘no nothing,’ but a dull, creeping, +satisfactory sensation that now, at least, there was nothing to admire. +As long walking in picture galleries makes you appreciate a mere wall, so +I felt that I understood for the first time that really dulness had its +interest. I found a pure refreshment in coming across what possibly might +be latent sense, but was certainly superficial stupidity. + +I think there is nothing we English hate like a clever but prolonged +controversy. Now this is the life and soul of the Parisian press. +Everybody writes against everybody. It is not mere sly hate or solemn +invective, nothing like what we occasionally indulge in, about the +misdemeanours of a morning contemporary. But they take the other side’s +article piece by piece, and comment on him, and, as they say in libel +cases, _innuendo_ him, and satisfactorily show that, according to his +arithmetic, two and two make five; useful knowledge that. It is really +good for us to know that some fellow (you never heard of him) it rather +seems can’t add up. But it interests people here—_c’est logique_ they +tell you, and if you are trustful enough to answer ‘_Mon Dieu, c’est +ennuyeux, je n’en sais rien_,’ they look as if you sneered at the +Parthenon. + +It is out of these controversies that M. de Girardin has attained his +power and his fame. His articles (according to me, at least) have no +facts and no sense. He gives one all pure reasoning—little scrappy +syllogisms; as some one said most unjustly of old Hazlitt, he ‘writes +pimples.’ But let an unfortunate writer in the _Assemblée Nationale_, or +anywhere else, make a little refreshing blunder in his logic, and next +morning small punning sentences (one to each paragraph like an equation) +come rattling down on him: it is clear as noonday that somebody said +‘something followed,’ and it does not follow, and it is so agreed in all +the million _cabinets de lecture_ after due gesticulation; and, moreover, +that M. de Girardin is the man to expose it, and what clever fellows they +are to appreciate him; but what the truth is, who cares? The subject is +forgotten. + +Now all this, to my notion, does great harm. Nothing destroys +common-place like the habit of arguing for arguing’s sake; nothing is +so bad for public matters as that they should be treated, not as the +data for the careful formation of a sound judgment, but as a topic or +background for displaying the shining qualities of public writers. It is +no light thing this. M. de Girardin for many years has gained more power, +more reputation, more money than any of his rivals; not because he shows +more knowledge—he shows much less; not because he has a wiser judgment—he +has no fixed judgment at all; but because he has a more pointed, sharp +way of exposing blunders, intrinsically paltry, obvious to all educated +men; and does not care enough for any subject to be diverted from this +logical trifling by a serious desire to convince anybody of anything. + +Don’t think I wish to be hard on this accomplished gentleman. I am not +going to require of hack-writers to write only on what they understand—if +that were the law, what a life for the sub-editor; I should not be +writing these letters, and how seldom and how timidly would the morning +journals creep into the world. Nor do I expect, though I may still, in +sentimental moods, desire, middle-aged journalists to be buoyed up by +chimerical visions of improving mankind. + +You know what our eminent _chef_ (by Thackeray profanely called Jupiter +Jeames) has been heard to say over his gin and water, in an easy and +voluptuous moment: ‘Enlightenment be ——, I want the fat fool of a +thick-headed reader to say, “Just _my own_ views,” else he ain’t pleased, +and may be he stops the paper.’ I am not going to require supernatural +excellence from writers. Yet there are limits. If I were a chemist, I +should not mind, I suppose, selling now and then, a deleterious drug on +a due affidavit of rats, then and there filed before me; yet I don’t +feel as if I could live comfortably on the sale of mere arsenic. I fancy +I should like to sell something wholesome occasionally. So, though one +might, upon occasion, egg on a riot, or excite to a breach of the peace, +I should not like to be every day feeding on revolutionary excitement. +Nor should I like to be exclusively selling diminutive, acute, quibbling +leaders (what they call in the Temple special demurrers), certain to +occupy people with small fallacies, and lead away their minds from the +great questions actually at issue. + +Sometimes I might like to feel as if I understood what I wrote on, but +of course with me this indulgence must be very rare. You know in France +journalism is not only an occupation, it is a career. As in far-off +Newcastle a coalfitter’s son looks wistfully to the bar, in the notion +that he too may emulate the fame and fortune of Lord Eldon or Lord +Stowell, so in fair Provence, a pale young aspirant packs up his little +bundle in the hope of rivalling the luck and fame of M. Thiers; he comes +to Paris—he begins, like the great historian, by dining for thirty sous +in the Palais Royal, in the hope that after long years of labour and +jealousy he, too, may end by sleeping amid curtains of white muslin lined +with pink damask. Just consider for a moment what a difference this one +fact shows between France and England. Here a man who begins life by +writing in the newspapers, has an appreciable chance of arriving to be +Minister of Foreign Affairs. The class of public writers is the class +from which the equivalent of Lord Aberdeen, Lord Palmerston, or Lord +Granville will most likely be chosen. Well, well, under that _régime_ +you and I might have been important people; we might have handled a red +box, we might have known what it was to have a reception, to dine with +the Queen, to be respectfully mystified by the _corps diplomatique_. But +angry Jove forbade—of course we can hardly deny that he was wrong,—and +yet if the revolutions of 1848 have clearly brought out any fact, it +is the utter failure of newspaper statesmen. Everywhere they have been +tried: everywhere they have shown great talents for intrigue, eloquence, +and agitation—how rarely have they shown even fair aptitude for ordinary +administration; how frequently have they gained a disreputable renown by +a laxity of principle surpassing the laxity of their aristocratic and +courtly adversaries! Such being my imperfect account of my imperfect +notions of the French press, I can’t altogether sympathise in the extreme +despondency of many excellent persons at its temporary silence since the +_coup d’état_. I might even rejoice at it, if I thought that the Parisian +public could in any manner be broken of their dependence on the morning’s +article. But I have no such hope; the taste has got down too deep into +the habits of the people; some new thing will still be necessary; and +every Government will find some of its most formidable difficulties in +their taste for political disputation and controversial excitement. The +ban must sooner or later be taken off; the President sooner or later +must submit to censure and ridicule, and whatever laws he may propose +about the press, there is none which scores of ingenious men—now animated +by the keenest hatred, will not try every hazard to evade. What he +may do to avoid this is as yet unknown. One thing, however, I suppose +is pretty sure, and I fancy quite wise. The press will be restrained +from discussing the principles of the Government. Socialists will not +be allowed to advocate a Democratic Republic. Legitimists will not be +allowed to advocate the cause of Henri Cinq, nor Orleanists the cause of +the Comte de Paris. Such indulgence might be tolerable in more temperate +countries, but experience shows that it is not safe now and here. + +A really sensible press, arguing temperately after a clear and +satisfactory exposition of the facts, is a great blessing in any country. +It would be still more a blessing in a country where, as I tried to +explain formerly, the representative element must play (if the public +security is to be maintained) a rather secondary part. It would then be +a real stimulus to deliberate inquiry and rational judgment upon public +affairs; to the formation of common-sense views upon the great outlines +of public business; to the cultivation of sound moral opinions and +convictions on the internal and international duties of the State. Even +the actual press which we may expect to see here, may not be pernicious. +It will doubtless stimulate to many factious proceedings, and many +interruptions of the public prosperity; it may very likely conduce to +drive the President (contrary, if not to his inclination, at least +to his personal interest) into foreign hostilities and international +aggression; but it may be, notwithstanding, useful in preventing private +tyranny, in exposing wanton oppression, in checking long suffering +revenge; it may prevent acts of spoliation like what they call here _le +premier vol de l’aigle_—the seizure of the Orleans property;—in a word, +being certain to oppose the executive, where the latter is unjust its +enemy will be just. + +I had hopes that this letter would be the last with which I should tease +you; but I find I must ask you to be so kind as to find room for one, and +only for one more. + + I am, yours, &c., + + AMICUS. + + +LETTER VII. + +_CONCLUDING LETTER._ + + PARIS: Feb. 19, 1852. + +SIR,—There is a story of some Swedish Abbé, in the last century, who +wrote an elaborate work to prove the then constitution of his country to +be immortal and indestructible. While he was correcting the proof sheets, +a friend brought him word that—behold! the King had already destroyed +the said polity. ‘Sir,’ replied the gratified author, ‘our Sovereign, +the illustrious Gustavus, may certainly overthrow the Constitution, but +never _my book_.’ I beg to parody this sensible remark; for I wish to +observe to you, that even though Louis Napoleon should turn out a bad and +mischievous ruler, he won’t in the least refute these letters. + +What I mean is as follows. Above all things, I have designed to prove to +you that the French are by character unfit for a solely and predominantly +Parliamentary government; that so many and so great elements of +convulsion exist here, that it will be clearly necessary that a strong, +vigorous, anti-barricade executive should, at whatever risk and cost, +be established and maintained; that such an Assembly as the last is +irreconcileable with this; in a word, that riots and revolutions must, if +possible, come to an end, and only such a degree of liberty and democracy +be granted to the French nation, as is consistent with the consolidated +existence of the order and tranquillity which are equally essential to +rational freedom and civilised society. + +In order to combine the maintenance of order and tranquillity with +the maximum of possible liberty, I hope that it may in the end be +found possible to admit into a political system a representative and +sufficiently democratic Assembly, without that Assembly assuming and +arrogating to itself those nearly omnipotent powers, which in our country +it properly and rightfully possesses, but which in the history of the +last sixty years, we have, as it seems to me, so many and so cogent +illustrations that a French Chamber is, by genius and constitution, +radically incapable to hold and exercise. I hope that some checking, +Consultative, petitioning Assembly—some βουλή, in the real sense of the +term,—some _Council_, some provision by which all grave and deliberate +public opinion (I do not speak more definitely, because an elaborate +Constitution, from a foreigner, must be an absurdity) may organise and +express itself—yet at the same time, without utterly hampering and +directing—and directing amiss—those more simple elements of national +polity on which we must, after all, rely for the prompt and steady +repression of barricade-making and bloodshed. + +I earnestly desire to believe that some such system as this may be found +in practice possible; for otherwise, unless I quite misread history, and +altogether mistake what is under my eyes, after many more calamities, +many more changes, many more great Assemblies abounding in Vergniauds +and Berryers, the essential deficiencies of debating Girondin statesmen +will become manifest, the uncompact, unpractical, over volatile, over +logical, indecisive, ineffectual rule of Gallican Parliaments will be +unequivocally manifest (it is _now_ plain, I imagine, but a truth so +humiliating must be written large in letters of blood before those that +run will read it), and no medium being held or conceived to be possible, +the nation will sink back, not contented but discontented, not trustfully +but distrustfully, under the rule of a military despot; and if they yield +to this, it will be from no faith, no loyalty, no credulity; it will be +from a sense—a hated sense—of unqualified failure, a miserable scepticism +in the probable success and the possible advantages of long-tried and +ill-tried rebellion. + +Now, whether the Constitution of Louis Napoleon is calculated to realise +this ideal and intermediate system, is, till we see it at work, doubtful +and disputable. It is not the question so much of what it may be at +this moment, as of what it may become in a brief period, when things +have begun to assume a more normal state, and the public mind shall be +relaxed from its present and painful tension. However, I should be +deceiving you, if I did not inform you that the state of men’s minds +towards the Prince-President is not, so far as I can make it out, what +it was the day after the _coup d’état_. The measures taken against +the Socialists are felt to have been several degrees too severe, the +list of exiles too numerous; the confiscation of the Orleans’ property +could not but be attended with the worst effect: the law announced +by the Government organs respecting or rather against the Press, is +justly (though you know from my last letter I have no partiality for +French newspapers) considered to be absurdly severe, and likely to +countenance much tyranny and gross injustice; above all, instead of +maintaining mere calm and order, the excessive rigour, and sometimes +the injustice, of the President’s measures, have produced a breathless +pause (if I may so speak) in public opinion; political conversation is +a whispered question, what will he do next? Firstly, the Government is +dull, and the French want to be amused; secondly, it is going to spoil +the journals (depreciate newspapers to a Frenchman, disparage nuts to +a monkey); thirdly, it is producing (I do not say it has yet produced, +but it has made a beginning in producing) a habit of apprehension;—in +fact, I believe the French opinion of the Prince-President is near about +that of the interesting damsel in George Sand’s comedy, concerning her +uninteresting _prétendu_: ‘_Vous l’aimez? n’est-ce pas?’ ‘Oui, oui, +oui, certainement je l’aime. Oui, oui, mille fois, oui, Je dis que oui. +Je vous assure. AU MOINS je fais mon possible à l’aimer_:’ the first +attachment is not extinct, but people have begun—awful symptom—to add +the withering and final saving clause. Yet it is, I imagine, a great +mistake to suppose that the present Constitution, if it work at all, will +permanently work as a despotism, or that the _Corps Législatif_ will be +without a measure of popular influence; the much more helpless _Tribunal_ +was not so in the much more troublesome times of the Consulate. And +the source of such influence and the manner of its operation may be, I +imagine, well enough traced in the nature of the forces whereby Louis +Napoleon holds his power. + +A truly estimable writer says, I know, ‘that the Legislative body cannot +have, by possibility, any analogy with the consultative and petitioning +senate of the Plantagenets,’ nor can any one deny that the likeness +is extremely faint (no illustration ever yet ran on all fours), the +practical differences clear and convincing. But yet, according to the +light which is given me now, I affirm that for one vital purpose,—the +resisting and criticising any highly unpopular acts of a highly unpopular +Government,—the _Corps Législatif_ of Louis Napoleon must, and will, +inevitably possess a power compared with which the forty-day followers +of the feudal _noblesse_ seem as impotent as a congregation of Quakers; +a force the peculiarity of which is that you can’t imprison, can’t +dissolve, can’t annihilate it—I mean, of course, the moral power of +civilised opinion. You may put down newspapers, dissolve Parliaments, +imprison agitators, almost stop conversation, but you can’t stop thought. +You can’t prevent the silent, slow, creeping, stealthy progress of +hatred, and scorn, and shame. You can’t attenuate easily the stern +justice of a retarded retaliation. These influences affect the great +reservoir of physical force—they act on the army. A body of men enlisted +daily from the people take to the barracks the notions of the people; in +spite of new associations, the first impressions are apt to be retained; +you overlay them, but they remain. What is believed elsewhere and out of +doors gives them weight. Each soldier has relations, friends, a family—he +knows what they think. Much more with the officers. These are men moving +in Parisian society, accessible to its influences, responsible to its +opinion, apt to imbibe its sentiments. Certainly _esprit de corps_—the +habit of obedience, the instinct of discipline, are strong, and will +carry men far; but certainly, also, they have natural limits. Men won’t +stand being cut, being ridiculed, being detested, being despised, daily +and for ever, and that for measures which their own understandings +disapprove of. Remember there is not here any question of barbarous +bands overawing a civilised and imperial city; no question of ugly +Croats keeping down cultivated Italians; it is but a question of French +gentlemen and French peasantry in uniform acting in opposition to other +French gentlemen and other French peasants without uniform. Already +there has been talk (I do not say well-founded, but still the matter +was named) of breaking two or three hundred officers, for speaking +against the Orleans decrees. Do you fancy that can be done every day? +Do you imagine that a Parliament, whatever its nominal functions may be +(remember those of the old _régime_), speaking the sense of the people +about the question of the day, in a time of convulsion, and in a critical +hour, would not be attended to, or at any rate thought of and considered, +by an army taken from the people—commanded by men selected from and +every day mixing with common society and very ordinary mankind. The 2nd +of December showed how readily such troops will support a decided and +popular President against an intriguing, divided, impotent Chamber. But +such hard blows won’t bear repetition. Soldiers—French soldiers, I take +it especially, from their quickness and intelligence, are neither deaf +nor blind. If there be truth in history or speculation, national forces +can’t long be used against the nation: they are unmerciful, and often +cruel to feeble minorities; they are ready now for a terrible onslaught +on mere Socialists, just as of old they turned out cheerfully for awful +dragonnades on the ill-starred Protestants; but once let them know and +feel that everybody is against them—that they are alone, that their acts +are contemned and their persons despised,—and gradually, or all at once, +discipline and habit surely fail, men murmur or desert, officers hesitate +or disobey, one regiment is dismissed to the Cabyles, another relegated +to rural solitudes; at last, most likely in the decisive moment of the +whole history, the rulers, who relied only on their troops, are afraid to +call them out; they hesitate, send spies and commissioners to inquire. +‘_Vive le Gouvernement Provisoire!_’—the black and roaring multitude +rises and comes on; but two seconds, and the obnoxious institutions are +lost in the flood; nothing is heard but the cry of the hour, sounding +shrill and angry over the waste of Revolution—‘_Vive le Diable!_’ With +such a force behind them, a French Parliament, of whatever nature, with +whatever written duties, is, if at the head of the movement, in the +critical hour, apt to be stronger than the strongest of the Barons. + +Nor do I concur with those who censure the President for ‘recommending’ +avowedly the candidates he approves. It is a part of the great question, +How is universal suffrage to be worked successfully in such a country as +France? The peasant proprietors have but one political idea that they +wish the Prince to govern them;—they wish to vote for the candidate most +acceptable to him, and they wish nothing else. Why is he wrong in telling +them which candidate that is? + +Still, no doubt, the reins are now strained a great deal too tight. It +is possible, quite possible, that a majority in this Parliament may +be packed, but what I would impress on you is that it can’t always be +packed. Sooner or later constituencies who wish to oppose the Government +will, in spite of _maires_ and _préfets_, elect the opposition candidate: +it is in the nature of any, even the least vigorous system of popular +election, to struggle forwards and progressively attain to some fair and +reasonable correspondence with the substantial views and opinions of the +constituent people. + +I therefore fall back on what I told you before—my essential view or +crotchet about the mental aptitudes and deficiencies of the French +people. The French, said Napoleon, are _des machines nerveuses_. + +The point is, can their excitable, volatile, superficial, over-logical, +uncompromising character be managed and manipulated as to fit them +for entering on a practically uncontrolled system of Parliamentary +Government? Will not any large and omnipotent Assembly resemble the +stormy Constituent and the late Chamber, rather than the business-like, +formal, ennui-diffusing Parliament to which in our free and dull country +we are felicitously accustomed? Can one be so improved as to keep +down a riot? I foresee a single and but a single objection. I fancy, +indeed I know, that there is a school of political thinkers not yet +in possession of any great influence, but, perhaps, a little on the +way thereto, which has improved or invented a capital panacea, whereby +all nations are, within very moderate limits of time, to be surely and +certainly fitted for political freedom; and that no matter how formed—how +seemingly stable—how long ago cast and constructed, be the type of +popular character to which the said remedy is sought to be applied. This +panacea is the foundation or restoration of provincial municipalities. +Now, I am myself prepared to go a considerable length with the school +in question. I do myself think, that a due and regular consideration of +the knotty points of paving and lighting, and the deciding in the last +resort upon them, is a valuable discipline of national character. It +exercises people’s minds on points they know, in things of which there +is a test. Very few people are good judges of a good Constitution; but +everybody’s eyes are excellent judges of good light; every man’s feet +are profound in the theory of agreeable stones. Yet I can’t altogether +admit, nevertheless, that municipalities are the sufficient and sole, +though they may be very likely an essential prerequisite of political +freedom. There is the great instance of Hindostan to the contrary. +The whole old and national system of that remarkable country—a system +in all probability as ancient as the era of Alexander, is a village +system; and one so curious, elaborate, I fancy I might say so profound, +that the best European observers—Sir Thomas Munro, and that sort of +people—are most strenuous for its being retained unimpaired. According +to them, the village hardly heard of the Imperial Government, except +for the purpose of Imperial taxation. The business of life through +that whole vast territory has always been practically determined by +potails and parish-vestries, and yet nevertheless and in spite of this +capital and immemorial municipal system, our subjects, the Hindoos, +are still slaves and still likely to be slaves; still essentially +slavish, and likely, I much fear, very long indeed to remain so. It is +therefore quite certain that rural and provincial institutions won’t +so alter and adapt all national characters, as to fit all nations for +a Parliamentary Constitution; consequently, the _onus probandi_ is on +those who assert that it will so alter and mould the French. Again, I +assure you that the French do think of paving and lighting; not enough, +perhaps, but still they have begun. The country is, as you know, divided +into departments, arrondissements, and communes; in each of these there +is a council, variously elected, but, in all cases, popularly and from +the district, which has the sole control over the expenditure of the +particular locality for every special and local purpose, and which, if +I am rightly informed, has, in theory at least, the sole initiative in +every local improvement. The defect, I fancy, is that in the exercise +of these, considerable bodies are hampered and controlled by the veto +and supervision of the central authority. The rural councils discuss +and decide what in their judgment should be then done and what money +should be so spent; the better sort of the agricultural population have +much more voice in the latter than have the corresponding class in +England, in the determination and imposition of our own county rate; but +it is the central authority which decides whether such proposals and +recommendations shall in fact be carried out. In a word, the provinces +have to _ask leave_ of the Parisian Ministry of the Interior. Now I +admit this is an abuse. I should maintain that elderly gentlemen with +bald heads and local influence ought to feel that they, in the final +resort, settle and determine all truly local matters. Human nature +likes its own road, its own bridge, its own lapidary obstacles, its own +deceptive luminosity. But I ask again, can you fancy that these luxuries, +to whatever degree indulged in, alter and modify in any essential +particular, the levity and volatility of the French character? How much +light to how much logic? How many paving stones to how much mobility? I +can’t foresee any such change. And even if so, what in the meantime? + +We are left then, I think, to deal with the French character pretty much +as we find it. What stealthy, secret, unknown, excellent forces may, +in the wisdom of Providence, be even now modifying this most curious +intellectual fabric, neither you nor I can know or tell. Let us hope +they may be many. But if we indulge, and from the immense records of +revolutionary history, I think, with due distrust, we may legitimately +and even beneficially indulge, in system-building and speculation, we +must take the _data_ which we have, and not those which we desire or +imagine. Louis Napoleon has proposed a system: English writers by the +thousand (if I was in harness instead of holiday-making I should be most +likely among them) proclaim his system an evil one. What then? Do you +know what Father Newman says to the religious reformers, rather sharply, +but still well, ‘Make out first of all where you stand—draw up your +creed—write down your catechism.’ So I answer to the English eloquence, +‘State first of all what you would have—draw up your novel system for +the French Government—write down your political Constitution.’ Don’t +criticise but produce; do not find fault but propose—and when you have +proposed upon theory and have created upon paper, let us see whether the +system be such a one as will work, in fact, and be accepted by a wilful +nation in reality—otherwise your work is nought. + +And mind, too, that the system to be sketched out must be fit to protect +the hearths and homes of men. It is easy to compose polities if you do +but neglect this one essential condition. Four years ago, Europe was in +a ferment with the newest ideas, the best theories, the most elaborate, +the most artistic Constitutions. There was the labour, and toil, and +trouble, of a million intellects, as good, taken on the whole, perhaps, +as the world is likely to see,—of old statesmen, and literary gentlemen, +and youthful enthusiasts, all over Europe, from the Baltic Sea to the +Mediterranean, from the frontiers of Russia to the Atlantic Ocean. Well, +what have we gained? A Parliament in Sardinia! Surely this is a lesson +against proposing politics which won’t work, convening assemblies that +can’t legislate, constructing executives that aren’t able to keep the +peace, founding Constitutions inaugurated with tears and eloquence, soon +abandoned with tears and shame; beginning a course of fair auguries and +liberal hopes, but one from whose real dangers and actual sufferings a +frightened and terrified people, in the end, flee for a temporary, or may +be a permanent, refuge under a military and absolute ruler. + +Mazzini sneers at the selfishness of shopkeepers—I am for the shopkeepers +against him. There are people who think because they are Republican there +shall be no more ‘cakes and ale.’ Aye, verily, but there will though; or +else stiffish ginger will be hot in the mouth. Legislative Assemblies, +leading articles, essay eloquence—such are good—very good,—useful—very +useful. Yet they can be done without. We can want them. Not so with all +things. The selling of figs, the cobbling of shoes, the manufacturing +of nails,—these are the essence of life. And let whoso frameth a +Constitution of his country think on these things. + +I conclude, as I ought, with my best thanks for the insertion of these +letters; otherwise I was so full of the subject that I might have +committed what Disraeli calls ‘the extreme act of human fatuity,’ I might +have published a pamphlet: from this your kindness has preserved me, and +I am proportionally grateful. + + I am, yours, + + AMICUS. + + + + +II. + +_CÆSARISM AS IT EXISTED IN 1865._ + + [Lest the preceding letters should be supposed to express Mr. + Bagehot’s complete and final judgment on the character of the + imperial _régime_ of Louis Napoleon, it has been thought well + to publish a paper which he contributed to the _Economist_ + after a visit to France in 1865, of a nature to correct the + misapprehensions to which the somewhat youthful essays which + precede might give rise. It appeared soon after the publication + of the Emperor’s Life of Julius Cæsar.] + + +That the French Emperor should have spare leisure and unoccupied +reflection to write a biography, is astonishing, but if he wished to +write a biography, his choice of a subject is very natural. Julius +Cæsar was the first who tried on an imperial scale the characteristic +principles of the French Empire,—as the first Napoleon revived them, +as the third Napoleon has consolidated them. The notion of a demagogue +ruler, both of a fighting demagogue and a talking demagogue, was indeed +familiar to the Greek Republics; but their size was small, and their +history unemphatic. On the big page of universal history, Julius Cæsar is +the first instance of a democratic despot. He overthrew an aristocracy—a +corrupt, and perhaps effete aristocracy, it is true, but still an +aristocracy—by the help of the people, of the unorganised people. He said +to the numerical majority of Roman citizens, ‘I am your advocate and +your leader: make me supreme, and I will govern for your good, and in +your name.’ This is exactly the principle of the French Empire. No one +will ever make an approach to understanding it, who does not separate it +altogether, and on principle, from the despotisms of feudal origin and +legitimate pretensions. The old Monarchies claim the obedience of the +people upon grounds of duty. They say they have consecrated claims to +the loyalty of mankind. They appeal to conscience, even to religion. But +Louis Napoleon is a Benthamite despot. He is for the ‘greatest happiness +of the greatest number.’ He says, ‘I am where I am, because I know better +than any one else what is good for the French people, and they know that +I know better.’ He is not the Lord’s anointed; he is the people’s agent. + +We cannot here discuss what the effect of this system was in ancient +times. These columns are not the best place for an historical +dissertation; but we may set down very briefly the results of some close +and recent observation of the system as it now exists, as it is at work +in France. Part of its effects are well understood in England, but a part +of them are, we think, but mistily seen and imperfectly apprehended. + +In the first place, the French Empire is really the _best finished_ +democracy which the world has ever seen. What the many at the moment +desire is embodied with a readiness, and efficiency, and a completeness +which has no parallel, either in past history or present experience. An +absolute Government with a popular instinct has the unimpeded command +of a people renowned for orderly dexterity. A Frenchman will have +arranged an administrative organisation really and effectually, while an +Englishman is still bungling, and a German still reflecting. An American +is certainly as rapid, and in some measure as efficient, but his speed +is a little head-long, and his execution is very rough; he tumbles +through much, but he only tumbles. A Frenchman will not hurry; he has a +deliberate perfection in detail, which may always be relied on, for it +is never delayed. The French Emperor knows well how to use these powers. +His bureaucracy is not only endurable, but pleasant. An idle man who +wants his politics done for him, has them done for him. The welfare of +the masses—the present good of the present multitude—is felt to be the +object of the Government and the law of the polity. The Empire gives to +the French the full gratification of their main wishes, and the almost +artistic culture of an admirable workmanship, of an administration +finished as only Frenchmen can finish it, and as it never was finished +before. + +It belongs to such a Government to care much for material prosperity, and +it does care. It makes the people as comfortable as they will permit. +If they are not more comfortable, it is their own fault. The Government +would give them free trade, and consequent diffused comfort, if it could. +No former French Government has done as much for free trade as this +Government. No Government has striven to promote railways, and roads, and +industry, like this Government. France is much changed in twelve years. +Not exactly by the mere merit of the Empire, for it entered into a great +inheritance; it succeeded to the silent work of the free monarchy which +revolution had destroyed and impeded. There were fruitful and vigorous +germs of improvement ready to be elicited—ready to start forth—but under +an unintelligent Government they would not have started forth; they would +have lain idle and dead, but under the adroit culture of the present +Government, they have grown so as to amaze Europe and France itself. + +If, indeed, as is often laid down, the _present happiness_ of the +greatest number was the characteristic object of the Government, it would +be difficult to make out that any probable French Government would be +better, or indeed nearly so good, as the present. The intelligence of the +Emperor on economical subjects—on the bread and meat of the people—is +really better than that of the classes opposed to him. He gives the +present race of Frenchmen more that is good than any one else would give +them, and he gives it them in their own name. They have as much as they +like of all that is good for them. But if not the present happiness of +the greatest number, but _their future elevation_, be, as it is, the true +aim and end of Government, our estimate of the Empire will be strangely +altered. It is an admirable Government for present and coarse purposes, +but a detestable Government for future and refined purposes. + +In the first place, it stops the _teaching apparatus_, it stops the +effectual inculcation of important thought upon the mass of mankind. All +other mental effort but this, the Empire not only permits but encourages. +The high intellect of Paris is as active, as well represented, as that +of London, and it is even more keen. Intellect still gives there, and +has always given, a distinctive position. To be a _Membre de l’Institut_ +is a recognised place in France; but in London, it is an ambiguous +distinction to be a ‘clever fellow.’ The higher kinds of thought are +better discussed in Parisian society than in London society, and better +argued in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ than in any English periodical. +The speculative thought of France has not been killed by the Empire; it +is as quick, as rigorous, as keen as ever. But though still alive, it is +no longer powerful; it cannot teach the mass. The _Revue_ is permitted, +but newspapers—effectual newspapers—are forbidden. A real course of free +lectures on popular subjects would be impossible in Paris. _Agitation_ is +forbidden, and it is agitation, and agitation alone, which teaches. The +crude mass of men bear easily philosophical treatises, refined articles, +elegant literature; there are but two instruments penetrative enough to +reach their opaque minds—the newspaper article and the popular speech, +and both of these are forbidden. + +In London the reverse is true. We may say that only the loudest sort of +expression is permitted to attain its due effect. The popular organs of +literature so fill men’s minds with incomplete thoughts, that deliberate +treatment, that careful inquiry, that quiet thought have no hearing. +People are so deafened with the loud reiteration of many half truths, +that they have neither curiosity nor energy for elaborate investigation. +The very word ‘elaborate’ is become a reproach: elaboration produces +something which the mass of men do not like, because it is above +them,—which is tiresome, because it needs industry,—difficult, because +it wants attention,—complicated, because it is true. On the whole, +perhaps, English thought has rarely been so unfinished, so piecemeal, +so _ragged_ as it is now. We have so many little discussions, that we +get no full discussion; we eat so many sandwiches, that we spoil our +dinner. And on the Continent, accordingly, the speculative thought of +England is despised. It is believed to be meagre, uncultivated, and +immature. We have only a single compensation. Our thought may be poor +and rough and fragmentary, but it is effectual. With our newspapers and +our speeches—with our clamorous multitudes of indifferent tongues—we +beat the ideas of the few into the minds of the many. The head of France +is a better head than ours, but it does not move her limbs. The head of +England is in comparison a coarse and crude thing, but rules her various +frame and regulates her whole life. + +France, _as it is_, may be happier because of the Empire, but France +_in the future_ will be more ignorant because of the Empire. The daily +play of the higher mind upon the lower mind is arrested. The present +Government has given an instalment of free trade, but it could not endure +an agitation for free trade. A democratic despotism is like a theocracy; +it assumes its own correctness. It says, ‘I am the representative of the +people; I am here because I know what they wish, because I know what they +should have.’ As Cavaignac once said, ‘A Government which permits its +principles to be questioned is a lost Government.’ All popular discussion +whatever which aspires to teach the Government is radically at issue with +the hypothesis of the Empire. It says that the Cæsar, the omniscient +representative, is a mistaken representative, that he is not fit to be +Cæsar. + +The deterioration of the future is one inseparable defect of the +imperial organisation, but it is not the only one,—for the moment, it +is not the greatest. The greatest is the corruption of the present. A +greater burden is imposed by it upon human nature than human nature +will bear. Everything requires the support, aid, countenance of the +central Government, and yet that Government is expected to keep itself +pure. Concessions of railways, concessions of the privilege of limited +liability,—on a hundred subjects, legal permission, administrative help, +are necessary to money-making. You concentrate upon a small body of +leading official men the power of making men’s fortunes, and it is simple +to believe they will not make their own fortunes. The very principle +of the system is to concentrate power, and power is money. Sir Robert +Walpole used to say, ‘No honest man could be a “Minister;”’ and in France +the temptations would conquer all men’s honesty. The system requires +angels to work it, and perhaps it has not been so fortunate as to find +angels. The nod of a minister on the Bourse is a fortune, and somehow or +other ministers make fortunes. The Bourse of Paris is still so small, +that a leading capitalist may produce a great impression on it, and a +leading capitalist working with a great minister, a vast impression. +Accordingly, all that goes with sudden wealth; all that follows from +the misuse of the two temptations of civilisation, money and women, is +concentrated round the Imperial court. The Emperor would cure much of it +if he could, but what can he do? They say he has said that he will not +change his men. He will not substitute fleas that are hungry for fleas +which at least are partially satisfied. He is right. The defect belongs +to the system, to these men; an enormous concentration of power in an +industrial system ensures an accumulation of pecuniary temptation. + +These are the two main disadvantages which France suffers from her +present Government; the greater part of the price which she has to pay +for her present happiness. She endures the daily presence of an efficient +immorality; she sacrifices the educating apparatus which would elevate +Frenchmen yet to be born. But these two disadvantages are not the only +ones. + +France gains the material present, but she does not gain the material +future. All that secures present industry, her Government confers; in +whatever needs confidence in the future she is powerless. _Credit_ in +France, to an Englishman’s eye, has almost to be created. The _country_ +deposits in the Bank of France are only 1,000,000_l._ sterling; that bank +has fifty-nine branches, is immeasurably the greatest country bank in +France. All discussions on the currency come back to the _cours forcé_, +to the inevitable necessity of making inconvertible notes an irrefusable +tender during a revolution. If you propose the simplest operations of +credit to a French banker, he says, ‘You do not remember 1848; I do.’ +And what is the answer? The present Government avowedly depends on, is +ostentatiously concentrated in, the existing Cæsar. Its existence depends +on the permanent occupation of the Tuileries by an extraordinary man. +The democratic despot—the representative despot—must have the sagacity +to divine the people’s will and the sagacity to execute it. What is the +likelihood that these will be hereditary? Can they be expected in the +next heirs—a child for Emperor, and a woman for Regent? The present +happiness of France is happiness on a short life-lease; it may end with +the life of a man who is not young, who has not spared himself, who has +always thought, who has always _lived_. + +Such are the characteristics of the Empire as it is. Such is the nature +of Cæsar’s Government as we know it at the present. We scarcely expect +that even the singular ability of Napoleon III. will be able to modify, +by an historical retrospect, the painful impressions left by actual +contact with a living reality.[34] + + + + +III. + +_MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HON. JAMES WILSON._[35] + + +Perhaps some of the subscribers to the _Economist_ would not be unwilling +to read a brief memoir of Mr. Wilson, even if the events narrated were in +no respect peculiar. They might possibly be interested in the biography +of an author of whose writings they have read so many, even if the +narrative related no marked transitions and no characteristic events. +But there were in Mr. Wilson’s life several striking changes. The scene +shifts from the manufactory of a small Scotch hatter in a small Scotch +town, to London—to the Imperial Parliament—to the English Treasury—to the +Council Board of India. Such a biography may be fairly expected to have +some interest. The life perhaps of no _Political Economist_ has been more +eventful. + +James Wilson was born at Hawick, in Roxburghshire, on June 3, 1805. +His father, of whose memory he always spoke with marked respect, was a +thriving man of business, extensively engaged in the woollen manufacture +of that place. He was the fourth son in a family of fifteen children, of +whom, however, only ten reached maturity. Of his mother, who died when he +was very young, he scarcely retained any remembrance in after life. As to +his early years little is now recollected, except that he was a very mild +and serious boy, usually successful during school hours, but not usually +successful in the play-ground. + +As Mr. Wilson’s father was an influential Quaker, he was sent when ten +years old to a Quaker school at Ackworth, where he continued for four +years. At that time—it may surprise some of those who knew him in later +life to be told—he was so extremely fond of books as to wish to be a +teacher; and as his father allowed his sons to choose their line in life, +he was sent to a seminary at Earl’s Colne in Essex, to qualify himself +for that occupation. But the taste did not last long. As we might expect, +the natural activity of his disposition soon induced him to regret his +choice of a sedentary life. He wrote to Hawick, ‘I would rather be the +most menial servant in my father’s mill than be a teacher;’ and he was +permitted to return home at once. + +Many years later he often narrated that, after leaving Earlscome, he had +much wished to study for the Scottish bar, but the rules of the Society +of Friends, as then understood, would not allow his father to consent +to the plan. He was sometimes inclined half to regret that he had not +been able to indulge this taste, and he was much pleased at being told +by a great living advocate that ‘if he had gone to the bar he would +have been very successful.’ But at the time there was no alternative, +and at sixteen he accordingly commenced a life of business. He did not, +however, lose at once his studious predilections. For some years at least +he was in the habit of reading a good deal, very often till late in the +night. It was indeed then that he acquired almost all the knowledge of +books which he ever possessed. In later life he was much too busy to be +a regular reader, and he never acquired the habit of catching easily +the contents of books or even of articles in the interstices of other +occupations. Whatever he did, he did thoroughly. He would not read even +an article in a newspaper if he could well help doing so; but if he read +it at all, it was with as much slow, deliberate attention as if he were +perusing a Treasury minute. + +At the early age we have mentioned he commenced his business life by +being apprenticed to a small hat manufacturer at Hawick; and it is still +remembered that he showed remarkable care and diligence in mastering all +the minutiæ of the trade. There was, indeed, nothing of the _amateur_ man +of business about him at any time. After a brief interval, his father +purchased his master’s business for him and for an elder brother, named +William, and the two brothers in conjunction continued to carry it on +at Hawick during two or three years with much energy. So small a town, +however, as Hawick then was, afforded no scope for enterprise in this +branch of manufacture, and they resolved to transfer themselves to London. + +Accordingly, in 1824, Mr. Wilson commenced a mercantile life in London +(the name of the firm being Wilson, Irwin, & Wilson), and was very +prosperous and successful for many years. His pecuniary gains were +considerable, and to the practical instruction which he then obtained he +always ascribed his success as an economist and a financier. ‘Before I +was twenty years of age,’ he said at Devonport in 1859, ‘I was a partner +in a firm in London, and I can only say if there is in my life one +event which I regard with satisfaction more than another, it is that I +had then an opportunity of obtaining experience by observation which +has contributed in the main to what little public utility I have since +been to my country. During these few years I became acquainted—well +acquainted—with the middle classes of this country. I also became +acquainted in some degree with the working classes; and also, to a great +extent, with the foreign commerce of this country in pretty nearly all +parts of the world; and I can only say the information and the experience +I thus derived have been to me in my political career of greater benefit +than I can now describe.’ + +In 1831, the firm of Wilson, Irwin, & Wilson was dissolved by mutual +consent. But Mr. Wilson (under the firm of James Wilson & Co.) continued +to carry on the same kind of business, and continued to obtain the same +success. He began in 1824 with 2,000_l._, the gift of his father, and in +1837 was worth nearly 25,000_l._—a fair result for so short a period, +and evincing a steady business-like capacity and judgment; for it was +the fruit not of sudden success in casual speculation, but of regular +attention during several years to one business. From circumstances which +we shall presently state, he was very anxious that this part of his +career should be very clearly understood. + +During these years Mr. Wilson led the usual life of a prosperous and +intellectual man of business. He married,[36] and formed an establishment +suitable to his means, first near his manufactory in London, and +afterwards at Dulwich. He took great pleasure in such intellectual +society as he could obtain; was specially fond of conversing on political +economy, politics, statistics, and the other subjects with which he +was subsequently so busily occupied.[37] Through life it was one of +his remarkable peculiarities to be a _very animated_ man, talking by +preference and by habit on _inanimate_ subjects. All the _verve_, +vigour, and life which lively people put into exciting pursuits, he put +into topics which are usually thought very dry. He discussed the Currency +or the Corn Laws with a relish and energy which made them interesting +to almost every one. ‘How pleasant it is,’ he used to say, ‘to talk a +subject out,’ and he frequently suggested theories in the excitement +of conversation upon his favourite topics which he had never thought +of before, but to which he ever afterwards attached, as was natural, +much importance. The instructiveness of his conversation was greatly +increased as his mind progressed and his experience accumulated. But his +genial liveliness and animated vigour were the same during his early +years of business life as they were afterwards when he filled important +offices of state in England and in Calcutta. Few men can have led a more +continuously prosperous and happy life than he did during those years. +Unfortunately it was not to continue. + +In 1836, or thereabouts, Mr. Wilson was unfortunately induced to commence +a speculation in indigo, in conjunction with a gentleman in Scotland. It +was expected that indigo would be scarce, and that the price would rise +rapidly in consequence. Such would indeed appear to have been the case +for a short period, since the first purchases in which Mr. Wilson took +part yielded a profit. In consequence of this success, he was induced to +try a larger venture,—indeed to embark most of his disposable capital. +Unfortunately, the severe crisis of 1837 disturbed the usual course +of all trades, and from its effect or from some other cause, indigo, +instead of rising rapidly, fell rapidly. The effect on Mr. Wilson’s +position may be easily guessed. A very great capitalist would have been +able to hold till better times, but he was not. ‘On January 1,’ he said +at Devonport, ‘in a given year, my capital was nearer 25,000_l._, than +24,000_l._, and it was all lost.’ Numerous stories were long circulated +most of them exaggerated, and the remainder wholly untrue, as to this +period of misfortune in Mr. Wilson’s life; but the truth is very simple. +As is usual in such cases, various arrangements were proposed and +agreed to, were afterwards abandoned, and others substituted for them. +A large bundle of papers carefully preserved by him records with the +utmost accuracy the whole of the history. The final result will be best +described in his own words at Devonport, which precisely correspond with +the balance sheets and other documents still in existence. They are part +of a speech in answer to a calumnious rumour that had been circulated in +the town:— + +‘Now, how did I act on this occasion? and this is what this placard has +reference to. By my own means alone, I was enabled at once to satisfy +in full all claims against me individually, and to provide for the +early payment of one-half of the whole of the demands against the firm, +consisting of myself and three partners. I was further enabled, or the +firm was enabled, at once to assign property of sufficient value, as was +supposed, to the full satisfaction of the whole of the remainder of the +liabilities. An absolute agreement was made, an absolute release was +given to all the partners; there was neither a bankruptcy nor insolvency, +neither was the business stopped for one day. The business was continued +under the new firm, with which I remained a partner, and from which I +ultimately retired in good circumstances. Some years afterwards it turned +out that the foreign property which was assigned for the remaining half +of the debts of the old firm, of which I was formerly a partner, proved +insufficient to discharge them. The legal liability was, as you know, +all gone; the arrangement had been accepted—an arrangement calculated +and believed by all parties to be sufficient to satisfy all claims in +full; but when the affairs of the whole concern were fully wound up, +finding that the foreign property had not realised what was anticipated, +I had it, I am glad to say, in my power to place at my banker’s, having +ascertained the amount, a sum of money to discharge all the remainder +of that debt, which I considered morally, though not legally, due. This +I did without any kind of solicitation—the thing was not named to me, +and I am quite sure never were the gentlemen more taken by surprise than +when a friend of mine waited on them privately in London, and presented +each of them with a cheque for the balance due to them. Now, perhaps, +I have myself to blame for this anonymous attack. I probably brought +it on myself, for I always felt that if this matter were made public, +it might look like an act of ostentatious obtrusion on my part, and +therefore, when I put aside the sum of money necessary for the purpose, +I made a request, in the letter I wrote to my bankers, desiring them +as an especial favour that they would instruct their clerks to mention +the matter to no one; and in order that it should be perfectly private, +I employed a personal friend of my own in the city of London, in whose +care I placed the whole of the cheques, to wait on those gentlemen and +present each of them with a cheque, and I obtained from him a promise, +and he from them, not to name the circumstance to any one.’ The secrecy +thus enjoined was well preserved. Many of the most intimate friends of +Mr. Wilson, and his family also, were entirely unacquainted with what +he had done, and learnt it only through, the accidental medium of an +electioneering speech. It may be added, too, that some of those who +knew the circumstances, and who have watched Mr. Wilson’s subsequent +career, believe that at no part of his life did he show greater business +ability, self command, and energy, than at the crisis of his mercantile +misfortunes. + +It is remarkable that the preface to Mr. Wilson’s first pamphlet, on the +‘Influences of the Corn Laws,’ is dated March 1, 1839, the precise time +at which he was negotiating with his creditors for a proper arrangement +of his affairs; and to those who have had an opportunity of observing +how completely pecuniary misfortune unnerves and unmans men—mercantile +men, perhaps, more than any others—it will not seem unworthy of remark +that a careful pamphlet, with elaborate figures, instinct in every line +with vigour and energy, should emanate from a man struggling with extreme +pecuniary calamity, and daily harrassed with the painful details of it. + +After 1839 Mr. Wilson continued in business for several years, and with +very fair success, considering that his capital was much diminished, and +that the hat manufacture was in a state of transition. He finally retired +in 1844, and invested most of his capital in the foundation and extension +of the _Economist_. + +These facts prove, as we believe, the conclusion which he was very +desirous to make clear—that, though unfortunate on a particular occasion, +Mr. Wilson was by no means, as a rule, unsuccessful in business. He did +not at all like to have it said that he was fit to lay down the rules and +the theory of business, but not fit to transact business itself. And the +whole of his life, on the contrary, proves that he possessed an unusual +capacity for affairs—an extraordinary _transacting_ ability. + +It may, however, be admitted that Mr. Wilson was in several respects +by no means an unlikely man to meet, especially in early life, with +occasional misfortune. To the last hour of his life he was always +sanguine. He naturally looked at everything in a bright and cheerful +aspect; his tendency was always to form a somewhat too favourable +judgment both of things and men. One proof of this may be sufficient: +he was five years Secretary of the Treasury, and he did not leave it a +suspicious man. + +Moreover, Mr. Wilson’s temperament was very active and his mind was +very fertile. And though in many parts of business these gifts are very +advantageous, in many also they are very dangerous, if not absolutely +disadvantageous. Frequently they are temptations. Capital is always +limited; often it is _very_ limited; and therefore a man of business, +who is managing his own capital, has only defined resources, and can +engage only in a certain number of undertakings. But a person of active +temperament and fertile mind will soon chafe at that restriction. His +inventiveness will show him many ways in which money might easily be +made, and he cannot but feel that with his energies he would like to make +it. If he have besides a sanguine temperament, he will believe that he +can make it. The records of unfortunate commerce abound in instances of +men who have been unsuccessful because they had great mind, great energy, +and great hope, but had not money in proportion. Some part of this +description was, perhaps, applicable to Mr. Wilson in 1839, but exactly +how much cannot, after the lapse of so many years, be now known with any +accuracy. + +Mr. Wilson’s position in middle life was by no means unsuitable to a +writer on the subjects in which he afterwards attained eminence. He +had acquired a great knowledge of business through a long course of +industrious years; he had proved by habitual success in business that +his habitual judgment on it was sound and good. If he had been a man of +only ordinary energy and only ordinary ability, he would probably have +continued to grow regularly richer and richer. But by a single error +natural to a very sanguine temperament and a very active mind, he had +destroyed a great part of the results of his industry. He had a new +career to seek. He was willing to expend on it the whole of his great +energies. He was ready to take all the pains which were necessary to fit +himself for success. When he wrote his first pamphlet he used to say +that he thought ‘the sentences never would come right.’ In later life +he considered three leading articles in the _Economist_, full of facts +and figures, an easy morning’s work, which would not prevent his doing a +good deal else too. Mr. Wilson was a finished man of business obliged by +necessity to become a writer on business. Perhaps no previous education +and no temporary circumstances could be conceived more likely to train a +great financial writer and to stimulate his powers. + +In 1839, Mr. Wilson published his ‘Influences of the Corn Laws;’ in 1840, +the ‘Fluctuations of Currency, Commerce, and Manufactures;’ in 1841, +‘The Revenue; or, What should the Chancellor do?’ in September, 1843, he +established the ‘Economist.’ The origin of the latter may be interesting +to our readers, Mr. Wilson proposed to the editor of the _Examiner_ +that he should furnish gratuitously a certain amount of writing to +that journal on economical and financial subjects; but the offer was +declined, though with some regret, on account of the expense of type and +paper. A special paper was, therefore, established, which proved in the +end as important as the _Examiner_ itself. From the first, Mr. Wilson +was the sole proprietor of the _Economist_, though he obtained pecuniary +assistance—especially from the kindness of Lord Radnor. He embarked some +capital of his own in it from the first, and afterwards repaid all loans +made to him for the purpose of establishing it. + +It would not be suitable to the design of this memoir to give any +criticism of Mr. Wilson’s pamphlets, still less would it become +the _Economist_ to pronounce in any manner a judgment on itself. +Nevertheless, it is a part of the melancholy duty we have undertaken to +give some account of Mr. Wilson’s characteristic position as a writer on +Political Economy, and of the somewhat peculiar mode in which he dealt +with that subject. + +Mr. Wilson dealt with Political Economy like a practical man. Persons +more familiar with the literature of science might very easily be found. +Mr. Wilson’s faculty of reading was small, nor had he any taste for +the more refined abstractions in which the more specially scientific +political economists had involved themselves. ‘Political Economy,’ said +Sydney Smith, ‘is become, in the hands of Malthus and Ricardo, a school +of metaphysics. All seem to agree what is to be done; the contention +is how the subject is to be divided and defined. _Meddle with no such +matters._’ We are far from alleging that this saying is just; nor would +Mr. Wilson have by any means assented to it. But though he would have +disavowed it in theory, it nevertheless embodies his instinctive feeling +and characteristic practice. He ‘meddled with no such matters;’ though he +did not deny the utility of theoretical refinements, he habitually and +steadily avoided them. + +Mr. Wilson’s predominating power was what may be called a +business-imagination. He had a great power of conceiving transactions. +Political economy was to him the science of buying and selling, and +of the ordinary bargains of men he had a very steady and distinct +conception. In explaining such subjects he did not begin, as political +economists have been wittily said to do, with ‘Suppose a a man upon +an island,’ but ‘What they do in the city is this.’ ‘The real course +of business is so and so.’ Most men of business will think this +characteristic a great merit, and even a theoretical economist should +not consider it a defect. The _practical_ value of the science of +political economy (the observation is an old one as to _all_ sciences) +lies in its ‘middle principles.’ The extreme abstractions from which such +intermediate maxims are scientifically deduced lie at some distance +from ordinary experience, and are not easily made intelligible to most +persons, and when they _are_ made intelligible, most persons do not +know how to use them. But the intermediate maxims themselves are not +so difficult; they are easily comprehended and easily used. They have +in them a practical life, and come home at once to the ‘business’ and +the ‘bosoms’ of men. It was in these that Mr. Wilson excelled. His +‘business-imagination’ enabled him to see ‘what men did,’ and ‘why they +did it;’ ‘why they ought to do it,’ and ‘why they ought not to do it.’ +His very clear insight into the real nature of mercantile transactions +made him a great and almost an instinctive master of _statistical +selection_. He could not help picking out of a mass of figures those +which would tell most. He saw which were really material; he put them +prominently and plainly forward, and he left the rest alone. Even +now if a student of Parliamentary papers should alight on a return +‘moved for by Mr. Wilson,’ he will do well to give to it a more than +ordinary attention, for it will be sure to contain something attainable, +intelligible, and distinct. + +Mr. Wilson’s habit of always beginning with the facts, always arguing +from the facts, and always ending with a result applicable to the facts, +obtained for his writings an influence and a currency more extensive than +would have been anticipated for any writings on political economy. It is +not for the _Economist_ to speak of the _Economist_; but we may observe +that through the pages of this journal certain doctrines, whether true or +false, have been diffused, far more widely than they ever were in England +before—far more widely than from their somewhat abstract nature we could +expect them to be diffused—far more widely than they are diffused in any +other country but this. The business-like method and vigorous simplicity +of Mr. Wilson’s arguments converted very many ordinary men of business, +who would have distrusted any theoretical and abstruse disquisition, +and would not have appreciated any elaborate refinements. Nor was this +special influence confined to mercantile men. It penetrated where it +could not be expected to penetrate. The Duke of Wellington was, perhaps, +more likely to be prejudiced against a theoretical political economist +than any eminent man of his day; he belonged to the ‘prescientific +period;’ he had much of the impatient practicality incident to military +insight; he was not likely to be very partial to the ‘doctrines of +Mr. Huskisson’;—nevertheless, the Duke early pointed out Mr. Wilson’s +writings to Lord Brougham as possessing especial practical value; and +when the Duke at a much later period was disposed to object to the +repeal of the Navigation Laws, Mr. Wilson had a special interview to +convince him of its expediency. + +Nor is this faculty of exposition by any means a trifling power. On many +subjects it is a common saying ‘that he only discovers who proves;’ +but in practical politics we may almost say that he only discovers +who convinces. It is of no use to have practical truths received by +extraordinary men, unless they are also accepted by ordinary men. Whether +Mr. Wilson was exactly a great writer, we will not discuss: but he was a +great _belief producer_; he had upon his own subjects a singular gift of +_efficient_ argument—a peculiar power of bringing home his opinions by +convincing reasonings to convincible persons. + +The time at which Mr. Wilson commenced his career as an economical +writer was a singularly happy one. An economical century has elapsed +since 1839. The Corn Laws were then in full force, and seemed likely +to continue so; the agriculturists believed in them, and other classes +acquiesced in them; the tentative reforms of Mr. Huskisson were half +forgotten; our tariff perhaps contained some specimen of every defect—it +certainly contained many specimens of most defects; duties abounded which +cramped trade, which contributed nothing to the exchequer, which were +maintained that a minority might believe they profited at the expense of +the majority; all the now settled principles of commercial policy were +unsettled; the ‘currency’ was under discussion; the Bank of England had +been reduced to accept a loan from the Bank of France; capitalists were +disheartened and operatives disaffected; the industrial energies, which +have since multiplied our foreign commerce, were then effectually impeded +by legislative fetters and financial restraints. On almost all of these +restraints Mr. Wilson had much to say. + +Upon the Corn Laws, Mr. Wilson developed a theory which was rare when +he first stated it, but which was generally adopted afterwards, and +which subsequent experience has confirmed. He was fond of narrating an +anecdote which shows his exact position in 1839. There had just been a +meeting of the Anti-Corn Law League at Manchester, and some speakers had +maintained, with more or less vehemence, that the coming struggle was to +be one of class against class, inasmuch as the Corn Laws were beneficial +to the agriculturists, though they were injurious to manufacturers. +The tendency of the argument was to set one part of the nation against +another part. Mr. Wilson was travelling in the North, and was writing +in a railway carriage part of the ‘Influences of the Corn Laws.’ By +chance a distinguished member of the League, whom Mr. Wilson did not +know, happened to travel with him, and asked him what he was about. ‘I +am writing on the Corn Laws,’ said Mr. Wilson, ‘something in answer +to the rubbish they have been talking at Manchester.’ ‘You are a bold +man,’ was the reply; ‘Protection is a difficult doctrine to support by +argument.’ But it soon appeared that Mr. Wilson was the better Free +trader of the two. He held that the Corn Laws were injurious to all +classes; that the agriculturists suffered from them as much as the +manufacturers; that, in consequence, it was ‘rubbish’ to raise a class +enmity on the subject, for the interest of all classes was the same. ‘We +cannot too much lament,’ he says in his ‘Influences of the Corn Laws,’ +‘and deprecate the spirit of violence and exaggeration with which this +subject has always been approached by each party, which no doubt has +been the chief cause why so little of real truth or benefit has resulted +from the efforts of either; the arguments on either side have been +supported by such absurd and magnified statements of the influences of +those prohibitory laws on their separate interests, as only to furnish +each other with a good handle to turn the whole argument into ridicule. +It therefore appears to be necessary to a just settlement of this great +question, that these two parties should be first reconciled to a correct +view of the real influences thus exerted over their interests, and the +interests of the country at large; to a conviction that the imaginary +fears of change on the one hand, and the exaggerated advantages expected +on the other hand, are equally without foundation; that there are in +reality no differences in the solid interests of either party; and that +_individuals_, _communities_, or _countries_ can only be prosperous in +proportion to the prosperity of the whole.’ And he proposed to prove +‘that the agricultural interest has derived no benefit, but great injury, +from the existing laws; and that the fears and apprehensions entertained +of the ruinous consequences which would result to this interest by the +adoption of a free and liberal policy with respect to the trade in corn, +are without any foundation; that the value of this property, instead +of being depreciated, in the aggregate, would be rather enhanced, and +the general interests of the owners most decidedly enhanced thereby;’ +and, ‘that while incalculable benefit would arise to the manufacturing +interest and the working population generally, in common with all classes +of the community, from the adoption of such policy, nothing can be more +erroneous than the belief that the price of provisions or labour would +on the average be thereby cheapened, but that, on the contrary, the +tendency would rather be to produce, by a state of generally increased +prosperity, a higher average rate of each.’ + +Whatever might be thought in 1839, in 1860 we can on one point have no +doubt whatever. The repeal of the Corn Laws has been followed by the +exact effect which Mr. Wilson anticipated. Whether his argument was +right or wrong, the result has corresponded with his anticipation. The +agriculturists have prospered more—the manufacturers, the merchants, the +operatives, all classes in a word, have prospered more since the Corn +Laws were repealed, than they ever did before. As to abstract questions +of politics there will always be many controversies; but upon a patent +contemporaneous fact of this magnitude there cannot be a controversy. + +It is indisputable also that, for the purposes of the Anti-Corn Law +agitation, Mr. Wilson’s view was exceedingly opportune. Mr. Cobden said +not long ago (we quote the substance correctly even if the words are +wrong), ‘I never made any progress with the Corn Law question while it +was stated as a question of class against class.’ And a careful inquirer +will find that such is the real moral of the whole struggle. If it had +continued to be considered solely or mainly as a manufacturer’s question, +it might not have been settled to this hour. In support of this opinion, +Mr. Wilson made many speeches at the meetings of the Anti-Corn Law +League, though he had little taste for the task of agitation. + +We cannot give even an analysis of Mr. Wilson’s arguments—our space is +too brief—but we will enumerate one or two of the principal points. + +He maintained that, under our protective laws, the agriculturists never +had the benefit of a high price, and always suffered the evil of a low +price. When our crop was scanty, it was necessary to sell the small +quantity at a high price, or the farmer could not be remunerated. But +exactly at that moment foreign corn was permitted by law to be imported. +In consequence, during bad years the farmer was exposed to difficulty +and disaster, which were greater because, in expectation of an English +demand, large stocks were often hoarded on the Continent, and at once +poured in to prevent the home-grower compensating himself for a bad +harvest by an equivalent rise of price. + +Nor was the farmer better off in very plentiful years. There was a +surplus in this country, and that surplus could not be exported, for the +price of wheat was always lower abroad than here. The effect is evident. +As corn is an article of the first necessity, a certain quantity of it +will always be consumed, but more than that quantity will not be readily +consumed. A slight surplus is, therefore, invariably found to lower the +price of such articles excessively. In very good years the farmer had +to sell his crop at an unremuneratingly low price, while in very bad +years he was prevented from obtaining the high price which alone could +compensate him for his outlay. Between the effects of the two sorts of +years his condition was deplorable, and Parliamentary committees were +constantly appointed to investigate it. + +Mr. Wilson also explained how much these fluctuations in price contracted +the home demand for agricultural produce. The manufacturing districts +were, he showed, subjected by the Corn Laws to alternate periods of great +excitement and great depression. When corn was very cheap, the mass of +the community had much to spend on other things; when corn was very +dear, they had very little to spend on those things. In consequence, the +producers of ‘other things’ were sometimes stimulated by a great demand, +and at other times deadened by utter slackness. The labouring classes in +the manufacturing districts acquired in periods of plenty a certain taste +for what to them were luxuries, and in periods of scarcity were naturally +soured at being deprived of them. The manufacturers were frequently +induced to invest additional capital by sudden augmentations of demand, +and were often ruined by its sudden cessation. It was therefore +impossible that the manufacturing classes could be steady customers of +the agriculturists, for their own condition was fluctuating and unsteady. + +Mr. Wilson also showed that if the landed interest was injured by the +effects of the Corn Laws, this was of itself enough to injure the +manufacturing interests. + + ‘The connection,’ he wrote, ‘between the manufacturer and + the landed interest in this country is much closer than is + generally admitted or believed; not only is the manufacturer + dependent on the landed interest for the large portion of his + goods which they immediately consume, but also for a very large + portion of what he exports to the most distant countries. All + commerce is, either directly or indirectly, a simple exchange + of the surplus products of one country for those of another. It + is therefore a first essential that we should be able to take + the cotton of America, the sugar and coffee of India, the silk + and teas of China, before they can take our manufactures; and + if this be necessary, then must it follow that in proportion + to the extent to which we can take their produce, will they + be enabled to take our manufactures. Therefore, whatever + portion of these products is consumed in this country by the + landed interest, must to that extent enable the manufacturer + to export his goods in return; and thus any causes which + increase this ability on the part of the landed interest to + consume, must give a corresponding additional ability to the + manufacturers to export. Every pound of coffee or sugar, every + ounce of tea, every article of luxury, the produce of foreign + climes, whether consumed within the castles and halls of + our wealthiest landowners, or in the humble cottages of our + lowliest peasantry, alike represent some portion of the exports + of this country. On the other hand, the dependence of the + landowner is no less twofold on the manufacturer and merchant. + He is not only dependent upon them for their own immediate + consumption, but also for the consumption of whatever food + enters into the cost price of their goods. Although the English + farmer does not export his corn or his other produce in the + exact shape and form in which he produces them, they constitute + not the less on that account a distinct portion of the exports + of this country, and that in the best of all possible forms. + Just as much as the manufacturer exports the wool or the + silk which enters into the fabrics of those materials, does + he export the corn which paid for the labour of spinning and + weaving them. It would be an utter impossibility that this + country could consume its agricultural produce but for our + extensive manufacturing population; or that the value of what + would be consumed could be near its present rate. If without + this aid our agricultural produce were as great as it now is, a + large portion would have to seek a market in distant countries: + it would then have to be exported in the exact form in which it + is produced; the expenses of which being so large would reduce + very greatly from its value and net price, and the landed + interest would be immediately affected thereby. But, as it + is, the produce of the land is exported in the condensed form + of manufactured goods, at a comparatively trifling expense, + which secures a high value to it here. Thus, for example, a few + bales of silk or woollen goods may contain as much wheat in + their value as would freight a whole ship. To this advantage + the landed interest is indebted, exclusively, for the very + superior value of property and produce in this country to any + other; because, by our great manufacturing superiority, a + market is found for our produce over the whole world, conveyed + in the cheapest and most condensed form. While the Chinese, + or Indians, buy our cottons, our silks, or our woollens, they + buy a portion of the grain and other produce of the land of + this country; and therefore the producer here, while indulging + in the delicacies or luxuries of Oriental climes, may only be + consuming a portion of the golden heads of wheat which had + gracefully waved in his own fields at a former day. Is it not, + therefore, sufficiently clear that no circumstance whatever + can either improve or injure one of these interests without + immediately in the same way affecting the other? The connection + is so close that it is impossible to separate or distinguish + them. Any circumstance which limits our commerce must limit our + market for agricultural produce; and any possible circumstance + which deteriorates the condition of our agriculturists must + deteriorate our commerce, by limiting our imports, and + consequently our exports. These are general principles, and are + capable of extension to the whole world, in all places, and at + all times; and the same principle as is thus shown to connect + and combine the different interests of any one country, just + as certainly operates in producing a similar effect between + different countries; and we ardently hope, ere long, to find + not only the petty jealousies between different portions of the + same community entirely removed, but that all countries will + learn that a free and unrestricted co-operation with each other + in matters of commerce can only tend to the general benefit and + welfare of all.’ + +We do not say that these propositions were exactly discoveries of Mr. +Wilson. During the exciting discussion of a great public question, +the most important truths which relate to it are ‘in the air’ of the +age; many persons see them, or half-see them; and it is impossible to +trace the precise parentage of any of them. But we do say that these +opinions were exactly suited to the broad and practical understanding +of Mr. Wilson; that they were very effectively illustrated by him—more +effectively probably than by any other writer; that he thought them out +for himself with but little knowledge of previous theories; that they, +principally, raised Free Trade from a class question to a national +question; that to them, whether advocated by Mr. Wilson or by others, the +success of the Anti-Corn Law agitation was in a great measure owing; that +whatever doubt may formerly have been felt, an ample trial has now proved +them to be true. + +Mr. Wilson’s pamphlet entitled ‘The Revenue; or, What should the +Chancellor do?’ which attracted considerable attention when it was +published in 1841, is worth reading now, though dated so many years ago; +for it contains an outline of the financial policy which Sir Robert +Peel commenced, and which Mr. Gladstone has now almost completed. This +pamphlet, which is not very short (it has 27 moderate pages), was begun +as an article for the _Morning Chronicle_, but proved too long for that +purpose. It was written with almost inconceivable rapidity—nearly all, +we believe, in a single night—though its principles and its many figures +will bear a critical scrutiny even now. + +In the briefest memoir of Mr. Wilson it is necessary to say something of +the currency; but it will not be advisable to say very much. If, however, +we could rely on the patience of our readers, we should say a good deal. +On no subject, perhaps, did Mr. Wilson take up a more characteristic +position. He saw certain broad principles distinctly and steadily, and to +these he firmly adhered, no matter what refined theories were suggested, +or what the opinion of others might be. + +Mr. Wilson was a stern bullionist. He held that a five-pound note was a +promise to pay five pounds. He answered Sir R. Peel’s question, ‘What +is a pound?’ with Sir Robert’s own answer. He said it was a certain +specified quantity of gold metal. He held that all devices for aiding +industry by issuing inconvertible notes were certainly foolish, and +might perhaps be mischievous. He held that industry could only be really +aided by additional _capital_—by new machines, new instruments, new raw +material; that an addition to a paper _currency_ was as useless to aid +deficient capital as it was to feed a hungry population. + +Mr. Wilson held, secondly, that the _sine quâ non_, the great +prerequisite to a good paper currency, was the maintenance of an +adequate reserve by the issuer. He believed that a banker should look +at his liabilities as a whole—the notes which he has in circulation and +the deposits he has in his ledger taken together; and should retain a +sufficient portion of them (say one-third) in cash, or in something +equivalent to cash, in daily readiness to pay them at once. Mr. Wilson +considered that bankers might be trusted to keep such a reserve, as they +would be ruined, sooner or later, if they did not; and if the notes +issued by them were always convertible at the pleasure of the holder, he +believed that the currency would never be depreciated. + +He thought, however, that, as bank-notes must pass from hand to hand in +the market, and as in practice most persons—most traders, especially—must +take them in payment whether they wish to do so or not, some special +security might properly be required for their payment. He would have +allowed any one who liked to issue bank-notes on depositing Consols to +a sufficient amount—the amount, that is, of the notes issued, and an +adequate percentage in addition. + +Lastly, Mr. Wilson believed that the bank-note circulation exercised +quite a secondary and unimportant influence upon prices and upon +transactions, in comparison with the auxiliary currency of cheques and +credits, which has indefinitely augmented during the last thirty years. +So far from regarding the public as constantly ready for an unlimited +supply of bank-notes, he thought that it was only in times of extreme +panic, when this auxiliary currency is diminished and disturbed, that the +bank-notes in the hands of the public either could or would be augmented. +He believed that the public only kept in their hands as many notes as +they wanted for their own convenience, and that all others were in the +present day paid back to the banker immediately and necessarily. + +Unfortunately, however, the currency is not discussed in England with +very exact reference to abstract principles. The popular question of +every thinker is, ‘Are you in favour of Peel’s Bill, or are you against +it?’ And this mode of discussing the subject always placed Mr. Wilson in +a position of some difficulty. He concurred in the aim of Sir R. Peel, +but objected to his procedure. He wished to secure the convertibility +of the bank-note. He believed that the Act of 1844 indirectly induced +the Bank Directors to keep more bullion than they would keep otherwise, +and in so far he thought it beneficial; but he also thought that the +advantages obtained by it were purchased at a needless price; that they +might have been obtained much more cheaply; that the machinery of the +Act aggravated every panic; that it tended to fix the attention of the +public on bank-notes, and so fostered the mischievous delusion that the +augmented issue of paper currency would strengthen industry; that it +neglected to take account of other forms of credit which are equally +important with bank-notes; that, ‘_for one week in ten years_’—the week +of panic—it created needless and intense apprehension, and so tended to +cause the ruin of some solvent commercial men. In brief, though he fully +believed the professed object of Sir R. Peel—the convertibility of the +bank-note—to be beneficial and inestimable, he as fully believed the +special means selected by him to be inconvenient and pernicious. + +Opinions akin to Mr. Wilson’s, if not identical with them, are very +commonly now entertained, both by practical men of business and by +professional economists. The younger school of thinkers who have had +before them the working of the Act of 1844 and the events of 1847 and +1857, and are not committed by any of the older controversies, are +especially inclined to them. Yet from peculiar causes they have not been +so popular as Mr. Wilson’s other opinions. His views of finance and of +the effect of Free Trade, which were half heresies when he announced +them, have now become almost axioms. But the truth of his currency theory +is still warmly controverted. The reason is this:—Sir R. Peel’s Act +is a sort of compromise which is suited to the English people. It was +probably intended by its author as a preliminary step; it undoubtedly +suits no strict theory; it certainly has great marks of incompleteness; +but, ‘it works tolerably well;’ if it produces evils at a crisis, ‘crises +come but seldom;’ in ordinary times commerce ‘goes on very fairly.’ The +pressure of practical evil upon the English people has never yet been +so great as to induce them to face the unpleasant difficulties of the +abstract currency question. Mr. Wilson’s opinions have, therefore, never +been considered by practical men for a practical object, and it is only +when so considered that any opinions of his can be duly estimated. Their +essentially moderate character, too, is unfavourable to them—not, indeed, +among careful inquirers, but in the hubbub of public controversy. The +only great party which has as yet attacked Sir Robert Peel’s Bill is +that which desires an extensive issue of inconvertible currency; but +to them Mr. Wilson was as much opposed as Sir Robert Peel himself. The +two watchwords of the controversy are ‘caution’ and ‘expansion:’ the +advocates of the Act of 1844 have seized on the former, the Birmingham +school on the latter; the intermediate, and, as we think, juster opinions +of Mr. Wilson have had no party cry to aid them, and they have not as +yet therefore obtained the practical influence which he never ceased to +anticipate and to hope for them. No more need be said upon the currency +question—perhaps we have already said too much; but to those who knew Mr. +Wilson well, no subject is more connected with his memory: he was so fond +of expounding it, that its very technicalities are, in the minds of some, +associated with his voice and image. + +But it was not by mere correctness of economical speculation that Mr. +Wilson was to rise to eminence. A very accurate knowledge of even +the more practical aspects of economical science is not of itself a +productive source of income. By the foundation of the _Economist_ Mr. +Wilson secured for himself, during the rest of his life, competence +and comfort, but it was not solely or simply by writing good political +economy in it. The organisation of a first-rate commercial paper in 1843 +required a great inventiveness and also a great discretion. Nothing of +the kind then existed; it was not known what the public most wished to +know on business interests; the best shape of communicating information +had to be invented in detail. The labour of creating such a paper and +of administering it during its early stages is very great; and might +well deter most men even of superior ability from attempting it. At +this period of his life Mr. Wilson used to superintend the whole of +the _Economist_; to write all the important leaders, nearly all of the +unimportant ones; to make himself master of every commercial question +as it arose; to give practical details as to the practical aspects of +it; to be on the watch for every kind of new commercial information; to +spend hours in adapting it to the daily wants of commercial men. He often +worked till far into the morning, and impressed all about him with wonder +at the anxiety, labour, and exhaustion he was able to undergo. As has +been stated, for some months after the commencement of the _Economist_ +he was still engaged in his former business; and after he relinquished +that, he used to write the City article and also leaders for the _Morning +Chronicle_, at the very time that he was doing on his own paper far more +than most men would have had endurance of mind or strength of body for. +Long afterwards he used to speak of this period as far more exhausting +than the most exhausting part of a laborious public life. ‘Our public +men,’ he once said, ‘do not know what anxiety means; they have never +known what it is to have their own position dependent on their own +exertions.’ In 1843, and for some time afterwards, he had himself to bear +extreme labour and great anxiety together; and even his iron frame was +worn and tired by the conjunction. + +Within seven years from the foundation of the _Economist_, Mr. Wilson +dealt effectively and thoroughly with three first-rate subjects—the +railway mania, the famine in Ireland, and the panic of 1847, in addition +to the entire question of Free Trade, which was naturally the main +topic of economical teaching in those years. On all these three topics +he explained somewhat original opinions, which were novelties, if not +paradoxes then, though they are very generally believed now. To his +writings on the railway mania he was especially fond of recurring, since +he believed that by his warnings, very effectively brought out and very +constantly reiterated, he had ‘saved several men their fortunes’ at that +time. + +The success of the _Economist_, and the advantage which the proprietor +of it would derive from a first-hand acquaintance with political life, +naturally led him to think of gaining a seat in Parliament, and an +accidental conversation at Lord Radnor’s table fixed his attention on the +borough of Westbury. After receiving a requisition, he visited the place, +explained his political sentiments at much length ‘from an old cart,’ +and believed that he saw sufficient chances of success to induce him to +take a house there. He showed considerable abilities in electioneering, +and a close observer once said of him, ‘Mr. Wilson may or may not be the +best political economist in England, but depend upon it he is the _only_ +political economist who would ever come in for the borough of Westbury.’ +Though nominally a borough, the constituency is half a rural one, much +under the influence of certain Conservative squires. The Liberal party +were in 1847 only endeavouring to emancipate themselves from a yoke to +which they have now again succumbed. Except for Mr. Wilson’s constant +watchfulness, his animated geniality, his residence on the spot, his +knowledge of every voter by sight, the Liberal party might never have +been successful there. A certain expansive frankness of manner and a +wonderful lucidity in explaining his opinions almost to any one, gave +Mr. Wilson great advantages as a popular candidate; and it was very +remarkable to find these qualities connected with a strong taste for +treating very dry subjects upon professedly abstract principles. So +peculiar a combination had the success which it merited. In the summer of +1847 he was elected to serve in Parliament for Westbury. + +Mr. Wilson made his first speech in the House of Commons on the motion +for a Committee to inquire into the commercial distress at that time +prevalent. And it was considered an act of intellectual boldness for +a new member to explain his opinions on so difficult a subject as the +currency, especially as they were definitely opposed to a measure +supported by such overwhelming Parliamentary authority as the Act of +1844 then was. Judging from the report in ‘Hansard,’ and from the +recollections of some who heard it, the speech was a successful one. It +is very clear and distinct, and its tone is very emphatic, without ever +ceasing to be considerate and candid. It contains a sufficient account +of Mr. Wilson’s tenets on the currency—so good an account, indeed, that +when he read it ten years later, in the panic of 1857, he acknowledged +that he did not think he could add a word to it. At the time, however, +the test of its Parliamentary success was not the absolute correctness of +its abstract principles, but, to use appropriate and technical language, +‘its getting a rise out of Peel.’ Sir Robert had used some certainly +inconclusive arguments in favour of his favourite measure, and Mr. Wilson +made that inconclusiveness so very clear that he thought it necessary to +rise ‘and explain,’ which, on such a subject, was deemed at the moment a +great triumph for a first speech. + +As might be expected from so favourable a commencement, Mr. Wilson soon +established a Parliamentary reputation. He was not a formal orator, +and did not profess to be so. But he had great powers of exposition, +singular command of telling details upon his own subjects, a very +pleasing voice, a grave but by no means inanimate manner—qualities which +are amply sufficient to gain the respectful attention of the House of +Commons. And Mr. Wilson did gain it. But speaking is but half, and in +the great majority of cases by far the smaller half, of the duties of a +member of Parliament. Mr. Wilson was fond of quoting a saying of Sir R. +Peel’s, ‘That the way to get on in the House of Commons was to take a +place and sit there.’ He adopted this rule himself, was constant in his +attendance at the House, a good listener to other men, and always ready +to take trouble with troublesome matters. These plain and business-like +qualities, added to his acknowledged ability and admitted acquaintance +with a large class of subjects upon which knowledge is rare, gave Mr. +Wilson a substantial influence in the House of Commons in an unusually +short time. The Corn Laws had been repealed, the pitched battle of +Free Trade had been fought and won, but much yet remained to be done in +carrying out its principles with effective precision, in applying them +to articles other than corn, in exposing the fallacies still abundantly +current, and in answering the exceptional case, which every trade in +succession set up for an exceptional protection. These were painful and +complex matters of detail, wearisome to very many persons, and rewarding +with no _éclat_ those who took the trouble to master and explain them. +But Mr. Wilson shrank from no detail. For several years before he +had a seat in the House, he had been used to explain such topics in +countless conversations with the most prominent Free-traders and in the +_Economist_. He now did so in the House of Commons, and his influence +correspondingly increased. He was able to do an important work better +than any one else could do it; and, in English public life, real work +rightly done at the right season scarcely ever fails to meet with a real +reward. + +That Mr. Wilson early acquired considerable Parliamentary reputation is +evinced by the best of all proofs. He was offered office before he had +been six months in the House of Commons, though he had, as the preceding +sketch will have made evident, no aristocratic connections—though he was +believed to be a poorer man than he really was—though writing political +articles for newspapers has never been in England the sure introduction +to political power which it formerly was in France—though, on the +contrary, it has in general been found a hindrance. In a case like Mr. +Wilson’s, the prize of office was a sure proof of evident prowess in the +Parliamentary arena. + +The office which was offered to Mr. Wilson was one of the Secretaryships +of the Board of Control. Mr. Wilson related at Hawick his reluctance to +accept it, and his reason. Never having given any special attention to +Indian topics, he thought it would be absurd and ridiculous in him to +accept an office which seemed to require much special knowledge. But +Lord John Russell, with ‘that knowledge of public affairs which long +experience ensures,’ at once explained to him that a statesman, under +our Parliamentary system, must be prepared to serve the Queen ‘whenever +he may be called on;’ and accordingly that he must be ready to take any +office which he can fill, without at all considering whether it is that +which he can best fill. After some deliberation, Mr. Wilson acknowledged +the wisdom of this advice, and accepted the office offered him. Long +afterwards, in the speech at Hawick to which we have alluded, he said +that without the preliminary knowledge of India which he acquired at +the Board of Control, he should never have been able to undertake the +regulation of her finances. + +When once installed in his office, he devoted himself to it with his +usual unwearied industry. And at least on one occasion he had to deal +with a congenial topic. The introduction of railways into India was +opposed on many grounds, most of which are now forgotten—such as ‘the +effect upon the native mind,’ ‘the impossibility of inducing the Hindoos +to travel in that manner,’ and the like; and more serious difficulties +occurred in considering the exact position which the Government +should assume with regard to such great undertakings in such singular +circumstances—the necessity on the one hand, in an Asiatic country +where the State is the sole motive power, of the Government’s doing +something—and the danger, on the other hand, of interfering with private +enterprise, by its doing, or attempting to do, too much. Mr. Wilson +applied himself vigorously to all these difficulties; he exercised the +whole of his personal influence, and the whole of that which was given +to him by his situation, in dissipating the fanciful obstacles which +were alleged to be latent in the unknown tendencies of the Oriental +mind; while he certainly elaborated—and he believed that he originally +suggested—the peculiar form of State guarantee upon the faith of which so +many millions of English capital have been sent to develop the industry +of India. + +Besides discharging the duties of his office, Mr. Wilson represented +the Government of the day on several Committees connected with his +peculiar topics, and especially on one which fully investigated the +Sugar question. Of the latter, indeed, he became so fully master that +some people fancied he must have been in the trade; so complete was the +familiarity which he displayed with ‘brown muscovado,’ ‘white clayed,’ +and all other technical terms which are generally inscrutably puzzling +to Parliamentary statesmen. On a Parliamentary Committee Mr. Wilson +appeared to great advantage. Though sufficiently confident of the truth +of his own opinions, he had essentially a fair mind; he always had +the greatest confidence that if the facts were probed the correctness +of what he believed would be established, and, _therefore_, he was +always ready to probe the facts to the bottom. He was likewise a great +master of the Socratic art of inquiry; he was able to frame a series of +consecutive questions which gradually brought an unwilling or a hostile +witness to conclusions at which he by no means wished to arrive. His +examination-in-chief, too, was as good as his cross-examination, and +the animated interest which he evinced in the subject relieved the +dreariness which a rehearsed extraction of premeditated answers commonly +involves. The examination of Lord Overstone before the Committee of 1848 +on Commercial Distress, that of Mr. Weguelin before the Committee on the +Bank Acts in 1857, and several of the examinations before the Committee +on Life Insurance, of which he was the Chairman, may be consulted as +models in their respective kinds. And it should be stated that no man +could be less overbearing in examination or cross-examination; much was +often extracted from a witness which he did not wish to state, but it was +always extracted fairly, quietly, and by seemingly inevitable sequence. + +Mr. Wilson continued at the Board of Control till the resignation of +Lord John Russell’s Cabinet in the spring of 1852. He took part in the +opposition of the Liberal party to Lord Derby’s Government, and was very +deeply interested in the final settlement of the Free Trade question +which was effected by the accession of the Protectionist party to office. +After a very severe contest he was re-elected for Westbury in July 1852, +and on the formation of the Aberdeen Government he accepted the office +of Financial Secretary to the Treasury, which he continued to hold for +five years, until the dissolution of Lord Palmerston’s administration +in the spring of 1857, and upon his efficiency in which his remarkable +reputation as an official administrator was mainly based. + +The Financial Secretaryship of the Treasury is by no means one of the +most conspicuous offices in the Government, and but few persons who +have not observed political life closely are at all aware either of +its difficulty or of its importance. The office is, indeed, a curious +example of the half grotesque way in which the abstract theory of our +historical Constitution contrasts with its practical working. In the +theory of the Constitution—a theory which may still be found in popular +compendiums—there is an officer called the Lord High Treasurer, who is +to advise the Crown and be responsible to the country for all public +moneys. In practice, there is no such functionary: by law his office is +‘in commission.’ Certain Lords Commissioners are supposed to form a Board +at which financial subjects are discussed, and which is responsible for +their due administration. In practice, there is no such discussion and no +such responsibility. The functions of the Junior Lords of the Treasury, +though not entirely nominal, are but slight. The practical administration +of our expenditure is vested in the First Lord of the Treasury, the +Chancellor of the Exchequer, and the Financial Secretary of the +Treasury. And of these three the constitutional rule is, that the First +Lord of the Treasury is only officially responsible for decisions in +detail when he chooses to interfere in those decisions. Accordingly, when +a First Lord, as was the case with Sir R. Peel, takes a great interest in +financial questions, the Chancellor of the Exchequer does the usual work +of the Secretary of the Treasury, and the Secretary of the Treasury has +in comparison nothing to do. But when, as was the case in the Governments +of Lord Aberdeen and Lord Palmerston, the Prime Minister takes no special +interest in finance, the Chancellor of the Exchequer is very fully +employed in the transaction of his own proper business, and an enormous +mass of work, some of it of extreme importance, falls to the Secretary +of the Treasury. Of late years, the growth of the miscellaneous civil +expenditure of the country has greatly augmented that work, great as it +was before. In general, it may be said that the whole of the financial +detail of our national expenditure is more or less controlled by the +Secretary of the Treasury; that much of it is very closely controlled by +him; and that he has vast powers of practical discretion, if only he be a +man of ability, industry, and courage. + +For such an office as this Mr. Wilson had very peculiar qualifications. +He was perfectly sure to be right in a plain case; and by far the larger +part of the ordinary business of the Government, as of individuals, +consists of plain cases. A man who is thoroughly sure to decide +effectually and correctly the entire mass of easy, obvious cases, is a +safer master of practical life than one eminently skilled in difficult +cases, but deficient in the more rudimentary qualification. Nor is the +power of certainly deciding plain cases rightly, by any means very +common, especially among very intellectual men. A certain taint of +subtlety, a certain tendency to be wise above the case in hand, mars the +practical efficiency of many men whose conversation and whose powers +would induce us to expect that they would be very efficient. Mr. Wilson +had not a particle of these defects. He struck off each case with a +certain sledge-hammer efficiency, and every plain case at least with +infallible accuracy. + +It might seem overstrained eulogy—a eulogy which he would not have +wished—to claim for Mr. Wilson an equally infallible power of deciding +complicated cases. As to such cases there will always be a doubt. Plain +matters speak for themselves: they do not require a dissertation to +elucidate them: every man of business, as soon as he hears the right +decision of them, knows that it is the right decision. But with more +refined matters it is not so; as to points involving an abstract theory, +like that of the currency, there will and must be differences of judgment +to the end of time. We would not, therefore, whatever may be our own +opinion, claim for Mr. Wilson as infallible a power of deciding difficult +questions as he certainly possessed of deciding plain questions. But we +do claim for him even in such matters the greatest secondary excellence, +if, indeed, a secondary excellence it be. Mr. Wilson was perfectly +certain to be _intelligible in the most difficult case_. Whether he did +right or did wrong, must, as we have said, be from the nature of the +subject-matter very arguable. But _what_ he did and _why_ he did it, +was never in doubt for a moment. The archives of the Treasury contain +countless minutes from his pen, many of them written with what most men +would call rapidity, just while the matter was waiting for decision, and +on all sorts of subjects, many of them very complicated ones—yet it may +be doubted whether any one of those minutes contains a single sentence +not thoroughly and conspicuously clear. The same excellence which has +been shown in countless articles in the _Economist_ appears in his +business-like documents. Wherever his leading articles were written and +under whatever circumstances—and some of the most elaborate of them were +written under rather strange circumstances (for he could catch up a pen +and begin to write on the most involved topic, at any time, in any place, +and, as a casual observer would think, without any premeditation)—but +wherever and however these articles might be written, it may be safely +asserted that they do not contain a sentence which a man of business +need read twice over, or which he would not find easily and certainly +intelligible. At the Treasury it was the same. However complicated or +involved the matter to be decided might be—however much it might be +loaded with detail or perplexed by previous controversy—Mr. Wilson never +failed to make immediately clear the exact opinion he formed upon it, the +exact grounds upon which he formed it, and the exact course of action +which he thought should be adopted upon it. Many persons well acquainted +with practical life will be disposed to doubt whether extreme accuracy +of decision is not almost a secondary merit as compared with a perfect +intelligibility. In many cases it may be better to have a decision which +every one can understand, though with some percentage of error, than an +elaborately accurate decision of which the grounds and reasons are not +easily grasped, and a plan of action which, from its refined complexity, +is an inevitable mystery to the greater number of practical persons. +But, putting aside this abstract discussion, we say without fear of +contradiction or of doubt, that Mr. Wilson added to his almost infallible +power of deciding plain cases, an infallible certainty of being entirely +intelligible in complicated cases. Men of business will be able to +imagine the administrative capacity certain to be produced by the union +of extreme excellence in both qualities. + +One subsidiary faculty that Mr. Wilson possessed, which was very useful +to him in the multifarious business of the Treasury, was an extraordinary +memory. On his own subjects and upon transactions in which he had taken +a decisive part, he seemed to recollect anything and everything. He +was able to answer questions as to business transacted at the Treasury +after the lapse of months and even of years without referring to the +papers, and with a perfect certainty of substantial accuracy. He would +say, without the slightest effort and without the slightest idea that he +was doing anything extraordinary: ‘Such and such a person came to me at +the Treasury, and said so and so, and this is what I said to him.’ And +it is quite possible that he might remember the precise sums of money +which were the subject of conversation. A more useful memory for the +purposes of life was perhaps never possessed by any one. In the case of +great literary memories, such as that of Lord Macaulay and of others, the +fortunate possessor has a continued source of pleasurable and constantly +recurring recollections; he has a full mind constantly occupied with its +own contents, recurring to its long loved passages from its favourite +authors constantly and habitually. But Mr. Wilson never recurred to +the transactions in which he had been engaged except when he was asked +about them; he lived as little in the past perhaps as is possible for an +intellectual person; but the moment the spring was touched by a question +or by some external necessity, all the details of the past transaction +started into his memory completely, vividly, and perfectly. He had thus +the advantage of always remembering his business, and also the advantage +of never being burdened by it. Very few persons can ever have had in +equal measure the two merits of a fresh judgment and a full mind. + +Mr. Wilson’s memory was likewise assisted by a very even judgment. It was +easier to him to remember what he had done, because, if he had to do the +same thing again, he would be sure to do it in precisely the same way. He +was not an intolerant person, but the qualities he tolerated least easily +were flightiness and inconsistency of purpose. He had furnished his mind, +so to say, with fixed principles, and he hated the notion of a mind which +was unfurnished. + +All these mental qualities taken together go far to make up the complete +idea of a perfect administrator of miscellaneous financial business, such +as that of the English Treasury now is. And Mr. Wilson had the physical +qualities also. An iron constitution which feared no labour, and was +very rarely incapacitated even for an hour by any illness, enabled him +to accomplish with ease and unconsciously an amount of work which few +men would not have shrunk from. In the country, where his habits were +necessarily more obvious, he habitually spent the whole day from eleven +till eight, with some slight interval for a short ride in the middle of +the day, over his Treasury bag; and as such was his notion of a holiday, +it may be easily conceived that in London, when he had still more to +do in a morning, and had to spend almost every evening in the House of +Commons, his work was greater than an ordinary constitution could have +borne. And it was work of a rather peculiar kind. Some men of routine +habits spend many hours over their work, but do not labour very intensely +at one time; other men of more excitable natures work impulsively, and +clear off everything they do by eager efforts in a short time. But Mr. +Wilson in some sense did both. Although his hours of labour were so very +protracted, yet if a casual observer happened to enter his library at any +moment, he would find him with his blind down to exclude all objects of +external interest, his brow working eagerly, his eye fixed intently on +the figures before him, and, very likely, his rapid pen passing fluently +over the paper. He had all the labour of the chronic worker, and all the +labour of the impulsive worker too. And those admitted to his intimacy +used to wonder that he was never tired. He came out of his library in an +evening more ready for vigorous conversation—more alive to all subjects +of daily interest—more quick to gain new information—more ready to +expound complicated topics, than others who had only passed an easy day +of idleness or ordinary exertion. + +By the aid of this varied combination of powers, Mr. Wilson was able to +grapple with the miscellaneous financial business of the country with +very unusual efficiency. Most men would have found the office work of +the Secretary of the Treasury quite enough, but he was always ready +rather to take away labour and responsibilities from other departments +than to throw off any upon them. Nor was his efficiency confined to the +labours of his office. The Financial Secretary of the Treasury has a +large part of the financial business of the House of Commons under his +control, and is responsible for its accurate arrangement. The passing +a measure through the House of Commons is a matter of detail; and in +the case of the financial measures of the Government, a large part of +this—the dullest part, and the most unenvied—falls to the Secretary of +the Treasury. He is expected to be the right hand of the Chancellor of +the Exchequer in all the most wearisome part of the financial business of +the House of Commons; and we have the best authority for stating that, +under two Chancellors of the Exchequer very different from one another in +many respects, Mr. Wilson performed this part of his duties with singular +efficiency, zeal, and judgment. + +The Financial Secretary of the Treasury is likewise expected to answer +all questions asked in the House as to the civil estimates—a most +miscellaneous collection of figures, as any one may satisfy himself +by glancing at them. Mr. Wilson’s astonishing memory and great power +of lucid exposition enabled him to fulfil this part of his duty with +very remarkable efficiency. He gave the dates and the figures without +any note, and his exposition was uniformly simple, emphatic, and +intelligible, even on the most complicated subjects. The great rule, he +used to say, was to answer exactly the exact question; if you attempted +an elaborate exposition, collateral issues were necessarily raised, a +debate ensued, and the time of the House was lost. + +Mr. Wilson’s mercantile knowledge and mercantile sympathies were found +to be of much use in the consolidation of the Customs in 1853, and he +took great interest in settling a scheme for the payment of the duties in +cheques instead of bank-notes, by which the circulation has been largely +economised and traders greatly benefited. During the autumn of 1857, his +long study of the currency question, and his first-hand conversancy with +the business of the City, were valuable aids to the Administration of the +day in the anxious responsibilities and rapidly shifting scenes of an +extreme commercial crisis. It would be impossible to notice the number of +measures in which he took part as Secretary of the Treasury, and equally +impossible to trace his precise share in them. That office ensures to its +holder substantial power, but can rarely give him legislative fame. + +On two occasions during his tenure of office at the Treasury, Mr. Wilson +was offered a different post. In the autumn of 1856 he was offered the +Chairmanship of Inland Revenue, a permanent office of considerable value +then vacant, which he declined because he did not consider the income +necessary, and because (what some people would think odd) it did not +afford sufficient occupation. It was a ‘good pillow,’ he said, ‘but +he did not wish to lie down.’ The second office offered him was the +Vice-Presidency of the Board of Trade in 1855, which would have been +a step to him in official rank, but which would have entailed a new +election, and he did not feel quite secure that the electors of Westbury +would again return him. He did not, however, by any means wish for the +change, as the Vice-Presidency of the Board of Trade, though nominally +superior, is in real power far inferior to the Secretaryship of the +Treasury. + +In the general election of 1857, Mr. Wilson was returned for Devonport, +for which place he continued to sit till his departure for India. He went +out of office on the dissolution of Lord Palmerston’s Administration in +the spring of 1858, and took an active part in the Liberal opposition +to Lord Derby’s Government, though it may be remarked that he carefully +abstained from using the opportunities afforded him by his long +experience at the Treasury, of harassing his less experienced successors +in financial office by needless and petty difficulties. + +On the return of the Liberal party to power, Mr. Wilson was asked to +resume his post at the Treasury, but he declined, as, after five years +of laborious service, he wished to have an office of which the details +were less absorbing. He accepted, however, the Vice-Presidency of the +Board of Trade—an office which is not in itself attractive, but which +gives its possessor a sort of claim to be President of the Board at the +next vacancy. The office of President is frequently accompanied by a seat +in the Cabinet, and Mr. Wilson’s reputation on all subjects connected +with trade was so firmly established that in his case it would have been +practically impossible to pass him over, even if it had been wished. +He had, however, secured so firm a position in official circles by his +real efficiency, that the dispensers of patronage were, as he believed, +likely to give him whatever he desired as soon as the exigencies of party +enabled them to do so. + +He had not been long in office before he had good reason for thinking +that he would be offered by the Government the office of Financial Member +of the Council of India under very peculiar circumstances. There had +never before been such an officer. One member of Council had since 1833 +been always sent out from England, but he had always been a lawyer, and +his functions were those of a jurist and a regulative administrator, not +those of a financier. The mutiny of the Sepoys in 1857 had, however, left +behind it a deficit with which the financiers of India did not _seem_ to +be able to cope, and which a cumbrous financial system did not give them +the best means of vanquishing. There was a general impression that some +one with an English training and English habits of business would have a +better chance of overcoming the most pressing difficulty of India than +any one on the spot. And there was an equally general impression that +if any one were to be sent from England to India with such an object, +Mr. Wilson was the right person. He united high financial reputation, +considerable knowledge of India acquired at the Board of Control, tried +habits of business, long experience at the English Treasury, to the +sagacious readiness in dealing with new situations which self-made men +commonly have, but which is commonly wanting in others. + +On personal grounds Mr. Wilson was disinclined to accept the office. +He was on the threshold of the Cabinet here; he was entitled by his +long tenure of office at the Treasury to a pension which would merge in +the salary of Indian Councillor; the emoluments of the latter office +were not necessary to him; his life was very heavily insured for the +benefit of his family; though he had never during his tenure of office +at the Treasury been connected directly or indirectly with any kind of +commercial undertaking (the _Economist_ alone excepted), some investments +which he made in land and securities, entirely beyond the range of +politics, had been very fortunate; since the year 1844 everything of a +pecuniary kind in which he had been concerned had not only prospered, +but remarkably prospered; he felt himself sufficiently rich to pursue +the career of prosperous usefulness and satisfied ambition that seemed +to be before him here. There was no consideration of private interest +which could induce him to undertake anxious and dangerous duties in +India; he even ran some pecuniary risk in leaving this country, as it was +possible that in the vicissitudes of newspaper property the _Economist_ +might again need the attention of its proprietor and founder. On public +grounds, however, he believed that it was his duty to accept the office; +he took a keen interest in Indian finance; believed that the difficulties +of it might be conquered, and thought that in even _attempting_ to +conquer them he would be doing the greatest and most lasting public +service that it was in _his_ power to accomplish. + +He accordingly accepted the office of Financial Member of the Council of +India, and proceeded to make somewhat melancholy arrangements for leaving +this country. He broke up his establishment here, bade farewell to his +constituents at Devonport and to the inhabitants of his native place, +attended some influential public meetings in towns deeply interested +in the commerce of India, and on October 20, 1859, left England, as it +proved, for ever. + +Of Mr. Wilson’s policy in India it would not be proper to give more than +a very brief sketch here. That policy is still fresh in the memory of +the public; it has been very frequently explained and discussed in the +_Economist_; it is still being tried; and, though he was fully persuaded +of the expediency of his measures, he would not have wished for too warm +a eulogy of them while they are as yet untested by the event. In almost +the last letter which the present writer received from him, there was +a sort of reprimand for permitting this journal to draw too great an +attention to his plans, and to ascribe the merit of them too exclusively +to him, and too little to the Government of which he was a member. + +On his arrival in India he found that the Governor-General was on a +tour in the Upper Provinces of India, and before doing any business of +importance at Calcutta he travelled thither. This journey he thought +very advantageous, because it gave him a great insight into the nature +of the country, and enabled him to consult the most experienced revenue +officers of many large districts on their respective resources, and on +the safest mode of making those resources available to the public. He was +much struck with the capabilities of the country, and wrote to England in +almost so many words ‘that it was a fine country to _tax_.’ On the other +hand, however, he was well aware of the difficulty of his task. The only +two possible modes of taxation are direct and indirect, and in the case +of India there is a difficulty in adopting either. If we select indirect +taxation and impose duties on consumable commodities, the natives of +India meet us by declining to consume. Their wants are few, and they +will forego most of them if a tax can be evaded thereby. On the other +hand, if we adopt in India a direct tax on property or income, there is +great difficulty in finding out what each man’s property or income is. +In England we trust each person to tell us the amount of his income, +but even here the results are not wholly satisfactory; and it would be +absurd to fancy that we can place as much reliance upon the veracity of +Orientals as upon that of Englishmen. + +These difficulties, however, Mr. Wilson was prepared to meet. On February +18, 1860, he proposed his Budget to the Legislative Council at Calcutta, +and the reception given to it by all classes was remarkably favourable. +He announced, indeed, a scheme of heavy taxation, but the Indian public +had been living for a considerable time under a sentence of indefinite +taxation, and they were glad to know the worst. Anything distinct was +better than vague suspense, and, as usual, Mr. Wilson contrived to +make his meaning _very_ distinct. His bearing also exercised a great +influence over the Anglo-Indian public. In England he had been remarkable +among official men for his constant animation and thorough naturalness +of manner: in his office he was as much himself as at a dinner-table or +in the House of Commons: he had no tinge of supercilious politeness or +artificial blandness. In any new scene of action—especially in such a +scene as British India—these qualities were sure to tell beneficially. +Plain directness and emphatic simplicity were the external qualities +most likely to be useful at Calcutta, and these were Mr. Wilson’s most +remarkable qualities. + +The principal feature of Mr. Wilson’s Budget was the Income Tax, which +he avowedly framed after the English fashion. It is true that but little +reliance can, perhaps, be placed on the statements of Orientals as to +their wealth. It is very possible that the complicated machinery of forms +and notices which is in use here may not be applicable in India. All this +Mr. Wilson well knew. But he thought that our Indian subjects should have +an opportunity of stating their income before they were taxed upon it. +If they should state it untruly, or should decline to state it, it might +be necessary to tax them arbitrarily. But he did not think, it would be +decent—that it would be civilised—to begin with an arbitrary assessment. +By the Income Tax Act which he framed, it is enacted that other modes may +be substituted if in any instance the English mode of assessment should +prove inapplicable. In other words, if our Oriental fellow-subjects will +not tell us the truth when they are asked, we must tax them as best we +can, and they cannot justly complain of unfairness and inequality. _We_ +would have been mathematically just, if _they_ had given us the means. + +The reception of Mr. Wilson’s Budget was universally favourable until the +publication of the minute of Sir C. Trevelyan, which, as was inevitable, +produced a serious reaction. Heavy taxation can never be very pleasant, +and in the Presidency of Madras Sir Charles gave the sanction of the +Government—of the highest authority the people saw—to the hope that +they would not be taxed. The prompt recall of Sir Charles, however, did +much to convince the natives of the firm determination of the English +Government, and Mr. Wilson hoped that the ordeal of criticism through +which his measures had to pass would ultimately be favourable to them. +It certainly secured them from the accusation of being prepared in +haste, but it purchased this benefit at the loss to the public of much +precious time, and to Mr. Wilson of precious health. Of the substance +of this minute it is sufficient to say that its fundamental theory that +additional taxation of any sort was unnecessary in India, has scarcely +been believed by any one except its author. Almost every one has deemed +it too satisfactory to be true. + +On another point Mr. Wilson’s Budget has been criticised in England, +though not in India. It has been considered to be a protective Budget. +The mistake has arisen from not attending to what that Budget is. The +changes made by Mr. Wilson in the import duties were two. ‘The first was +a reduction from twenty to ten per cent. upon a long list of articles, +including haberdashery, millinery, and hosiery, all part of the cotton +trade; the second was an increase in the duty upon cotton yarn from five +to ten per cent., thus creating a uniform tariff of ten per cent.’[38] Of +these two, it is plain the reduction from twenty per cent. to ten was not +a change that would operate as a protection to Indian industry; and the +increase of the duty on yarn has a contrary tendency. Yarn is an earlier, +cloth a later, stage of manufacture, and in Mr. Wilson’s own words, ‘it +is a low duty on yarn and a high duty on cloth that encourages native +weaving.’ For the effect of the general system of high Customs duties in +India Mr. Wilson is not responsible, but his predecessors. What _he_ did +has no protective tendency. + +If the Income Tax should, as may be fairly hoped, become a permanent part +of the financial system of India, it will serve for a considerable period +to keep Mr. Wilson’s name alive there. So efficient an expedient must +always attract the notice of the public, and must in some degree preserve +the remembrance of the Minister by whom it was proposed. Mr. Wilson, +however, undertook two other measures of very great importance. One of +these has been frequently described as the introduction into India of the +English system of public accounts. But it would be more truly described +as the introduction of a rational system of public accounts. There are +three natural steps in national finance, which are certainly clearly +marked in our English system, but which have a necessary existence +independent of that recognition. These three are—first, the estimate +of future expenditure; secondly, what we call the Budget, that is the +official calculation of the income by which the coming expenditure is +to be defrayed; thirdly, the audit which shows what the expenditure has +been and how it has been met. The system of finance which Mr. Wilson +found in India neglected these fundamental distinctions. There were +no satisfactory estimates of future expenditure, and no satisfactory +calculation of future income. In consequence, the calculations of the +official departments have been wrong by millions sterling, and English +statesmen have felt great difficulty not only in saying how the deficit +was to be removed, but likewise in ascertaining what the amount of the +deficit was. At the time of his death, Mr. Wilson was eagerly occupied in +endeavouring to introduce a better system. + +Mr. Wilson will likewise be remembered as the first Minister who +endeavoured to introduce into India a Government paper currency. On March +3, 1860, he introduced into the Legislative Council an elaborate plan for +this purpose, which, with a slight modification by Sir C. Wood—curious +in the theory of the currency, but practically not very important—will +speedily, it is probable, be the fundamental currency law—the ‘Peel’s +Act’ of British India. + +The exact mode in which Mr. Wilson regarded these great objects, will +perhaps be better explained by two extracts from his latest letters than +by any other means. On July 4, he wrote to a friend:— + + ‘Firmness and justice are the only policy for India: no + vacillation, or you are gone. They like to be governed; and + respect an iron hand, if it be but equal and just. I have, + I think, more confidence than ever that the taxes will be + established and collected, and without disturbance. But the + task is still an enormous one. I must retrench yet at least + three and a half millions, and get the same sum from my new + taxes to make both ends meet. I am putting the screw on very + strongly, but rather by an improved policy in army and police + than in reductions of salaries and establishments, which cannot + be made. I have set myself _five_ great points of policy to + introduce and carry out. + + ‘1. To extend a system of sound taxation to the great trading + classes, who hitherto have been exempted, though chiefly + benefited by our enormously increased civil expenditure. + + ‘2. To establish a paper currency. + + ‘3. To reform and remodel our financial system, by a plan of + annual budgets and estimates, with a Pay Department to check + issues, and keep them within the authorised limits,—and an + effective audit. + + ‘4. A great police system of semi-military organisation, but + usually of purely civil application, which, dear though it be, + will be cheaper by half a million than our present wretched and + expensive system,—and by which we shall be able to reduce our + native army to at least one-third;—and by which alone we can + utilise the natives as an arm of defence without the danger of + congregating idle organised masses. + + ‘5. Public works and roads, with a view to increased production + of cotton, flax, wool, and European raw materials. + + ‘The four first I have made great progress in: the latter must + follow. But you will call it “a large order.” However, you have + no idea of the increased capacity of the mind for undertaking + a special service of this kind when removed to a new scene of + action, and when one throws off all the cares of engagements + less or more trivial by which one is surrounded in ordinary + life, and throws one’s whole soul into such a special service, + and particularly when one feels assured of having the power to + carry it out. I cannot tell you with what ease one determines + the largest and gravest question here compared with in England; + and I am certain that the more one can exercise real power, + there is by far the greater tendency to moderation, care, and + prudence.’ + +In a second letter, dated July 19, he wrote to the same friend from +Barrackpore:— + + ‘The Indian Exchequer is a huge machine. The English Treasury + is nothing to it for complexity, diversity, and remoteness + of the points of action. Our great enemies are time and + distance; and with all our frontier territories there is + scarcely a day passes that we have not an account of some row + or inroad. It is a most unwieldy Empire to be governed on + the principle of forcing civilisation at every point of it. + One day it is the frontier of Scinde and a quarrel with our + native chiefs, which our Resident must check; another, it is + an intrigue between Heraut and Cabul, with a report of Russian + forces in the background; the next, there is a raid upon our + Punjab frontiers to be chastised; then come some accounts of + coolness, or misunderstanding, or unreasonable demands from + our ally in Nepaul; then follow some inroads from the savage + tribes which inhabit the mountains to the rear of Assam and + up the Burrampootra; then we have reported brawls in Burmah + and Pegu, and disputes among the hill tribes whose relations + to the British and the Burmah Governments are ill defined; + then we have Central India, with our loyal chiefs Scindiah and + Holkar, independent princes with most turbulent populations, + which could not be kept in order a day without the presence of + British troops and of the Governor-General’s Agent. Besides + all these, we have among ourselves a thousand questions of + internal administration, rendered more difficult by the + ill-defined relations between the Supreme and the Subordinate + Governments—the latter always striving to encroach, the former + to hold its own. Hence, questions do not come before us simply + on their merits, but often as involving these doubtful rights. + Then we have Courts of Justice to reform, as well as all + other institutions of a domestic kind not to reform alone, + but to extend to new territories. Then we have a deficit of + 7,000,000_l._, and had a Government teaching the people that + all could be done without new taxes. But unfortunately all, + except the taxes, are a present certainty—_they_ are a future + contingency. What will they yield? I have no precise knowledge. + I think from three to four millions a year when in full bloom: + this financial year not more than a million. + + ‘I have now got a Military Finance Commission in full swing; + a Civil Finance Commission also going: I am reorganising the + Finance, Pay, and Accountant-General’s Department, in order + to get all the advantage of the English system of estimates, + Pay Office, and Audit:—and this with as little disturbance + of existing plans as possible. The latter is a point I have + especially aimed at. On the whole, and almost without an + exception, I have willing allies in all the existing Offices. + No attempt that I see is anywhere made to thwart or impede. + + ‘You can well understand, then, how full my hands are, if to + all these you add the new currency arrangements; you will not + then wonder that my health has rendered it necessary to come + down here for a day or two to get some fresh air.’ + +It will be observed that in the last extract Mr. Wilson alludes to his +impaired health. For some time after his arrival in India he seemed +scarcely to feel the climate. He certainly did not feel it as much as +might have been anticipated. He worked extremely hard; scarcely wrote +a private letter, but devoted the whole of his great energies to the +business around him. His letters for a considerable time abound with +such expressions as ‘Notwithstanding all my hard work, my health is +excellent.’ From the commencement of the rainy season at Calcutta, +however, he ceased to be equally well, his state began to arouse the +apprehensions of experienced observers, and he was warned that he should +retire for a short time to a better climate. He would not, however, +do so until his financial measures had advanced sufficiently far for +him to leave them. His position was a very peculiar one. In general, +if one administrator leaves his post, another is found to fill it up. +But Mr. Wilson was a unique man at Calcutta. He was sent there because +he had certain special qualifications, which no one there possessed; +and, accordingly, he had no one to rely on in his peculiar functions +save himself. His presence on the spot was likewise very important. The +administration of a department can be frequently transacted by letter, +but the organisation of new departments and new schemes requires the +unremitting attention of the organiser—the impulse of his energy. The +interest, too, which Mr. Wilson took in public business was exceptionally +great, and no one who knew him well would suppose that _he_ would leave +Calcutta while necessary work, or what he deemed so, was to be done there. + +Nor was labour the sole trial to which his constitution was exposed. The +success of measures so extensive as his, must ever be a matter of anxious +doubt until the event decides; and in his case there were some momentary +considerations to aggravate that anxiety. There was no experience of +such taxation as he had proposed, and the effect of it must therefore be +difficult to foresee. Moreover, for a brief period, a famine seemed to be +imminent in Upper India, which must have disturbed the whole operation +of his financial schemes. In his debilitated state of health this last +source of anxiety seemed much to weigh upon him. + +About the middle of July he went for a week to Barrackpore, near +Calcutta. The change was, however, too slight, and, as might be expected, +he returned to Calcutta without any material benefit. From that time +the disease gradually augmented, and on the evening of August 2, he went +to bed never to rise from it again. For many days he continued to be +very ill, and his family experienced the usual alternations of hope and +fear. He was quite aware of his critical state, and made all necessary +arrangements with his habitual deliberation and calmness. + +Lord Canning saw him on the 9th for the last time, and was much struck +with the change which illness had made in him. He believed that he saw +death in his face, and was deeply impressed with the vivid interest +which, even in the last stage of weakness, he took in public affairs, +with his keen desire for the success of his plans, and with the little +merit which he was disposed to claim for his own share in them. + +It was hoped that he would be strong enough to bear removal, and it was +intended to delay the mail steamer for a few hours to take him to sea—the +usual remedy at Calcutta for diseases of the climate. But when the time +came there was no chance that his strength would be adequate to the +effort. During the whole of the 11th he sank rapidly, and at half past +six in the evening he breathed his last. + +The mourning in Calcutta was more universal than had ever been +remembered. He had not been long in India, but while he had been there he +filled a conspicuous and great part; he had done so much, that there were +necessarily doubts in the minds of some as to the expediency of part of +it. No such doubts, however, were thought of now. ‘That he should have +come out to die here!’—‘That he should have left a great English career +_for this_!’—were the phrases in every one’s mouth. The funeral was the +largest ever known at Calcutta. It was attended by almost the entire +population, from the Governor-General downwards, and not a single voice, +on any ground whatever, dissented from the general grief. + +Very little now remains to be said. A few scattered details, some of them +perhaps trivial, must complete this sketch. + +Mr. Wilson’s face was striking, though not handsome. His features were +irregular, but had a peculiar look of mind and energy, while a strongly +marked brow and very large eyebrows gave to all who saw him an unfailing +impression of massive power and firm determination. + +Mr. Wilson’s moral character in its general features resembled his +intellectual. He was not a man of elaborate scruples and difficult +doubts, and he did not much like those who were. His conscientiousness +was of a plain, but very practical kind; he had a single-minded rectitude +which went straight to the pith of a moral difficulty—which showed him +what he ought to do. On such subjects he was somewhat intolerant of +speculative reasoning. ‘The common sense is so and so,’ he used to say, +and he did not wish to be plagued with anything else. + +In one respect his manner did not uniformly give a true impression of +him. He always succeeded in conveying his meaning, in stating what he +wished to have done and why he wished it; he never failed to convince +any one of his inexhaustible vigour and his substantial ability; +but he sometimes did fail in giving a true expression to his latent +generosity and real kindliness. He shrank almost nervously from the +display of feeling, and sometimes was thought by casual observers to +feel nothing, when in reality he was much more sensitive than they +were. Another peculiarity which few persons would have attributed to +him aided this mistake. It may seem strange in a practised Secretary of +the Treasury, but he used to say that through life he had suffered far +more from shyness than from anything else. Only very close observers +could have discovered this, for his manner was habitually impressive and +unfaltering. But common acquaintances, sometimes even persons who saw him +on business, erroneously imputed to unthinking curtness, that which was +due in truth to nervous hesitation. + +With his subordinates in office he was, however, very cordial. He +discussed matters of business with them, listened carefully to their +suggestions or objections, and very frequently was guided by their +recommendations. He had no paltry desire to monopolise the whole credit +of what might be done. He probably worked harder than any Secretary of +the Treasury before or since; but so far from depressing those below him, +he encouraged their exertions, co-operated with them, and was ever ready +to bear hearty testimony to the tried merit of efficient public servants. +He was also quite willing to forget the temporary misunderstandings +which are so apt to occur among earnest men who take different views of +public affairs. He was eminently tolerant. Though he had almost always +a strong conviction of his own, he never felt the least wish to silence +discussion. Believing that his own opinions were true, he was only the +more confident that the more the subject was discussed, the more true +they would be found to be. Few men ever transacted so much important +business with so little of the pettiness of personal feeling. + +In the foregoing sketch Mr. Wilson has of necessity been regarded almost +exclusively as a public man, but his private life has many remarkable +features, if it were proper to enlarge on them. His enjoyment of simple +pleasures, of society, of scenery, of his home, was very vivid. No one +who saw him in his unemployed moments would have believed that he was one +of the busiest public men of his time. He never looked worn or jaded, and +always contributed more than his share of geniality and vivacity to the +scene around him. Like Sir Walter Scott, he loved a bright light; and the +pleasantest society to him was that of the cheerful and the young. + +The universal regret which has been expressed at Mr. Wilson’s death is +the best tribute to his memory. It has been universally felt that on his +special subjects and for his peculiar usefulness he was ‘a finished man,’ +and in these respects he has left few such behind him. The qualities +which he had the opportunity of displaying were those of an administrator +and a financier. But some of those who knew him best, believed that he +only wanted an adequate opportunity to show that he had also many of the +higher qualities of a statesman; and it was the feeling that he would +perhaps have such an opportunity which reconciled them to his departure +for India. As will have been evident from this narrative, he was placed +in many changing circumstances, and in the gradual ascent of life was +tried by many increasing difficulties. But at every step his mind grew +with the occasion. We at least believe that he had a great sagacity and +a great equanimity, which might have been fitly exercised on the very +greatest affairs. But it was not so to be. + +The intelligence of Mr. Wilson’s death was formally communicated by the +Indian to the Home Government in the following despatch:— + + ‘To the Right Honourable Sir Charles Wood, Bart., G.C.B., + Secretary of State for India. + + ‘SIR,—The painful task is imposed upon us of announcing to Her + Majesty’s Government the death of our colleague, the Right + Honourable James Wilson. + + ‘2. This lamentable event took place on the evening of + Saturday, the 11th, after an illness of a few days. + + ‘3. We enclose a copy of the notification by which we yesterday + communicated the mournful intelligence to the public. The + funeral took place at the time mentioned in the notification; + and the great respect in which our lamented colleague was + held was evinced by a very large attendance of the general + community, in addition to the public officers, civil and + military. + + ‘4. We are unable adequately to express our sense of the great + loss which the public interests have sustained in Mr. Wilson’s + death. We do not doubt, however, that this will be as fully + appreciated by Her Majesty’s Government, as it is by ourselves, + and as we have every reason to believe it will be by the + community generally throughout India. + + ‘5. But we should not satisfy our feelings in communicating + this sad occurrence to Her Majesty’s Government, if we did not + state our belief that the fatal disease which has removed Mr. + Wilson from amongst us was in a great degree the consequence of + his laborious application to the duties of his high position, + and of his conscientious determination not to cease from the + prosecution of the important measures of which he had charge, + until their success was ensured. Actuated by a self-denying + devotion to the objects for which he came out to this country, + Mr. Wilson continued to labour indefatigably long after the + general state of his health had become such as to cause anxiety + to the physician who attended him, and it was within a few + days only after the Income Tax had become law, and when, at + the earnest request of his medical adviser, he was preparing + to remove from Calcutta for the remainder of the rainy season, + that he was seized with the illness that has carried him off. + + ‘6. It is our sincere conviction that this eminent public + servant sacrificed his life in the discharge of his duty.—We + have, &c., + + ‘CANNING. + ‘H. B. E. FRERE. + ‘C. BEADON. + + ‘FORT WILLIAM, _August 13._’ + + END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. + + PRINTED BY + SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE + LONDON + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +[1] This essay appeared in the _Fortnightly Review_ for October 1877, +and is now republished, with slight alterations, by the kind permission +of the editor and proprietors of that Review. In most of the alterations +now made, as well as in a great part of the original essay, I have been +greatly assisted by the help of Mrs. Walter Bagehot. + +[2] _Prospective Review_, No. 31, for August 1852, a paper too strictly +temporary and practical in its aim for republication now. + +[3] See volume ii., page 232, of this work. + +[4] See Appendix to this volume, page 335. + +[5] See vol. i. p. 43. + +[6] See vol. ii. p. 66. + +[7] See vol. ii. p. 67. + +[8] _Physics and Politics_, p. 10. + +[9] Volume ii. p. 71. + +[10] _Poems and Prose Remains of Arthur Hugh Clough_, vol. i. p. 175. + +[11] See Appendix to this volume, page 329. + +[12] Since the first edition of this work was published, the Oxford Board +of Studies have made a text-book of Mr. Bagehot’s _English Constitution_ +for that University. + +[13] See vol. i. p. 28. + +[14] This essay I hope to republish with others on English Statesmen in a +future volume of Studies in Political Biography. + +[15] _Physics and Politics_, p. 57. + +[16] _The Postulates of Political Economy._ + +[17] _A Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith._ By his Daughter, Lady Holland. +With a Selection from his Letters. Edited by Mrs. Austin. 2 vols. +Longmans. + +_Lord Jeffrey’s Contributions to the Edinburgh Review._ A new Edition in +one volume. Longmans. + +_Lord Brougham’s Collected Works._ Vols. I. II. III. _Lives of +Philosophers of the Reign of George III._ _Lives of Men of Letters of +the Reign of George III._ _Historical Sketches of the Statesmen who +flourished in the Reign of George III._ Griffin. + +_The Rev. Sydney Smith’s Miscellaneous Works. Including his Contributions +to the Edinburgh Review._ Longmans. + +[18] Sydney Smith, Memoirs, vol. i. p. 489. + +[19] This was published in October, 1855. + +[20] ‘Horner is ill. He was desired to read amusing books: upon searching +his library, it appeared he had no amusing books; the nearest approach +to a work of that description being the _Indian Trader’s Complete +Guide_.’—_Sydney Smith’s Letter to Lady Holland._ + +[21] Letter from Lord Murray. + +[22] The first words of Jeffrey’s review of The Excursion are, ‘This will +never do.’ + +[23] _Hartley Coleridge’s Lives of the Northern Worthies._ A new Edition. +3 vols. Moxon. + +[24] This essay was published immediately after the death of the Duke of +Wellington. + +[25] Keats in the Preface to Endymion. + +[26] _The Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley._ Edited by Mrs. +Shelley. 1853. + +_Essays, Letters from Abroad, Translations, and Fragments._ By Percy +Bysshe Shelley. Edited by Mrs. Shelley. 1854. + +_The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley._ By Captain Thomas Medwin. 1847. + +[27] _Shakespeare et son Temps: Étude Littéraire_. Par M. Guizot. Paris. +1852. + +_Notes and Emendations to the Text of Shakespeare’s Plays from early +Manuscript Corrections in a Copy of the Folio, 1632, in the possession of +R. Payne Collier, Esq., F.S.A._ London. 1853. + +[28] The only antiquarian thing which can be fairly called an anecdote +of Shakespeare is, that Mrs. Alleyne, a shrewd woman in those times, and +married to Mr. Alleyne, the founder of Dulwich Hospital, was one day, +in the absence of her husband, applied to on some matter by a player +who gave a reference to Mr. Hemmings (the ‘notorious’ Mr. Hemmings, the +commentators say) and to Mr. Shakespeare of the Globe, and that the +latter, when referred to, said, ‘Yes, certainly, he knew him, and he was +a rascal and good-for-nothing.’ The proper speech of a substantial man, +such as it is worth while to give a reference to. + +[29] _The Life of John Milton, narrated in connection with the Political, +Ecclesiastical, and Literary History of his time._ By David Masson, M.A., +Professor of English Literature in University College, London. Cambridge: +Macmillan. + +_An Account of the Life, Opinions, and Writings of John Milton._ By +Thomas Keightley; with an Introduction to Paradise Lost. London: Chapman +and Hall. + +_The Poems of Milton_, with Notes by Thomas Keightley. London: Chapman +and Hall. + +[30] _The Letters and Works of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu._ Edited by +her Great-grandson, Lord Wharncliffe. Third edition, with Additions and +Corrections derived from the original Manuscripts, illustrative Notes, +and a New Memoir. By W. Moy Thomas. In two volumes. London: Henry Bohn. + +[31] _Poetical Works of William Cowper._ Edited by Robert Bell. J. W. +Parker and Son. + +_The Life of William Cowper, with Selections from his Correspondence._ +Being Volume I. of the Library of Christian Biography, superintended by +the Rev. Robert Bickersteth. Seeley, Jackson, and Co. + +[32] This was the second article in the first number of the _National +Review_. + +[33] The general reader may not before have read, that the Rue du +Coq l’Honoré is an old and well-known street in Paris, and that +notwithstanding the substitution of the eagle for cock as a military +emblem, there is no thought of changing its name. + +[34] [As a curious illustration of Mr. Bagehot’s estimate of the +character of the third Empire, I may mention that all the earlier part +of this paper, all that which dwelt on the good side of the imperial +_régime_ in relation to matters of material prosperity, was reproduced +in the French official journals, while all the equally true and +even more useful criticism on its moral deficiencies, was carefully +omitted.—EDITOR.] + +[35] This was published as a supplement to the _Economist_, soon after +Mr. Wilson’s death in 1860. + +[36] He was married on January 5, 1832, to Miss Elizabeth Preston, of +Newcastle, and this has given rise to a statement that he was once in +business at Newcastle. This is, however, an entire mistake. He was never +in business anywhere except at Hawick and London. It may be added, that +on the occasion of his marriage he voluntarily ceased to be a member of +the Society of Friends, for whom he always, however, retained a high +respect. During the rest of his life he was a member of the Church of +England. + +[37] Among his friends of this period should be especially mentioned Mr. +G. R. Porter, of the Board of Trade, the author of _The Progress of the +Nation_, whose mind he described twenty years later as the most accurate +he had ever known. + +[38] _Economist_ of Sept. 8, 1860, p. 977. + + + + +WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR. + +LONDON: KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER, & CO. LIMITED. + + +_Uniform with ‘Literary Studies.’_ + +8vo. price 10_s._ 6_d._ + +ECONOMIC STUDIES: + +IN ILLUSTRATION OF THE PRESENT CONDITION AND THE GRADUAL GROWTH OF THE +SCIENCE OF POLITICAL ECONOMY. + +_A POSTHUMOUS WORK._ + + * * * * * + +_Uniform with the above._ + +8vo. price 12_s._ + +BIOGRAPHICAL STUDIES. + +Edited by RICHARD HOLT HUTTON. + + * * * * * + +Crown 8vo. price 2_s._ 6_d._ + +A PRACTICAL PLAN FOR ASSIMILATING THE ENGLISH AND AMERICAN MONEY, AS A +STEP TOWARDS A UNIVERSAL MONEY. + +_Reprinted from THE ECONOMIST._ + + * * * * * + +Crown 8vo. price 2_s._ 6_d._ + +THE POSTULATES OF ENGLISH POLITICAL ECONOMY. + +London: LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. + + * * * * * + +NINTH EDITION. + +1 vol. crown 8vo. price 7_s._ 6_d._ + +LOMBARD STREET: A DESCRIPTION OF THE MONEY MARKET. + +‘The subject is one, it is almost needless to say, on which Mr. Bagehot +writes with the authority of a man who combines practical experience with +scientific study.’ + + SATURDAY REVIEW. + + * * * * * + +FIFTH EDITION, Revised and Corrected. + +1 vol. crown 8vo. price 7_s._ 6_d._ + +THE ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. + +WITH AN INTRODUCTORY DISSERTATION ON RECENT CHANGES AND EVENTS. + +‘No writer before Mr. Bagehot had set out so clearly what the efficient +part of the English Constitution really is.’ + + PALL MALL GAZETTE. + +‘A pleasing and clever study in the department of higher politics.’ + + GUARDIAN. + + * * * * * + +EIGHTH EDITION. + +1 vol. crown 8vo. price 4_s._ + +PHYSICS AND POLITICS: THOUGHTS ON THE APPLICATION OF THE PRINCIPLES OF +‘NATURAL SELECTION’ AND ‘INHERITANCE’ TO POLITICAL SOCIETY. + +‘Full of shrewd suggestions and argumentative subtleties.’ + + BRITISH QUARTERLY REVIEW. + +‘No one will be able to turn over its pages without having his mind +stirred by many of the most interesting subjects of human thought.’ + + EXAMINER. + +‘Mr. Bagehot writes in a graceful style, and has much to say upon +political topics that is well worth attention. We can recommend the book +as well deserving to be read by thoughtful students of politics.’ + + SATURDAY REVIEW. + +‘A work of really original and interesting speculation.’ + + GUARDIAN. + + * * * * * + +8vo. price 5_s._ + +SOME ARTICLES ON THE DEPRECIATION OF SILVER AND TOPICS CONNECTED WITH IT. + +The Articles are those contributed to the _Economist_ on the Silver +Question, by Mr. Bagehot, with a Preface written by himself, shortly +before his death, in view of this publication. + + * * * * * + +1 vol. crown 8vo. price 5_s._ + +ESSAYS ON PARLIAMENTARY REFORM. + +REPUBLISHED 1883, by KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER, & CO. LIMITED, London. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78449 *** |