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diff --git a/78450-0.txt b/78450-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..81a9fd5 --- /dev/null +++ b/78450-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15277 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78450 *** + + + + + LITERARY STUDIES + + VOL. II. + + PRINTED BY + SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE + LONDON + + + + + 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. II. + + _FOURTH EDITION_ + + LONDON + LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. + AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET + 1891 + + _All rights reserved_ + + + + +CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME. + + + ESSAY PAGE + + I. EDWARD GIBBON (1856) 1 + + II. BISHOP BUTLER (1854) 54 + + III. STERNE AND THACKERAY (1864) 106 + + IV. THE WAVERLEY NOVELS (1858) 146 + + V. CHARLES DICKENS (1858) 184 + + VI. THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY (1856) 221 + + VII. BÉRANGER (1857) 261 + + VIII. MR. CLOUGH’S POEMS (1862) 299 + + IX. HENRY CRABB ROBINSON (1869) 323 + + X. WORDSWORTH, TENNYSON, AND BROWNING; OR, PURE, + ORNATE, AND GROTESQUE ART IN ENGLISH POETRY + (1864) 338 + + _APPENDIX._ + + I. THE IGNORANCE OF MAN (1862) 391 + + II. ON THE EMOTION OF CONVICTION (1871) 412 + + III. THE METAPHYSICAL BASIS OF TOLERATION (1874) 422 + + IV. THE PUBLIC WORSHIP REGULATION BILL (1874) 438 + + + + +LITERARY STUDIES. + + + + +_EDWARD GIBBON._[1] + +(1856.) + + +A wit said of Gibbon’s autobiography, that he did not know the difference +between himself and the Roman Empire. He has narrated his ‘progressions +from London to Buriton, and from Buriton to London,’ in the same +monotonous majestic periods that record the fall of states and empires. +The consequence is, that a fascinating book gives but a vague idea of its +subject. It may not be without its use to attempt a description of him in +plainer though less splendid English. + +The diligence of their descendant accumulated many particulars of +the remote annals of the Gibbon family; but its real founder was the +grandfather of the historian, who lived in the times of the ‘South Sea.’ +He was a capital man of business according to the custom of that age—a +dealer in many kinds of merchandise—like perhaps the ‘complete tradesman’ +of Defoe, who was to understand the price and quality of _all_ articles +made within the kingdom. The preference, however, of Edward Gibbon the +grandfather was for the article ‘shares;’ his genius, like that of Mr. +Hudson, had a natural tendency towards a commerce in the metaphysical +and non-existent; and he was fortunate in the age on which his lot was +thrown. It afforded many opportunities of gratifying that taste. Much +has been written on panics and manias—much more than with the most +outstretched intellect we are able to follow or conceive; but one thing +is certain, that at particular times a great many stupid people have a +great deal of stupid money. Saving people have often only the faculty of +saving; they accumulate ably, and contemplate their accumulations with +approbation; but what to do with them they do not know. Aristotle, who +was not in trade, imagined that money is barren; and barren it is to +quiet ladies, rural clergymen, and country misers. Several economists +have plans for preventing improvident speculation; one would abolish +Peel’s act, and substitute one-pound notes; another would retain Peel’s +act, and make the calling for one-pound notes a capital crime: but our +scheme is, not to allow any man to have a hundred pounds who cannot +prove to the satisfaction of the Lord Chancellor that he knows what to +do with a hundred pounds. The want of this easy precaution allows the +accumulation of wealth in the hands of rectors, authors, grandmothers, +who have no knowledge of business, and no idea except that their money +now produces nothing, and ought and must be forced immediately to produce +something. ‘I wish,’ said one of this class, ‘for the largest immediate +income, and I am therefore naturally disposed to purchase an _advowson_.’ +At intervals, from causes which are not to the present purpose, the money +of these people—the blind capital (as we call it) of the country—is +particularly large and craving; it seeks for some one to devour it, and +there is ‘plethora’—it finds some one, and there is ‘speculation’—it is +devoured, and there is ‘panic.’ The age of Mr. Gibbon was one of these. +The interest of money was very low, perhaps under three per cent. The +usual consequence followed; able men started wonderful undertakings; +the ablest of all, a company ‘for carrying on an undertaking of great +importance, but no one to know what it was.’ Mr. Gibbon was not idle. +According to the narrative of his grandson, he already filled a +considerable position, was worth sixty thousand pounds, and had great +influence both in Parliament and in the City. He applied himself to +the greatest bubble of all—one so great, that it is spoken of in many +books as the cause and parent of all contemporary bubbles—the South-Sea +Company—the design of which was to reduce the interest on the national +debt, which, oddly enough, it did reduce, and to trade exclusively to +the South Sea or Spanish America, where of course it hardly did trade. +Mr. Gibbon became a director, sold and bought, traded and prospered; and +was considered, perhaps with truth, to have obtained much money. The +bubble was essentially a fashionable one. Public intelligence and the +quickness of communication did not then as now at once spread pecuniary +information and misinformation to secluded districts; but fine ladies, +men of fashion—the London world—ever anxious to make as much of its +money as it can, and then wholly unwise (it is not now very wise) in +discovering how the most _was_ to be made of it—‘went in’ and speculated +largely. As usual, all was favourable so long as the shares were rising; +the price was at one time very high, and the agitation very general; it +was, in a word, the railway mania in the South Sea. After a time, the +shares ‘hesitated,’ declined, and fell; and there was an outcry against +everybody concerned in the matter, very like the outcry against the οἱ +περὶ Hudson in our own time. The results, however, were very different. +Whatever may be said, and, judging from the late experience, a good deal +is likely to be said, as to the advantages of civilisation and education, +it seems certain that they tend to diminish a simple-minded energy. The +Parliament of 1720 did not, like the Parliament of 1847, allow itself +to be bored and incommoded by legal minutiæ, nor did it forego the use +of plain words. A committee reported the discovery of ‘a train of the +deepest villainy and fraud _hell_ ever contrived to ruin a nation;’ the +directors of the company were arrested, and Mr. Gibbon among the rest; he +was compelled to give in a list of his effects: the general wish was that +a retrospective act should be immediately passed, which would impose on +him penalties something like, or even more severe than those now enforced +on Paul and Strahan. In the end, however, Mr. Gibbon escaped with a +parliamentary conversation upon his affairs. His estate amounted to +140,000_l._; and as this was a great sum, there was an obvious suspicion +that he was a great criminal. The scene must have been very curious. +‘Allowances of twenty pounds or one shilling were facetiously voted. +A vague report that a director had formerly been concerned in another +project by which some unknown persons had lost their money, was admitted +as a proof of his actual guilt. One man was ruined because he had dropped +a foolish speech that his horses should feed upon gold; another because +he was grown so proud, that one day, at the Treasury, he had refused a +civil answer to persons far above him.’ The vanity of his descendant +is evidently a little tried by the peculiar severity with which his +grandfather was treated. Out of his 140,000_l._ it was only proposed that +he should retain 15,000_l._; and on an amendment even this was reduced to +10,000_l._ Yet there is some ground for believing that the acute energy +and practised pecuniary power which had been successful in obtaining so +large a fortune, were likewise applied with science to the inferior task +of retaining some of it. The historian indeed says, ‘On these ruins,’ the +10,000_l._ aforesaid, ‘with skill and credit of which parliament had not +been able to deprive him, my grandfather erected the edifice of a new +fortune: the labours of sixteen years were amply rewarded; and I have +reason to believe that the second structure was not much inferior to the +first.’ But this only shows how far a family feeling may bias a sceptical +judgment. The credit of a man in Mr. Gibbon’s position could not be +very lucrative; and his skill must have been enormous to have obtained +so much at the end of his life, in such circumstances, in so few years. +Had he been an early Christian, the narrative of his descendant would +have contained an insidious hint, ‘that pecuniary property _may_ be so +secreted as to defy the awkward approaches of political investigation.’ +That he died rich is certain, for two generations lived solely on the +property he bequeathed. + +The son of this great speculator, the historian’s father, was a man +to spend a fortune quietly. He is not related to have indulged in any +particular expense, and nothing is more difficult to follow than the +pecuniary fortunes of deceased families; but one thing is certain, that +the property which descended to the historian—making every allowance +for all minor and subsidiary modes of diminution, such as daughters, +settlements, legacies, and so forth—was enormously less than 140,000_l._; +and therefore if those figures are correct, the second generation must +have made itself very happy out of the savings of the past generation, +and without caring for the poverty of the next. Nothing that is related +of the historian’s father indicates a strong judgment or an acute +discrimination; and there are some scarcely dubious signs of a rather +weak character. + +Edward Gibbon, the great, was born on the 27th of April 1737. Of his +mother we hear scarcely anything; and what we do hear is not remarkably +favourable. It seems that she was a faint, inoffensive woman, of ordinary +capacity, who left a very slight trace of her influence on the character +of her son, did little and died early. The real mother, as he is careful +to explain, of his understanding and education was her sister, and his +aunt, _Mrs._ Catherine Porten, according to the speech of that age, a +maiden lady of much vigour and capacity, and for whom her pupil really +seems to have felt as much affection as was consistent with a rather easy +and cool nature. There is a panegyric on her in the _Memoirs_; and in +a long letter upon the occasion of her death, he deposes: ‘To her care +I am indebted in earliest infancy for the preservation of my life and +health.... To her instructions I owe the first rudiments of knowledge, +the first exercise of reason, and a taste for books, which is still the +pleasure and glory of my life; and though she taught me neither language +nor science, she was certainly the most useful preceptress I ever had. +As I grew up, an intercourse of thirty years endeared her to me as the +faithful friend and the agreeable companion. You have observed with +what freedom and confidence we lived,’ &c. &c. To a less sentimental +mind, which takes a more tranquil view of aunts and relatives, it is +satisfactory to find that somehow he could not write to her. ‘I wish,’ +he continues, ‘I had as much to applaud and as little to reproach in my +conduct to Mrs. Porten since I left England; and when I reflect that my +letter would have soothed and comforted her decline, I feel’—what an +ardent nephew would naturally feel at so unprecedented an event. Leaving +his maturer years out of the question—a possible rhapsody of affectionate +eloquence—she seems to have been of the greatest use to him in infancy. +His health was very imperfect. We hear much of rheumatism, and lameness, +and weakness; and he was unable to join in work and play with ordinary +boys. He was moved from one school to another, never staying anywhere +very long, and owing what knowledge he obtained rather to a strong +retentive understanding than to any external stimulants or instruction. +At one place he gained an acquaintance with the Latin elements at the +price of ‘many tears and some blood.’ At last he was consigned to the +instruction of an elegant clergyman, the Rev. Philip Francis, who had +obtained notoriety by a metrical translation of Horace, the laxity of +which is even yet complained of by construing schoolboys, and who, with +a somewhat Horatian taste, went to London as often as he could, and +translated _invisa negotia_ as ‘boys to beat.’ + +In school-work, therefore, Gibbon had uncommon difficulties and unusual +deficiencies; but these were much more than counterbalanced by a habit +which often accompanies a sickly childhood, and is the commencement of +a studious life, the habit of desultory reading. The instructiveness of +this is sometimes not comprehended. S. T. Coleridge used to say that +he felt a great superiority over those who had not read—and fondly +read—fairly tales in their childhood; he thought they wanted a sense +which he possessed, the perception, or apperception—we do not know which +he used to say it was—of the unity and wholeness of the universe. As to +fairy tales, this is a hard saying; but as to desultory reading it is +certainly true. Some people have known a time in life when there was no +book they could not read. The fact of its being a book went immensely in +its favour. In early life there is an opinion that the obvious thing to +do with a horse is to ride it; with a cake, to eat it; with sixpence, to +spend it. A few boys carry this further, and think the natural thing to +do with a book is to read it. There is an argument from design in the +subject: if the book was not meant for that purpose, for what purpose +was it meant? Of course, of any understanding of the works so perused +there is no question or idea. There is a legend of Bentham, in his +earliest childhood, climbing to the height of a huge stool and sitting +there evening after evening with two candles engaged in the perusal of +Rapin’s history. It might as well have been any other book. The doctrine +of utility had not then dawned on its immortal teacher; _cui bono_ was an +idea unknown to him. He would have been ready to read about Egypt, about +Spain, about coals in Borneo, the teak-wood in India, the current in the +river Mississipi, on natural history or human history, on theology or +morals, on the state of the dark ages or the state of the light ages,—on +Augustulus or Lord Chatham,—on the first century or the seventeenth,—on +the moon, the millennium, or the whole duty of man. Just then, reading +is an end in itself. At that time of life you no more think of a future +consequence, of the remote, the very remote possibility of deriving +knowledge from the perusal of a book, than you expect so great a result +from spinning a peg-top. You spin the top, and you read the book; and +these scenes of life are exhausted. In such studies, of all prose perhaps +the best is history. One page is so like another; battle No. 1 is so +much on a par with battle No. 2. Truth may be, as they say, stranger +than fiction, abstractedly; but in actual books, novels are certainly +odder and more astounding than correct history. It will be said, what is +the use of this? Why not leave the reading of great books till a great +age? Why plague and perplex childhood with complex facts remote from its +experience and inapprehensible by its imagination? The reply is, that +though in all great and combined facts there is much which childhood +cannot thoroughly imagine, there is also in very many a great deal which +can only be truly apprehended for the first time at that age. Catch an +American of thirty;—tell him about the battle of Marathon; what will he +be able to comprehend of all that you mean by it: of all that halo which +early impression and years of remembrance have cast around it? He may add +up the killed and wounded, estimate the missing, and take the dimensions +of Greece and Athens; but he will not seem to care much. He may say, +‘Well, sir, perhaps it was a smart thing in that small territory; but it +is a long time ago, and in my country James K. Burnup’—did that which he +will at length explain to you. Or try an experiment on yourself. Read the +account of a Circassian victory, equal in numbers, in daring, in romance, +to the old battle. Will you be able to feel about it at all in the same +way? It is impossible. You cannot form a new set of associations; your +mind is involved in pressing facts, your memory choked by a thousand +details; the liveliness of fancy is gone with the childhood by which +it was enlivened. Schamyl will never seem as great as Leonidas, or +Miltiades; Cnokemof, or whoever the Russian is, cannot be so imposing +as Xerxes; the unpronounceable place cannot strike on your heart like +Marathon or Platæa. Moreover, there is the further advantage which +Coleridge shadowed forth in the remark we cited. Youth has a principle of +consolidation. We begin with the whole. Small sciences are the labours +of our manhood; but the round universe is the plaything of the boy. His +fresh mind shoots out vaguely and crudely into the infinite and eternal. +Nothing is hid from the depth of it; there are no boundaries to its vague +and wandering vision. Early science, it has been said, begins in utter +nonsense; it would be truer to say that it starts with boyish fancies. +How absurd seem the notions of the first Greeks! Who could believe now +that air or water was the principle, the pervading substance, the eternal +material of all things? Such affairs will never explain a thick rock. +And what a white original for a green and sky-blue world! Yet people +disputed in those ages not whether it was either of those substances, +but which of them it was. And doubtless there was a great deal, at least +in quantity, to be said on both sides. Boys are improved; but some in +our own day have asked, ‘Mamma, I say, what did God make the world of?’ +and several, who did not venture on speech, have had an idea of some +one gray primitive thing, felt a difficulty as to how the red came, and +wondered that marble could _ever_ have been the same as moonshine. This +is in truth the picture of life. We begin with the infinite and eternal, +which we shall never apprehend; and these form a framework, a schedule, +a set of co-ordinates to which we refer all which we learn later. At +first, like the old Greek, ‘we look up to the whole sky, and are lost in +the one and the all;’ in the end we classify and enumerate, learn each +star, calculate distances, draw cramped diagrams on the unbounded sky, +write a paper on α Cygni and a treatise on ε Draconis, map special facts +upon the indefinite void, and engrave precise details on the infinite +and everlasting. So in history; somehow the whole comes in boyhood; the +details later and in manhood. The wonderful series going far back to the +times of old patriarchs with their flocks and herds, the keen-eyed Greek, +the stately Roman, the watching Jew, the uncouth Goth, the horrid Hun, +the settled picture of the unchanging East, the restless shifting of the +rapid West, the rise of the cold and classical civilisation, its fall, +the rough impetuous middle ages, the vague warm picture of ourselves and +home,—when did we learn these? Not yesterday nor to-day; but long ago, in +the first dawn of reason, in the original flow of fancy. What we learn +afterwards are but the accurate littlenesses of the great topic, the +dates and tedious facts. Those who begin late learn only these; but the +happy first feel the mystic associations and the progress of the whole. + +There is no better illustration of all this than Gibbon. Few have begun +early with a more desultory reading, and fewer still have described +it so skilfully. ‘From the ancient I leaped to the modern world; many +crude lumps of Speed, Rapin, Mezeray, Davila, Machiavel, Father Paul, +Bower, &c., I devoured like so many novels; and I swallowed with the +same voracious appetite the descriptions of India and China, of Mexico +and Peru. My first introduction to the historic scenes which have since +engaged so many years of my life must be ascribed to an accident. In +the summer of 1751 I accompanied my father on a visit to Mr. Hoare’s, +in Wiltshire; but I was less delighted with the beauties of Stourhead +than with discovering in the library a common book, the _Continuation +of Echard’s Roman History_, which is indeed executed with more skill +and taste than the previous work. To me the reigns of the successors +of Constantine were absolutely new; and I was immersed in the passage +of the Goths over the Danube when the summons of the dinner-bell +reluctantly dragged me from my intellectual feast. This transient +glance served rather to irritate than to appease my curiosity; and as +soon as I returned to Bath I procured the second and third volumes of +Howel’s _History of the World_, which exhibit the Byzantine period on +a larger scale. Mahomet and his Saracens soon fixed my attention; and +some instinct of criticism directed me to the genuine sources. Simon +Ockley, an original in every sense, first opened my eyes; and I was led +from one book to another till I had ranged round the circle of Oriental +history. Before I was sixteen I had exhausted all that could be learned +in English of the Arabs and Persians, the Tartars and Turks; and the same +ardour urged me to guess at the French of d’Herbelot, and to construe the +barbarous Latin of Pocock’s _Abulfaragius_.’ To this day the schoolboy +student of the Decline and Fall feels the traces of that schoolboy +reading. _Once_, he is conscious, the author like him felt, and solely +felt, the magnificent progress of the great story and the scenic aspect +of marvellous events. + +A more sudden effect was at hand. However exalted may seem the praises +which we have given to loose and unplanned reading, we are not saying +that it is the sole ingredient of a good education. Besides this sort +of education, which some boys will voluntarily and naturally give +themselves, there needs, of course, another and more rigorous kind, +which must be impressed upon them from without. The terrible difficulty +of early life—the _use_ of pastors and masters—really is, that they +compel boys to a distinct mastery of that which they do not wish to +learn. There is nothing to be said for a preceptor who is not dry. Mr. +Carlyle describes with bitter satire the fate of one of his heroes who +was obliged to acquire whole systems of information in which he, the +hero, saw no use, and which he kept as far as might be in a vacant +corner of his mind. And this is the very point—dry language, tedious +mathematics, a thumbed grammar, a detested slate, form gradually an +interior separate intellect, exact in its information, rigid in its +requirements, disciplined in its exercises. The two grow together, +the early natural fancy touching the far extremities of the universe, +lightly playing with the scheme of all things; the precise, compacted +memory slowly accumulating special facts, exact habits, clear and painful +conceptions. At last, as it were in a moment, the cloud breaks up, the +division sweeps away; we find that in fact these exercises which puzzled +us, these languages which we hated, these details which we despised, are +the instruments of true thought, are the very keys and openings, the +exclusive access to the knowledge which we loved. + +In this second education the childhood of Gibbon had been very defective. +He had never been placed under any rigid training. In his first boyhood +he disputed with his aunt, ‘that were I master of Greek and Latin, I must +interpret to myself in English the thoughts of the original, and that +such extemporary versions must be inferior to the elaborate translation +of professed scholars: a silly sophism,’ as he remarks, ‘which could not +easily be confuted by a person ignorant of any other language than her +own.’ Ill-health, a not very wise father, an ill-chosen succession of +schools and pedagogues, prevented his acquiring exact knowledge in the +regular subjects of study. His own description is the best—‘erudition +that might have puzzled a doctor, and ignorance of which a schoolboy +should have been ashamed.’ The amiable Mr. Francis, who was to have +repaired the deficiency, went to London, and forgot him. With an impulse +of discontent his father took a resolution, and sent him to Oxford at +sixteen. + +It is probable that a worse place could not have been found. The +University of Oxford was at the nadir of her history and efficiency. +The public professorial training of the middle ages had died away, and +the intramural collegiate system of the present time had not begun. The +University had ceased to be a teaching body, and had not yet become an +examining body. ‘The professors,’ says Adam Smith, who had studied there, +‘have given up almost the pretence of lecturing.’ ‘The examination,’ +said a great judge some years later, ‘was a farce in my time. I was +asked who founded University College; and I said, though the fact is now +doubted, that King Alfred founded it; and _that_ was the examination.’ +The colleges, deprived of the superintendence and watchfulness of their +natural sovereign, fell, as Gibbon remarks, into ‘port and prejudice.’ +The Fellows were a close corporation; they were chosen from every +conceivable motive—because they were respectable men, because they were +good fellows, because they were brothers of other Fellows, because their +fathers had patronage in the Church. Men so appointed could not be +expected to be very diligent in the instruction of youth; many colleges +did not even profess it; that of All Souls has continued down to our own +time to deny that it has anything to do with it. Undoubtedly a person +who came thither accurately and rigidly drilled in technical scholarship +found many means and a few motives to pursue it. Some tutorial system +probably existed at most colleges. Learning was not wholly useless in +the Church. The English gentleman has ever loved a nice and classical +scholarship. But these advantages were open only to persons who had +received a very strict training, and who were voluntarily disposed to +discipline themselves still more. To the mass of mankind the University +was a ‘graduating machine;’ the colleges, monopolist residences,—hotels +without bells. + +Taking the place as it stood, the lot of Gibbon may be thought rather +fortunate. He was placed at Magdalen, whose fascinating walks, so +beautiful in the later autumn, still recall the name of Addison, the +example of the merits, as Gibbon is of the deficiencies, of Oxford. His +first tutor was, in his own opinion, ‘one of the best of the tribe.’ ‘Dr. +Waldegrave was a learned and pious man, of a mild disposition, strict +morals, and abstemious life, who seldom mingled in the politics or the +jollity of the college. But his knowledge of the world was confined to +the University; his learning was of the last, rather than of the present +age; his temper was indolent; his faculties, which were not of the first +rate, had been relaxed by the climate; and he was satisfied, like his +fellows, with the slight and superficial discharge of an important trust. +As soon as my tutor had sounded the insufficiency of his disciple in +school-learning, he proposed that we should read every morning, from +ten to eleven, the comedies of Terence. The sum of my improvement in +the University of Oxford is confined to three or four Latin plays; and +even the study of an elegant classic, which might have been illustrated +by a comparison of ancient and modern theatres, was reduced to a dry +and literal interpretation of the author’s text. During the first weeks +I constantly attended these lessons in my tutor’s room; but as they +appeared equally devoid of profit and pleasure, I was once tempted to +try the experiment of a formal apology. The apology was accepted with +a smile. I repeated the offence with less ceremony; the excuse was +admitted with the same indulgence: the slightest motive of laziness +or indisposition, the most trifling avocation at home or abroad, was +allowed as a worthy impediment; nor did my tutor appear conscious of +my absence or neglect. Had the hour of lecture been constantly filled, +a single hour was a small portion of my academic leisure. No plan of +study was recommended for my use; no exercises were prescribed for his +inspection; and, at the most precious season of youth, whole days and +weeks were suffered to elapse without labour or amusement, without advice +or account.’ The name of his second tutor is concealed in asterisks, and +the sensitive conscience of Dean Milman will not allow him to insert a +name ‘which _Gibbon_ thought proper to suppress.’ The account, however, +of the anonymous person is sufficiently graphic. ‘Dr. —— well remembered +that he had a salary to receive, and only forgot that he had a duty to +perform. Instead of guiding the studies and watching over the behaviour +of his disciple, I was never summoned to attend even the ceremony of +a lecture; and excepting one voluntary visit to his rooms, during the +eight months of his titular office the tutor and pupil lived in the +same college as strangers to each other.’ It added to the evils of this +neglect, that Gibbon was much younger than most of the students; and +that his temper, which was through life reserved, was then very shy. +His appearance, too, was odd; ‘a thin little figure, with a large head, +disputing and arguing with the greatest ability.’ Of course he was a joke +among undergraduates; he consulted his tutor as to studying Arabic, and +was seen buying _La Bibliothèque Orientale d’Herbelot_, and immediately +a legend was diffused that he had turned Mahomedan. The random cast was +not so far from the mark: cut off by peculiarities from the society of +young people; deprived of regular tuition and systematic employment; +tumbling about among crude masses of heterogeneous knowledge; alone with +the heated brain of youth,—he did what an experienced man would expect—he +framed a theory of all things. No doubt it seemed to him the most natural +thing in the world. Was he to be the butt of ungenial wine-parties, or +spend his lonely hours on shreds of languages? Was he not to know the +_truth_? There were the old problems, the everlasting difficulties, the +_mœnia mundi_, the Hercules’ pillars of the human imagination—‘fate, +free-will, fore-knowledge absolute.’ Surely these should come first; when +we had learned the great landmarks, understood the guiding-stars, we +might amuse ourselves with small points, and make a plaything of curious +information. What particular theory the mind frames when in this state +is a good deal matter of special accident. The _data_ for considering +these difficulties are not within its reach. Whether man be or be not +born to solve the ‘mystery of the knowable,’ he certainly is not born to +solve it at seventeen, with the first hot rush of the untrained mind. The +selection of Gibbon was remarkable: he became a Roman Catholic. + +It seems now so natural that an Oxford man should take this step, that +one can hardly understand the astonishment it created. Lord Sheffield +tells us that the Privy Council interfered; and with good administrative +judgment examined a London bookseller—some Mr. Lewis—who had no concern +in it. In the manor-house of Buriton it would have probably created +less sensation if ‘dear Edward’ had announced his intention of becoming +a monkey. The English have ever believed that the Papist is a kind +of _creature_; and every sound mind would prefer a beloved child to +produce a tail, a hide of hair, and a taste for nuts, in comparison with +transubstantiation, wax-candles, and a belief in the glories of Mary. + +What exact motives impelled Gibbon to this step cannot now be certainly +known; the autobiography casts a mist over them; but from what appears, +his conversion partly much resembled, and partly altogether differed +from, the Oxford conversions of our own time. We hear nothing of the +notes of a church, or the sin of the Reformation; and Gibbon had not an +opportunity of even rejecting Mr. Sewell’s theory that it is ‘a holy +obligation to acquiesce in the opinions of your grandmother.’ His +memoirs have a halo of great names—Bossuet, the _History of Protestant +Variations_, &c. &c.—and he speaks with becoming dignity of falling +by a noble hand. He mentioned also to Lord Sheffield, as having had a +preponderating influence over him, the works of Father Parsons, who +lived in Queen Elizabeth’s time. But in all probability these were +secondary persuasions, justifications after the event. No young man, or +scarcely any young man of seventeen, was ever converted by a systematic +treatise, especially if written in another age, wearing an obsolete look, +speaking a language which scarcely seems that of this world. There is an +unconscious reasoning: ‘The world has had this book before it so long, +and has withstood it. There must be something wrong; it seems all right +on the surface, but a flaw there must be.’ The mass of the volumes, too, +is unfavourable. ‘All the treatises in the world,’ says the young convert +in _Loss and Gain_, ‘are not equal to giving one a view in a moment.’ +What the youthful mind requires is this short decisive argument, this +view in a moment, this flash as it were of the understanding, which +settles all, and diffuses a conclusive light at once and for ever over +the whole. It is so much the pleasanter if the young mind can strike this +view out for itself, from materials which are forced upon it from the +controversies of the day; if it can find a certain solution of pending +questions, and show itself wiser even than the wisest of its own, the +very last age. So far as appears, this was the fortune of Gibbon. ‘It was +not long,’ he says, ‘since Dr. Middleton’s _Free Inquiry_ had sounded an +alarm in the theological world; much ink and much gall had been spent in +defence of the primitive miracles; and the two dullest of their champions +were crowned with academic honours by the University of Oxford. The name +of Middleton was unpopular; and his proscription very naturally led me to +peruse his writings and those of his antagonists.’ It is not difficult +to discover in this work easy and striking arguments which might lead an +untaught mind to the communion of Rome. As to the peculiar belief of its +author, there has been much controversy, with which we have not here +the least concern; but the natural conclusion to which it would lead a +simple intellect is, that all miracles are equally certain or equally +uncertain. ‘It being agreed, then,’ says the acute controversialist, +‘that in the original promise of these miraculous gifts there is no +intimation of any particular period to which their continuance was +limited, the next question is, by what sort of evidence the precise time +of their duration is to be determined? But to this point one of the +writers just referred to excuses himself, as we have seen, from giving +any answer; and thinks it sufficient to declare in general that _the +earliest fathers unanimously affirm them to have continued down to their +times_. Yet he has not told us, as he ought to have done, to what age he +limits the character of _the earliest fathers_; whether to the second +or to the third century, or, with the generality of our writers, means +also to include the fourth. But to whatever age he may restrain it, the +difficulty at last will be to assign a reason why we must needs stop +there. In the meanwhile, by his appealing thus to the _earliest fathers_ +only as unanimous on this article, a common reader would be apt to infer +that the later fathers are more cold or diffident, or divided upon it; +whereas the reverse of this is true, and the more we descend from those +earliest fathers the more strong and explicit we find their successors +in attesting the perpetual succession and daily exertion of the same +miraculous powers in their several ages; so that if the cause must be +determined by _the unanimous consent of fathers_, we shall find as much +reason to believe that those powers were continued even to the latest +ages as to any other, how early and primitive soever, after the days of +the apostles. But the same writer gives us two reasons why he does not +choose to say anything upon the subject of their duration; 1st, because +_there is not light enough in history to settle it_; 2ndly, because _the +thing itself is of no concern to us_. As to his first reason, I am at a +loss to conceive what further light a professed advocate of the primitive +ages and fathers can possibly require in this case. For as far as the +Church historians can illustrate or throw light upon anything, there +is not a single point in all history so constantly, explicitly, and +unanimously affirmed by them all, as the continual succession of these +powers through all ages, from the earliest father who first mentions +them down to the time of the Reformation. Which same succession is still +further deduced by persons of the most eminent character for their +probity, learning, and dignity in the Romish Church, to this very day. +So that the only doubt which can remain with us is, whether the Church +historians are to be trusted or not; for if any credit be due to them in +the present case, it must reach either to all or to none; because the +reason of believing them in any one age will be found to be of equal +force in all, as far as it depends on the characters of the persons +attesting, or the nature of the things attested.’ In _terms_ this and +the whole of Middleton’s argument is so shaped as to avoid including +in its scope the miracles of Scripture, which are mentioned throughout +with eulogiums and acquiescence, and so as to make you doubt whether the +author believed them or not. This is exactly one of the pretences which +the young strong mind delights to tear down. It would argue, ‘This writer +evidently _means_ that the apostolic miracles have just as much evidence +and no more than the popish or the patristic; and how strong’—for +Middleton is a master of telling statement—‘he shows that evidence to be! +I won’t give up the apostolic miracles, I cannot; yet I must believe what +has as much of historical testimony in its favour. It is no _reductio +ad absurdum_ that we must go over to the Church of Rome; it is the most +diffused of Christian creeds, the oldest of Christian churches.’ And so +the logic of the sceptic becomes, as often since, the most efficient +instrument of the all-believing and all-determining Church. + +The consternation of Gibbon’s relatives seems to have been enormous. +They cast about what to do. From the experience of Oxford, they perhaps +thought that it would be useless to have recourse to the Anglican +clergy; this resource had failed. So they took him to Mr. Mallet, a +Deist, to see if he could do anything; but he did nothing. Their next +step was nearly as extraordinary. They placed him at Lausanne, in the +house of M. Pavilliard, a French Protestant minister. After the easy +income, complete independence, and unlimited credit of an English +undergraduate, he was thrown into a foreign country, deprived, as he +says, by ignorance of the language, both of ‘speech and hearing,’—in +the position of a schoolboy, with a small allowance of pocket-money, +and without the Epicurean comforts on which he already set some value. +He laments the ‘indispensable comfort of a servant,’ and the ‘sordid +and uncleanly table of Madame Pavilliard.’ In our own day the watchful +sagacity of Cardinal Wiseman would hardly allow a promising convert of +expectations and talents to remain unsolaced in so pitiful a situation; +we should hear soothing offers of flight or succour, some insinuation of +a popish domestic and interesting repasts. But a hundred years ago the +attention of the Holy See was very little directed to our English youth, +and Gibbon was left to endure his position. + +It is curious that he made himself comfortable. Though destitute of +external comforts which he did not despise, he found what was the +greatest luxury to his disposition, steady study and regular tuition. +His tutor was, of course, to convert him if he could; but as they +had no language in common, there was the preliminary occupation of +teaching French. During five years both tutor and pupil steadily exerted +themselves to repair the defects of a neglected and ill-grounded +education. We hear of the perusal of Terence, Virgil, Horace, and +Tacitus. Cicero was translated into French, and translated back again +into Latin. In both languages the pupil’s progress was sound and good. +From letters of his which still exist, it is clear that he then acquired +the exact and steady knowledge of Latin of which he afterwards made so +much use. His circumstances compelled him to master French. If his own +letters are to be trusted, he would be an example of his own doctrine, +that no one is thoroughly master of more than one language at a time; +they read like the letters of a Frenchman trying and failing to write +English. But perhaps there was a desire to magnify his continental +progress, and towards the end of the time some wish to make his friends +fear he was forgetting his own language. + +Meantime the work of conversion was not forgotten. In some letters which +are extant, M. Pavilliard celebrates the triumph of his logic. ‘_J’ai +renversé_,’ says the pastor, ‘_l’infaillibilité de l’Eglise; j’ai prouvé +que jamais Saint Pierre n’a été chef des apôtres; que quand il l’aurait +été, le pape n’est point son successeur; qu’il est douteux que Saint +Pierre ait jamais été à Rome; mais supposé qu’il y ait été, il n’a pas +été évêque de cette ville; que la transubstantiation est une invention +humaine, et peu ancienne dans l’Eglise_,’ &c., and so on through the +usual list of Protestant arguments. He magnifies a little Gibbon’s +strength of conviction, as it makes the success of his own logic seem +more splendid; but states two curious things: first, that Gibbon at +least _pretended_ to believe in the Pretender, and what is more amazing +still—all but incredible—that he fasted. Such was the youth of the +Epicurean historian! + +It is probable, however, that the skill of the Swiss pastor was not +the really operating cause of the event. Perhaps experience shows that +the converts which Rome has made, with the threat of unbelief and the +weapons of the sceptic, have rarely been permanent or advantageous to +her. It is at best but a dangerous logic to drive men to the edge and +precipice of scepticism, in the hope that they will recoil in horror to +the very interior of credulity. Possibly men may show their courage—they +may vanquish the _argumentum ad terrorem_—they may not find scepticism +so terrible. This last was Gibbon’s case. A more insidious adversary +than the Swiss theology was at hand to sap his Roman Catholic belief. +Pavilliard had a fair French library—not ill stored in the recent +publications of that age—of which he allowed his pupil the continual +use. It was as impossible to open any of them and not come in contact +with infidelity, as to come to England and not to see a green field. +Scepticism is not so much a part of the French literature of that day +as its animating spirit—its essence, its vitality. You can no more +cut it out and separate it, than you can extract from Wordsworth his +conception of nature, or from Swift his common sense. And it is of the +subtlest kind. It has little in common with the rough disputation of the +English deist, or the perplexing learning of the German theologian, but +works with a tool more insinuating than either. It is, in truth, but +the spirit of the world, which does not argue, but assumes; which does +not so much elaborate as hints; which does not examine, but suggests. +With the traditions of the Church it contrasts traditions of its own; +its technicalities are _bon sens_, _l’usage du monde_, _le fanatisme_, +_l’enthousiasme_; to high hopes, noble sacrifices, awful lives, it +opposes quiet ease, skilful comfort, placid sense, polished indifference. +Old as transubstantiation may be, it is not older than Horace and +Lucian. Lord Byron, in the well-known lines, has coupled the names of +the two literary exiles on the Leman Lake. The page of Voltaire could +not but remind Gibbon that the scepticism from which he had revolted +was compatible with literary eminence and European fame—gave a piquancy +to ordinary writing—was the very expression of caustic caution and +gentlemanly calm. + +The grave and erudite habits of Gibbon soon developed themselves. +Independently of these abstruse theological disputations, he spent many +hours daily—rising early and reading carefully—on classical and secular +learning. He was not, however, wholly thus engrossed. There was in the +neighbourhood of Lausanne a certain Mademoiselle Curchod, to whom he +devoted some of his time. She seems to have been a morbidly rational +lady; at least she had a grave taste. Gibbon could not have been a very +enlivening lover; he was decidedly plain, and his predominating taste +was for solid learning. But this was not all; she formed an attachment +to M. Necker, afterwards the most slow of premiers, whose financial +treatises can hardly have been agreeable even to a Genevese beauty. +This was, however, at a later time. So far as appears, Gibbon was her +first love. How extreme her feelings were one does not know. Those of +Gibbon can scarcely be supposed to have done him any harm. However, +there was an intimacy, a flirtation, an engagement—when, as usual, it +appeared that neither had any money. That the young lady should procure +any seems to have been out of the question; and Gibbon, supposing that +he might, wrote to his father. The reply was unfavourable. Gibbon’s +mother was dead; Mr. Gibbon senior was married again; and even in other +circumstances would have been scarcely ready to encourage a romantic +engagement to a lady with nothing. She spoke no English, too, and +marriage with a person speaking only French is still regarded as a most +unnatural event; forbidden, not indeed by the literal law of the Church, +but by those higher instinctive principles of our nature, to which the +bluntest own obedience. No father could be expected to violate at once +pecuniary duties and patriotic principles. Mr. Gibbon senior forbade +the match. The young lady does not seem to have been quite ready to +relinquish all hope; but she had shown a grave taste, and fixed her +affections on a sound and cold mind. ‘I sighed,’ narrates the historian, +‘as a lover; but I obeyed as a son.’ ‘I have seen,’ says M. Suard, +‘the letter in which Gibbon communicated to Mademoiselle Curchod the +opposition of his father to their marriage. The first pages are tender +and melancholy, as might be expected from an unhappy lover; the latter +become by degrees calm and reasonable; and the letter concludes with +these words: _C’est pourquoi, mademoiselle, j’ai l’honneur d’être votre +très-humble et très-obéissant serviteur, Edward Gibbon_.’ Her father +died soon afterwards, and she retired to Geneva, where, by teaching +young ladies, she earned a hard subsistence for herself and her mother; +but the tranquil disposition of her admirer preserved him from any +romantic display of sympathy and fidelity. He continued to study various +readings in Cicero, as well as the passage of Hannibal over the Alps; +and with those affectionate resources set sentiment at defiance. Yet +thirty years later the lady, then the wife of the most conspicuous man +in Europe, was able to suggest useful reflections to an aged bachelor, +slightly dreaming of a superannuated marriage: ‘_Gardez-vous, monsieur, +de former un de ces liens tardifs: le mariage qui rend heureux dans l’âge +mûr, c’est celui qui fut contracté dans la jeunesse. Alors seulement +la réunion est parfaite, les goûts se communiquent, les sentimens se +répandent, les idées deviennent communes, les facultés intellectuelles +se modèlent mutuellement. Toute la vie est double, et toute la vie est +une prolongation de la jeunesse; car les impressions de l’âme commandent +aux yeux, et la beauté qui n’est plus conserve encore son empire; mais +pour vous, monsieur, dans toute la vigueur de la pensée, lorsque toute +l’existence est décidée, l’on ne pourroit sans un miracle trouver une +femme digne de vous; et une association d’un genre imparfait rappelle +toujours la statue d’Horace, qui joint à une belle tête le corps d’un +stupide poisson. Vous êtes marié avec la gloire._’ She was then a +cultivated French lady, giving an account of the reception of the Decline +and Fall at Paris, and expressing rather peculiar ideas on the style of +Tacitus. The world had come round to her side, and she explains to her +old lover rather well her happiness with M. Necker. + +After living nearly five years at Lausanne, Gibbon returned to England. +Continental residence has made a great alteration in many Englishmen; +but few have undergone so complete a metamorphosis as Edward Gibbon. +He left his own country a hot-brained and ill taught youth, willing to +sacrifice friends and expectations for a superstitious and half-known +creed; he returned a cold and accomplished man, master of many accurate +ideas, little likely to hazard any coin for any faith: already, it is +probable, inclined in secret to a cautious scepticism; placing thereby, +as it were, upon a system the frigid prudence and unventuring incredulity +congenial to his character. His change of character changed his position +among his relatives. His father, he says, met him as a friend; and they +continued thenceforth on a footing of ‘easy intimacy.’ Especially after +the little affair of Mademoiselle Curchod, and the ‘very sensible view +he took in that instance of the matrimonial relation,’ there can be but +little question that Gibbon was justly regarded as a most safe young +man, singularly prone to large books, and a little too fond of French +phrases and French ideas; but yet with a great feeling of common sense, +and a wise preference of permanent money to transitory sentiment. His +father allowed him a moderate, and but a moderate income, which he +husbanded with great care, and only voluntarily expended in the purchase +and acquisition of serious volumes. He lived an externally idle but +really studious life, varied by tours in France and Italy; the toils +of which, though not in description very formidable, a trifle tried a +sedentary habit and somewhat corpulent body. The only English avocation +which he engaged in was, oddly enough, war. It does not appear the most +likely in this pacific country, nor does he seem exactly the man for _la +grande guerre_; but so it was; and the fact is an example of a really +Anglican invention. The English have discovered pacific war. We may not +be able to kill people as well as the French, or fit out and feed distant +armaments as neatly as they do; but we are unrivalled at a quiet armament +here at home which never kills anybody, and never wants to be sent +anywhere. A ‘constitutional militia’ is a beautiful example of the mild +efficacy of civilisation, which can convert even the ‘great manslaying +profession’ (as Carlyle calls it) into a quiet and dining association. +Into this force Gibbon was admitted; and immediately, contrary to his +anticipations, and very much against his will, was called out for +permanent duty. The hero of the _corps_ was a certain dining Sir Thomas, +who used at the end of each new bottle to announce with increasing joy +how much soberer he had become. What his fellow-officers thought of +Gibbon’s French predilections and large volumes it is not difficult to +conjecture; and he complains bitterly of the interruption to his studies. +However, his easy composed nature soon made itself at home; his polished +tact partially concealed from the ‘mess’ his recondite pursuits, and he +contrived to make the Hampshire armament of classical utility. ‘I read,’ +he says, ‘the Analysis of Cæsar’s Campaign in Africa. Every motion of +that great general is laid open with a critical sagacity. A complete +military history of his campaigns would do almost as much honour to M. +Guichardt as to Cæsar. This finished the _Mémoires_, which gave me a much +clearer notion of ancient tactics than I ever had before. Indeed, my own +military knowledge was of some service to me, as I am well acquainted +with the modern discipline and exercise of a battalion. So that though +much inferior to M. Folard and M. Guichardt, who had seen service, I am +a much better judge than Salmasius, Casaubon, or Lipsius; mere scholars, +who perhaps had never seen a battalion under arms.’ + +The real occupation of Gibbon, as this quotation might suggest, was +his reading; and this was of a peculiar sort. There are many kinds of +readers, and each has a sort of perusal suitable to his kind. There +is the voracious reader, like Dr. Johnson, who extracts with grasping +appetite the large features, the mere essence of a trembling publication, +and rejects the rest with contempt and disregard. There is the subtle +reader, who pursues with fine attention the most imperceptible and +delicate ramifications of an interesting topic, marks slight traits, +notes changing manners, has a keen eye for the character of his author, +is minutely attentive to every prejudice and awake to every passion, +watches syllables and waits on words, is alive to the light air of +nice associations which float about every subject—the motes in the +bright sunbeam—the delicate gradations of the passing shadows. There +is the stupid reader, who prefers dull books—is generally to be known +by his disregard of small books and English books, but likes masses in +modern Latin, _Grævius de torpor e mirabili_; _Horrificus de gravitate +sapientiæ_. But Gibbon was not of any of these classes. He was what +common people would call a matter-of-fact, and philosophers now-a-days +a _positive_ reader. No disciple of M. Comte could attend more strictly +to precise and provable phenomena. His favourite points are those which +can be weighed and measured. Like the dull reader, he had perhaps a +preference for huge books in unknown tongues; but, on the other hand, he +wished those books to contain real and accurate information. He liked the +firm earth of positive knowledge. His fancy was not flexible enough for +exquisite refinement, his imagination too slow for light and wandering +literature; but he felt no love of dullness in itself, and had a prompt +acumen for serious eloquence. This was his kind of reflection. ‘The +author of the Adventurer, No. 127 (Mr. Joseph Warton, concealed under the +signature of Z), concludes his ingenious parallel of the ancients and +moderns by the following remark: “That age will never again return, when +a Pericles, after walking with Plato in a portico built by Phidias and +painted by Apelles, might repair to hear a pleading of Demosthenes or a +tragedy of Sophocles.” It will never return, because it never existed. +Pericles (who died in the fourth year of the LXXXIXth Olympiad. ant. Ch. +429, Dio. Sic. l. xii. 46) was confessedly the patron of Phidias, and the +contemporary of Sophocles; but he could enjoy no very great pleasure in +the conversation of Plato, who was born in the same year that he himself +died (Diogenes Laertius in Platone v. Stanley’s History of Philosophy, p. +154). The error is still more extraordinary with regard to Apelles and +Demosthenes, since both the painter and the orator survived Alexander +the Great, whose death is above a century posterior to that of Pericles +(in 323). And indeed, though Athens was the seat of every liberal art +from the days of Themistocles to those of Demetrius Phalereus, yet no +particular era will afford Mr. Warton the complete synchronism he seems +to wish for; as tragedy was deprived of her famous triumvirate before the +arts of philosophy and eloquence had attained the perfection which they +soon after received from the hands of Plato, Aristotle, and Demosthenes.’ + +And wonderful is it for what Mr. Hallam calls ‘the languid students +of our present age’ to turn over the journal of his daily studies. +It is true, it seems to have been revised by himself; and so great a +narrator would group effectively facts with which he was so familiar; +but allowing any discount (if we may use so mean a word) for the skilful +art of the impressive historian, there will yet remain in the _Extraits +de mon Journal_ a wonderful monument of learned industry. You may open +them anywhere. ‘_Dissertation on the Medal of Smyrna_, by M. de Boze: +replete with erudition and taste; containing curious researches on the +pre-eminence of the cities of Asia.—_Researches on the Polypus_, by +Mr. Trembley. A new world: throwing light on physics, but darkening +metaphysics.—Vegetius’s _Institutions_. This writer on tactics has good +general notions; but his particular account of the Roman discipline is +deformed by confusion and anachronisms.’ Or, ‘I this day began a very +considerable task, which was, to read Cluverius’ _Italia Antiqua_ in +two volumes folio, Leyden 1624, Elzevirs;’ and it appears he did read +it as well as begin it, which is the point where most enterprising men +would have failed. From the time of his residence at Lausanne his Latin +scholarship had been sound and good, and his studies were directed +to the illustration of the best Roman authors; but it is curious to +find on August 16, 1761, after his return to England, and when he was +twenty-four years old, the following extract: ‘I have at last finished +the Iliad. As I undertook it to improve myself in the Greek language, +which I had totally neglected for some years past, and to which I never +applied myself with a proper attention, I must give a reason why I began +with Homer, and that contrary to Le Clerc’s advice. I had two: 1st, +As Homer is the most ancient Greek author (excepting perhaps Hesiod) +who is now extant; and as he was not only the poet, but the lawgiver, +the theologian, the historian, and the philosopher of the ancients, +every succeeding writer is full of quotations from, or allusions to his +writings, which it would be difficult to understand without a previous +knowledge of them. In this situation, was it not natural to follow the +ancients themselves, who always began their studies by the perusal of +Homer? 2ndly. No writer ever treated such a variety of subjects. As +every part of civil, military, or economical life is introduced into his +poems, and as the simplicity of his age allowed him to call everything +by its proper name, almost the whole compass of the Greek tongue is +comprised in Homer. I have so far met with the success I hoped for, that +I have acquired a great facility in reading the language, and treasured +up a very great stock of words. What I have rather neglected is, the +grammatical construction of them, and especially the many various +inflexions of the verbs. In order to acquire that dry but necessary +branch of knowledge, I propose bestowing some time every morning on the +perusal of the _Greek Grammar of Port Royal_, as one of the best extant. +I believe that I read nearly one-half of Homer like a mere schoolboy, +not enough master of the words to elevate myself to the poetry. The +remainder I read with a good deal of care and criticism, and made many +observations on them. Some I have inserted here; for the rest I shall +find a proper place. Upon the whole, I think that Homer’s few faults +(for some he certainly has) are lost in the variety of his beauties. I +expected to have finished him long before. The delay was owing partly to +the circumstances of my way of life and avocations, and partly to my own +fault; for while every one looks on me as a prodigy of application, I +know myself how strong a propensity I have to indolence.’ Posterity will +confirm the contemporary theory that he was a ‘prodigy’ of steady study. +Those who know what the Greek language is, how much of the Decline and +Fall depends on Greek authorities, how few errors the keen criticism of +divines and scholars has been able to detect in his employment of them, +will best appreciate the patient every-day labour which could alone +repair the early neglect of so difficult an attainment. + +It is odd how little Gibbon wrote, at least for the public, in early +life. More than twenty-two years elapsed from his first return from +Lausanne to the appearance of the first volume of his great work, and in +that long interval his only important publication, if it can indeed be +so called, was a French essay, _Sur l’Etude de la Littérature_, which +contains some sensible remarks, and shows much regular reading; but which +is on the whole a ‘conceivable treatise,’ and would be wholly forgotten +if it had been written by any one else. It was little read in England, +and must have been a serious difficulty to his friends in the militia; +but the Parisians read it, or said they had read it, which is more in +their way, and the fame of being a French author was a great aid to him +in foreign society. It flattered, indeed, the French _literati_ more +than any one can now fancy. The French had then the idea that it was +uncivilised to speak any other language, and the notion of _writing_ any +other seemed quite a _bêtise_. By a miserable misfortune you might not +know French, but at least you could conceal it assiduously; white paper +any how might go unsoiled; posterity at least should not hear of such +ignorance. The Parisian was to be the universal tongue. And it did not +seem absurd, especially to those only slightly acquainted with foreign +countries, that this might in part be so. Political eminence had given +their language a diplomatic supremacy. No German literature existed as +yet; Italy had ceased to produce important books. There was only England +left to dispute the literary omnipotence; and such an attempt as Gibbon’s +was a peculiarly acceptable flattery, for it implied that her most +cultivated men were beginning to abandon their own tongue, and to write +like other nations in the cosmopolitan _lingua franca_. A few far-seeing +observers, however, already contemplated the train of events which at the +present day give such a preponderating influence to our own writers, and +make it an arduous matter even to explain the conceivableness of the +French ambition. Of all men living then or since, David Hume was the most +likely from prejudice and habit to take an unfavourable view of English +literary influence; he had more literary fame than he deserved in France, +and less in England; he had much of the French neatness, he had but +little of the English nature; yet his cold and discriminating intellect +at once emancipated him from the sophistries which imposed on those less +watchful. He wrote to Gibbon, ‘I have only one objection, derived from +the language in which it is written. Why do you compose in French, and +carry faggots into the wood, as Horace says with regard to Romans who +wrote in Greek? I grant that you have a like motive to those Romans, and +adopt a language much more generally diffused than your native tongue; +but have you not remarked the fate of those two ancient languages in +the following ages? The Latin, though then less celebrated and confined +to more narrow limits, has in some measure outlived the Greek, and +is now more generally understood by men of letters. Let the French, +therefore, triumph in the present diffusion of their tongue. Our solid +and increasing establishments in America, where we need less dread the +inundation of barbarians, promise a superior stability and duration to +the English language.’ The cool sceptic was correct. The great breeding +people have gone out and multiplied; colonies in every clime attest our +success; French is the _patois_ of Europe; English is the language of the +world. + +Gibbon took the advice of his sagacious friend, and prepared himself for +the composition of his great work in English. His studies were destined, +however, to undergo an interruption. ‘Yesterday morning,’ he wrote to a +friend, ‘about half an hour after seven, as I was destroying an army of +barbarians, I heard a double rap at the door, and my friend Mr. Eliot was +soon introduced. After some idle conversation, he told me that if I was +desirous of being in parliament, he had an independent seat very much at +my service.’ The borough was Liskeard; and the epithet independent is, +of course, ironical, Mr. Eliot being himself the constituency of that +place. The offer was accepted, and one of the most learned of members of +parliament took his seat. + +The political life of Gibbon is briefly described. He was a supporter +of Lord North. That well-known statesman was, in the most exact sense, +a representative man,—although representative of the class of persons +most out of favour with the transcendental thinkers who invented this +name. Germans deny it, but in every country common opinions are very +common. Everywhere, there exists the comfortable mass; quiet, sagacious, +short-sighted,—such as the Jews whom Rabshakeh tempted by their vine +and their fig-tree; such as the English with their snug dining-room and +after dinner nap, domestic happiness and Bullo coal; sensible, solid +men, without stretching irritable reason, but with a placid, supine +instinct; without originality and without folly; judicious in their +dealings, respected in the world; wanting little, sacrificing nothing; +good-tempered people in a word, ‘caring for nothing until they are +themselves hurt.’ Lord North was one of this class. You could hardly make +him angry. ‘No doubt,’ he said, tapping his fat sides, ‘I am that odious +thing, a minister; and I believe other people wish they were so too.’ +Profound people look deeply for the maxims of his policy; and it being on +the surface, of course they fail to find it. He did not what the mind, +but what the _body_ of the community wanted to have done; he appealed to +the real people, the large English commonplace herd. His abilities were +great; and with them he did what people with no abilities wished to do, +and could not do. Lord Brougham has published the King’s Letters to him, +showing that which partial extracts had made known before, that Lord +North was quite opposed to the war he was carrying on; was convinced it +could not succeed; hardly, in fact, wished it might. Why did he carry it +on? _Vox populi_, the voice of well-dressed men commanded it to be done; +and he cheerfully sacrificed American people, who were nothing to him, +to English, who were something, and a king, who was much. Gibbon was +the very man to support such a ruler. His historical writings have given +him a posthumous eminence; but in his own time he was doubtless thought +a sensible safe man, of ordinary thoughts and intelligible actions. To +do him justice, he did not pretend to be a hero. ‘You know,’ he wrote to +his friend Deyverdun, ‘_que je suis entré au parlement sans patriotisme, +sans ambition, et que toutes mes vues se bornoient à la place commode et +honnête d’un_ lord of trade.’ ‘Wise in his generation’ was written on his +brow. He quietly and gently supported the policy of his time. + +Even, however, amid the fatigue of parliamentary attendance,—the fatigue, +in fact, of attending a nocturnal and oratorical club, where you met the +best people, who could not speak, as well as a few of the worst, who +_would_,—Gibbon’s history made much progress. The first volume, a quarto, +one-sixth of the whole, was published in the spring of 1776, and at once +raised his fame to a high point. Ladies actually read it—read about +Bœtica and Tarraconensis, the Roman legions and the tribunitian powers. +Grave scholars wrote dreary commendations. ‘The first impression,’ he +writes, ‘was exhausted in a few days; a second and a third edition were +scarcely adequate to the demand; and my bookseller’s property was twice +invaded by the pirates of Dublin. My book was on every table’—tables +must have been rather few in that age—‘and almost on every toilette; +the historian was crowned by the taste or fashion of the day; nor was +the general voice disturbed by the barking of any profound critic.’ The +noise penetrated deep into the unlearned classes. Mr. Sheridan, who never +read anything ‘on principle,’ said that the crimes of Warren Hastings +surpassed anything to be found in the ‘correct sentences of Tacitus or +the _luminous_ page of Gibbon.’ Some one seems to have been struck with +the jet of learning, and questioned the great wit. ‘I said,’ he replied, +‘_vo_luminous.’ + +History, it is said, is of no use; at least a great critic, who is +understood to have in the press a very elaborate work in that kind, not +long since seemed to allege that writings of this sort did not establish +a theory of the universe, and were therefore of no avail. But whatever +may be the use of this sort of composition in itself and abstractedly, +it is certainly of great use relatively and to literary men. Consider +the position of a man of that species. He sits beside a library-fire, +with nice white paper, a good pen, a capital style, every means of saying +everything, but nothing to say; of course he is an able man; of course he +has an active intellect, beside wonderful culture; but still one cannot +always have original ideas. Every day cannot be an era; a train of new +speculation very often will not be found; and how dull it is to make it +your business to write, to stay by yourself in a room to write, and then +to have nothing to say! It is dreary work mending seven pens, and waiting +for a theory to ‘turn up.’ What a gain if something would happen! then +one could describe it. Something has happened, and that something is +history. On this account, since a sedate Greek discovered this plan for +a grave immortality, a series of accomplished men have seldom been found +wanting to derive a literary capital from their active and barbarous +kindred. Perhaps when a Visigoth broke a head, he thought that that was +all. Not so; he was making history; Gibbon has written it down. + +The manner of writing history is as characteristic of the narrator as the +actions are of the persons who are related to have performed them; often +much more so. It may be generally defined as a view of one age taken by +another; a picture of a series of men and women painted by one of another +series. Of course, this definition seems to exclude contemporary history; +but if we look into the matter carefully, is there such a thing? What are +all the best and most noted works that claim the title—memoirs, scraps, +materials—composed by men of like passions with the people they speak of, +involved it may be in the same events describing them with the partiality +and narrowness of eager actors; or even worse, by men far apart in a +monkish solitude, familiar with the lettuces of the convent-garden, +but hearing only faint dim murmurs of the great transactions which they +slowly jot down in the barren chronicle; these are not to be named in +the same short breath, or included in the same narrow word, with the +equable, poised, philosophic narrative of the retrospective historian. In +the great histories there are two topics of interest—the man as a type +of the age in which he lives,—the events and manners of the age he is +describing; very often almost all the interest is the contrast of the two. + +You should do everything, said Lord Chesterfield, in minuet time. It +was in that time that Gibbon wrote his history, and such was the manner +of the age. You fancy him in a suit of flowered velvet, with a bag +and sword, wisely smiling, composedly rounding his periods. You seem +to see the grave bows, the formal politeness, the finished deference. +You perceive the minuetic action accompanying the words: ‘Give,’ it +would say, ‘Augustus a chair: Zenobia, the humblest of your slaves: +Odoacer, permit me to correct the defect in your attire.’ As the +slap-dash sentences of a rushing critic express the hasty impatience +of modern manners; so the deliberate emphasis, the slow acumen, the +steady argument, the impressive narration bring before us what is now +a tradition, the picture of the correct eighteenth-century gentleman, +who never failed in a measured politeness, partly because it was due in +propriety towards others, and partly because from his own dignity it was +due most obviously to himself. + +And not only is this true of style, but it may be extended to other +things also. There is no one of the many literary works produced in the +eighteenth century more thoroughly characteristic of it than Gibbon’s +history. The special characteristic of that age is its clinging to the +definite and palpable; it had a taste beyond everything for what is +called solid information. In literature the period may be defined as +that in which authors had ceased to write for students, and had not +begun to write for women. In the present day, no one can take up any +book intended for general circulation, without clearly seeing that the +writer supposes most of his readers will be ladies or young men; and +that in proportion to his judgment, he is attending to their taste. +Two or three hundred years ago books were written for professed and +systematic students,—the class the fellows of colleges were designed to +be,—who used to go on studying them all their lives. Between these there +was a time in which the more marked class of literary consumers were +strong-headed, practical men. Education had not become so general, or +so feminine, as to make the present style—what is called the ‘brilliant +style’—at all necessary; but there was enough culture to make the demand +of common diffused persons more effectual than that of special and +secluded scholars. A book-buying public had arisen of sensible men, who +would not endure the awful folio style in which the schoolmen wrote. From +peculiar causes, too, the business of that age was perhaps more free from +the hurry and distraction which disable so many of our practical men +now from reading. You accordingly see in the books of the last century +what is called a masculine tone; a firm, strong, perspicuous narration +of matter of fact, a plain argument, a contempt for everything which +distinct definite people cannot entirely and thoroughly comprehend. There +is no more solid book in the world than Gibbon’s history. Only consider +the chronology. It begins before the year one and goes down to the year +1453, and is a schedule or series of schedules of important events during +that time. Scarcely any fact deeply affecting European civilisation is +wholly passed over, and the great majority of facts are elaborately +recounted. Laws, dynasties, churches, barbarians, appear and disappear. +Everything changes; the old world—the classical civilisation of form and +definition—passes away, a new world of free spirit and inward growth +emerges; between the two lies a mixed weltering interval of trouble and +confusion, when everybody hates everybody, and the historical student +leads a life of skirmishes, is oppressed with broils and feuds. All +through this long period Gibbon’s history goes with steady consistent +pace; like a Roman legion through a troubled country—_hœret pede pes_; +up hill and down hill, through marsh and thicket, through Goth or +Parthian—the firm defined array passes forward—a type of order, and an +emblem of civilisation. Whatever may be the defects of Gibbon’s history, +none can deny him a proud precision and a style in marching order. + +Another characteristic of the eighteenth century is its taste for +dignified pageantry. What an existence was that of Versailles! How +gravely admirable to see the _grand monarque_ shaved, and dressed, and +powdered; to look on and watch a great man carefully amusing himself +with dreary trifles. Or do we not even now possess an invention of that +age—the great eighteenth-century footman, still in the costume of his +era, with dignity and powder, vast calves and noble mien? What a world it +must have been when all men looked like that! Go and gaze with rapture at +the footboard of a carriage, and say, Who would not obey a premier with +such an air? Grave, tranquil, decorous pageantry is a part, as it were, +of the essence of the last age. There is nothing more characteristic of +Gibbon. A kind of pomp pervades him. He is never out of livery. He ever +selects for narration those themes which look most like a levee: grave +chamberlains seem to stand throughout; life is a vast ceremony, the +historian at once the dignitary and the scribe. + +The very language of Gibbon shows these qualities. Its majestic march +has been the admiration—its rather pompous cadence the sport of all +perusers. It has the greatest merit of an historical style: it is always +going on; you feel no doubt of its continuing in motion. Many narrators +of the reflective class, Sir Archibald Alison for example, fail in +this: your constant feeling is, ‘Ah! he has pulled up; he is going to +be profound; he never will go on again.’ Gibbon’s reflections connect +the events; they are not sermons between them. But, notwithstanding, the +manner of the Decline and Fall is the last which should be recommended +for strict imitation. It is not a style in which you can tell the truth. +A monotonous writer is suited only to monotonous matter. Truth is of +various kinds—grave, solemn, dignified, petty, low, ordinary; and an +historian who has to tell the truth must be able to tell what is vulgar +as well as what is great, what is little as well as what is amazing. +Gibbon is at fault here. He _cannot_ mention Asia _Minor_. The petty +order of sublunary matters; the common gross existence of ordinary +people; the necessary littlenesses of necessary life, are little suited +to his sublime narrative. Men on the _Times_ feel this acutely; it is +most difficult at first to say many things in the huge imperial manner. +And after all you cannot tell everything. ‘How, sir,’ asked a reviewer +of Sydney Smith’s life, ‘do you say a “good fellow” in print?’ ‘Mr. ——,’ +replied the editor, ‘you should not say it at all.’ Gibbon was aware of +this rule; he omits what does not suit him; and the consequence is, that +though he has selected the most various of historical topics, he scarcely +gives you an idea of variety. The ages change, but the varnish of the +narration is the same. + +It is not unconnected with this fault that Gibbon gives us but an +indifferent description of individual character. People seem a good deal +alike. The cautious scepticism of his cold intellect, which disinclined +him to every extreme, depreciates great virtues and extenuates great +vices; and we are left with a tame neutral character, capable of nothing +extraordinary,—hateful, as the saying is, ‘both to God and to the enemies +of God.’ + +A great point in favour of Gibbon is the existence of his history. Some +great historians seem likely to fail here. A good judge was asked which +he preferred, Macaulay’s _History of England_ or Lord Mahon’s. ‘Why,’ he +replied, ‘you observe Lord Mahon has written his history; and by what +I see Macaulay’s will be written not only for, but _among_ posterity.’ +Practical people have little idea of the practical ability required to +write a large book, and especially a large history. Long before you get +to the pen, there is an immensity of pure business; heaps of material +are strewn everywhere; but they lie in disorder, unread, uncatalogued, +unknown. It seems a dreary waste of life to be analysing, indexing, +extracting works and passages, in which one per cent. of the contents are +interesting, and not half of that percentage will after all appear in the +flowing narrative. As an accountant takes up a bankrupt’s books filled +with confused statements of ephemeral events, the disorderly record of +unprofitable speculations, and charges this to that head, and that to +this,—estimates earnings, specifies expenses, demonstrates failures; +so the great narrator, going over the scattered annalists of extinct +ages, groups and divides, notes and combines, until from a crude mass of +darkened fragments there emerges a clear narrative, a concise account of +the result and upshot of the whole. In this art Gibbon was a master. The +laborious research of German scholarship, the keen eye of theological +zeal, a steady criticism of eighty years, have found few faults of +detail. The account has been worked right, the proper authorities +consulted, an accurate judgment formed, the most telling incidents +selected. Perhaps experience shows that there is something English +in this talent. The Germans are more elaborate in single monographs; +but they seem to want the business-ability to work out a complicated +narrative, to combine a long whole. The French are neat enough, and their +style is very quick; but then it is difficult to believe their facts; +the account on its face seems too plain, and no true Parisian ever was +an antiquary. The great classical histories published in this country +in our own time show that the talent is by no means extinct; and they +likewise show, what is also evident, that this kind of composition is +easier with respect to ancient than with respect to modern times. The +barbarians burned the books; and though all the historians abuse them for +it, it is quite evident that in their hearts they are greatly rejoiced. +If the books had existed, they would have had to read them. Macaulay has +to peruse every book printed with long ſs; and it is no use after all; +somebody will find some stupid MS., an old account-book of an ‘ingenious +gentleman,’ and with five entries therein destroy a whole hypothesis. But +Gibbon was exempt from this; he could count the books the efficient Goths +bequeathed; and when he had mastered them he might pause. Still, it was +no light matter, as any one who looks at the books—awful folios in the +grave Bodleian—will most certainly credit and believe. And he did it all +himself; he never showed his book to any friend, or asked any one to help +him in the accumulating work, not even in the correction of the press. +‘Not a sheet,’ he says, ‘has been seen by any human eyes, excepting those +of the author and printer; the faults and the merits are exclusively my +own.’ And he wrote most of it with one pen, which must certainly have +grown erudite towards the end. + +The nature of his authorities clearly shows what the nature of Gibbon’s +work is. History may be roughly divided into universal and particular; +the first being the narrative of events affecting the whole human race, +at least the main historical nations, the narrative of whose fortunes is +the story of civilisation; and the latter being the relation of events +relating to one or a few particular nations only. Universal history, it +is evident, comprises great areas of space and long periods of time; you +cannot have a series of events visibly operating on all great nations +without time for their gradual operation, and without tracking them +in succession through the various regions of their power. There is no +instantaneous transmission in historical causation; a long interval +is required for universal effects. It follows, that universal history +necessarily partakes of the character of a summary. You cannot recount +the cumbrous annals of long epochs without condensation, selection, +and omission; the narrative, when shortened within the needful limits, +becomes concise and general. What it gains in time, according to the +mechanical phrase, it loses in power. The particular history, confined +within narrow limits, can show us the whole contents of these limits, +explain its features of human interest, recount in graphic detail all +its interesting transactions, touch the human heart with the power of +passion, instruct the mind with patient instances of accurate wisdom. The +universal is confined to a dry enumeration of superficial transactions; +no action can have all its details; the canvas is so crowded that no +figure has room to display itself effectively. From the nature of the +subject, Gibbons history is of the latter class; the sweep of the +narrative is so wide; the decline and fall of the Roman Empire being in +some sense the most universal event which has ever happened,—being, that +is, the historical incident which has most affected all civilised men, +and the very existence and form of civilisation itself,—it is evident +that we must look rather for a comprehensive generality than a telling +minuteness of delineation. The history of a thousand years does not +admit the pictorial detail which a Scott or a Macaulay can accumulate on +the history of a hundred. Gibbon has done his best to avoid the dryness +natural to such an attempt. He inserts as much detail as his limits +will permit; selects for more full description striking people and +striking transactions; brings together at a single view all that relates +to single topics; above all, by a regular advance of narration, never +ceases to imply the regular progress of events and the steady course of +time. None can deny the magnitude of such an effort. After all, however, +these are merits of what is technically termed composition, and are +analogous to those excellences in painting or sculpture that are more +respected by artists than appreciated by the public at large. The fame +of Gibbon is highest among writers; those especially who have studied +for years particular periods included in his theme (and how many those +are; for in the East and West he has set his mark on all that is great +for ten centuries!) acutely feel and admiringly observe how difficult +it would be to say so much, and leave so little untouched; to compress +so many telling points; to present in so few words so apt and embracing +a narrative of the whole. But the mere unsophisticated reader scarcely +appreciates this; he is rather awed than delighted; or rather, perhaps, +he appreciates it for a little while, then is tired by the roll and +glare; then, on any chance—the creaking of an organ, or the stirring of +a mouse,—in time of temptation he falls away. It has been said, the way +to answer all objections to Milton is to take down the book and read him; +the way to reverence Gibbon is not to read him at all, but look at him, +from outside, in the bookcase, and think how much there is within; what +a course of events, what a muster-roll of names, what a steady solemn +sound! You will not like to take the book down; but you will think how +much you could be delighted if you would. + +It may be well, though it can be only in the most cursory manner, to +examine the respective treatment of the various elements in this vast +whole. The history of the Decline and Fall may be roughly and imperfectly +divided into the picture of the Roman Empire—the narrative of barbarian +incursions—the story of Constantinople: and some few words may be hastily +said on each. + +The picture—for so, from its apparent stability when contrasted with the +fluctuating character of the later period, we may call it—which Gibbon +has drawn of the united empire has immense merit. The organisation of +the imperial system is admirably dwelt on; the manner in which the old +republican institutions were apparently retained, but really altered, +is compendiously explained; the mode in which the imperial will was +transmitted to and carried out in remote provinces is distinctly +displayed. But though the mechanism is admirably delineated, the +dynamical principle, the original impulse, is not made clear. You never +feel you are reading about the Romans. Yet no one denies their character +to be most marked. Poets and orators have striven for the expression of +it. + +Macaulay has been similarly criticised; it has been said, that +notwithstanding his great dramatic power, and wonderful felicity in the +selection of events on which to exert it, he yet never makes us feel +that we are reading about Englishmen. The coarse clay of our English +nature _cannot_ be represented in so fine a style. In the same way, and +to a much greater extent (for this is perhaps an unthankful criticism, +if we compare Macaulay’s description of any body with that of any other +historian), Gibbon is chargeable with neither expressing nor feeling +the essence of the people concerning whom he is writing. There was, in +truth, in the Roman people a warlike fanaticism, a puritanical essence, +an interior, latent, restrained, enthusiastic religion, which was utterly +alien to the cold scepticism of the narrator. Of course he was conscious +of it. He indistinctly felt that at least there was something he did not +like; but he could not realise or sympathise with it without a change +of heart and nature. The old Pagan has a sympathy with the religion of +enthusiasm far above the reach of the modern Epicurean. + +It may indeed be said, on behalf of Gibbon, that the old Roman character +was in its decay, and that only such slight traces of it were remaining +in the age of Augustus and the Antonines that it is no particular defect +in him to leave it unnoticed. Yet, though the intensity of its nobler +peculiarities was on the wane, many a vestige would perhaps have been +apparent to so learned an eye, if his temperament and disposition had +been prone to seize upon and search for them. Nor is there any adequate +appreciation of the compensating element, of the force which really held +society together, of the fresh air of the Illyrian hills, of that army +which, evermore recruited from northern and rugged populations, doubtless +brought into the very centre of a degraded society the healthy simplicity +of a vital, if barbarous religion. + +It is no wonder that such a mind should have looked with displeasure on +primitive Christianity. The whole of his treatment of that topic has +been discussed by many pens, and three generations of ecclesiastical +scholars have illustrated it with their emendations. Yet, if we turn +over this, the latest and most elaborate edition, containing all the +important criticisms of Milman and of Guizot, we shall be surprised to +find how few instances of definite exact error such a scrutiny has been +able to find out. As Paley, with his strong sagacity, at once remarked, +the subtle error rather lies hid in the sinuous folds than is directly +apparent on the surface of the polished style. Who, said the shrewd +archdeacon, can refute a sneer? And yet even this is scarcely the exact +truth. The objection of Gibbon is, in fact, an objection rather to +religion than to Christianity; as has been said, he did not appreciate, +and could not describe, the most inward form of pagan piety; he objected +to Christianity because it was the intensest of religions. We do not mean +by this to charge Gibbon with any denial, any overt distinct disbelief +in the existence of a supernatural Being. This would be very unjust; his +cold composed mind had nothing in common with the Jacobinical outbreak +of the next generation. He was no doubt a theist after the fashion of +natural theology; nor was he devoid of more than scientific feeling. All +constituted authorities struck him with emotion, all ancient ones with +awe. If the Roman Empire had descended to his time, how much he would +have reverenced it! He had doubtless a great respect for the ‘First +Cause;’ it had many titles to approbation; ‘it was not conspicuous,’ +he would have said, ‘but it was potent.’ A sensitive decorum revolted +from the jar of atheistic disputation. We have already described him +more than enough. A sensible middle-aged man in political life; a +bachelor, not himself gay, but living with gay men; equable and secular; +cautious in his habits, tolerant in his creed, as Porson said, ‘never +failing in natural feeling, except when women were to be ravished and +Christians to be martyred.’ His writings are in character. The essence +of the far-famed fifteenth and sixteenth chapters is, in truth, but a +description of unworldly events in the tone of this world, of awful facts +in unmoved voice, of truths of the heart in the language of the eyes. The +wary sceptic has not even committed himself to definite doubts. These +celebrated chapters were in the first manuscript much longer, and were +gradually reduced to their present size by excision and compression. Who +can doubt that in their first form they were a clear, or comparatively +clear, expression of exact opinions on the Christian history, and that +it was by a subsequent and elaborate process that they were reduced to +their present and insidious obscurity? The toil has been effectual. +‘Divest,’ says Dean Milman of the introduction to the fifteenth chapter, +‘this whole passage of the latent sarcasm betrayed by the whole of the +subsequent dissertation, and it might commence a Christian history, +written in the most Christian spirit of candour.’ + +It is not for us here to go into any disquisition as to the comparative +influence of the five earthly causes, to whose secondary operation the +specious historian ascribes the progress of Christianity. Weariness +and disinclination forbid. There can be no question that the polity of +the Church, and the zeal of the converts, and other such things, did +most materially conduce to the progress of the Gospel. But few will now +attribute to these much of the effect. The real cause is the heaving of +the mind after the truth. Troubled with the perplexities of time, weary +with the vexation of ages, the spiritual faculty of man turns to the +truth as the child turns to its mother. The thirst of the soul was to +be satisfied, the deep torture of the spirit to have rest. There was an +appeal to those + + ‘High instincts, before which our mortal nature + Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised.’ + +The mind of man has an appetite for the truth. + + ‘Hence, in a season of calm weather, + Though inland far we be, + Our souls have sight of that immortal sea + Which brought us hither,— + Can in a moment travel thither, + And see the children sport upon the shore, + And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.’ + +All this was not exactly in Gibbon’s way, and he does not seem to have +been able to conceive that it was in any one else’s. Why his chapters +had given offence he could hardly make out. It actually seems that he +hardly thought that other people believed more than he did. ‘We may +be well assured,’ says he, of a sceptic of antiquity, ‘that a writer +conversant with the world would never have ventured to expose the +gods of his country to public ridicule, had they not been already the +objects of secret contempt among the polished and enlightened orders of +society.’ ‘Had I,’ he says of himself, ‘believed that the majority of +English readers were so fondly attached even to the name and shadow of +Christianity, had I foreseen that the pious, the timid, and the prudent +would feel, or would affect to feel, with such exquisite sensibility,—I +might perhaps have softened the two invidious chapters, which would +create many enemies and conciliate few friends.’ The state of belief +at that time is a very large subject; but it is probable that in the +cultivated cosmopolitan classes the continental scepticism was very rife; +that among the hard-headed classes the rough spirit of English Deism had +made progress. Though the mass of the people doubtless believed much as +they now believe, yet the entire upper class was lazy and corrupt, and +there is truth in the picture of the modern divine: ‘The thermometer of +the Church of England sunk to its lowest point in the first thirty years +of the reign of George III.... In their preaching, nineteen clergymen out +of twenty carefully abstained from dwelling upon Christian doctrines. +Such topics exposed the preacher to the charge of fanaticism. Even the +calm and sober Crabbe, who certainly never erred from excess of zeal, was +stigmatised in those days as a methodist, because he introduced into his +sermons the notion of future reward and punishment. An orthodox clergyman +(they said) should be content to show his people the worldly advantage +of good conduct, and to leave heaven and hell to the ranters. Nor can we +wonder that such should have been the notions of country parsons, when, +even by those who passed for the supreme arbiters of orthodoxy and +taste, the vapid rhetoric of Blair was thought the highest standard of +Christian exhortation.’ It is among the excuses for Gibbon that he lived +in such a world. + +There are slight palliations also in the notions then prevalent of +the primitive Church. There was the Anglican theory, that it was a +_via media_, the most correct of periods, that its belief is to be +the standard, its institutions the model, its practice the test of +subsequent ages. There was the notion, not formally drawn out, but +diffused through and implied in a hundred books of evidence,—a notion in +opposition to every probability, and utterly at variance with the New +Testament,—that the first converts were sober, hard-headed, cultivated +inquirers,—Watsons, Paleys, Priestleys, on a small scale; weighing +evidence, analysing facts, suggesting doubts, dwelling on distinctions, +cold in their dispositions, moderate in their morals,—cautious in their +creed. We now know that these were not they of whom the world was not +worthy. It is ascertained that the times of the first Church were times +of excitement; that great ideas falling on a mingled world were distorted +by an untrained intellect, even in the moment in which they were received +by a yearning heart; that strange confused beliefs, Millennarianism, +Gnosticism, Ebionitism, were accepted, not merely by outlying obscure +heretics, but in a measure, half-and-half, one notion more by one man, +another more by his neighbour, confusedly and mixedly by the mass +of Christians; that the appeal was not to the questioning, thinking +understanding, but to unheeding, all-venturing emotion; to that lower +class ‘from whom faiths ascend,’ and not to the cultivated and exquisite +class by whom they are criticised; that fervid men never embraced a more +exclusive creed. You can say nothing favourable of the first Christians, +except that they _were_ Christians. We find no ‘form nor comeliness’ +in them; no intellectual accomplishments, no caution in action, no +discretion in understanding. There is no admirable quality except that, +with whatever distortion, or confusion, or singularity, they at once +accepted the great clear outline of belief in which to this day we live, +move, and have our being. The offence of Gibbon is his disinclination to +this simple essence; his excuse, the historical errors then prevalent +as to the primitive Christians, the real defects so natural in their +position, the false merits ascribed to them by writers who from one +reason or another desired to treat them as ‘an authority.’ + +On the whole, therefore, it may be said of the first, and in some sense +the most important part of Gibbon’s work, that though he has given an +elaborate outline of the framework of society, and described its detail +with pomp and accuracy, yet that he has not comprehended or delineated +its nobler essence, Pagan or Christian. Nor perhaps was it to be expected +that he should, for he inadequately comprehended the dangers of the time; +he thought it the happiest period the world has ever known; he would +not have comprehended the remark, ‘To see the old world in its worst +estate we turn to the age of the satirist and of Tacitus, when all the +different streams of evil coming from east, west, north, south, the vices +of barbarism and the vices of civilisation, remnants of ancient cults +and the latest refinements of luxury and impurity, met and mingled on +the banks of the Tiber. What could have been the state of society when +Tiberius, Caligula, Nero, Domitian, Heliogabalus, were the rulers of the +world? To a good man we should imagine that death itself would be more +tolerable than the sight of such things coming upon the earth.’ So deep +an ethical sensibility was not to be expected in the first century; nor +is it strange when, after seventeen hundred years, we do not find it in +their historian. + +Space has failed us, and we must be unmeaningly brief. The second head +of Gibbon’s history—the narrative of the barbarian invasions—has been +recently criticised, on the ground that he scarcely enough explains the +gradual but unceasing and inevitable manner in which the outer barbarians +were affected by and assimilated to the civilisation of Rome. Mr. +Congreve has well observed, that the impression which Gibbon’s narrative +is insensibly calculated to convey is, that there was little or no change +in the state of the Germanic tribes between the time of Tacitus and the +final invasion of the empire—a conclusion which is obviously incredible. +To the general reader there will perhaps seem some indistinctness in this +part of the work, nor is a free, confused barbarism a congenial subject +for an imposing and orderly pencil. He succeeds better in the delineation +of the riding monarchies, if we may so term them,—of the equestrian +courts of Attila or Timour, in which the great scale, the concentrated +power, the very enormity of the barbarism, give, so to speak, a shape +to unshapeliness; impart, that is, a horrid dignity to horse-flesh +and mare’s milk, an imposing oneness to the vast materials of a crude +barbarity. It is needless to say that no one would search Gibbon for an +explanation of the reasons or feelings by which the northern tribes were +induced to accept Christianity. + +It is on the story of Constantinople that the popularity of Gibbon rests. +The vast extent of the topic; the many splendid episodes it contains; +its epic unity from the moment of the far-seeing selection of the city +by Constantine to its last fall; its position as a link between Europe +and Asia; its continuous history; the knowledge that through all that +time it was, as now, a diadem by the water-side, a lure to be snatched by +the wistful barbarian, a marvel to the West, a prize for the North and +for the East;—these, and such as these ideas, are congenial topics to a +style of pomp and grandeur. The East seems to require to be treated with +a magnificence unsuitable to a colder soil. The nature of the events, +too, is suitable to Gibbon’s cursory, imposing manner. It is the history +of a form of civilisation, but without the power thereof; a show of +splendour and vigour, but without bold life or interior reality. What +an opportunity for an historian who loved the imposing pageantry and +disliked the purer essence of existence! There were here neither bluff +barbarians nor simple saints; there was nothing admitting of particular +accumulated detail; we do not wish to know the interior of the stage; +the imposing movements are all which should be seized. Some of the +features, too, are curious in relation to those of the historian’s life: +the clear accounts of the theological controversies, followed out with +an appreciative minuteness so rare in a sceptic, are not disconnected +with his early conversion to the scholastic Church; the brilliancy of +the narrative reminds us of his enthusiasm for Arabic and the East; the +minute description of a licentious epoch evinces the habit of a mind +which, not being bold enough for the practice of license, took a pleasure +in following its theory. There is no subject which combines so much of +unity with so much of variety. + +It is evident, therefore, where Gibbon’s rank as an historian must +finally stand. He cannot be numbered among the great painters of +human nature, for he has no sympathy with the heart and passions of +our race; he has no place among the felicitous describers of detailed +life, for his subject was too vast for minute painting, and his style +too uniform for a shifting scene. But he is entitled to a high—perhaps +to a first place—among the orderly narrators of great events; the +composed expositors of universal history; the tranquil artists who have +endeavoured to diffuse a cold polish over the warm passions and desultory +fortunes of mankind. + +The life of Gibbon after the publication of his great work was not very +complicated. During its composition he had withdrawn from Parliament and +London to the studious retirement of Lausanne. Much eloquence has been +expended on this voluntary exile, and it has been ascribed to the best +and most profound motives. It is indeed certain that he liked a lettered +solitude, preferred easy continental society, was not quite insensible +to the charm of scenery, had a pleasure in returning to the haunts of +his youth. Prosaic and pure history, however, must explain that he went +abroad to _save_. Lord North had gone out of power. Mr. Burke, the +Cobden of that era, had procured the abolition of the Lords of Trade; +the private income of Gibbon was not equal to his notion of a bachelor +London life. The same sum was, however, a fortune at Lausanne. Most +things, he acknowledged, were as dear; but then he had not to buy so many +things. Eight hundred a year placed him high in the social scale of the +place. The inhabitants were gratified that a man of European reputation +had selected their out-of-the-way town for the shrine of his fame; he +lived pleasantly and easily among easy, pleasant people; a gentle hum +of local admiration gradually arose, which yet lingers on the lips of +erudite _laquais de place_. He still retains a fame unaccorded to any +other historian; they speak of the ‘hôtel Gibbon:’ there never was even +an _estaminet_ Tacitus, or a _café_ Thucydides. + +This agreeable scene, like many other agreeable scenes, was broken by a +great thunderclap. The French revolution has disgusted many people; but +perhaps it has never disgusted any one more than Gibbon. He had swept +and garnished everything about him. Externally he had made a neat little +hermitage in a gentle, social place; internally he had polished up a +still theory of life, sufficient for the guidance of a cold and polished +man. Everything seemed to be tranquil with him; the rigid must admit his +decorum; the lax would not accuse him of rigour; he was of the world, and +an elegant society naturally loved its own. On a sudden the hermitage +was disturbed. No place was too calm for that excitement; scarcely +any too distant for that uproar. The French war was a war of opinion, +entering households, disturbing villages, dividing quiet friends. The +Swiss took some of the infection. There was a not unnatural discord +between the people of the Pays de Vaud and their masters the people of +Berne. The letters of Gibbon are filled with invectives on the ‘Gallic +barbarians’ and panegyrics on Mr. Burke; military details, too, begin to +abound—the peace of his retirement was at an end. It was an additional +aggravation that the Parisians should do such things. It would not have +seemed unnatural that northern barbarians—English, or other uncivilised +nations—should break forth in rough riot or cruel license; but that the +people of the most civilised of all capitals, speaking the sole dialect +of polished life, enlightened with all the enlightenment then known, +should be guilty of excesses unparalleled, unwitnessed, unheard of, was +a vexing trial to one who had admired them for many years. The internal +creed and belief of Gibbon was as much attacked by all this as were his +external circumstances. He had spent his time, his life, his energy, +in putting a polished gloss on human tumult, a sneering gloss on human +piety; on a sudden human passion broke forth—the cold and polished world +seemed to meet its end; the thin superficies of civilisation was torn +asunder; the fountains of the great deep seemed opened; impiety to meet +its end; the foundations of the earth were out of course. + +We now, after long familiarity and in much ignorance, can hardly read +the history of those years without horror: what an effect must they have +produced on those whose minds were fresh, and who knew the people killed! +‘Never,’ Gibbon wrote to an English nobleman, ‘did a revolution affect to +such a degree the private existence of such numbers of the first people +of a great country. Your examples of misery I could easily match with +similar examples in this country and neighbourhood, and our sympathy is +the deeper, as we do not possess, like you, the means of alleviating in +some measure the misfortunes of the fugitives.’ It violently affected his +views of English politics. He before had a tendency, in consideration of +his cosmopolitan cultivation, to treat them as local littlenesses, parish +squabbles; but now his interest was keen and eager. ‘But,’ he says, +‘in this rage against slavery, in the numerous petitions against the +slave-trade, was there no leaven of new democratical principles? no wild +ideas of the rights and natural equality of man? It is these I fear. Some +articles in newspapers, some pamphlets of the year, the Jockey Club, have +fallen into my hands. I do not infer much from such publications; yet I +have never known them of so black and malignant a cast. I shuddered at +Grey’s motion; disliked the half-support of Fox, admired the firmness of +Pitt’s declaration, and excused the usual intemperance of Burke. Surely +such men as ——, ——, ——, have talents for mischief. I see a club of reform +which contains some respectable names. Inform me of the professions, the +principles, the plans, the resources of these reformers. Will they heat +the minds of the people? Does the French democracy gain no ground? Will +the bulk of your party stand firm to their own interest and that of their +country? Will you not take some active measures to declare your sound +opinions, and separate yourselves from your rotten members? If you allow +them to perplex Government, if you trifle with this solemn business, +if you do not resist the spirit of innovation in the first attempt, if +you admit the smallest and most specious change in our parliamentary +system, you are lost. You will be driven from one step to another; from +principles just in theory to consequences most pernicious in practice; +and your first concession will be productive of every subsequent +mischief, for which you will be answerable to your country and to +posterity. Do not suffer yourselves to be lulled into a false security; +remember the proud fabric of the French monarchy. Not four years ago it +stood founded, as it might seem, on the rock of time, force, and opinion; +supported by the triple aristocracy of the Church, the nobility, and the +parliaments. They are crumbled into dust; they are vanished from the +earth. If this tremendous warning has no effect on the men of property +in England; if it does not open every eye, and raise every arm,—you +will deserve your fate. If I am too precipitate, enlighten; if I am too +desponding, encourage me. My pen has run into this argument; for, as much +a foreigner as you think me, on this momentous subject I feel myself an +Englishman.’ + +The truth clearly is, that he had arrived at the conclusion that he was +the sort of person a populace kill. People wonder a great deal why very +many of the victims of the French revolution were particularly selected; +the Marquis de Custine, especially, cannot divine why they executed _his_ +father. The historians cannot show that they committed any particular +crimes; the marquises and marchionesses seem very inoffensive. The fact +evidently is, that they were killed for being polite. The world felt +itself unworthy of them. There were so many bows, such regular smiles, +such calm superior condescension,—could a mob be asked to endure it? Have +we not all known a precise, formal, patronising old gentleman—bland, +imposing, something like Gibbon? Have we not suffered from his dignified +attentions? If _we_ had been on the Committee of Public Safety, can we +doubt what would have been the fate of that man? Just so wrath and envy +destroyed in France an upper-class world. + +After his return to England, Gibbon did not do much or live long. He +completed his _Memoirs_, the most imposing of domestic narratives, the +model of dignified detail. As we said before, if the Roman empire _had_ +written about itself, this was how it would have done so. He planned +some other works, but executed none; judiciously observing that building +castles in the air was more agreeable than building them on the ground. +His career was, however, drawing to an end. Earthly dignity had its +limits, even the dignity of an historian. He had long been stout; and +now symptoms of dropsy began to appear. After a short interval, he died +on the 16th of January 1794. We have sketched his character, and have +no more to say. After all, what is our criticism worth? It only fulfils +his aspiration, ‘that a hundred years hence I may still continue to be +abused.’ + + + + +_BISHOP BUTLER._[2] + +(1854.) + + +About the close of the last century, some one discovered the wife of +a country rector in the act of destroying, for culinary purposes, the +last remnants of a box of sermons, which seemed to have been written +by Joseph Butler. The lady was reproved, but the exculpatory rejoinder +was, ‘Why, the box was full once, and I thought they were my husband’s.’ +Nevertheless, when we first saw the above announcement of unpublished +remains, we hoped her exemplary diligence had not been wholly successful, +and that some important writings of Butler had been discovered. In this +we have been disappointed. The remains in question are slight and rather +trivial; the longest is an additional letter addressed to Dr. Clarke; +and in all the rest there is scarcely anything very characteristic, +except the remark, ‘What a wonderful incongruity it is for a man to see +the doubtfulness in which things are involved, and yet be impatient out +of action, or vehement in it. Say a man is a sceptic, and add what was +said of Brutus, _quicquid vult valde vult_, and you say there is the +greatest contrariety between his understanding and temper that can be +expressed in words:’—an observation which might be borne in mind by some +English writers who panegyrise Julius Cæsar, and the many French ones who +panegyrise Napoleon. + +The life of Butler is one of those in which the events are few, the +transitions simple, and the final result strange. He was the son of +a dissenting shopkeeper in Berkshire, was always of a meditative +disposition and reading habit—grew to manhood—was destined to the +Dissenting ministry—began to question the principles of Dissent—entered +at Oriel College—made valuable acquaintances there—rose in the Church by +means of them—obtained, first the chaplaincy of the Rolls, then a decent +living—then the rectory of Stanhope, the ‘golden’ rectory, one of the +best in the English Church—was recommended by his old friends to Queen +Caroline—talked philosophy to her—pleased her (this being her favourite +topic)—was made Bishop of Bristol, and thence translated to the richest +of Anglican dignities—the prince-bishopric of Durham, and there died. + +These are the single steps, and there is none of them which is remote +from our ordinary observation. We should not be surprised to see any of +them every day. But when we look on the life as a whole, when we see +its nature, when we observe the son of a dissenting tradesman, a person +of simple and pious disposition, of retiring habits, and scrupulous and +investigating mind—in a word, the least worldly of ecclesiastics—attain +to the most secular of ecclesiastical dignities, be a prince as well as +a bishop, become the great magnate of the North of England, and dispense +revenues to be envied by many a foreign potentate, we perceive the +singularity of such a man with such beginnings attaining such a fortune. +No man would guess from Butler’s writings that he ever had the disposal +of five pounds: it is odd to think what he did with the mining property +and landed property, the royalties and rectories, coal dues and curacies, +that he must have heard of from morning till evening. + +It is certainly most strange that such a man should ever have been made +a bishop. In general we observe that those become most eminent in the +sheepfold, who partake most eminently of the qualities of the wolf. +Nor is this surprising. The Church is (as the Article defines it) a +congregation of men, faithful indeed, but faithful in various degrees. +In every corporation or combination of men, no matter for what purpose +collected, there are certain secular qualities which attain eminence +as surely as oil rises above water. Attorneys are for the world, and +the world is for attorneys. Activity, vigour, sharp-sightedness, tact, +boldness, watchfulness, and such qualities as these, raise a man in the +Church as certainly as in the State; so long as there is wealth and +preferment in the one, they will be attained a good deal as wealth and +office are in the other. The _prowling_ faculties will have their way. +Those who hunger and thirst after riches will have riches, and those who +hunger not, will not. Still to this there are exceptions, and Butler’s +case is one of them. We might really fancy the world had determined to +give for once an encouraging instance of its sensibility to rectitude, of +the real and great influence of real and great virtue. + +The period at which Butler’s elevation occurred certainly does not +diminish the oddness of the phenomenon. We are not indeed of those, +mostly disciples of Carlyle or Newman, who speak with untempered contempt +of the eighteenth century. Rather, if we might trust our own feelings, we +view it with appreciating regard. It was the age of substantial comfort. +The grave and placid historian (we speak of Mr. Hallam), going learnedly +over the generations of men, is disposed to think that there never was +so much happiness before or since. Employment was plentiful; industry +remunerative. The advantages of material civilisation were enjoyed, and +its penalties scarcely foreseen. The troubles of the seventeenth century +had died out; those of the nineteenth had not begun. Cares were few; +the stir and conflict in which we live had barely commenced. It was not +an age to trouble itself with prospective tasks; it had no feverish +excitement, nor over-intellectual introspection; it lived on the fat +of the land; _quieta non movere_, was its motto. Like most comfortable +people, those of that time possessed a sleepy, supine sagacity, they had +no fine imaginings, no exquisite fancies; but a coarse sense of what +was common, a ‘large roundabout common sense’ (these are Locke’s words), +which was their guide in what concerned them. Some may not think this +romantic enough to be attractive, and yet it has a beauty of its own. +They did not ‘look before or after,’ nor ‘pine for what was not;’ they +enjoyed what was; a solid homeliness was their mark. Exactly as we like +to see a large lazy animal lying in the placid shade, without anxiety for +the future and chewing the cud of the past, we like to look back at the +age of our great-grandfathers, so solid in its habits and placid in the +lapse of years. Nevertheless—and this is what is to our purpose—we must +own at once that the very merits of that age are of the earth, earthy; +there was no talk then of ‘obstinate questionings,’ or ‘incommunicable +dream;’ heroism, enthusiasm, the sense of the supernatural, deep feeling, +seem in a manner foreign to the very idea of it. This is the point of +view in which the Tractarian movement was described as ‘tending towards +the realisation of something better and nobler than satisfied the last +century.’ For the clergy, the time was indeed evil. The popular view +of the profession seems accurately expressed in a well-known book of +memoirs. ‘But if this was your opinion, how came you not to let your +friend Sherlock,’ the well-known bishop, ‘into the secret? Why did +you not tell him that half the pack, and those you most depended on, +were drawn off, and the game escaped and safe, instead of leaving his +lordship there to bark and yelp by himself, and make the silly figure +he has done?’ ‘Oh,’ said Lord Carteret, ‘he talks like a parson, and +consequently is so used to talk to people who do not mind him, that I +left him to find it out at his leisure, and shall have him again for all +this, whenever I want him.’ + +The fact of Butler’s success is to be accounted for, as we have said, +by his personal excellence. Mr. Talbot liked him, _Bishop_ Talbot liked +him, the Queen liked him, the King liked him. He says himself in these +Remains, ‘Good men surely are not treated in this world as they deserve, +yet ’tis seldom, very seldom, their goodness makes them disliked, even +in cases where it may seem to be so; but ’tis some behaviour or other +which, however excusable, perhaps infinitely overbalanced by their +virtues, yet is offensive, possibly wrong, however such, it may be, as +would pass off very well in a man of the world.’ And he must have been +alive to the fact in practice. He had every excuse for making virtue +detestable. He was educated a Baptist, and brought up at a dissenting +academy. He was born in the vulgarest years of English Puritanism, +when it had fallen from its first estate, when it had least influence +with the higher classes, when the revival which dates from John Wesley +had not begun, and the very memory of gentlemen such as Hutchinson or +Hampden had passed away. A certain instinctive refinement, a ‘niceness’ +and gentleness of nature, preserved him not only from the coarser +consequences of his position, but even from that angularity of mind +which is not often escaped by those early trained to object to what is +established. + +Of his character the principal point may be described in the words which +Arnold so often uses to denote the end and aim of his education, ‘moral +thoughtfulness.’ A certain considerateness is, as it were, diffused over +all his sentences. To most men conscience is an occasional, almost an +external voice; to Butler it was a daily companion, a close anxiety. In +a recent novel this disposition is skilfully delineated and delicately +contrasted with its opposite. We may quote the passage, though it is +encumbered with some detail. ‘But what was a real trouble to Charles,’ +this is the person whose character is in question, ‘it got clearer +and clearer to his apprehension, that his intimacy with Sheffield +was not quite what it had been. They had indeed passed the vacation +together, and saw of each other more than ever; but their sympathies +with each other were not as strong, they had not the same likings and +dislikings; in short, they had not such congenial minds, as when they +were freshmen. There was not so much heart in their conversations, and +they more easily endured to miss each other’s company. They were both +reading for honours, reading hard; but Sheffield’s whole heart was in +his work, and religion was but a secondary matter with him. He had no +doubts, difficulties, anxieties, sorrows, which much affected him. It +was not the certainty of faith which made a sunshine in his soul, and +dried up the mists of human weakness; rather he had no perceptible +need within him of that vision of the unseen, which is the Christian’s +life. He was unblemished in his character, exemplary in his conduct, +but he was content with what the perishable world gave him. Charles’s +characteristic, perhaps more than anything else, was an habitual +sense of the Divine Presence—a sense which, of course, did not insure +uninterrupted conformity of thought and deed to itself, but still there +it was: the pillar of the cloud before him and guiding him. He felt +himself to be God’s creature, and responsible to Him; God’s possession, +not his own.’ Again the same character is brought home to us, in a part +of Walton’s delineation of Hooker, which, indeed, except perhaps for the +great quickness attributed to his intellect, might as a whole stand well +enough for a description of Butler: ‘His complexion (if we may guess by +him at the age of forty) was sanguine, with a mixture of choler; and +yet his motion was slow even in his youth, and so was his speech, never +expressing an earnestness in either of them, but an humble gravity suited +to the aged. And it is observed (so far as inquiry is able to look back +at this distance of time) that at his being a schoolboy he was an early +questionist, quietly inquisitive why this was granted and that denied; +this being mixed with a remarkable modesty and a sweet serene quietness +of nature.... It is observable that he was never known to be ... extreme +in any of his desires; never heard to repine or dispute with Providence, +but, by a quiet gentle submission and resignation of his will to the +wisdom of the Creator, bore the burden of the day with patience; ... +and by this, and a grave behaviour, which is a divine charm, he begot +an early reverence for his person even from those that, at other times +and in other companies, took a liberty to cast off that strictness of +behaviour and discourse that is required in a collegiate life.’ Something +of this is a result of disposition; yet on the whole it seems mainly the +effect of the ‘moral thoughtfulness’ which has been mentioned. + +The very name of this quality reminds us of a difficulty. We cannot but +doubt, with the experience of this age, how far this can be made, or +ought to be made, the abiding sentiment of all men; how far such teaching +as that of Arnold’s tends to introduce a too stiff and anxious habit +of mind; how far the perpetual presence of a purpose will interfere +with the simple happiness of life, and how far also it can be forced +on the ‘lilies of the field;’ how far the care of anxious minds and +active thoughts is to be obtruded on the young, on the cheerful, on the +natural. Other questions, too, might be asked, if the inculcation of +this temper and habit as a daily, universal obligation, a perpetual and +general necessity for all characters, would not, or might not, impair +the sanguine energy and masculine activity which are necessary for +social action; whether it does not, in matter of fact, even now, ‘burn +and brand’ into excitable fancies a few stern truths more deeply than +a feeble reason will bear or the equilibrium of the world demands? But +whatever be the issue of such questions, on which there is perhaps now +no decided or established opinion, there can be no question of the charm +of such a character in those to whom it is natural. We may admire what +we cannot share; reverence what we do not imitate. As those who cannot +comprehend a strain of soothing music, look with interest on those who +can; as those who cannot feel the gentle glow of a quiet landscape, +yet stand aside and seem inferior to those who do; so in character the +buoyant and the bold, the harsh and the practical, may, at least for the +moment, moralise and look upwards, reverence and do homage, when they +come to a close experience of what is gentler and simpler, more anxious +and more thoughtful, kinder and more religious, than themselves. At any +rate, so thought the contemporaries of Butler. They did, as a Frenchman +would say, ‘their possible’ for a good man; at least they made him a +bishop. + +We gather, however, that their kindness was scarcely successful. Butler +was very prosperous; but it does not appear that he was at all happy. +In the midst of the princely establishment of his rich episcopate, so +anxious a nature found time to be rather melancholy. The responsibilities +of so cumbrous a position were but little pleasant to an apprehensive +disposition; wealth and honour were finery and foolishness to a quiet +and shrinking man. A small room in a tranquil college, daily walks and +thoughtful talk, a little income and a few friends—these, and these +only, suit a still and meditative mind. Such, however, were denied him. +He is said to have taken much pleasure in discussion and interchange +of mind; but his life was passed in courts and country parsonages—the +one too noisy, the last too still, to think or reason. Nor were there +many people, whom we know of, that were congenial to him in that age. +Scarcely any name of a friend of his has come down to us; one, indeed, +there is—that of Bishop Secker, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, the +author of a treatise on the Catechism, a serious work still used for the +purposes of tuition, with which, indeed, the name of the writer is now +with some so associated by early habit that it is difficult to fancy even +Butler on equal social terms with him; the notion of talking to him seems +like being asked to converse familiarly with the Catechism itself. + +A not unremarkable circumstance, however, shows that Secker, though he +was educated at the same academy, could not have been on any terms of +extreme intimacy with Butler. Some time after Butler’s death, there +was a rumour that he had died a Papist. There is no doubt, in fact, +that Butler’s opinions, being formed on principles of evidence and +reasoning too strict to be extremely popular, were not likely to be +agreeable to those about him, and when an Englishman sees anything in +religion which he does not like, he always, _primâ facie_, imputes it +to the Pope. Besides this general and strong argument, there were two +particular ones—first, that he had erected a cross in the episcopal +chapel at Bristol; secondly, that he was of a melancholy and somewhat of +an ascetic turn; reasons which, though doubtless of force in their day +and generation, are not likely to be of avail with us, who know so much +more about crosses and fasting than they did then. We might have expected +that Secker, as Butler’s old friend and schoolfellow, would have been +able from his personal knowledge to throw a good deal of light upon the +question. He was only, however, able to advance ‘_presumptive_ arguments +that Bishop Butler did not die a Papist,’ which were no doubt valuable; +but yet give no great idea of the intimacy between the writer and the +person about whom he was writing. Such arguments may easily be found, and +have always convinced every one that there was no truth in this rumour. +The only reason for which we wish that Secker had been able to say he had +heard Butler talk on the subject, and that he was no Papist, is, that +we should then have known to whom Butler talked. There is nothing in +Butler’s writings at all showing any leaning to the peculiar tenets of +Roman Catholicism, and there is much which shows a strong opinion against +them; and it was far too extreme a doctrine to be at all agreeable to his +very English, moderate, and shrinking mind. + +Calumny, however, is commonly instructive. It must be granted, that +though there is no trace or tendency in the writings of Butler to the +peculiar superstitions advocated by the Pope, there is a strong and +prevailing tinge of what may be called the principle of superstition, +that is, the religion of fear. Some may doubt, especially at the present +day, whether there be any true religion of that kind at all; yet it +seems, as Butler would have said, but a proper feeling ‘in such creatures +as we are, in such a world as the present one.’ + +We may reflect that there are two kinds of religion, which may for some +purposes be called, the one the natural, and the other the supernatural. +The former seems to take its rise from mere contemplation of external +beauty. We look on the world, and we see that it is good. The Greek of +former time, reclining softly in his own bright land, ‘looked up to the +whole sky and declared that the One was God.’ From the blue air and the +fair cloud, the green earth and the white sea, a presence streams upon +us. It 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.’ + +But the true home of the idea is in the starlight sky; we instinctively +mingle it with an admiration of infinite space, a cold purity is around +us, and the clear and steel-like words of the poet justly reflect the +doctrine of the clear and steel-like heaven:— + + The magic car moved on. + Earth’s distant orb appeared + The smallest light that twinkles in the heaven; + 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 hornèd like the crescent moon; + Some shed a mild and silver beam + Like Hesperus across the western sea; + Some dashed athwart with trains of flame, + Like worlds to death and ruin driven; + Some shone like suns, and, as the chariot passed, + Eclipsed 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——’ + +And so on; and so it will be as long as there are poets to look upon +the sky, or a sky to be looked at by them. The truth is, that there is +a certain expressiveness (if we may so speak) in nature which persons +of imagination naturally feel more acutely than others, and which +cannot easily be in its full degree brought home to others, except in +quotations of their writings, from which ‘smiling of the world,’ as it +has been called, more than from any other outward appearance, we infer +the existence of an immaterial and animating spirit. This expressiveness +perhaps produces its effect on the mind, by a principle analogous to, +perhaps in a severe analysis identical with, the interpretative faculty +by which we acquire a cognizance of the existence of other human minds. +There appear to be certain natural signs and tokens from which we (like +other animals) instinctively infer, or rather—for there is no conscious +reasoning—in which we silently see life and thought and mind. In this way +we interpret the detail of natural expression—the smile, the glance of +the eye, the common interjections, the universal tokens of our simplest +emotions; those signs and marks and expressions which we make in our +earliest infancy without teaching and by instinct, we appear also, by +instinct and without learning, to read off, interpret, and comprehend, +when used to us by others. The comprehension of this language is perhaps +as much an instinct as the using of it. There is no occasion, however, +for acute metaphysics; whatever was the origin of this faculty, such a +power of interpreting material phenomena, such a faculty of seeing life, +undoubtedly there is;—however we come by the power, we can distinguish +living from dead creatures. At any rate, if, like other living creatures, +we take a natural cognizance of the simple expressions of life and mind, +and without tuition comprehend the language and meaning of natural +signs, in like manner, though less clearly and forcibly, because our +attention is so much less forcibly directed to them, do we interpret the +significance of the beauty and the sublimity of outward nature. ‘In the +mountains’ do we ‘feel our faith.’ We seem to know there is something +behind. There is a perception 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 Greek mythology is one entire and unmixed embodiment of this religion +of nature, as we may term it, this poetic interpretation of the spirit +that speaks to us in the signs and symbols within us. Nor can any +sensitive or imaginative mind scrutinise itself without being distinctly +conscious of its teaching. + +Now of the poetic religion there is nothing in Butler. No one could tell +from his writings that the universe was beautiful. If the world were a +Durham mine or an exact square, if no part of it were more expressive +than a gravel-pit or a chalk-quarry, the teaching of Butler would be as +true as it is now. A young poet, not a very wise one, once said, ‘he did +not like the Bible, there was nothing about flowers in it.’ He might +have said so of Butler with great truth; a most ugly and stupid world +one would fancy _his_ books were written in. But in return and by way of +compensation for this, there is a religion of another sort, a religion +the source of which is within the mind, as the other’s was found to be +in the world without; the religion to which we just now alluded as the +religion (by an odd yet expressive way of speaking) of _superstition_. +The source of this, as most persons are practically aware, is in the +conscience. The moral principle (whatever may be said to the contrary by +complacent thinkers) is really and to most men a principle of fear. The +delights of a good conscience may be reserved for better things, but few +men who know themselves will say that they have often felt them by vivid +and actual experience. A sensation of shame, of reproach, of remorse, of +sin (to use the word we instinctively shrink from because it expresses +the meaning), is what the moral principle really and practically thrusts +on most men. Conscience is the condemnation of ourselves. We expect +a penalty. As the Greek proverb teaches, ‘where there is shame there +is fear;’ where there is the deep and intimate anxiety of guilt—the +feeling which has driven murderers, and other than murderers, forth to +wastes, and rocks, and stones, and tempests—we see, as it were, in a +single complex and indivisible sensation, the pain and sense of guilt, +and the painful anticipation of its punishment. 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 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. You are going to battle, you are going out in the bright +sun with dancing plumes and glittering spear; your shield shines, and +your feathers wave, and your limbs are glad with the consciousness of +strength, and your mind is warm with glory and renown,—with coming glory +and unobtained renown,—for who are you, to hope for these—who are you, +to go forth proudly against the pride of the sun, with your secret sin +and your haunting shame, and your real fear? First lie down, and abase +yourself—strike your back with hard stripes—cut deep with a sharp knife +as if you would eradicate the consciousness—cry aloud—put ashes on your +head—bruise yourself with stones, then perhaps God may pardon you; or, +better still—so runs the incoherent feeling—give Him something—your ox, +your ass, whole hecatombs, if you are rich enough; anything, it is but a +chance—you do not know what will please Him—at any rate, what you love +best yourself—that is, most likely, your first-born son; then, after +such gifts and such humiliation, He may be appeased, He may let you +off—He may without anger let you go forth Achilles-like in the glory of +your shield—He may _not_ send you home as He would else, the victim of +rout and treachery, with broken arms and foul limbs, in weariness and +humiliation. + +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 led in barbarous +times to what has been described, show themselves in civilised life as +well. In this quieter period, their great manifestation is scrupulosity, +a care about the ritual of life, an attention to meats and drinks, and +cups and washings. Being so unworthy as we are, feeling what we feel, +abased as we are abased, who shall say that these are beneath us? In +ardent imaginative youth they may seem so, but let a few years come, let +them dull the will or contract the heart, or stain the mind—then the +consequent feeling will be, as all experience shows, not that a ritual +is too mean, too low, too degrading for human nature, but that it is a +mercy we have to do no more—that we have only to wash in Jordan—that we +have not even to go out into the unknown distance to seek for Abana and +Pharpar, rivers of Damascus. We have no right to judge, we cannot decide, +we must do what is laid down for us,—we fail daily even in this,—we must +never cease for a moment in our scrupulous anxiety to omit by no tittle +and to exceed by no iota. An accomplished divine of the present day has +written a dissertation to show that this sort of piety is that expressed +by the Greek word εὐλάβεια, ‘piety contemplated on the side on which it +is a fear of God,’ and which he derives from εὐλαμβάνεσθαι, ‘the image +underlying the word being that of the careful taking hold, the cautious +handling of some precious yet delicate vessel, which with ruder or less +anxious handling might be broken,’ and he subsequently adds, ‘The only +three places in the New Testament in which εὐλαβὴς occurs are these:—Luke +ii. 25, Acts ii. 5, viii. 2. We have uniformly rendered it “devout,” +nor could this translation be bettered. It will be observed that on all +these occasions it is used to express Jewish, and, as one might say, +Old Testament piety. On the first it is applied to Simeon (δίκαιος καὶ +εὐλαβὴς); on the second to those Jews who came from distant parts to keep +the commanded feasts at Jerusalem; and on the third there can scarcely +be a doubt that the ἄνδρες εὐλαβεῖς who carry Stephen to his burial are +not, as might at first sight appear, _Christian_ brethren, but devout +Jews, who showed by this courageous act of theirs, as by their great +lamentation over the slaughtered saints, that they abhorred this deed of +blood, that they separated themselves in spirit from it, and thus, if it +might be, from all the judgments which it would bring down on the city +of those murderers. Whether it was also further given them to believe on +the Crucified who had such witnesses as Stephen, we are not told; we may +well presume that it was.... If we keep in mind that in that mingled fear +and love which together constitute the piety of man toward God, the Old +Testament placed its emphasis on the fear, the New places it on the love +(though there was love in the fear of God’s saints then, as there must +be fear in their love now), it will at once be evident how fitly εὐλαβὴς +was chosen to set forth their piety under the old covenant, who, like +Zacharias and Elizabeth, were righteous before God, walking in all the +commandments and ordinances of the Lord blameless, and leaving nothing +willingly undone which pertained to the circle of their prescribed +duties. For this sense of accurately and scrupulously performing that +which is prescribed with the consciousness of the danger of slipping +into a negligent performance of God’s service, and of the need therefore +of anxiously watching against the adding to or diminishing from, or in +any other way altering, that which is commanded, lies ever in the words +εὐλαβὴς, εὐλάβεια, when used in their religious signification. Plutarch, +in more than one instructive passage, exalts the εὐλάβεια of the old +Romans in divine matters, as contrasted with the comparative carelessness +of the Greeks. Thus, in his “Coriolanus,” after other instances in +proof, he goes on to say, “Of late times also they did renew and begin +a sacrifice thirty times one after another, because they thought still +there fell out one fault or another in the same; so holy and devout were +they to the gods” (τοιαύτη μὲν εὐλάβεια πρὸς τὸ Θεῖον Ῥωμαῖων). Elsewhere +he portrays Æmilius Paulus as eminent for his εὐλάβεια. The passage is +long, and I will only quote a portion of it, availing myself again of +old Sir Thomas North’s translation, which, though somewhat loose, is in +essentials correct:—“When he did anything belonging to his office of +priesthood, he did it with great experience, judgment, and diligence; +leaving all other thoughts, and without omitting any ancient ceremony or +adding any new; contending oftentimes with his companions in things which +seemed light and of small moment; declaring to them that, though we do +presume the gods are easy to be pacified and that they readily pardon +all faults and scapes committed by negligence, yet if it were no more +but for respect of the Commonwealth’s sake, they should not slightly or +carelessly dissemble or pass over faults committed in those matters.”’[3] + +This is the view suggested by what Butler has happily called the +‘presages of conscience’ by the ‘natural fear and apprehension’ of +punishment, ‘which restrains from crimes and is a declaration of nature +against them.’ The great difficulty of religious philosophy is, to +explain how we know that these two Beings are the same—from what course +and principle of reasoning it is that we acquire our knowledge that the +_curiosus Deus_, the watchful Deity, who is ever in our secret hearts, +who seeks us out in the fairest scenes, who is apt to terrify our +hearts, whose very eyes seem to shine through nature, is the same Being +that animates the universe with its beauty and its light, smoothes the +heaviness from our brow and the weight from our hearts, pervades the +floating cloud and buoyant air,— + + ‘And from the breezes, whether low or loud, + And from the rain of every passing cloud, + And from the singing of the summer birds, + And from all sounds, all silence,’ + +—gives hints of joy and hope. This seems the natural dualism—the singular +contrast of the God of imagination and the God of conscience, the God of +beauty and the God of fear. How do we know that the Being who refreshes +is the same as He who imposes the toil, that the God of anxiety is the +same as the God of help, that the intensely personal Deity of the inward +heart is the same as the almost neutral spirit of external nature, which +seems a thing more than a person, a light and impalpable vapour just +beautifying the universe, and no more? + +If we are to offer a suggestion, as we have stated a difficulty, we +should hold that the only way of obviating or explaining the contrast, +which is so perplexing to susceptible minds, is by recurring to the same +primary assumption which is required to satisfy our belief in God’s +infinity, omnipotence, or veracity. We cannot _prove_ in any way that +God is infinite any more than that space is infinite; nor that God is +omnipotent, since we do not know what powers there are in nature—that He +is perfectly true, for we have had no experience or communication with +Him, in which His veracity could be tested. We assume these propositions, +and treat them, moreover, not as hypothetical assumptions or provisional +theories to be discarded if new facts should be discovered, and to be +rejected if more elaborate research should require it, but as positive +and clear certainties, on which we must ever act, and to which we must +reduce and square all new information that may be brought home to us. In +these respects we assume that God is perfect, and it is only necessary +for the solution of our difficulty to assume that He is perfect in all. +We have in both cases the same amount and description of evidence, the +same inward consciousness, the same speaking and urging voice, requiring +us to believe. 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 we have 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 man—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. + +The religion of the imagination is, in its consequences upon the +character, free and poetical. No one need trouble himself to set +about its defence. Its agreeability sufficiently defends it and its +congeniality to a refined and literary age. The religion of the +conscience will seem to many of the present day selfish and morbid. +And doubtless it may become so if it be allowed to eat into the fibre +of the character, and to supersede the manliness by which it should be +supported. The whole of religion, of course, is not of this sort, and +it is one which only very imperfect beings can have a share in. But so +long as men are very imperfect, the sense of great imperfection should +cleave to them, and while the consciousness of sin is on the mind, the +consequent apprehension of deserved punishment seems in its proper degree +to be a reasonable service. However, any more of this discussion is +scarcely to our purpose. No attentive reader of Butler’s writings will +hesitate to say that he, at all events, was an example of the ‘anxious +and scrupulous worshipper, who makes a conscience of changing anything, +of omitting anything, being in all things fearful to offend,’[4] and most +likely it was from this habit and characteristic of his mind, that he +obtained the unenviable reputation of living and dying a Papist. + +Of Butler’s personal habits nothing in the way of detail has descended +to us. He was never married, and there is no evidence of his ever having +spoken to any lady save Queen Caroline. We hear, however, for certain +that he was commonly present at her Majesty’s philosophical parties, at +which all questions, religious and moral, speculative and practical, were +discussed with a freedom that would astonish the present generation. +Less intellectual unbelief existed probably at that time than there is +now, but there was an infinitely freer expression of what did exist. The +French Revolution frightened the English people. The awful calamities +and horrors of that period were thought to be, as in part they were, the +results and consequences of the irreligious opinions which just before +prevailed. Scepticism became what in the days of Lord Hervey it was not, +an ungentlemanly state of mind. At no meeting of the higher classes, +certainly at none where ladies are present, is there a tenth part of the +plain questioning and _bonâ fide_ discussion of primary Christian topics, +that there was at the select suppers of Queen Caroline. The effect of +these may be seen in many passages, and even in the whole tendency, of +Butler’s writings. No great Christian writer, perhaps, is so exclusively +occupied with elementary topics and philosophical reasonings. His mind +is ever directed towards the first principles of belief, and doubtless +this was because, more than any other, he lived with men who plainly and +clearly denied them. His frequent allusion to the difficulties of such +discussions are likewise suggestive of a familiar personal experience. +The whole list of directions which he gives the clergy of Durham on +religious argument shows a daily familiarity with sceptical men. ‘It is +come,’ he says, ‘I know not how, to be taken for granted by many persons +that Christianity is not so much as a subject of inquiry, but that it is +now at length discovered to be false. And accordingly they treat it as if +this were an agreed point among all people of discernment, and nothing +remained but to set it up as a principal subject of ridicule, as it were +by way of reprisals for its having so long interrupted the pleasures of +the world.’ No one would so describe the tone of talk now, nor would +there be an equal reason for remembering Butler’s general caution against +rashly entering the lists with the questioners. Among gentlemen a +clergyman has scarcely the chance. ‘Then, again, the general evidence of +religion is complex and various. It consists of a long series of things: +one preparatory to and confirming another from the beginning of the world +till the present time, and it is easy to see how impossible it must +be in a cursory conversation to unite all this into one argument, and +represent it as it ought; and, could it be done, how utterly indisposed +would people be to attend to it. I say, in cursory conversation; whereas +unconnected objections are thrown out in few words, and are easily +apprehended without more attention than is usual in common talk, so +that, notwithstanding we have the best cause in the world, and though a +man were very capable of defending it, yet I know not why he should be +forward to undertake it upon so great a disadvantage and to so little +good effect, as it must be amid the gaiety and carelessness of common +conversation.’ It is not likely from these remarks that Butler had much +pleasure at the Queen’s talking parties. + +What his pleasures were, indeed, does not very distinctly appear. In +reading we doubt if he took any keen interest. A voracious reader is +apt, when he comes to write, to exhibit his reading in casual references +and careless innuendoes, which run out insensibly from the fulness +of his literary memory. But of this in Butler there is nothing. His +writings contain little save a bare and often not a very plain statement +of the necessary argument; you cannot perhaps find a purely literary +allusion in his writings; none, at all events, which shows he had any +favourite books, whose topics were ever present to his mind, and whose +well-known words might be a constant resource in moments of weariness +and melancholy. There is, too, a philippic in the well-known ‘Preface’ +against vague and thoughtless reading, which seems as if he felt the +evil consequences more than the agreeableness of that sin. Some men find +a compensation in the excitement of writing, for all other evils and +exclusions; but it is probable that, if Butler hated anything, he hated +his pen. Composition is pleasant work for men of ready words, fine ears, +and thick-coming illustrations. Wit and eloquence please the writer as +much as the reader. There is even some pleasantness in feeling that you +have given a precise statement of a strong argument. But Butler, so far +from having the pleasures of eloquence, had not even the comfort of +perspicuity. He never could feel that he had made an argument tell by his +way of wording it; it tells in his writings, if it tells at all, by its +own native and inherent force. In some places the mode of statement is +even stupid; it seems selected to occasion a difficulty. You often see +that writers,—Gibbon, for instance,—believe that their words are good +to eat, as well as to read; they had plainly a pleasure in rolling them +about in the mouth like sugar-plums, and gradually smoothing off any +knots or excrescences; but there is nothing of this in Butler. + +The circumstance of so great a thinker being such a poor writer is not +only curious in itself, but indicates the class of thinkers to which +Butler belongs. Philosophers may be divided into seers on the one hand, +and into gropers on the other. Plato, to use a contrast which is often +used for other purposes, is the type of the first. On all subjects he +seems to have before him a landscape of thought, with clear outline, and +pure air, keen rocks and shining leaves, an Attic sky and crystal-flowing +river, each detail of which was as present, as distinct, as familiar +to his mind as the view from the Acropolis, or the road to Decelea. As +were his conceptions so is his style. What Protagoras said and Socrates +replied, what Thrasymachus and Polemo, what Gorgias and Callicles, all +comes out in distinct sequence and accurate expression; each feature is +engraved on the paper; an exact beauty is in every line. What a contrast +is the style of Aristotle! He sees nothing—he is like a man groping in +the dark about a room which he knows. He hesitates and suggests; proposes +first one formula and then another; rejects both, gives a multitude +of reasons, and ends at last with an expression which he admits to be +incorrect and an apologetic ‘let it make no difference.’ There are whole +passages in his writings—the discussion about Solon and happiness in the +‘Ethics,’ is an instance—in which he appears like a schoolboy who knows +the answer to a sum, but cannot get the figures to come to it. + +This awkward and hesitating manner is likewise that of Butler. He +seems to have an obscure feeling, an undefined perception, of what +the truth is; but his manipulation of words and images is not apt +enough to bring it out. Like the miser in the story, he has a shilling +_about_ him somewhere, if people will only give him time and solitude +to make research for it. As a person hunting for a word or name he has +forgotten, he knows what it is, _only_ he cannot say it. The fault is one +characteristic of a strong and sound mind wanting in imagination. The +visual faculty is deficient. The soundness of such men’s understanding +ensures a correct report of what comes before them, and its strength is +shown in vigorous observations upon it; but they are unable to bring +those remarks out, the delineative power is wanting, they have no picture +of the particulars in their minds; no instance or illustration occurs +to them. Popular, in the large sense of the term, such writers can +never be. Influential they may often become. The learned have time for +difficulties; the critical mind is pleased with crooked constructions; +the detective intellect likes the research for lurking and half-hidden +truth. In this way portions of Aristotle have been noted these thousand +years, as Chinese puzzles; and without detracting for a moment from +Butler’s real merit, it may be allowed that some of his influence, +especially that which he enjoys in the English universities, is partially +due to that obscurity of style, which renders his writings such apt +exercises for the critical intellect, which makes the truth when found +seem more valuable from the difficulty of finding it, and gives scope for +an able lecturer to elucidate, annotate, and expound. + +The fame of Butler rests mainly on two remarkable courses of reasoning, +one of which is contained in the well-known Sermons, the second in +the ‘Analogy.’ Both seem to be in a great measure suggested by the +circumstances and topics of the time. There was a certain naturalness +in Butler’s mind, which took him straight to the questions on which +men differed around him. Generally, it is safer to prove what no one +denies, and easier to explain difficulties which no one has ever felt. +A quiet reputation is best obtained in the literary _quæstiunculæ_ of +important subjects. But a simple and straightforward man studies great +topics because he feels a want of the knowledge which they contain; and +if he has ascertained an apparent solution of any difficulty, he is +anxious to impart it to others. He goes straight to the real doubts and +fundamental discrepancies; to those on which it is easy to excite odium, +and difficult to give satisfaction; he leaves to others the amusing +skirmishing and superficial literature accessory to such studies. Thus +there is nothing light in Butler; all is grave, serious, and essential; +nothing else would be characteristic of him. + +The Sermons of Butler are primarily intended as an answer to that +recurring topic of ethical discussion, the Utilitarian Philosophy. He +is occasionally spoken of by enthusiastic disciples as having uprooted +this for ever. But this is hardly so. The selfish system still lives and +flourishes. Nor must any writer on the fundamental differences of human +opinion propose to himself such an aim. The source of the great heresies +of belief lies in their congeniality to certain types of character +frequent in the world, and liable to be reproduced by inevitable and +recurring circumstances. We do not mean that the variations of creeds +are the native and essential variances of the minds which believe them, +for this would render truth a matter of personal character, and make +general discussion impossible. We believe that all minds are originally +so constituted as to be able to acquire right opinions on all subjects +of the first importance to them; but, nevertheless, that the native bent +of their character instinctively inclines them to particular views; that +one man is naturally prone to one error, and another to its opposite; +that this is increased by circumstances, and becomes for practical +purposes invincible, unless it be met on the part of every man by early +and vigorous resistance. The Epicurean philosophy is an example of these +recurring and primary errors, inasmuch as it is congenial to clear, +vigorous, and hasty minds, which have no great depth of feeling, and no +searching introspection of thought, which prefer a ready solution to an +accurate, an easy to an elaborate, a simple to a profound. Draw a slight +worldliness—and the events of life will draw it—over such a mind, and you +have the best Epicurean. There is a use, however, in discussing topics +like these. Nothing would be more perverse than to abstain from proving +certain truths, because some men were naturally prone to the opposite +errors; rather, on the contrary, should we din them into the ears, and +thrust them upon the attention, of mankind; go out into the highways and +hedges, and leave as few as possible for invincible ignorance to mislead +or to excuse. It is much in every generation to state the ancient truth +in the manner which that generation requires; to state the old answer +to the old difficulty; to transmit, if not discover; convince, if not +invent; to translate into the language of the living, the truths first +discovered by the dead. This defence, though suggested by the subject, +is not, however, required by Butler. He may claim the higher praise of +having explained his subject in a manner essentially more satisfactory +than his predecessors. + +We are not concerned to follow Butler into the entire range of this +ancient and well-discussed topic. We are only called on to make, and we +shall only make, two or three remarks on the position which he occupies +with respect to it. His grand merit is the simple but important one of +having given a less complex and more graphic description of the facts of +human consciousness than any one had done before. Before his time the +Utilitarians had the advantage of appearing to be the only people who +talked about real life and human transactions. The doctrines avowed by +their opponents were cloudy, lofty, and impalpable. Platonic philosophy +in its simple form is utterly inexplicable to the English mind. A plain +man will not soon succeed in making anything of an archetypal idea. If +an ordinary sensible Englishman takes up even such a book as Cudworth’s +‘Immutable Morality,’ it is nearly inevitable that he should put it down +as mystical fancy. True as a considerable portion of the conclusions of +that treatise are or may be, nevertheless the truth is commonly so put +as to puzzle an Englishman, and the error so as particularly to offend +him. We may open at random. ‘Wherefore,’ says Cudworth, ‘the result of +all that we have hitherto said is this, that the intelligible natures +and essences of things are neither arbitrary nor fantastical, that is, +neither alterable by any will or opinion; and therefore everything is +necessarily and immutably to science and knowledge what it is, whether +absolutely, or relatively to all minds and intellects in the world. +So that if moral good and evil, just and unjust, signify any reality, +either absolute or relative, in the things so denominated, as they must +have some certain natures, which are the actions or souls of men, they +are neither alterable by will or opinion. Upon which ground that wise +philosopher, Plato, in his “Minos,” determined that Νόμος, a law, is +not δόγμα πόλεως, any arbitrary decree of a city or supreme governors; +because there may be unjust decrees, which, therefore, are no laws, but +the _invention of that which_ IS, or what is absolutely or immutably +just in its own nature; though it be very true also that the arbitrary +constitutions of those that have the lawful authority of commanding when +they are not materially unjust, are laws also in a secondary sense, +by virtue of that natural and immutable justice or law that requires +political order to be observed. But I have not taken all this pains +only to confute scepticism or fantasticism, or merely to defend or +corroborate our argument for the immutable nature of the just and unjust; +but also for some other weighty purposes that are very much conducing +to the business we have in hand. And first of all, that the soul is not +a mere _tabula rasa_, a naked and passive thing, which has no innate +furniture or activity of its own, nor anything at all in it but what +was impressed on it from without; for, if it were so, then there could +not possibly be any such thing as moral good and evil, just and unjust, +forasmuch as these differences do not arise merely from outward objects +or from the impresses which they make upon us by sense, there being no +such thing in them, in which sense it is truly affirmed by the author +of the “Leviathan” (p. 24), “That there is no common rule of good and +evil to be taken from the nature of the objects themselves,” that is, +either considered absolutely in themselves, or relatively to external +sense only, but according to some other interior analogy which things +have to a certain inward determination in the soul itself from whence +the foundation of all this difference must needs arise, as I shall show +afterwards; not that the anticipations of morality spring merely from +intellectual forms and notional ideas of the mind, or from certain rules +or propositions printed on the “soul as on a book,” but from some other +more inward and vital principle in intellectual beings, as such, whereby +they have a natural determination in them to do certain things, and +to avoid others, which could not be, if they were mere naked, passive +things.’ + +It is instructive to compare Butler’s way of stating a doctrine +substantially similar:— + + ‘Mankind has various instincts and principles of action, + as brute creatures have; some leading most directly and + immediately to the good of the community, and some most + directly to private good. + + ‘Man has several which brutes have not; particularly reflection + or conscience, an approbation of some principles or actions, + and disapprobation of others. + + ‘Brutes obey their instincts or principles of action, according + to certain rules; suppose the constitution of their body, and + the objects around them. + + ‘The generality of mankind also obey their instincts and + principles, all of them; those propensions we call good, as + well as the bad, according to the same rules, namely, the + constitution of their body, and the external circumstances + which they are in. + + ‘Brutes, in acting according to the rules before mentioned, + their bodily constitution and circumstances, act suitably to + their whole nature. + + ‘Mankind also, in acting thus, would act suitably to their + whole nature, if no more were to be said of man’s nature than + what has been now said; if that, as it is a true, were also a + complete, adequate account of our nature. + + ‘But that is not a complete account of man’s nature. Somewhat + further must be brought in to give us an adequate notion of it, + namely, that one of those principles of action, conscience, or + reflection, compared with the rest, as they all stand together + in the nature of man, plainly bears upon it marks of authority + over all the rest, and claims the absolute direction of them + all, to allow or forbid their gratification; a disapprobation + of reflection being in itself a principle manifestly superior + to a mere propension. And the conclusion is, that to allow no + more to this superior principle or part of our nature, than to + other parts; to let it govern and guide only occasionally in + common with the rest, as its turn happens to come, from the + temper and circumstances one happens to be in,—this is not to + act conformably to the constitution of man. Neither can any + human creature be said to act conformably to his constitution + of nature, unless he allows to that superior principle the + absolute authority which is due to it. And this conclusion is + abundantly confirmed from hence, that one may determine what + course of action the economy of man’s nature requires, without + so much as knowing in what degrees of _strength_ the several + principles prevail, or which of them have actually the greatest + influence. + + ‘The practical reason of insisting so much upon this natural + authority of the principle of reflection or conscience is, + that it seems in a great measure overlooked by many, who are + by no means the worst sort of men. It is thought sufficient + to abstain from gross wickedness, and to be humane and kind + to such as happen to come in their way. Whereas, in reality, + the very constitution of our nature requires that we bring + our whole conduct before this superior faculty; wait its + determination; enforce upon ourselves its authority; and make + it the business of our lives, as it is absolutely the whole + business of a moral agent, to conform ourselves to it. This is + the true meaning of that ancient precept, _Reverence thyself_.’ + +We do not mean that Cudworth’s style is not as good, or better, than the +style of Butler; but that the language and illustrations of the latter +belong to the same world as that we live in, have a relation to practice, +and recall sentiments we remember to have felt and sensations which are +familiar to us, while those of Cudworth, on the contrary, seem difficult, +and are strange in the ears of the common people. + +We do not need to go more deeply into the discussion of Butler’s +doctrine, for it is familiar to our readers. If there is any +incorrectness in the delineation which he has given of conscience, it is +in the passages in which he speaks, or seems to speak, of it more as an +animating or suggesting, than as a criticising or regulative faculty. +The error of this representation has been repeatedly pointed out and +illustrated in these pages.[5] It is probable, indeed, that Butler’s +attention had scarcely been directed with sufficient precision to this +portion of the subject. It follows easily, from his favourite principles, +that when two impulses—say benevolence and self-love—contend for mastery +in the mind, and conscience pronounces that one is a higher and better +motive of action than the other, the office of conscience is judicial, +and not impulsive. Conscience gives its opinion, and the will obeys or +disobeys at its pleasure; the impelling spring of action is the selected +impulse on which the will finally decides to act. At the same time, it +must be admitted that there are cases when, for practical purposes, +conscience is an impelling and goading faculty. We mean when it is +opposed by indolence. There is a heavy lassitude of the will, which is +certainly spurred, sometimes effectually, and sometimes in vain, by our +conscience. Possibly the correct language may be, that in such cases +the desire of ease is opposed by the desire of doing our duty; and that +in this case also the office of conscience is simply to say, that the +latter is higher than the former. To us it seems, however, if we may +trust our consciousness on points of such exact nicety, that it is more +graphically true to speak of the sluggishness of the will being goaded +and stimulated by the activity of conscience. There is a native inertness +in the voluntary faculty which will not come forth unless great occasion +is shown it. At any rate, something like this was perhaps the meaning of +Butler, and he, no doubt, would have included in the term conscience the +desire to do our duty as such, and because it is such. + +Butler has been claimed by Mr. Austin, in his ‘Province of Jurisprudence’ +(and sometimes since by other writers), as a supporter of the compound +Utilitarian scheme, as it has been called, which regards the promotion +of general happiness as the single inherent characteristic of virtuous +actions, and considers the conscience as a special instinct for directing +men in determining what actions are for the general interest and what +are not. This theory is, of course, distinct from the common Epicurean +scheme, which either denies, like Bentham, the fact of a conscience _in +limine_, or, like Mill, professes to explain it away as an effect of +illusion and association. The ‘Composite theory,’ on the other hand, +distinctly admits the existence and obligatory authority of conscience, +but regards it as a ready, expeditious, and, so to say, telegraphic mode +of arriving at results which could otherwise be reached only by toilsome +and dubious discussions of general utility. In our judgment, however, +the writings of Butler hardly warrant an authoritative ascription to +him of this philosophy. He doubtless held that the promotion of general +happiness, taking all time and all the world into a complete account, is +_one_ characteristic and ascertainable property of virtue; but there is +nothing to show that he thought it was the only one. On the contrary, +we think we could show, with some plausibility, from several passages, +that, in his judgment, virtuous actions had besides several essential +and appropriate qualities. He was, at all events, the last man to deny +that they might have; and his whole reasoning on the subject of moral +probation seems to imply that, inasmuch as such a state is, according to +every appearance, not at all the readiest or surest means of promoting +satisfaction and enjoyment, it cannot have been selected for the +cultivation of either satisfaction or enjoyment. It is one thing to hold +that, the nature of man being what it is, a virtuous life is the happiest +as well as best; and another, that such a life is the best because it is +the happiest, and that the nature of man was created in the manner it is +in order to produce such happiness. The first is, of course, the doctrine +of Butler; the second there does not seem any certain ground for imputing +to him. + +The religious side of morals is rather indicated and implied, than +elaborated or worked out by Butler. Yet, as we formerly said, a constant +reference to the ‘presages of conscience’ pervades his writings. +Although he has nowhere drawn out the course of reasoning fully, or +step by step, it is certain that he relied on the moral evidence for +a moral Providence; not, indeed, with foolhardy assurance, but with +the cautious confidence which was habitual to him. The ideas which are +implied in the term justice—the connection between virtue and reward—sin +and punishment—a sacred law and holy Ruler, were plainly the trains of +reflection most commonly present to his mind. + +Persons who give credence to an intuitive conscience are so often +taunted with the variations and mutability of human nature, that it is +worth noticing how complete is the coincidence, in essential points of +feeling, between minds so different as Butler, Kant, and Plato. We can +scarcely imagine among thoughtful men a greater diversity of times and +characters. The great Athenian in his flowing robes daily conversing +in captious Athens—the quiet rector wandering in Durham coalfields—the +smoking professor in ungainly Königsberg, would, if the contrast were +not too great for art, form a trio worthy of a picture. The whole series +of truths and reasonings which we have called the supernatural religion, +or that of conscience, is, however, as familiar to one as to the +other, and is the most important, if not the most conspicuous, feature +in the doctrinal teaching of all three. The very great differences +of nomenclature and statement, the entire contrast in the style of +expression, do but heighten the wonder of the essential and interior +correspondence. The doctrine has certainly shown its capability of +co-existing with several forms of civilisation; and at least the simplest +explanation of its diffusion is by supposing that it has a real warrant +in the nature and consciousness of man. + +Such is the doctrine of the Sermons; the argument of the ‘Analogy’ is +of a different and more complicated kind; and, from its refinement, +requires to be stated with care and precaution. As the Sermons are in a +great measure a reply to the caricaturists of Locke, the ‘Analogy’ is, +in reality, designed as a confutation of Shaftesbury and Bolingbroke. +It was the object of those writers, as of others since, to disprove the +authority of the Christian and Jewish revelation, by showing that they +enjoined on man conduct forbidden by the law of nature, and likewise +imputed to the Deity actions of an evil tendency and degrading character. +These writers are commonly, and perhaps best, met by a clear denial of +the fact; by showing in detail, that Christianity is really open to no +such objections, contains no such precepts, and imputes no such actions: +the reply of Butler is much more refined and peculiar. + +The argument has been thus expounded, and its supposed bearing explained +by Professor Rogers in the notice of Butler,—the title of which we have +ventured to affix to this Article:— + + ‘Further; we cannot but think that the conclusiveness of + Butler’s work as against its true object, “The Deist,” has + often been underrated by many even of its genuine admirers. + Thus, Dr. Chalmers, for instance, who gives such glowing proofs + of his admiration of the work, and expatiates in a congenial + spirit on its merits, affirms that “those overrate the power + of analogy who look to it for any very distinct or positive + contribution to the Christian argument. To repel objections, + in fact, is the great service which analogy has rendered to + the cause of Revelation, and it is the _only service_ which we + seek for at its hands.” This, abstractedly, is true; but, _in + fact_, considering the _position_ of the bulk of the objectors, + that they have been invincibly persuaded of the truth of + theism, and that their objections to Christianity have been + exclusively or chiefly of the kind dealt with in the “Analogy,” + the work is much more than an _argumentum ad hominem_—it is + not simply of negative value. To such _objectors_ it logically + establishes the truth of Christianity, or it forces them to + recede from theism, which the bulk will not do. If a man says, + “I am invincibly persuaded of the truth of proposition A, but + I cannot receive proposition B, because objections α, β, γ + are opposed to it; if these were removed, my objections would + cease;” then, if you can show that α, β, γ equally apply to + the proposition A, his reception of which, he says, is based + on invincible evidence, you do really compel such a man to + believe that not only B _may_ be true, but that it _is_ true, + unless he be willing (which few in the parallel case are) to + abandon proposition A as well as B. This is precisely the + condition in which the majority of Deists have ever been, if + we may judge from their writings. It is usually the _à priori_ + assumption, that certain facts in the history of the Bible, + or some portions of its doctrine, are unworthy of the Deity, + and incompatible with his character or administration, that + has chiefly excited the incredulity of the Deist; far more + than any dissatisfaction with the positive evidence which + substantiates the Divine origin of Christianity. Neutralise + these objections by showing that they are _equally_ applicable + to what he declares he cannot relinquish—the doctrines of + theism; and you show him, if he has a particle of logical + sagacity, not only that Christianity may be true, but that it + is so; and his only escape is by relapsing into atheism, or + resting his opposition on other objections of a very feeble + character in comparison, and which, probably, few would ever + have been contented with alone; for, _apart_ from those + objections which Butler repels, the historical evidence for + Christianity—the evidence on behalf of the integrity of its + records and the honesty and sincerity of its founders—showing + that they could not have constructed such a system if they + _would_, and _would not_, supposing them impostors, if they + _could_—is stronger than that for any fact in history. + + ‘In consequence of this position of the argument, Butler’s + book, to large classes of objectors, though practically an + _argumentum ad hominem_, not only proves Christianity _may_ be + true, but in all logical fairness proves it _is_ so. This he + himself, with his usual judgment, points out. He says: “And + objections which are equally applicable to both natural and + revealed religion are, properly speaking, answered by its being + shown that they are so, _provided the former be admitted to be + true_.”’ + +No one can deny the ingenuity of this line of reasoning, but we can only +account for the great assent which it has received, by supposing that the +goodness of the cause for which it is commonly brought forward has not +unnaturally led to an undue approbation of the argument itself. From the +amount of authority in its favour we feel some diffidence, but otherwise +we should have said, without hesitation, that it was open to several +objections. + +In the first place, so far from its being probable that Revelation would +have contained the same difficulties as Nature, we should have expected +that it would explain those difficulties. The very term Supernatural +Revelation implies that previously and by nature man is, to a great +extent, in ignorance; that particularly he is unaware of some fact, +or series of facts, which God deems it fit that he should know. The +instinctive presumption certainly is, that those facts would be most +important to us. No doubt it is possible that, for incomprehensible +reasons, a special revelation should be made of facts purely indifferent, +of the date when London was founded, or the precise circumstances of the +invasion by William the Conqueror. But this is in the highest degree +improbable. What seems likely (and the whole argument is essentially +one of likelihood), according to our mind, is that the Revelation which +God would vouchsafe to us would be one affecting our daily life and +welfare, would communicate truths either on the one hand conducing to our +temporal happiness in the present world, or removing the many doubts and +difficulties which surround the general plan of Providence, the entire +universe, and our particular destiny. These are the two classes of truths +on which we seem to require help, and it is in the first instance more +probable that assistance would be given us on those points on which it is +most required. + +The argument of Butler, of course, relates to our religious difficulties. +And, it seems impossible to deny that this is the exact class of +difficulty which it is most likely a revelation, if given, would explain. +No one who reasons on this subject is likely to doubt that the natural +faculties of man are more clearly adequate to our daily and temporal +happiness, than to the explanation of the perplexities which have +confounded men since the beginning of speculation—of which the mere +statement is so vast—which relate to the scheme of the universe and +the plan of God. This is the one principle on which the most extreme +sceptics, and the most thorough advocates of revelation, meet and +agree. The sceptic says, ‘Man is not born to resolve the mystery of the +universe; but he must nevertheless attempt it, that he may keep within +the limits of the knowable:’ which really means that he is to fold his +hands and be quiet; to abstain from all religious inquiry; to confine +himself to this life, and be industrious and practical within its +limits. The advocate of revelation is for ever denying the competency +of man’s faculties to explain, or puzzle out, what in the large sense +most concerns him. There are difficulties celestial, and difficulties +terrestrial; but it is certainly more likely that God would interfere +miraculously to explain the first than to remove the second. + +Let us look at the argument more at length. The supposition and idea of a +‘miraculous revelation’ rest on the ignorance of man. The scene of nature +is stretched out before him; it has rich imagery, and varied colours, +and infinite extent; its powers move with a vast sweep; its results are +executed with exact precision; it gladdens the eyes, and enriches the +imagination; it tells us something of God—something important, yet not +enough. For example, difficulties abound; poverty and sin, pain and +sorrow, fear and anger, press on us with a heavy weight. On every side +our knowledge is confined, and our means of enlarging it small. Of this +the outer world takes no heed; nature is ‘unfeeling;’ her laws roll on; +‘beautiful and dumb,’ she passes forward and vouchsafes no sign. Indeed, +she seems to hide, as one might fancy, the dark mysteries of life which +seem to lie beneath; our feeble eyes strain to look forward, but her +‘painted veil’ hangs over all, like an October mist upon the morning +hills. Here, as it seems, revelation intervenes; God will break the spell +that is upon us; will meet our need; will break, as it were, through the +veil of nature; He will show us of Himself. It is not likely, surely, +that He will break the everlasting silence to no end; that, having begun +to speak, He will tell us nothing; that He will leave the difficulties of +life where He found them; that He will repeat them in His speech; that +He will revive them in His word. It seems rather, as if His faintest +disclosure, His least word, would shed abundant light on all doubts, +would take the weight from our minds, would remove the gnawing anguish +from our hearts. Surely, surely, if He speaks He will make an end of +speaking, He will show us some good, He will destroy ‘the veil that is +spread over all nations,’ and the ‘covering over all people;’ He will not +‘darken counsel by words without knowledge.’ + +To this line of argument we know of but one objection; it may be said, +that, from the immensity of the universe in which man is, reasons may +exist for communicating to him facts of which he cannot appreciate the +importance, but a belief in which may nevertheless be most important to +his ultimate welfare. Of this kind, according to some divines, is the +doctrine of the ‘Atonement.’ As they think, it is impossible to explain +the mode in which the death of Christ conduces to the forgiveness of sin, +or why a belief in it should be made, as they think it is, a necessary +preliminary to such forgiveness. They consider that this is a revealed +matter of fact; part of a system of things which is not known now, which +would very likely be above our understanding if it were explained, which, +at all events, is not explained. We reply, that the revelation of an +inexplicable fact is possible, and that, if adequate evidence could be +adduced in its favour, we might be bound to acquiesce in it; but that, +on the other hand, such a revelation is extremely improbable: so far as +we can see, there was no occasion for it; it helps in nothing, explains +to us nothing; it enlarges our knowledge only thus far, that for some +unknown reason we are bound to believe something from which certain +effects follow in a manner which we cannot understand. Such a revelation +is, as has been said, possible; but it is much more likely, _à priori_, +that a revelation, if given, would be a revelation of facts suited to our +comprehension, and throwing a light on the world in which we are. + +The same remark is applicable to a revelation commanding rites and +ceremonies which do not come home to the conscience as duties, and of +which the reasons are not explained to us by the revelation itself. The +Pharisaic code of ‘cups and washings’ is an obvious instance. It is +obviously most improbable that we should be ordered to do these things. +The fact may be so; but the evidence of it should be overwhelming, +and should be examined with almost suspicious and sceptical care. A +revelation of a rule of life which approves itself to the heart, which +awakens conscience, which seems to come from God, is the greatest +conceivable aid to man, the greatest explanation of our most practical +perplexities; a revelation of rites and ordinances is a revelation of new +difficulties, telling us nothing of God, imposing an additional taskwork +on ourselves. + +We are to remember, that the ‘Analogy’ is, as the Germans would speak, a +‘Kritik’ of every possible revelation. The first principle of it rests on +the inquiry, ‘What would it be likely that a revelation, if vouchsafed, +would contain?’ The whole argument is one of preconception, presumption, +and probability. It claims to establish a principle, which may be used +in defence of any revelation, the Mahomedan as well as the Christian; +according to it, as soon as you can show that a difficulty exists in +nature, you may immediately expect to find it in revelation. If carried +out to its extreme logical development, it would come to this, that if +a catalogue were constructed of all the inexplicable arrangements and +difficulties of nature, you might confidently anticipate that these +very same difficulties in the same degree and in the same points would +be found in revelation. Both being from the same Author, it is presumed +that each would resemble the other. The principle, even to this length, +is enunciated by Mr. Rogers; the difficulties of nature are the α, β, γ +of the extract: and he asserts, that if you can show that all of them +exist in one system, you have every reason to expect _all_ of them in the +other. Yet, surely, what can be more monstrous than that a supernatural +communication from God should simply enumerate all the difficulties of +His natural government and not enlighten us as to any of them—should +revive our perplexities without removing them—should not satisfy one +doubt or one anxiety, but repeat and proclaim every fact which can give a +basis to them both? + +The case does not rest here. There is a second ground of objection to +the argument of the ‘Analogy’ on which we are inclined to lay nearly +equal stress. As has been said, it is most likely that a revelation from +God would explain at least a part of the religious difficulties of +man; and, in matter of fact, all systems purporting to be revelations +have in their respective degrees professed to do so. They all deal +with what may be called the system of the universe—its moral plan and +scheme; the destiny of man therein—the motives from which God created +it—and the manner in which He directs it. Throughout the whole range of +doctrines, from Mormonism up to Christianity, no one has ever gained any +acceptance, has ever, perhaps, been sincerely put forward, which did not +deal with this whole range of facts—which did not tell man, according +to his view, whence he is, and whither he goes. Revelations, as such, +are communications concerning eternity. Now, it seems to us, that so +far from its being likely, _à priori_, that a revelation of this sort +would contain the same perplexing difficulties which cause so much evil +in this world, in the same degree in which they exist here, it would +be scarcely possible by any evidence, _à posteriori_, to establish the +communication of such a system from the Divine Being. It seems clear on +the surface of the subject that, the extent of the unknown world being +so enormous in comparison with that which is known, this scene being +so petty, and the plan of Providence so vast—earth being little, and +space infinite—Time short, and Eternity long—a difficulty, which is of +no moment in so contracted a sphere as this, becomes of infinite moment +when extended to the sphere of the Almighty. From the smallness of the +region which we see—the short time which we live—from the few things +which we know—it may well be that there are points which perplex the +feebleness of our understanding and puzzle the best feelings of our +hearts. We see, as some one expresses it, the universe ‘not in plan but +in section;’ and we cannot expect to understand very much of it. But when +our knowledge increases—when, by a revelation, that plan is unfolded to +us—when God vouchsafes to communicate to us the system on which He acts, +then it is rational to expect those difficulties would diminish—would +gradually disappear as the light dawned upon us—would vanish finally +when the dayspring arose on our hearts. If a difficulty of nature be +repeated in revelation, it would seem to show that it was not, as we +had before supposed, a consequence of our short-sighted views and +contracted knowledge, but a real inherent element in the scheme of the +universe; not a petty shade on a petty globe, but a pervading inherent +stain, extending over all things, destroying the beauty of the universe, +impairing the perfectness of all creation. Take, as an instance, the +extreme doctrine of Antinomian Calvinism—suppose that the eternal +condition of man depended in no degree on his acts, or works, or upon +himself in any form, but on an arbitrary act of selection by God, which +chose some, independently of any antecedent fitness on their part, for +eternal happiness, and consigns all others—irrespective of their guilt or +innocence—to eternal ruin. Nothing, of course, can be more shocking than +such a doctrine when stated in simple language; and if it really were +contained in any document that professes to be a revelation, we should +be plainly justified in passing it by as a document which no evidence +would prove to have been inspired by God. Yet the doctrine certainly +does not want partial analogies in this world. The condition of men here +does seem to be in a considerable measure the result not of what they +do, or of what their characters are, but of the mere circumstances in +which they are placed, over which they have no control, choice, or power. +One man is born in a ditch, another in a palace; one with a gloomy and +painful, another with a cheerful and happy mind; one to honour, another +to dishonour. We invent words—fortune, luck, chance—to express in a +subtle way the notion that some seem the favourites of circumstance, +others the scapegoats. So far as it goes, this is a distinct ‘election’ +on the part of God of some to misery, of others to felicity, irrespective +of their personal qualities. Accordingly, it may be argued, why should +we not expect to find the same in the world of revelation, which is +from the hand of the same Creator? But this will scarcely impose on +any one. A certain indignation arises within us—conscience uplifts +her voice, and we reply, ‘It may well be that for a short time God may +afflict His people without their own fault, but that He should do so for +ever—that He should make no end of injustice—that He favours one without +a reason, and condemns another without a fault—this, come what may, we +will not believe—we would sooner cast ourselves at large on the waste of +uncertainty;—pass on with your teaching, and ask God, if so be that He +will pardon you for attributing such things to Him.’ We need not further +enlarge on this. + +Again, and in the practical conduct of the argument this is a very +material consideration. All revelations impute _intentions_ to God. Acts +are done, observances enjoined, a providential plan pursued, for reasons +which are explained. The cause of this is evident from our previous +reasoning. As we have seen, all revelations profess to vindicate the +ways of God to man; and it is impossible to do so effectually without +declaring to us at least some of His motives and designs. It is most +important to observe, that no analogy from nature can justify us in +judging of these except by the standard of right or wrong which God has +implanted within us. From external observation we learn almost nothing of +God’s intentions. The scheme is too large; the universe too unbounded. +One phenomenon follows another; but, except in a few cases, and then +very dubiously, we cannot tell which was created for which—which was +the design—which the means—which the determining object—and which the +subservient purpose. Even in the few cases in which we do impute such +intentions, we do so because they seem to be in harmony with God’s moral +character; they are not strictly proved, they are mere conjectures; and +we should reject at once any that might seem ethically unworthy. But the +case is different with a revelation which, from its own nature, unfolds +ends and instruments in their due measure and their actual subordination, +which developes an orderly system, and communicates hidden motives and +unforeseen designs. A recent writer, for example, thus defends certain +apparent cruelties of the Old Testament by stating those of nature: +‘God,’ he says, ‘sends His pestilence, and produces horrors on which +imagination dare not dwell; horrors not only physical, but indirectly +moral; often transforming man into something like the fiend so many say +he can never become. He sends His famine, and thousands perish—men and +women, and “the child that knows not its right hand from its left”—in +prolonged and frightful agonies. He opens the mouths of volcanoes and +lakes; boils and fries the population of a whole city in torrents of +burning lava, &c. &c.’[6]—with much else to the same purpose. But this +must not be adduced in extenuation of anything of which the reasons are +narrated; on the contrary, these last must be judged of by the moral +faculties which are among God’s highest gifts. To the infliction of +pain, with an express view to what conscience tells us to be an unworthy +object, outward nature does and can afford no parallel. She has no +avowals; it is but from conjecture that we conceive her motives; her +laws pass forward; the crush of her forces is upon us; like a child in +a railway, we know not anything. The incomprehensible has no analogy +to the explained; the mysterious none to that on which the oracle has +intelligibly spoken. + +Lastly, for a similar reason it is impossible that there should be +any analogy in nature for a precept from God opposed to the law of +conscience. External nature gives no precept; our knowledge of our duty +comes from within; the physical world is subordinate to our inward +teaching; it is silent on points of morality. On the other hand, a +revelation, supposing satisfactory means of attesting it were found, +might possibly contain such a precept. It is very painful to put such +suppositions before the mind; but the pain is inherent in the nature +of the subject. The topic of the difficulties and perplexities of man +cannot, by any artifice of rhetoric, be rendered pleasing. In such a +case, supposing there to be no difficulty of evidence in the case, our +duty might be to obey God even against conscience, from that assurance +of His essential perfection which is the most certain attestation of +conscience. But the existence of such a difficulty is in the highest +degree improbable; it is one which ought only to be admitted on the +completest proof and after the most rigid straining of evidence: it +is, from the nature of the case, without a parallel in the common and +unrevealed world. + +To all these considerable objections, we believe the argument of the +‘Analogy’ is properly subject. We think in general that, according to +every reasonable presumption, a revelation would not repeat the same +difficulties as are to be found in nature, but would remove and explain +some of them; that difficulties, which are of small importance in the +natural world, on account of the smallness of its sphere and the brevity +of its duration, become of insuperable magnitude when extended to +infinity and eternity, when alleged to be co-extensive with the universe, +and to be inherent in its scheme and structure; and that,—what is of +less universal scope, but still of essential importance,—nature offers +no analogy to the ascription by any professed revelation of an unworthy +intention to God, or the inculcation through it of an immoral precept on +man. + +It is impossible, then, by any such argument as this, to remove from +moral criticism the entire contents of any revelation. According to +the more natural view, the unimpeachable morality of those contents is +a most essential part of the evidence on which our belief must rest; +and this seems to remain so, notwithstanding these refinements. On the +other hand, we do not contend that the reasoning of the ‘Analogy’ is +wholly worthless. If Butler’s[7] argument had only been adduced to this +extent; if it had only been argued that, though a revelation might +be expected to explain some difficulties, it could not be expected +to explain all; that a certain number would, from our ignorance and +unworthiness, still remain; and these residuary difficulties would +be of the same order, class, and kind, to which we were accustomed; +that the style of Providence, if one may so say, would be the same in +the newly-communicated phenomena as we had observed it to be in those +we were familiar with before,—there could be little question of the +soundness of the principle. No one would expect that there would be new +difficulties introduced by a revelation; what difficulties were found +in it we should expect to be identical with those observed before in +nature; or, at least, to be similar to them, and likely to be explained +in the same way by a more adequate knowledge of God’s purposes. We should +particularly expect the difficulties of revelation to be _like_ those of +nature, limited in time and range, not extending to the entire scheme +of Providence, not diffused through infinity and eternity, not imputing +evil intentions to God, not inculcating immoral precepts on man. We can +hardly be said to _expect_ to find difficulties in revelation at all; +the utmost that seems probable, _à priori_, is, that it should leave +unnoticed some of those of nature. Nevertheless, there is no violent, no +overwhelming improbability in the fact of some perplexing points being +contained in a communication from God; we are so weak, that it may be +we cannot entirely understand the smallest intimation from the Infinite +Being. And if difficulties are found there, they are, of course, less +perplexing, when resembling those which we knew before, than if they be +wholly distinct and new in kind. But this principle is, on the face of +it, very different from the admission of an antecedent probability, that +all the difficulties discoverable in nature would be daguerreotyped in a +revelation. + +The difference is seen very clearly by looking at the argument which +Butler’s reasoning is intended to confute. Suppose a professed revelation +to be laid before a person who was before unacquainted with it, and +that he finds in it several perplexing points. According to Butler’s +principle, or what is supposed by Mr. Rogers to be Butler’s principle, it +is enough to reply: You have those same difficulties in nature before; +you cannot consistently object to them now; they have not prevented your +ascribing nature to a Divine Author; they should not prevent you from +ascribing to Him this revelation. Nature is so full of difficulties, +that almost every doctrine that has ever been attributed to revelation +may be provided with a parallel more or less apt. Consequently, it would +be almost needless to criticise the contents of any alleged revelation, +when we may be met so easily by such a reply. No careful reasoner +would attempt that criticism. According to the doctrine which we have +reiterated, we should deem it a difficulty that these perplexing points +should be found in a revelation; but that difficulty would not amount +to much, would not counterbalance strong evidence, if it could be shown +that the system claiming to be revealed, although leaving these points +unexplained, threw ample light on others; that what gave cause for +perplexity was quite subordinate to what removed perplexity; that no +immoral actions were enjoined on man; no unworthy motives imputed to God; +no vice attributed to the whole scheme and plan of the Creator. There +would therefore remain the largest scope for internal criticism on all +systems claiming to be messages from God; on the very face they must seem +worthy of Him: in their very essence they must seem good. + +This is plainly the obvious view. The natural opinion certainly is that +the moral and religious faculties would be those on which we should +primarily depend, in judging of an alleged communication from heaven; in +deciding whether it have a valid claim to that character or no. These +faculties are those which, antecedently to revelation, determine our +belief in all other moral and religious questions, and it is therefore +natural to look to them as the best judges of the authenticity of an +alleged revelation. Many divines, however, struggle to deny this. Thus, +in the memoir of Butler we are now reviewing, Mr. Rogers observes,— + + ‘The immortal “Analogy” has probably done more to silence the + objections of infidelity than any other ever written from the + earliest “apologies” downwards. It not only most critically + met the spirit of unbelief in the author’s own day, but is + equally adapted to meet that which _chiefly_ prevails in all + time. In every age, some of the principal, perhaps _the_ + principal, objections to the Christian Revelation have been + those which men’s _preconceptions_ of the Divine character + and administration—of what God _must_ be, and of what God + _must_ do—have suggested against certain facts in the sacred + history, or certain doctrines it reveals. To show the objector, + then (supposing him to be a theist, as nine-tenths of all + such objectors have been), that the very same or similar + difficulties are found in the structure of the universe and the + divine administration of it, is to wrest every _such_ weapon + completely from his hands, if he be a fair reasoner and remain + a theist at all. He is bound, by strict logical obligation, + either to show that the parallel difficulties do _not_ exist, + or to show how he can solve them, while he _cannot_ solve those + of the Bible. In default of doing either of these things, he + ought either to renounce all _such_ objections to Christianity, + or abandon theism altogether. It is true, therefore, that + though Butler leaves the alternative of atheism open, he hardly + leaves any other alternative to nine-tenths of the theists who + have objected to Christianity.’ + +And there is a perpetual reiteration in the ‘Eclipse of Faith’ of the +same reasoning. In fact, so far as the latter work has a distinct +principle, this argument may be said to be that principle. The answer +is, that the proof of all ‘revelation’ itself rests on a ‘preconception’ +respecting the Divine character, and that, if we assume the truth of that +one ‘preconception,’ we must not reject any others which may be found to +have the same evidence. We refer, of course, to the assumption of God’s +veracity; which can only be proved by arguments that, if admitted, would +likewise justify our attributing to Him all other perfect virtues. It is +evident that a doubt as to this attribute is not only impious in itself, +but quite destructive of all confidence in any communication which may be +received from Him. And yet, on what evidence does its acceptance rest? +It cannot be said to be demonstrated by what scientific men call ‘natural +theology.’ Competent and careful persons examine the material world, the +structure of animals and plants, the courses of the planets, the muscles +of man, and they find there a great preponderance of benevolence. They +show, with great labour and great merit, that the Being who arranged this +universe is, on the whole, a benevolent Being; but does it follow that +He will tell the truth? ‘In crossing a heath,’ says Paley, ‘suppose I +pitched my foot against a stone, and were asked how the stone came to be +there, I might possibly answer that, for anything I knew to the contrary, +it had lain there for ever; nor would it, perhaps, be very easy to show +the absurdity of this answer: but, suppose I had found a _watch_ on +the ground, and it should be inquired how the watch came to be in that +place, I should hardly think of the answer I had before given, that, for +anything I knew, it had been always there.’ And he shows, with his usual +power, that this watch was, in all likelihood, made by a watchmaker. +There is nothing cleverer, perhaps, in argumentative writing, than the +way in which that argument is stated and pointed. But what evidence is +there that the watchmaker was _veracious_? The amplest examination of +the most refined designs, the minutest scrutiny of the most complex +contrivances, do not go one hair’s breadth to establish any such +conclusion. Nor can it be shown that the virtue of veracity is identical +with, or consequent on, the virtue of simple benevolence. We know well in +common life that there are such things as pleasing falsehoods, and that +such things exist as disagreeable truths. A person (what we ordinarily +call a good-natured person) whose only motive is simple benevolence, will +constantly assert the first and deny the second. In its application to +religion this tendency cannot be illustrated without suppositions which +it is painful even to make; but yet they must be made for a moment, +or the necessary argument must be left incomplete. Suppose, what is +doubtless true, that the belief in a ‘future state,’ even if false, +contributes to the temporal happiness of man in this world; that it does +more to enlarge his hopes, stimulate his imagination, and alleviate his +sorrows, than any one other consideration; that it contributes to the +order of society and the progress of civilisation; that it is, as some +one says, ‘the last restraint of the powerful, and the last hope of the +wretched.’ Indisputably, a Being whose only motive was benevolence, who +admitted no higher consideration, who looked steadily and solely to our +mere happiness, would endeavour to instil that belief although it were +quite untrue, would not think that _that_ had anything to do with the +question, would not hesitate to make a false revelation to confirm men +in a belief so pleasant, so advantageous, so consolatory. Perhaps this +supposition drives the argument home. We see that it is necessary for us +to admit a ‘preconception’ as to the character of God before we can even +begin to prove the truth of a revelation; that we _must_ reason of ‘what +God _must_ be and God _must_ do,’ before we show that there is even a +presumption in favour of any facts, or any doctrines, which are revealed +in the ‘sacred history.’ + +We have hinted, in an earlier part of this essay, that this doctrine +of God’s veracity seems to us to rest on the general assumption of the +existence of a ‘perfect’ Being, who rules and controls all things. It +is, perhaps, the Divine attribute of which it is most difficult to find +a trace in nature. Of His omnipotence, justice, benevolence, we cannot, +indeed, find absolute proof; for we believe that those attributes are +infinite, and we can only prove them strictly with respect to the finite +and very circumscribed world which we see and know. Yet, at the same +time, we discern indications and strong probabilities, that the Ruler of +the world possesses these attributes; we can hardly be said to be able to +do this with His veracity. The speechlessness of nature, if we may again +so speak, deprives us of any such evidence. All Theism is of the nature +of faith. We can never prove from experience any being to be infinite, +for our experience itself is essentially small and finite. We can often, +however, as in the instance of the attributes of God above enumerated, +and of others which might be added, establish by observation that the +qualities in question exist in a certain degree, and we have only to +rely on the principle of faith for our belief that these qualities exist +in a perfect and supreme degree. In the case of the Divine veracity, it +should seem that we believe it to exist in a perfect and infinite degree, +without, from the peculiarity of our circumstances, being able to fortify +it by any test or trial from experience. + +Present controversies show that there should be a distinct understanding +as to this matter. Such writers as the author of the ‘Eclipse of Faith’ +perpetually strive to justify what they think the difficulties of +revelation, by insinuating—we might say inculcating—a scepticism as to +the religious faculties and conscience of man. These faculties are at +one time said to be ‘depraved;’ once they were trustworthy, but man is +fallen from that high estate; he can only now believe what is announced +to him externally. But how can we then rely on those ‘depraved’ faculties +for our belief in the truthfulness of the Being who announces these +things? At another time all the horrid superstitions, all the immoral +rites, all the wretched aberrations of savage and licentious nations, +are enumerated, displayed, inculcated, in order to convince us that +these faculties give no certain information. We will not quote the +passages. We do not like to read hard attacks even on the worst side +of human nature; we cannot, like some, gloat upon such details. The +argument is plain without any painful accuracy. How can you believe in +the ‘intuition’ of the Divine justice, when the Hindoo says this? How +in that of his Holiness, when the Papuan accepts that impurity? But +this is no defence for any revelation. The writers who exult in such +errors because they think they can use them in their logic, are really +cutting away the substratum of evidentiary argument from under them. The +veracity of God has not been accepted by all nations any more than His +justice. In many times and countries He has been thought to inspire +falsehoods, to put a ‘lying spirit’ in the mouths of men, to deceive them +to their destruction. Agamemnon’s dream is but the type of a whole class +of legends imputing untrue revelations to the gods. If we liked such +work, we might prove, perhaps, that there is no man on the earth whose +ancestors have not believed the like. And what then? Why, we can only +answer that, debased, depraved, imperfect as they may be, these faculties +are our all. It is on them that we depend for life, and breath, and all +things. We must believe our heart and conscience, or we shall believe +nothing. We _must_ believe that God cannot lie, or we must renounce all +that our highest and innermost nature most cleaves to; but if we go so +far, we must go further—we cannot believe in God’s veracity and deny the +intuition of His justice—we know that He is pure on the same ground that +we know that He is true. If an alleged revelation contradict this justice +or this purity, we must at once deny that it can have proceeded from Him. + +Even admitting, as we think it must be admitted, that Butler did not +firmly hold the principle which Mr. Rogers and others ascribe to him, +some may find a difficulty in so great a thinker having even a tendency +towards that tenet. On examination, however, the very error seems +characteristic of him. + +A mind such as Butler’s was in a previous page described to be, is +very apt to be prone to over refinement. A thinker of what was there +called the picturesque order has a vision, a picture of the natural +view of the subject. Those certainties and conclusions, those doubts +and difficulties, which occur on the surface, strike him at once; he +sees with his mind’s eye some conspicuous instance in which all such +certainties are realised, and by which all such doubts are suggested. +Some great typical fact remains delineated before his mind, and is a +perpetual answer to all hypotheses which strive to be over-subtle. But +an unimaginative thinker has no such assistance; he has no pictures or +instances in his mind; he works by a process like an accountant, and +like an accountant he is dependent on the correctness with which he +works. He begins with a principle and reasons from it; and if any error +have crept into the deduction or into the principle, he has not any means +of detecting it. His mind does not yield, as with more fertile fancies, +a stock of instances on which to verify his elaborate conclusions. +Accordingly he is apt to say he has explained a difficulty, when in +reality he has but refined it away. + +Again, there is likewise a deeper sense in which the argument of the +‘Analogy’ is, even in its least valuable portions, characteristic of +Butler. On topics so peculiar, the minds most likely to hold right +opinions are exactly those most likely to advance wrong arguments in +support of them. The opinions themselves are suggested and supported by +deep and strong feelings, which it is painful to analyse, and not easy to +describe. The real and decisive arguments for those opinions are little +save a rational analysis and acute delineation of those feelings. It will +necessarily follow that the mind most prone to delineate and analyse +that part of itself will be most likely to succeed in the argumentative +exposition of these topics; and this is not likely to be the mind which +feels those emotions with the greatest intensity. The very keenness of +these feelings makes them painful to touch; their depth, difficult to +find: constancy, too, is liable to disguise them. The mind which always +feels them will, so to speak, be less conscious of them than one which +is only visited by them at long and rare intervals. Those who know a +place or a person best are not those most likely to describe it best; +their knowledge is so familiar that they cannot bring it out in words. A +deep, steady under-current of strong feeling is precisely what affects +men’s highest opinions most, and exactly what prevents men from being +able adequately to describe them. In the absence of the delineative +faculty, without the power to state their true reasons, minds of this +deep and steadfast class are apt to put up with reasons which lie on the +surface. They are caught by an appearance of fairness affect a dry and +intellectual tone, endeavour to establish their conclusions without the +premises which are necessary,—without mention of the grounds on which, +in their own minds, they really rest. The very heartfelt confidence of +Butler in Christianity was perhaps the cause of his seeming in part to +support it with considerations which appear to be erroneous. + +It seems odd to say, and yet it is true, that the power of the ‘Analogy,’ +is in its rhetoric. The ancient writers on that art made a distinction +between the modes of persuasion which lay in the illustrative and +argumentative efficacy of what was said, and a yet more subtle kind which +seemed to reside in the manner and disposition of the speaker himself. +In the first class, as has been before remarked, no writer of equal +eminence is so defective as Butler; his thoughts, if you take each one +singly, seem to lose a good deal from the feeble and hesitating manner +in which they are stated. And yet, if you read any considerable portion +of his writings, you become sensible of a strong disinclination to +disagree with him. A strong anxiety first to find the truth, and next to +impart it—an evident wish not to push arguments too far—a clear desire +not to convince men except by reasonable arguments of true opinions, +characterises every feeble word and halting sentence. Nothing is laid +down to dazzle or arouse. It is assumed that the reader wants to know +what is true, as much as the writer does to tell it. Very possibly +this may not be the highest species of religious author. The vehement +temperament, the bold assertion, the ecstatic energy of men like St. +Augustine or St. Paul, burn, so to speak, into the minds and memories of +men, and remain there at once and for ever. Such men excel in the broad +statement of great truths which flash at once with vivid evidence on the +minds which receive them. The very words seem to glow with life; and even +the sceptical reader is half awakened by them to a kindred and similar +warmth. Such are the men who move the creeds of mankind, and stamp a +likeness of themselves on ages that succeed them. But there is likewise +room for a quieter class, who partially state arguments, elaborate +theories, appreciate difficulties, solve doubts; who do not expect to +gain a hearing from the many—who do not cry in the streets or lift their +voice from the hill of Mars—who address quiet and lonely thinkers like +themselves, and are well satisfied if a single sentence in all their +writings remove one doubt from the mind of any man. Of these was Butler. +_Requiescat in pace_, for it was peace that he loved. + + + + +_STERNE AND THACKERAY._[8] + +(1864.) + + +Mr. Percy Fitzgerald has expressed his surprise that no one before +him has narrated the life of Sterne in two volumes. We are much more +surprised that he has done so. The life of Sterne was of the very +simplest sort. He was a Yorkshire clergyman, and lived for the most part +a sentimental, questionable, jovial life in the country. He was a queer +parson, according to our notions; but in those days there were many queer +parsons. Late in life he wrote a book or two, which gave him access to +London society; and then he led a still more questionable and unclerical +life at the edge of the great world. After that he died in something like +distress, and leaving his family in something like misery. A simpler +life, as far as facts go, never was known; and simple as it is, the story +has been well told by Sir Walter Scott, and has been well commented +on by Mr. Thackeray. It should have occurred to Mr. Fitzgerald that a +subject may only have been briefly treated because it is a limited and +simple subject, which suggests but few remarks, and does not require an +elaborate and copious description. + +There are but few materials, too, for a long life of Sterne. Mr. +Fitzgerald has stuffed his volumes with needless facts about Sterne’s +distant relations, his great uncles and ninth cousins, in which no +one now can take the least interest. Sterne’s daughter, who was left +ill-off, did indeed publish two little volumes of odd letters, which +no clergyman’s daughter would certainly have published now. But even +these are too small in size and thin in matter to be spun into a copious +narrative. We should in this [the _National_] Review have hardly given +even a brief sketch of Sterne’s life, if we did not think that his +artistic character presented one fundamental resemblance and many +superficial contrasts to that of a great man whom we have lately lost. We +wish to point these out; and a few interspersed remarks on the life of +Sterne will enable us to enliven the tedium of criticism with a little +interest from human life. + +Sterne’s father was a shiftless, roving Irish officer in the early part +of the last century. He served in Marlborough’s wars, and was cast +adrift, like many greater people, by the caprice of Queen Anne and the +sudden peace of Utrecht. Of him only one anecdote remains. He was, his +son tells us, ‘a little smart man, somewhat rapid and hasty’ in his +temper; and during some fighting at Gibraltar he got into a squabble +with another young officer, a Captain Phillips. The subject, it seems, +was a goose; but that is not now material. It ended in a duel, which was +fought with swords in a room. Captain Phillips pinned Ensign Sterne to +a plaster-wall behind; upon which he quietly asked, or is said to have +asked, ‘_Do_ wipe the plaster off your sword before you pull it out of +me;’ which, if true, showed at least presence of mind. Mr. Fitzgerald, in +his famine of matter, discusses who this Captain Phillips was; but into +this we shall not follow him. + +A smart, humorous, shiftless father of this sort is not perhaps a bad +father for a novelist. Sterne was dragged here and there, through scenes +of life where no correct and thriving parent would ever have taken him. +Years afterwards, with all their harshness softened and half their pains +dissembled, Sterne dashed them upon pages which will live for ever. Of +money and respectability Sterne inherited from his father little or none; +but he inherited two main elements of his intellectual capital—a great +store of odd scenes, and the sensitive Irish nature which appreciates odd +scenes. + +Sterne was born in the year 1713, the year of the peace of Utrecht, which +cast his father adrift upon the world. Of his mother we know nothing. +Years after, it was said that he behaved ill to her; at least neglected +and left her in misery when he had the means of placing her in comfort. +His enemies neatly said that he preferred ‘whining over a dead ass to +relieving a living mother.’ But these accusations have never been proved. +Sterne was not remarkable for active benevolence, and certainly may have +neglected an old and uninteresting woman, even though that woman was +his mother; he was a bad hand at dull duties, and did not like elderly +females; but we must not condemn him on simple probabilities, or upon a +neat epigram and loose tradition. ‘The regiment,’ says Sterne, ‘in which +my father served being broke, he left Ireland as soon as I was able to +be carried, and came to the family seat at Elvington, near York, where +his mother lived.’ After this he was carried about for some years, as his +father led the rambling life of a poor ensign, who was one of very many +engaged during a very great war, and discarded at a hasty peace. Then, +perhaps luckily, his father died, and ‘my cousin Sterne of Elvington,’ +as he calls him, took charge of him, and sent him to school and college. +At neither of these was he very eminent. He told one story late in +life which may be true, but seems very unlike the usual school-life. +‘My schoolmaster,’ he says, ‘had the ceiling of the schoolroom new +whitewashed: the ladder remained there. I one unlucky day mounted it, and +wrote with a brush in large capitals LAU. STERNE, for which the usher +severely punished me. My master was much hurt at this, and said before me +that never should that name be effaced, for I was a boy of genius, and +he was sure I should come to preferment.’ But ‘genius’ is rarely popular +in places of education; and it is, to say the least, remarkable that so +sentimental a man as Sterne should have chanced upon so sentimental an +instructor. It is wise to be suspicious of aged reminiscents; they are +like persons entrusted with ‘untold gold;’ there is no check on what they +tell us. + +Sterne went to Cambridge, and though he did not acquire elaborate +learning, he thoroughly learned a gentlemanly stock of elementary +knowledge. There is even something scholarlike about his style. It bears +the indefinable traces which an exact study of words will always leave +upon the use of words. He was accused of stealing learning, and it is +likely enough that a great many needless quotations which were stuck +into _Tristram Shandy_ were abstracted from second-hand storehouses +where such things are to be found. But what he stole was worth very +little, and his theft may now at least be pardoned, for it injures the +popularity of his works. Our present novel-readers do not at all care for +an elaborate caricature of the scholastic learning; it is so obsolete +that we do not care to have it mimicked. Much of _Tristram Shandy_ is a +sort of antediluvian fun, in which uncouth Saurian jokes play idly in an +unintelligible world. + +When he left college, Sterne had a piece of good fortune which in fact +ruined him. He had an uncle with much influence in the Church, and he +was thereby induced to enter the Church. There could not have been a +greater error. He had no special vice; he was notorious for no wild +dissipation or unpardonable folly; he had done nothing which even in this +more discreet age would be considered imprudent. He had even a refinement +which must have saved him from gross vice, and a nicety of nature which +must have saved him from coarse associations. But for all that he was +as little fit for a Christian priest as if he had been a drunkard and a +profligate. Perhaps he was less fit. + +There are certain persons whom taste guides, much as morality and +conscience guide ordinary persons. They are ‘gentlemen.’ They revolt from +what is coarse; are sickened by that which is gross; hate what is ugly. +They have no temptation to what we may call ordinary vices; they have +no inclination for such raw food; on the contrary, they are repelled by +it, and loathe it. The law in their members does _not_ war against the +law of their mind; on the contrary, the _taste_ of their bodily nature +is mainly in harmony with what conscience would prescribe or religion +direct. They may not have heard the saying that the ‘beautiful is higher +than the good, for it includes the good.’ But when they do hear it, +it comes upon them as a revelation of their instinctive creed, of the +guidance under which they have been living all their lives. They are pure +because it is ugly to be impure; innocent because it is out of taste to +be otherwise; they live within the hedge-rows of polished society; they +do not wish to go beyond them into the great deep of human life; they +have a horror of that ‘impious ocean,’ yet not of the impiety, but of the +miscellaneous noise, the disordered confusion of the whole. These are +the men whom it is hardest to make Christian,—for the simplest reason; +paganism is sufficient for them. Their pride of the eye is a good pride; +their love of the flesh is a delicate and directing love. They keep +‘within the pathways’ because they dislike the gross, the uncultured, and +the untrodden. Thus they reject the primitive precept which comes before +Christianity. Repent! repent! says a voice in the wilderness; but the +delicate pagan feels superior to the voice in the wilderness. Why should +he attend to this uncouth person? He has nice clothes and well-chosen +food, the treasures of exact knowledge, the delicate results of the +highest civilisation. Is he to be directed by a person of savage habits, +with a distorted countenance, who lives on wild honey, who does not +wear decent clothes? To the pure worshipper of beauty, to the naturally +refined pagan, conscience and the religion of conscience are not merely +intruders, but barbarous intruders. At least so it is in youth, when +life is simple and temptations if strong are distinct. Years afterwards, +probably, the purest pagan will be taught by a constant accession of +indistinct temptations, and by a gradual declension of his nature, that +taste at the best, and sentiment of the very purest, are insufficient +guides in the perplexing labyrinth of the world. + +Sterne was a pagan. He went into the Church; but Mr. Thackeray, no bad +judge, said most justly that his sermons ‘have not a single Christian +sentiment.’ They are well expressed, vigorous, moral essays; but they +are no more. Much more was not expected by many congregations in the +last age. The secular feeling of the English people, though always +strong,—though strong in Chaucer’s time, and though strong now,—was never +so all-powerful as in the last century. It was in those days that the +poet Crabbe was remonstrated with for introducing heaven and hell into +his sermons; such extravagances, he was told, were very well for the +Methodists, but a _clergyman_ should confine himself to sober matters of +this world, and show the prudence and the reasonableness of virtue during +this life. There is not much of heaven and hell in Sterne’s sermons, and +what there is seems a rhetorical emphasis which is not essential to the +argument, and which might perhaps as well be left out. Auguste Comte +might have admitted most of these sermons; they are healthy statements of +earthly truths, but they would be just as true if there was no religion +at all. Religion helps the argument, because foolish people might be +perplexed with this world, and they yield readily to another; religion +enables you—such is the real doctrine of these divines, when you examine +it—to coax and persuade those whom you cannot rationally convince; but it +does not alter the matter in hand—it does not affect that of which you +wish to persuade men, for you are but inculcating a course of conduct _in +this life_. Sterne’s sermons would be just as true if the secularists +should succeed in their argument, and the ‘valuable illusion’ of a deity +were omitted from the belief of mankind. + +However, in fact, Sterne took orders, and by the aid of his uncle, who +was a Church politician, and who knew the powers that were, he obtained +several small livings. Being a pluralist was a trifle in those easy +times; nobody then thought that the parishioners of a parson had a right +to his daily presence; if some provision were made for the performance of +a Sunday service, he had done his duty, and he could spend the surplus +income where he liked. He might perhaps be bound to reside, if health +permitted, on one of his livings, but the law allowed him to have many, +and he could not be compelled to reside on them all. Sterne preached +well-written sermons on Sundays, and led an easy pagan life on other +days, and no one blamed him. + +He fell in love too, and after he was dead, his daughter found two or +three of his love-letters to her mother, which she rashly published. They +have been the unfeeling sport of persons not in love up to the present +time. Years ago Mr. Thackeray used to make audiences laugh till they +cried by reading one or two of them, and contrasting them with certain +other letters also about his wife, but written many years later. This is +the sort of thing:— + + ‘Yes! I will steal from the world, and not a babbling tongue + shall tell where I am—Echo shall not so much as whisper my + hiding-place—suffer thy imagination to paint it as a little + sun-gilt cottage, on the side of a romantic hill—dost thou + think I will leave love and friendship behind me? No! they + shall be my companions in solitude, for they will sit down and + rise up with me in the amiable form of my L.—We will be as + merry and as innocent as our first parents in Paradise, before + the arch fiend entered that undescribable scene. + + ‘The kindest affections will have room to shoot and expand in + our retirement, and produce such fruit as madness, and envy, + and ambition have always killed in the bud.—Let the human + tempest and hurricane rage at a distance, the desolation is + beyond the horizon of peace. My L. has seen a polyanthus blow + in December—some friendly wall has sheltered it from the biting + wind. No planetary influence shall reach us, but that which + presides and cherishes the sweetest flowers.—God preserve us! + how delightful this prospect in idea! We will build, and we + will plant, in our own way—simplicity shall not be tortured + by art—we will learn of nature how to live—she shall be our + alchymist, to mingle all the good of life into one salubrious + draught.—The gloomy family of care and distrust shall be + banished from our dwelling, guarded by thy kind and tutelar + deity—we will sing our choral songs of gratitude, and rejoice + to the end of our pilgrimage. + + ‘Adieu, my L. Return to one who languishes for thy society. + + L. STERNE.’ + +The beautiful language with which young ladies were wooed a century ago +is a characteristic of that extinct age; at least, we fear that no such +beautiful English will be discovered when our secret repositories are +ransacked. The age of ridicule has come in, and the age of good words has +gone out. + +There is no reason to doubt, however, that Sterne was really in love with +Mrs. Sterne. People have doubted it because of these beautiful words; +but, in fact, Sterne was just the sort of man to be subject to this kind +of feeling. He took—and to this he owes his fame—the _sensitive_ view +of life. He regarded it not from the point of view of intellect, or +conscience, or religion, but in the plain way in which natural feeling +impresses, and will always impress, a natural person. He is a great +author; certainly not because of great thoughts, for there is scarcely a +sentence in his writings which can be called a thought; nor from sublime +conceptions which enlarge the limits of our imagination, for he never +leaves the sensuous,—but because of his wonderful sympathy with, and +wonderful power of representing, simple human nature. The best passages +in Sterne are those which every one knows, like this: + + ‘Thou hast left this matter short, said my uncle Toby to the + corporal, as he was putting him to bed,——and I will tell thee + in what, Trim.——In the first place, when thou madest an offer + of my services to Le Fever,—as sickness and travelling are + both expensive, and thou knowest he was but a poor lieutenant, + with a son to subsist as well as himself, out of his pay,—that + thou didst not make an offer to him of my purse; because, had + he stood in need, thou knowest, Trim, he had been as welcome + to it as myself.——Your honour knows, said the corporal, I had + no orders;——True, quoth my uncle Toby,—thou didst very right, + Trim, as a soldier, but certainly very wrong as a man. + + ‘In the second place, for which, indeed, thou hast the same + excuse, continued my uncle Toby,——when thou offeredst him + whatever was in my house,—thou shouldst have offered him + my house too:——A sick brother officer should have the best + quarters, Trim, and if we had him with us,—we could tend and + look to him:——Thou art an excellent nurse thyself, Trim,—and + what with thy care of him, and the old woman’s, and his boy’s, + and mine together, we might recruit him again at once, and set + him upon his legs.—— + + ‘——In a fortnight or three weeks, added my uncle Toby, + smiling,—he might march.——He will never march, an’ please your + honour, in this world, said the corporal:——He will march, said + my uncle Toby, rising up from the side of the bed, with one + shoe off:——An’ please your honour, said the corporal, he will + never march, but to his grave:——He shall march, cried my uncle + Toby, marching the foot which had a shoe on, though without + advancing an inch,—he shall march to his regiment.——He cannot + stand it, said the corporal:——He shall be supported, said my + uncle Toby:——He’ll drop at last, said the corporal, and what + will become of his boy?——He shall not drop, said my uncle Toby, + firmly.——A-well-o’day,—do what we can for him, said Trim, + maintaining his point,—the poor soul will die:——He shall not + die, by G—! cried my uncle Toby. + + ‘—The ACCUSING SPIRIT, which flew up to heaven’s chancery with + the oath, blush’d as he gave it in;—and the RECORDING ANGEL, as + he wrote it down, dropp’d a tear upon the word, and blotted it + out for ever. + + ‘—My uncle Toby went to his bureau,—put his purse into his + breeches pocket, and having ordered the corporal to go early in + the morning for a physician,—he went to bed, and fell asleep. + + ‘The sun looked bright the morning after, to every eye in the + village but Le Fever’s and his afflicted son’s; the hand of + death pressed heavy upon his eye-lids,——and hardly could the + wheel at the cistern turn round its circle,—when my uncle + Toby, who had rose up an hour before his wonted time, entered + the lieutenant’s room, and without preface or apology, sat + himself down upon the chair by the bed-side, and independently + of all modes and customs, opened the curtain in the manner an + old friend and brother officer would have done it, and asked + him how he did,—how he had rested in the night,—what was his + complaint,—where was his pain,—and what he could do to help + him:——and without giving him time to answer any one of the + inquiries, went on and told him of the little plan which he had + been concerting with the corporal the night before for him.—— + + ‘——You shall go home directly, Le Fever, said my uncle Toby, + to my house,—and we’ll send for a doctor to see what’s the + matter,—and we’ll have an apothecary,—and the corporal shall be + your nurse;——and I’ll be your servant, Le Fever. + + ‘There was a frankness in my uncle Toby,—not the _effect_ of + familiarity,—but the _cause_ of it,—which let you at once + into his soul, and showed you the goodness of his nature; to + this there was something in his looks, and voice, and manner, + super-added, which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to + come and take shelter under him; so that before my uncle Toby + had half finished the kind offers he was making to the father, + had the son insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and + had taken hold of the breast of his coat, and was pulling it + towards him.——The blood and spirit of Le Fever, which were + waxing cold and slow within him, and were retreating to their + last citadel, the heart,—rallied back,—the film forsook his + eyes for a moment,—he looked up wishfully in my uncle Toby’s + face,—then cast a look upon his boy,——and that _ligament_, fine + as it was,—was never broken.—— + + ‘Nature instantly ebb’d again,—the film returned + to its place,——the pulse fluttered——stopp’d——went + on——throbb’d——stopp’d again——moved——stopp’d——shall I go + on?——No.’ + +In one of the ‘Roundabout Papers’ Mr. Thackeray introduces a literary +man complaining of his ‘sensibility.’ ‘Ah,’ he replies, ‘my good friend, +your sensibility is your livelihood: if you did not feel the events and +occurrences of life more acutely than others, you could not describe them +better; and it is the excellence of your description by which you live.’ +This is precisely true of Sterne. He is a great author because he felt +acutely. He is the most pathetic of writers because he had—when writing, +at least—the most pity. He was, too, we believe, pretty sharply in love +with Mrs. Sterne, because he was sensitive to that sort of feeling +likewise. + +The difficulty of this sort of character is the difficulty of keeping it. +It does not last. There is a certain bloom of sensibility and feeling +about it which, in the course of nature, is apt to fade soon, and which, +when it has faded, there is nothing to replace. A character with the +binding elements—with a firm will, a masculine understanding, and a +persistent conscience—may retain, and perhaps improve, the early and +original freshness. But a loose-set, though pure character, the moment +it is thrown into temptation sacrifices its purity, loses its gloss, and +gets, so to speak, out of form entirely. + +We do not know with great accuracy what Sterne’s temptations were; +but there was one, which we can trace with some degree of precision, +which has left ineffaceable traces on his works,—which probably left +some traces upon his character and conduct. There was in that part of +Yorkshire a certain John Hall Stevenson, a country gentleman of some +fortune, and possessed of a castle, which he called Crazy Castle. Thence +he wrote tales, which he named ‘Crazy Tales,’ but which certainly are +not entitled to any such innocent name. The license of that age was +unquestionably wonderful. A man of good property could write any evil. +There was no legal check, or ecclesiastical check, and hardly any check +of public opinion. These ‘Crazy Tales’ have license without humour, and +vice without amusement. They are the writing of a man with some wit, but +only enough wit for light conversation, which becomes overworked and dull +when it is reduced to regular composition and made to write long tales. +The author, feeling his wit jaded perpetually, becomes immoral, in the +vain hope that he will cease to be dull. He has attained his reward; he +will be remembered for nauseous tiresomeness by all who have read him. + +But though the ‘Crazy Tales’ are now tedious, Crazy Castle was a pleasant +place, at least to men like Sterne. He was an idle young parson, with +much sensibility, much love of life and variety, and not a bit of grave +goodness. The dull duties of a country parson, as we now understand +them, would never have been to his taste; and the sinecure idleness then +permitted to parsons left him open to every temptation. The frail texture +of merely natural purity, the soft fibre of the instinctive pagan, yield +to the first casualty. Exactly what sort of life they led at Crazy +Castle we do not know; but vaguely we do know, and we may be sure _Mrs._ +Sterne was against it. + +One part of Crazy Castle has had effects which will last as long as +English literature. It had a library richly stored in old folio learning, +and also in the amatory reading of other days. Every page of _Tristram +Shandy_ bears traces of both elements. Sterne, when he wrote it, had +filled his head and his mind, not with the literature of his own age, but +with the literature of past ages. He was thinking of Rabelais rather than +of Fielding; of forgotten romances rather than of Richardson. He wrote, +indeed, of his own times and of men he had seen, because his sensitive +vivid nature would only endure to write of present things. But the _mode_ +in which he wrote was largely coloured by literary habits and literary +fashions that had long passed away. The oddity of the book was a kind +of advertisement to its genius, and that oddity consisted in the use of +old manners upon new things. No analysis or account of _Tristram Shandy_ +could be given which would suit the present generation; being, indeed, a +book without plan or order, it is in every generation unfit for analysis. +This age would not endure a statement of the most telling points, as the +writer thought them, and no age would like an elaborate plan of a book in +which there is no plan, in which the detached remarks and separate scenes +were really meant to be the whole. The notion that ‘a plot was to hang +plums upon’ was Sterne’s notion exactly. + +The real excellence of Sterne is single and simple; the defects are +numberless and complicated. He excels, perhaps, all other writers in mere +simple description of common sensitive human action. He places before +you in their simplest form the elemental facts of human life; he does +not view them through the intellect, he scarcely views them through the +imagination; he does but reflect the unimpaired impression that the facts +of life, which do not change from age to age, make on the deep basis of +human feeling, which changes as little though years go on. The example +we quoted just now is as good as any other, though not better than any +other. Our readers should go back to it again, or our praise may seem +overcharged. It is the portrait-painting of the heart. It is as pure a +reflection of mere natural feeling as literature has ever given, or will +ever give. The delineation is nearly perfect. Sterne’s feeling in his +higher moments so much overpowered his intellect, and so directed his +imagination, that no intrusive thought blemishes, no distorting fancy +mars, the perfection of the representation. The disenchanting facts +which deface, the low circumstances which debase the simpler feelings +oftener than any other feelings, his art excludes. The feeling which +would probably be coarse in the reality is refined in the picture. The +unconscious tact of the nice artist heightens and chastens reality, but +yet it is reality still. His mind was like a pure lake of delicate water: +it reflects the ordinary landscape, the rugged hills, the loose pebbles, +the knotted and the distorted firs perfectly and as they are, yet with +a charm and fascination that they have not in themselves. This is the +highest attainment of art, to be at the same time nature and something +more than nature. + +But here the great excellence of Sterne ends as well as begins. In +_Tristram Shandy_ especially there are several defects which, while we +are reading it, tease and disgust so much that we are scarcely willing +even to admire as we ought to admire the refined pictures of human +emotion. The first of these, and perhaps the worst, is the fantastic +disorder of the form. It is an imperative law of the writing-art, that +a book should go straight on. A great writer should be able to tell a +great meaning as coherently as a small writer tells a small meaning. The +magnitude of the thought to be conveyed, the delicacy of the emotion to +be painted, render the introductory touches of consummate art not of less +importance, but of more importance. A great writer should train the mind +of the reader for his greatest things; that is, by first strokes and +fitting preliminaries he should form and prepare his mind for the due +appreciation and the perfect enjoyment of high creations. He should not +blunder upon a beauty, nor, after a great imaginative creation, should +he at once fall back to bare prose. The high-wrought feeling which a +poet excites should not be turned out at once and without warning into +the discomposing world. It is one of the greatest merits of the greatest +living writer of fiction,—of the authoress of _Adam Bede_,—that she +never brings you to anything without preparing you for it; she has no +loose lumps of beauty; she puts in nothing at random; after her greatest +scenes, too, a natural sequence of subordinate realities again tones down +the mind to this sublunary world. Her logical style—the most logical, +probably, which a woman ever wrote—aids in this matter her natural sense +of due proportion. There is not a space of incoherency—not a gap. It is +not natural to begin with the point of a story, and she does not begin +with it. When some great marvel has been told, we all wish to know what +came of it, and she tells us. Her natural way, as it seems to those who +do not know its rarity, of telling what happened produces the consummate +effect of gradual enchantment and as gradual disenchantment. But Sterne’s +style is _un_natural. He never begins at the beginning and goes straight +through to the end. He shies-in a beauty suddenly; and just when you are +affected he turns round and grins at it. ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘is it not fine?’ +And then he makes jokes which at that place and that time are out of +place, or passes away into scholastic or other irrelevant matter, which +simply disgusts and disheartens those whom he has just delighted. People +excuse all this irregularity of form by saying that it was imitated from +Rabelais. But this is nonsense. Rabelais, perhaps, could not in his day +venture to tell his meaning straight out; at any rate, he did not tell +it. Sterne should not have chosen a model so monstrous. Incoherency is +not less a defect because an imperfect foreign writer once made use of +it. ‘You may have, sir, a reason,’ said Dr. Johnson, ‘for saying that +two and two make five, but they will still make four.’ Just so, a writer +may have a reason for selecting the defect of incoherency, but it is +a defect still. Sterne’s best things read best out of his books,—in +Enfield’s _Speaker_ and other places,—and you can say no worse of any one +as a continuous artist. + +Another most palpable defect—especially palpable now-a-days—in _Tristram +Shandy_ is its indecency. It is quite true that the customary conventions +of writing are much altered during the last century, and much which would +formerly have been deemed blameless would now be censured and disliked. +The audience has changed; and decency is of course in part dependent +on who is within hearing. A divorce case may be talked over across a +club-table with a plainness of speech and development of expression +which would be indecent in a mixed party, and scandalous before young +ladies. Now, a large part of old novels may very fairly be called +club-books; they speak out plainly and simply the notorious facts of the +world, as men speak of them to men. Much excellent and proper masculine +conversation is wholly unfit for repetition to young girls; and just +in the same way, books written—as was almost all old literature,—for +men only, or nearly only, seem coarse enough when contrasted with +novels written by young ladies upon the subjects and in the tone of the +drawing-room. The change is inevitable; as soon as works of fiction are +addressed to boys and girls, they must be fit for boys and girls; they +must deal with a life which is real so far as it goes, but which is yet +most limited; which deals with the most passionate part of life, and yet +omits the errors of the passions; which aims at describing men in their +relations to women, and yet omits an all but universal influence which +more or less distorts and modifies all these relations. + +As we have said, the change cannot be helped. A young ladies’ literature +must be a limited and truncated literature. The indiscriminate study of +human life is not desirable for them, either in fiction or in reality. +But the habitual formation of a scheme of thought and a code of morality +upon incomplete materials is a very serious evil. The readers for whose +sake the omissions are made cannot fancy what is left out. Many a girl of +the present day reads novels, and nothing but novels; she forms her mind +by them, as far as she forms it by reading at all; even if she reads a +few dull books, she soon forgets all about them, and remembers the novels +only; she is more influenced by them than by sermons. They form her idea +of the world, they define her taste, and modify her morality; not so much +in explicit thought and direct act, as unconsciously and in her floating +fancy. How is it possible to convince such a girl, especially if she +is clever, that on most points she is all wrong? She has been reading +most excellent descriptions of mere society; she comprehends those +descriptions perfectly, for her own experience elucidates and confirms +them. She has a vivid picture of a _patch_ of life. Even if she admits in +words that there is something beyond, something of which she has no idea, +she will not admit it really and in practice. What she has mastered and +realised will incurably and inevitably overpower the unknown something of +which she knows nothing, can imagine nothing, and can make nothing. ‘I am +not sure,’ said an old lady, ‘but I think it’s the novels that make my +girls so _heady_.’ It is the novels. A very intelligent acquaintance with +limited life makes them think that the world is far simpler than it is, +that men are easy to understand, ‘that mamma is _so_ foolish.’ + +The novels of the last age have certainly not this fault. They do not +err on the side of reticence. A girl may learn from them more than it is +desirable for her to know. But, as we have explained, they were meant for +men and not for girls; and if _Tristram Shandy_ had simply given a plain +exposition of necessary facts—necessary, that is, to the development +of the writer’s view of the world, and to the telling of the story in +hand,—we should not have complained; we should have regarded it as the +natural product of a now extinct society. But there are most unmistakable +traces of ‘Crazy Castle’ in _Tristram Shandy_. There is indecency for +indecency’s sake. It is made a sort of recurring and even permeating +joke to mention things which are not generally mentioned. Sterne himself +made a sort of defence, or rather denial, of this. He once asked a lady +if she had read _Tristram_. ‘I have not, Mr. Sterne,’ was the answer; +‘and, to be plain with you, I am informed it is not proper for female +perusal.’ ‘My dear good lady,’ said Sterne, ‘do not be gulled by such +stories; the book is like your young heir there’ (pointing to a child of +three years old who was rolling on the carpet in white tunics): ‘he shows +at times a good deal that is usually concealed, but it is all in perfect +innocence.’ But a perusal of _Tristram_ would not make good the plea. +The unusual publicity of what is ordinarily imperceptible is not the +thoughtless accident of amusing play; it is deliberately sought after as +a nice joke; it is treated as a good in itself. + +The indecency of _Tristram Shandy_—at least of the early part, which was +written before Sterne had been to France—is especially an offence against +taste, because of its ugliness. _Moral_ indecency is always disgusting. +There certainly is a sort of writing which cannot be called decent, and +which describes a society to the core immoral, which nevertheless is no +offence against art; it violates a higher code than that of taste, but it +does not violate the code of taste. The _Mémoires de Grammont_—hundreds +of French memoirs about France—are of this kind, more or less. They +describe the refined, witty, elegant immorality of an idle aristocracy. +They describe a life ‘unsuitable to such a being as man in such a world +as the present one,’ in which there are no high aims, no severe duties, +where some precepts of morals seem not so much to be sometimes broken as +to be generally suspended and forgotten; such a life, in short, as God +has never suffered men to lead on this earth long, which He has always +crushed out by calamity and revolution. This life, though an offence in +morals, was not an offence in taste. It was an elegant, a _pretty_ thing +while it lasted. Especially in enhancing description, where the alloy +of life may be omitted, where nothing vulgar need be noticed, where +everything elegant may be neatly painted,—such a world is elegant enough. +Morals and policy must decide how far such delineations are permissible +or expedient; but the art of beauty,—art-criticism—has no objection to +them. They are pretty paintings of pretty objects, and that is all it has +to say. They may very easily do harm; if generally read among the young +of the middle class, they would be sure to do harm: they would teach not +a few to aim at a sort of refinement denied them by circumstances, and to +neglect the duties allotted them; it would make shopmen ‘bad imitations +of polished ungodliness,’ and also bad shopmen. But still, though it +would in such places be noxious literature, in itself it would be pretty +literature. The critic must praise it, though the moralist must condemn +it, and perhaps the politician forbid it. + +But _Tristram Shandy’s_ indecency is the very opposite to this refined +sort. It consists in allusions to certain inseparable accompaniments of +actual life which are not beautiful, which can never be made interesting, +which would, _if_ they were decent, be dull and uninteresting. There is, +it appears, a certain excitement in putting such matters into a book: +there is a minor exhilaration even in petty crime. At first such things +look so odd in print that you go on reading them to see what they look +like; but you soon give up. What is disenchanting or even disgusting +in reality does not become enchanting or endurable in delineation. You +are more angry at it in literature than in life; there is much which is +barbarous and animal in reality that we could wish away; we endure it +because we cannot help it, because we did not make it and cannot alter +it, because it is an inseparable part of this inexplicable world. But why +we should put this coarse alloy, this dross of life, into the _optional_ +world of literature, which we can make as we please, it is impossible +to say. The needless introduction of accessory ugliness is always a sin +in art, and is not at all less so when such ugliness is disgusting and +improper. _Tristram Shandy_ is incurably tainted with a pervading vice; +it dwells at length on, it seeks after, it returns to, it gloats over, +the most unattractive part of the world. + +There is another defect in _Tristram Shandy_ which would of itself +remove it from the list of first-rate books, even if those which we +have mentioned did not do so. It contains eccentric characters only. +Some part of this defect may be perhaps explained by one peculiarity of +its origin. Sterne was so sensitive to the picturesque parts of life, +that he wished to paint the picturesque parts of the people he hated. +Country-towns in those days abounded in odd characters. They were out +of the way of the great opinion of the world, and shaped themselves to +little opinions of their own. They regarded the customs which the place +had inherited as the customs which were proper for it, and which it would +be foolish, if not wicked, to try to change. This gave English country +life a motley picturesqueness then, which it wants now, when London ideas +shoot out every morning, and carry on the wings of the railway a uniform +creed to each cranny of the kingdom, north and south, east and west. +These little public opinions of little places wanted, too, the crushing +power of the great public opinion of our own day; at the worst, a man +could escape from them into some different place which had customs and +doctrines that suited him better. We now may fly into another ‘city,’ but +it is all the same Roman empire; the same uniform justice, the one code +of heavy laws presses us down and makes us—the sensible part of us at +least—as like other people as we can make ourselves. The public opinion +of county towns yielded soon to individual exceptions; it had not the +confidence in itself which the opinion of each place now receives from +the accordant and simultaneous echo of a hundred places. If a man chose +to be queer, he was bullied for a year or two, then it was settled that +he was ‘queer;’ that was the fact about him, and must be accepted. In a +year or so he became an ‘institution’ of the place, and the local pride +would have been grieved if he had amended the oddity which suggested +their legends and added a flavour to their life. Of course, if a man was +rich and influential, he might soon disregard the mere opinion of the +petty locality. Every place has wonderful traditions of old rich men +who did exactly as they pleased, because they could set at naught the +opinions of the neighbours, by whom they were feared; and who did not, +as now, dread the unanimous conscience which does not fear even a squire +of 2000_l._ a year, or a banker of 8000_l._, because it is backed by the +wealth of London and the magnitude of all the country. There is little +oddity in county towns now; they are detached scraps of great places; but +in Sterne’s time there was much, and he used it unsparingly. + +Much of the delineation is of the highest merit. Sterne knew how to +describe eccentricity, for he showed its relation to our common human +nature: he showed how we were related to it, how in some sort and +in some circumstances we might ourselves become it. He reduced the +abnormal formation to the normal rules. Except upon this condition, +eccentricity is no fit subject for literary art. Every one must have +known characters which, if they were put down in books, barely and as +he sees them, would seem monstrous and disproportioned,—which would +disgust all readers,—which every critic would term unnatural. While +characters are monstrous, they should be kept out of books; they are +ugly unintelligibilities, foreign to the realm of true art. But as soon +as they can be explained to us, as soon as they are shown in their union +with, in their outgrowth from common human nature, they are the best +subjects for great art—for they are new subjects. They teach us, not the +old lesson which our fathers knew, but a new lesson which will please us +and make us better than they. Hamlet is an eccentric character, one of +the most eccentric in literature; but because, by the art of the poet, +we are made to understand that he is a possible, a _vividly_ possible +man, he enlarges our conceptions of human nature; he takes us out of the +bounds of commonplace. He ‘instructs us by means of delight.’ Sterne does +this too. Mr. Shandy, Uncle Toby, Corporal Trim, Mrs. Shandy,—for in +strictness she too is eccentric from her abnormal commonplaceness,—are +beings of which the possibility is brought home to us, which we feel +we could under circumstances and by influences become; which, though +contorted and twisted, are yet spun out of the same elementary nature, +the same thread as we are. Considering how odd these characters are, the +success of Sterne is marvellous, and his art in this respect consummate. +But yet on a point most nearly allied it is very faulty. Though each +individual character is shaded off into human nature, the whole is not +shaded off into the world. This society of originals and oddities is +left to stand by itself, as if it were a natural and ordinary society,—a +society easily conceivable and needing no explanation. Such is not the +manner of the great masters; in their best works a constant atmosphere +of half commonplace personages surrounds and shades off, illustrates and +explains every central group of singular persons. + +On the whole, therefore, the judgment of criticism on _Tristram Shandy_ +is concise and easy. It is immortal because of certain scenes suggested +by Sterne’s curious experience, detected by his singular sensibility, +and heightened by his delineative and discriminative imagination. It +is defective because its style is fantastic, its method illogical and +provoking; because its indecency is of the worst sort, as far as in +such matters an artistic judgment can speak of worst and best; because +its world of characters forms an incongruous group of singular persons +utterly dissimilar to, and irreconcilable with the world in which we +live. It is a great work of art, but of barbarous art. Its mirth is +boisterous. It is _provincial_. It is redolent of an inferior society; +of those who think crude animal spirits in themselves delightful; who do +not know that, without wit to point them, or humour to convey them, they +are disagreeable to others; who like disturbing transitions, blank pages, +and tricks of style; who do not know that a simple and logical form of +expression is the most effective, if not the easiest—the least laborious +to readers, if not always the most easily attained by writers. + +The oddity of _Tristram Shandy_ was, however, a great aid to its +immediate popularity. If an author were to stand on his head now and +then in Cheapside, his eccentricity would bring him into contact with +the police, but it would advertise his writings; they would sell better: +people would like to see what was said by a great author who was so +odd as to stand so. Sterne put his eccentricity into his writings, and +therefore came into collision with the critics; but he attained the +same end. His book sold capitally. As with all popular authors, he went +to London; he was fêted. ‘The _man_ Sterne,’ growled Dr. Johnson, ‘has +dinner engagements for three months.’ The upper world—ever desirous of +novelty, ever tired of itself, ever anxious to be amused—was in hopes of +a new wit. It naturally hoped that the author of _Tristram Shandy_ would +talk well, and it sent for him to talk. + +He did talk well, it appears, though not always very correctly, and never +very clerically. His appearance was curious, but yet refined. Eager eyes, +a wild look, a long lean frame, and what he called a cadaverous bale +of goods for a body, made up an odd exterior, which attracted notice, +and did not repel liking. He looked like a scarecrow with bright eyes. +With a random manner, but not without a nice calculation, he discharged +witticisms at London parties. His keen nerves told him which were fit +witticisms; _they_ took, and _he_ was applauded. + +He published some sermons too. That tolerant age liked, it is instructive +as well as amusing to think, sermons by the author of _Tristram Shandy_. +People wonder at the rise of Methodism; but ought they to wonder? If +a clergyman publishes his sermons because he has written an indecent +novel—a novel which is purely pagan—which is outside the ideas of +Christianity, whose author can scarcely have been inside of them—if a man +so made and so circumstanced is _as such_ to publish Christian sermons, +surely Christianity is a joke and a dream. Wesley was right in this at +least; if Christianity be true, the upper-class life of the last century +was based on rotten falsehood. A world which is really secular, which +professes to be Christian, is the worst of worlds. + +The only point in which Sterne resembles a clergyman of our own time is, +that he lost his voice. That peculiar affection of the chest and throat, +which is hardly known among barristers, but which inflicts such suffering +upon parsons, attacked him also. Sterne too, as might be expected, went +abroad for it. He ‘spluttered French,’ he tells us, with success in +Paris; the accuracy of the grammar some phrases in his letters would lead +us to doubt; but few, very few Yorkshire parsons could then talk French +at all, and there was doubtless a fine tact and sensibility in what he +said. A literary phenomenon wishing to enjoy society, and able to amuse +society, has ever been welcome in the Parisian world. After Paris, Sterne +went to the south of France, and on to Italy, lounging easily in pretty +places, and living comfortably, as far as one can see, upon the profits +of _Tristram Shandy_. Literary success has seldom changed more suddenly +and completely the course of a man’s life. For years Sterne resided in +a country parsonage, and the sources of his highest excitement were a +country town full of provincial oddities, and a ‘Crazy Castle’ full of +the license and the whims of a country squire. On a sudden London, Paris, +and Italy were opened to him. From a few familiar things he was suddenly +transferred to many unfamiliar things. He was equal to them, though the +change came so suddenly in middle life—though the change from a secluded +English district to the great and interesting scenes was far greater, +far fuller of unexpected sights and unforeseen phenomena, than it can +be now—when travelling is common—when the newspaper is ‘abroad’—when +every one has in his head some feeble image of Europe and the world. +Sterne showed the delicate docility which belongs to a sensitive and +experiencing nature. He understood and enjoyed very much of this new and +strange life, if not the whole. + +The proof of this remains written in the _Sentimental Journey_. There is +no better painting of first and easy impressions than that book. After +all which has been written on the _ancien régime_, an Englishman at least +will feel a fresh instruction on reading these simple observations. They +are instructive _because_ of their simplicity. The old world at heart +was not like that; there were depths and realities, latent forces and +concealed results, which were hidden from Sterne’s eye, which it would +have been quite out of his way to think of or observe. But the old world +_seemed_ like that. This was the spectacle of it as it was seen by an +observing stranger; and we take it up, not to know what was the truth, +but to know what we should have thought to be the truth if we had lived +in those times. People say _Eöthen_ is not like the real East; very +likely it is not, but it is like what an imaginative young Englishman +would _think_ the East. Just so, the _Sentimental Journey_ is not the +true France of the old monarchy, but it is exactly what an observant +quick-eyed Englishman might fancy that France to be. This has given it +popularity; this still makes it a valuable relic of the past. It is not +true to the outward nature of real life, but it is true to the reflected +image of that life in an imaginative and sensitive man. + +Here is the actual description of the old chivalry of France; the ‘cheap +defence of nations,’ as Mr. Burke called it a little while afterwards: + + ‘When states and empires have their periods of declension, and + feel in their turns what distress and poverty is—I stop not + to tell the causes which gradually brought the house d’E—— in + Brittany into decay. The Marquis d’E—— had fought up against + his condition with great firmness; wishing to preserve, and + still show to the world, some little fragments of what his + ancestors had been—their indiscretions had put it out of his + power. There was enough left for the little exigencies of + _obscurity_. But he had two boys who look’d up to him for + _light_—he thought they deserved it. He had tried his sword—it + could not open the way—the _mounting_ was too expensive—and + simple economy was not a match for it—there was no resource + but commerce. + + ‘In any other province in France, save Brittany, this was + smiting the root for ever of the little tree his pride and + affection wish’d to see reblossom. But in Brittany, there + being a provision for this, he avail’d himself of it; and + taking an occasion when the states were assembled at Rennes, + the Marquis, attended with his two boys, entered the court; + and having pleaded the right of an ancient law of the duchy, + which, though seldom claim’d, he said, was no less in force, + he took his sword from his side—Here, said he, take it; and be + trusty guardians of it, till better times put me in condition + to reclaim it. + + ‘The president accepted the Marquis’s sword—he stayed a few + minutes to see it deposited in the archives of his house—and + departed. + + ‘The Marquis and his whole family embarked the next day for + Martinico, and in about nineteen or twenty years of successful + application to business, with some unlook’d-for bequests from + distant branches of his house, return’d home to reclaim his + nobility and to support it. + + ‘It was an incident of good fortune which will never happen + to any traveller but a sentimental one, that I should be at + Rennes at the very time of this solemn requisition: I call it + solemn—it was so to me. + + ‘The Marquis enter’d the court with his whole family: he + supported his lady—his eldest son supported his sister, and + his youngest was at the other extreme of the line next his + mother—he put his handkerchief to his face twice— + + ‘—There was a dead silence. When the Marquis had approach’d + within six paces of the tribunal, he gave the Marchioness + to his youngest son, and advancing three steps before his + family—he reclaim’d his sword. His sword was given him; and the + moment he got it into his hand he drew it almost out of the + scabbard—’twas the shining face of a friend he had once given + up—he look’d attentively along it, beginning at the hilt, as + if to see whether it was the same—when observing a little rust + which it had contracted near the point he brought it near his + eye, and bending his head down over it—I think I saw a tear + fall upon the place: I could not be deceived by what followed. + + ‘“I shall find,” said he, “some _other way_ to get it off.” + + ‘When the Marquis had said this, he return’d his sword into its + scabbard, made a bow to the guardians of it—and with his wife + and daughter, and his two sons following him, walk’d out. + + ‘O how I envied him his feelings!’ + +It shows a touching innocence of the imagination to believe—for probably +Sterne did believe—or to expect his readers to believe, in a _noblesse_ +at once so honourable and so theatrical. + +In two points the _Sentimental Journey_, viewed with the critic’s eye, +and as a mere work of art, is a great improvement upon _Tristram Shandy_. +The style is simpler and better; it is far more connected; it does not +jump about, or leave a topic _because_ it is interesting; it does not +worry the reader with fantastic transitions, with childish contrivances +and rhetorical intricacies. Highly elaborate the style certainly is, +and in a certain sense artificial; it is full of nice touches, which +must have come only upon reflection—a careful polish and judicious +enhancement, in which the critic sees many a trace of time and toil. But +a style delicately adjusted and exquisitely polished belongs to such +a subject. Sterne undertook to write, _not_ of the coarse business of +life—very strong common sort of words are best for that—_not_ even of +interesting outward realities, which may be best described in a nice +and simple style; but of the passing moods of human nature, of the +impressions which a sensitive nature receives from the world without; +and it is only the nicest art and the most dexterous care which can +fit an obtuse language to such fine employment. How language was first +invented and made we may not know; but beyond doubt it was shaped and +fashioned into its present state by common ordinary men and women using +it for common and ordinary purposes. They wanted a carving-knife, not a +razor or lancet. And those great artists who have to use language for +more exquisite purposes, who employ it to describe changing sentiments +and momentary fancies and the fluctuating and indefinite inner world, +must use curious nicety, and hidden but effectual artifice, else they +cannot duly punctuate their thoughts, and slice the fine edges of their +reflections. A hair’s-breadth is as important to them as a yard’s-breadth +to a common workman. Sterne’s style has been criticised as artificial; +but it is justly and rightly artificial, because language used in its +natural and common mode was not framed to delineate, cannot delineate, +the delicate subjects with which he occupies himself. + +That contact with the world, and with the French world especially, +should teach Sterne to abandon the arbitrary and fantastic structure of +_Tristram Shandy_ is most natural. French prose may be unreasonable in +its meaning, but is ever rational in its structure; it is logic itself. +It will not endure that the reader’s mind should be jarred by rough +transitions, or distracted by irrelevant oddities. _Antics_ in style +are prohibited by its severe code, just as eccentricities in manner are +kept down by the critical tone of a fastidious society. In a barbarous +country oddity may be attractive; in the great world it never is, except +for a moment; it is on trial to see whether it is really oddity, to see +if it does not contain elements which may be useful to, which may be +naturalised in society at large. But inherent eccentricity, oddity _pur +et simple_, is _immiscible_ in the great ocean of universal thought; it +is apart from it, even when it floats in and is contained in it; very, +very soon it is cast out from the busy waters, and left alone upon the +beach. Sterne had the sense to be taught by the sharp touch of the world; +he threw aside the ‘player’s garb’ which he had been tempted to assume. +He discarded too, as was equally natural, the ugly indecency of _Tristram +Shandy_. We will not undertake to defend the morality of certain scenes +in the _Sentimental Journey_; there are several which might easily do +much harm; but there is nothing displeasing to the natural man in them. +They are nice enough; to those whose æsthetic nature has not been laid +waste by their moral nature, they are attractive. They have a dangerous +prettiness, which may easily incite to practical evil; but in itself, +and separated from its censurable consequences, such prettiness is an +artistic perfection. It was natural that the aristocratic world should +easily teach Sterne that separation between the laws of beauty and the +laws of morality which has been familiar to it during many ages—which +makes so much of its essence. + +Mrs. Sterne did not prosper all this time. She went abroad and stayed +at Montpellier with her husband; but it is not wonderful that a mere +‘wife,’ taken out of Yorkshire, should be unfit for the great world. The +domestic appendices of men who rise much hardly ever suit the high places +at which they arrive. Mrs. Sterne was no exception. She seems to have +been sensible, but it was _domestic_ sense. It was of the small world, +small: it was fit to regulate the Yorkshire parsonage, it was suitable +to a small _ménage_ even at Montpellier. But there was a deficiency in +general mind. She did not, we apprehend, comprehend or appreciate the new +thoughts and feelings which a new and great experience had awakened in +her husband’s mind. His mind moved, but hers could not; she was anchored, +but he was at sea. + +To fastidious writers who will only use very dignified words, there is +much difficulty in describing Sterne’s life in his celebrity. But to +humbler persons, who can only describe the things of society in the +words of society, the case is simple. Sterne was ‘an old flirt.’ These +are short and expressive words, and they tell the whole truth. There +is no good reason to suspect his morals, but he dawdled about pretty +women. He talked at fifty with the admiring tone of twenty; pretended +to ‘freshness’ of feeling; though he had become mature, did not put +away immature things. That he had any real influence over women is +very unlikely; he was a celebrity, and they liked to exhibit him; he +was amusing, and they liked him to amuse them. But they doubtless felt +that he too was himself a joke. Women much respect real virtue; they +much admire strong and successful immorality; but they neither admire +nor respect the timid age which affects the forms of vice without its +substance; which preserves the exterior of youth, though the reality +is departed; which is insidious but not dangerous, sentimental but not +passionate. Of this sort was Sterne, and he had his reward. Women of the +world are willing to accept any admiration, but this sort they accept +with suppressed and latent sarcasm. They ridiculed his imbecility while +they accepted his attentions and enjoyed his society. + +Many men have lived this life with but minor penalties, and justly; for +though perhaps a feeble and contemptible, it is not a bad or immoral +life. But Sterne has suffered a very severe though a delayed and +posthumous penalty. He was foolish enough to write letters to some of his +friends, and after his death, to get money, his family published them. +This is the sort of thing: + + ‘Eliza will receive my books with this. The sermons came all + hot from the heart: I wish that I could give them any title to + be offered to yours.—The others came from the head—I am more + indifferent about their reception. + + ‘I know not how it comes about, but I am half in love with + you—I ought to be wholly so; for I never valued (or saw more + good qualities to value) or thought more of one of your sex + than of you; so adieu. + + ‘Yours faithfully, + + ‘if not affectionately, + + ‘L. STERNE.’ + + ‘I cannot rest, Eliza, though I shall call on you at half-past + twelve, till I know how you do.—May thy dear face smile, + as thou risest, like the sun of this morning. I was much + grieved to hear of your alarming indisposition yesterday; and + disappointed too, at not being let in. Remember, my dear, that + a friend has the same right as a physician. The etiquettes + of this town (you’ll say) say otherwise.—No matter! Delicacy + and propriety do not always consist in observing their frigid + doctrines. + + ‘I am going out to breakfast, but shall be at my lodgings by + eleven, when I hope to read a single line under thy own hand, + that thou art better, and wilt be glad to see thy Bramin.’ + +This Eliza was a Mrs. Draper, the wife of a judge in India, ‘much +respected in that part of the world.’ We know little of Eliza, except +that there is a stone in Bristol cathedral— + + SACRED + TO THE MEMORY + OF + MRS. ELIZABETH DRAPER, + IN WHOM + GENIUS AND BENEVOLENCE + WERE UNITED. + SHE DIED AUGUST 3, 1778, AGED 35. + +Let us hope she possessed, in addition to genius and benevolence, the +good sense to laugh at Sterne’s letters. + +In truth, much of the gloss and delicacy of Sterne’s pagan instinct had +faded away by this time. He still retained his fine sensibility, his +exquisite power of entering into and of delineating plain human nature. +But the world had produced its inevitable effect on that soft and +voluptuous disposition. It is not, as we have said, that he was guilty of +grave offences or misdeeds; he made what he would have called a ‘splutter +of vice,’ but he would seem to have committed very little. Yet, as with +most minds which have exempted themselves from rigid principle, there was +a diffused texture of general laxity. The fibre had become imperfect; the +moral constitution was impaired; the high colour of rottenness had come +at last out, and replaced the delicate bloom and softness of the early +fruit. There is no need to write commonplace sermons on an ancient text. +The beauty and charm of natural paganism will not endure the stress and +destruction of this rough and complicated world. An instinctive purity +will preserve men for a brief time, but hardly through a long and varied +life of threescore and ten years. + +Sterne, however, did not live so long. In 1768 he came to London for +the last time, and enjoyed himself much. He dined with literary friends +and supped with fast friends. He liked both. But the end was at hand. +His chest had long been delicate; he got a bad cold which became a +pleurisy, and died in a London lodging—a footman sent by ‘some gentlemen +who were dining,’ and a hired nurse, being the only persons present. +His family were away; and he had devoted himself to intellectual and +luxurious enjoyments, which are at least as sure to make a lonely +death-bed as a refined and cultivated life. ‘Self-scanned, self-centred, +self-secure,’ a man may perhaps live, but even so by _himself_ he will +be sure to die. For self-absorbed men the world at large cares little; +as soon as they cease to amuse, or to be useful, it flings them aside, +and they die alone. Even Sterne’s grave, they say, was so obscure and +neglected that the corpse-stealers ventured to open it, and his body was +dissected without being recognised. The life of literary men is often a +kind of sermon in itself; for the pursuit of fame, when it is contrasted +with the grave realities of life, seems more absurd and trifling than +most pursuits, and to leave less behind it. Mere _amusers_ are never +respected. It would be harsh to call Sterne a mere amuser, he is much +more; but so the contemporary world regarded him. They laughed at his +jests, disregarded his death-bed, and neglected his grave. + +What, it may be asked, is there in such a career, or such a character +as this, to remind us of the great writer whom we have just lost? In +externals there seems little resemblance, or rather there seems to be +great contrast. On the one side a respected manhood, a long industry, an +honoured memory; on the other hand a life lax, if not dissolute, little +labour, and a dishonoured grave. Mr. Thackeray, too, has written a most +severe criticism on Sterne’s character. Can we, then, venture to compare +the two? We do so venture; and we allege, and that in spite of many +superficial differences, that there was one fundamental and ineradicable +resemblance between the two. + +Thackeray, like Sterne, looked at everything—at nature, at life, at +art—from a _sensitive_ aspect. His mind was, to some considerable extent, +like a woman’s mind. It could comprehend abstractions when they were +unrolled and explained before it, but it never naturally created them; +never of itself, and without external obligation, devoted itself to them. +The visible scene of life—the streets, the servants, the clubs, the +gossip, the West End—fastened on his brain. These were to him reality. +They burnt in upon his brain; they pained his nerves; their influence +reached him through many avenues, which ordinary men do not feel much, +or to which they are altogether impervious. He had distinct and rather +painful sensations where most men have but confused and blurred ones. +Most men have felt the _instructive_ headache, during which they are more +acutely conscious than usual of all which goes on around them,—during +which everything seems to pain them, and in which they understand it, +because it pains them, and they cannot get their imagination away from +it. Thackeray had a nerve-ache of this sort always. He acutely felt +every possible passing fact—every trivial interlude in society. Hazlitt +used to say of himself, and used to say truly, that he could not enjoy +the society in a drawing-room for thinking of the opinion which the +footman formed of his odd appearance as he went upstairs. Thackeray +had too healthy and stable a nature to be thrown so wholly off his +balance; but the footman’s view of life was never out of his head. The +obvious facts which suggest it to the footman poured it in upon him; +he could not exempt himself from them. As most men say that the earth +_may_ go round the sun, but in fact, when we look at the sun, we cannot +help believing it goes round the earth,—just so this most impressible, +susceptible genius could not help half accepting, half believing the +common ordinary sensitive view of life, although he perfectly knew in his +inner mind and deeper nature that this apparent and superficial view of +life was misleading, inadequate, and deceptive. He could not help seeing +everything, and what he saw made so near and keen an impression upon him, +that he could not again exclude it from his understanding; it stayed +there, and disturbed his thoughts. + +If, he often says, ‘people could write about that of which they are +really thinking, how interesting books would be!’ More than most writers +of fiction, he felt the difficulty of abstracting his thoughts and +imagination from near facts which _would_ make themselves felt. The +sick wife in the next room, the unpaid baker’s bill, the lodging-house +keeper who doubts your solvency; these, and such as these,—the usual +accompaniments of an early literary life,—are constantly alluded to +in his writings. Perhaps he could never take a grand enough view of +literature, or accept the truth of ‘high art,’ because of his natural +tendency to this stern and humble realism. He knew that he was writing +a tale which would appear in a green magazine (with others) on the 1st +of March, and would be paid for perhaps on the 11th, by which time, +probably, ‘Mr. Smith’ would have to ‘make up a sum,’ and would again +present his ‘little account.’ There are many minds besides his who feel +an interest in these realities, though they yawn over ‘high art’ and +elaborate judgments. + +A painfulness certainly clings like an atmosphere round Mr. Thackeray’s +writings, in consequence of his inseparable and ever-present realism. We +hardly know where it is, yet we are all conscious of it less or more. +A free and bold writer, like Sir Walter Scott, throws himself far away +into fictitious worlds, and soars there without effort, without pain, +and with unceasing enjoyment. You see as it were between the lines of +Mr. Thackeray’s writings, that his thoughts were never long away from +the close proximate scene. His writings might be better if it had been +otherwise; but they would have been less peculiar, less individual; they +would have wanted their character, their flavour, if he had been able +while writing them to forget for many moments the ever-attending, the +ever-painful sense of himself. + +Hence have arisen most of the censures upon him, both as he seemed to be +in society and as he was in his writings. He was certainly uneasy in the +common and general world, and it was natural that he should be so. The +world poured in upon him, and _inflicted_ upon his delicate sensibility +a number of petty pains and impressions which others do not feel at all, +or which they feel but very indistinctly. As he sat he seemed to read +off the passing thoughts—the base, common, ordinary impressions—of every +one else. Could such a man be at ease? Could even a quick intellect +be asked to set in order with such velocity so many data? Could any +temper, however excellent, be asked to bear the contemporaneous influx +of innumerable minute annoyances? Men of ordinary nerves who feel a +little of the pains of society, who perceive what really passes, who are +not absorbed in the petty pleasures of sociability, could well observe +how keen was Thackeray’s _sensation_ of common events, could easily +understand how difficult it must have been for him to keep mind and +temper undisturbed by a miscellaneous tide at once so incessant and so +forcible. + +He could not emancipate himself from such impressions even in a case +where most men hardly feel them. Many people have—it is not difficult +to have—some vague sensitive perception of what is passing in the minds +of the guests, of the ideas of such as sit at meat; but who remembers +that there are also nervous apprehensions, also a latent mental life +among those who ‘stand and wait’—among the floating figures which pass +and carve? But there was no impression to which Mr. Thackeray was more +constantly alive, or which he was more apt in his writings to express. He +observes: + + ‘Between me and those fellow-creatures of mine who are sitting + in the room below, how strange and wonderful is the partition! + We meet at every hour of the daylight, and are indebted to + each other for a hundred offices of duty and comfort of life; + and we live together for years, and don’t know each other. + John’s voice to me is quite different from John’s voice when + it addresses his mates below. If I met Hannah in the street + with a bonnet on, I doubt whether I should know her. And all + these good people, with whom I may live for years and years, + have cares, interests, dear friends and relatives, mayhap + schemes, passions, longing hopes, tragedies of their own, from + which a carpet and a few planks and beams utterly separate me. + When we were at the sea-side, and poor Ellen used to look so + pale, and run after the postman’s bell, and seize a letter in + a great scrawling hand, and read it, and cry in a corner, how + should we know that the poor little thing’s heart was breaking? + She fetched the water, and she smoothed the ribbons, and she + laid out the dresses, and brought the early cup of tea in the + morning, just as if she had had no cares to keep her awake. + Henry (who lived out of the house) was the servant of a friend + of mine who lived in chambers. There was a dinner one day, + and Henry waited all through the dinner. The champagne was + properly iced, the dinner was excellently served; every guest + was attended to; the dinner disappeared; the dessert was set; + the claret was in perfect order, carefully decanted, and more + ready. And then Henry said, “If you please, sir, may I go + home?” He had received word that his house was on fire; and, + having seen through his dinner, he wished to go and look after + his children and little sticks of furniture. Why, such a man’s + livery is a uniform of honour. The crest on his button is a + badge of bravery.’ + +Nothing in itself could be more admirable than this instinctive sympathy +with humble persons; not many things are rarer than this nervous +apprehension of what humble persons think. Nevertheless it cannot, we +think, be effectually denied that it coloured Mr. Thackeray’s writings +and the more superficial part of his character—that part which was most +obvious in common and current society—with very considerable defects. The +pervading idea of the ‘Snob Papers’ is too frequent, too recurring, too +often insisted on, even in his highest writings; there was a slight shade +of similar feeling even in his occasional society, and though it was +certainly unworthy of him, it was exceedingly natural that it should be +so, with such a mind as his and in a society such as ours. + +There are three methods in which a society may be constituted. There +is the equal system, which, with more or less of variation, prevails +in France and in the United States. The social presumption in these +countries always is that every one is on a level with every one else. +In America, the porter at the station, the shopman at the counter, +the boots at the hotel, when neither a Negro nor an Irishman, is your +equal. In France _égalité_ is a political first principle. The whole +of Louis Napoleon’s _régime_ depends upon it: remove that feeling, and +the whole fabric of the Empire will pass away. We once heard a great +French statesman illustrate this. He was giving a dinner to the clergy +of his neighbourhood, and was observing that he had now no longer the +power to help or hurt them, when an eager _curé_ said, with simple-minded +joy, ‘_Oui, monsieur, maintenant personne ne peut rien, ni le comte, +ni le prolétaire_.’ The democratic priest so rejoiced at the universal +levelling which had passed over his nation, that he could not help +boasting of it when silence would have been much better manners. We are +not now able—we have no room and no inclination—to discuss the advantages +of democratic society; but we think in England we may venture to assume +that it is neither the best nor the highest form which a society can +adopt, and that it is certainly fatal to that development of individual +originality and greatness by which the past progress of the human race +has been achieved, and from which alone, it would seem, all future +progress is to be anticipated. If it be said that people are all alike, +that the world is a plain with no natural valleys and no natural hills, +the picturesqueness of existence is destroyed, and, what is worse, the +instinctive emulation by which the dweller in the valley is stimulated to +climb the hill is annihilated and becomes impossible. + +On the other hand, there is the opposite system, which prevails in the +East,—the system of irremovable inequalities, of hedged-in castes, +which no one can enter but by birth, and from which no born member can +issue forth. This system likewise, in this age and country, needs no +attack, for it has no defenders. Every one is ready to admit that it +cramps originality, by defining our work irrespective of our qualities +and before we were born; that it retards progress, by restraining +the wholesome competition between class and class, and the wholesome +migration from class to class, which are the best and strongest +instruments of social improvement. + +And if both these systems be condemned as undesirable and prejudicial, +there is no third system except that which we have—the system of +_removable inequalities_, where many people are inferior to and +worse off than others, but in which each may _in theory_ hope to be +on a level with the highest below the throne, and in which each may +reasonably, and without sanguine impracticability, hope to gain one +step in social elevation, to be at last on a level with those who at +first were just above them. But, from the mere description of such a +society, it is evident that, taking man as he is, with the faults which +we know he has, and the tendencies which he invariably displays, some +poison of ‘snobbishness’ is inevitable. Let us define it as the habit +of ‘pretending to be higher in the social scale than you really are.’ +Everybody will admit that such pretension is a fault and a vice, yet +every observant man of the world would also admit that, considering +what other misdemeanours men commit, this offence is not inconceivably +heinous; and that, if people never did any thing worse, they might be +let off with a far less punitive judgment than in the actual state of +human conduct would be just or conceivable. How are we to hope men will +pass their lives in putting their best foot foremost, and yet will never +boast that their better foot is farther advanced and more perfect than in +fact it is? Is boasting to be made a capital crime? Given social ambition +as a propensity of human nature; given a state of society like ours, +in which there are prizes which every man may seek, degradations which +every one may erase, inequalities which every one may remove,—it is idle +to suppose that there will not be all sorts of striving to cease to be +last and to begin to be first, and it is equally idle to imagine that all +such strivings will be of the highest kind. This effort will be, like +all the efforts of our mixed and imperfect human nature, partly good and +partly bad, with much that is excellent and beneficial in it, and much +also which is debasing and pernicious. The bad striving after unpossessed +distinction is snobbishness, which from the mere definition cannot be +defended, but which may be excused as a natural frailty in an emulous +man who is not distinguished, who hopes to be distinguished, and who +perceives that a valuable means of gaining distinction is a judicious, +though false pretension that it has already been obtained. + +Mr. Thackeray, as we think, committed two errors in this matter. He +lacerates ‘snobs’ in his books as if they had committed an unpardonable +outrage and inexpiable crime. That man, he says, is anxious ‘to know +lords; and he pretends to know more of lords than he really does know. +What a villain! what a disgrace to our common nature; what an irreparable +reproach to human reason!’ Not at all; it is a fault which satirists +should laugh at, and which moralists condemn and disapprove, but which +yet does not destroy the whole vital excellence of him who possesses +it,—which may leave him a good citizen, a pleasant husband, a warm +friend; ‘a fellow,’ as the undergraduate said, ‘_up_ in his _morals_.’ + +In transient society it is possible, we think, that Mr. Thackeray thought +too much of social inequalities. They belonged to that common, plain, +perceptible world which filled his mind, and which left him at times, and +at casual moments, no room for a purely intellectual and just estimate of +men as they really are in themselves, and apart from social perfection +or defect. He could gauge a man’s reality as well as any observer, and +far better than most: his attainments were great, his perception of men +instinctive, his knowledge of casual matters enormous; but he had a +greater difficulty than other men in relying only upon his own judgment. +‘What the footman—what Mr. Yellowplush Jeames would think and say,’ could +not but occur to his mind, and would modify, not his settled judgment, +but his transient and casual opinion of the poet or philosopher. By the +constitution of his mind he thought much of social distinctions; and yet +he was in his writings too severe on those who, in cruder and baser ways, +showed that they also were thinking much. + +Those who perceive that this irritable sensibility was the basis of +Thackeray’s artistic character, that it gave him his materials, his +implanted knowledge of things and men, and gave him also that keen +and precise style which hit in description the nice edges of all +objects,—those who trace these great qualities back to their real source +in a somewhat painful organisation, must have been vexed or amused, +according to their temperament, at the common criticism which associates +him with Fielding. Fielding’s essence was the very reverse; it was a +bold spirit of bounding happiness. No just observer could talk to Mr. +Thackeray, or look at him, without seeing that he had deeply felt many +sorrows—perhaps that he was a man _likely_ to feel sorrows—that he was +of an anxious temperament. Fielding was a reckless enjoyer. He saw the +world—wealth and glory, the best dinner and the worst dinner, the gilded +_salon_ and the low sponging-house—and he saw that they were good. Down +every line of his characteristic writings there runs this elemental +energy of keen delight. There is no trace of such a thing in Thackeray. +A musing fancifulness is far more characteristic of him than a joyful +energy. + +Sterne had all this sensibility also, but—and this is the cardinal +discrepancy—it did not make him irritable. He was not hurried away, like +Fielding, by buoyant delight; he stayed and mused on painful scenes. +But they did not make him angry. He was not irritated at the ‘foolish +fat scullion.’ He did not vex himself because of the vulgar. He did not +amass petty details to prove that tenth-rate people were ever striving to +be ninth-rate people. He had no tendency to rub the bloom off life. He +accepted pretty-looking things, even the French aristocracy, and he owes +his immortality to his making them prettier than they are. Thackeray was +pained by things, and exaggerated their imperfections; Sterne brooded +over things with joy or sorrow, and he idealised their sentiment—their +pathetic or joyful characteristics. This is why the old lady said, ‘Mr. +Thackeray was an uncomfortable writer,’—and an uncomfortable writer he is. + +Nor had Sterne a trace of Mr. Thackeray’s peculiar and characteristic +scepticism. He accepted simply the pains and pleasures, the sorrows and +the joys of the world; he was not perplexed by them, nor did he seek to +explain them, or account for them. There is a tinge—a mitigated, but +perceptible tinge—of Swift’s philosophy in Thackeray. ‘Why is all this? +Surely this is very strange? Am I right in sympathising with such stupid +feelings, such petty sensations? Why are these things? Am I not a fool +to care about or think of them? The world is dark, and the great curtain +hides from us all.’ This is not a steady or an habitual feeling, but it +is never quite absent for many pages. It was inevitable, perhaps, that in +a sceptical and inquisitive age like this, some vestiges of puzzle and +perplexity should pass into the writings of our great sentimentalist. He +would not have fairly represented the moods of his time if he omitted +that pervading one. + +We had a little more to say of these great men, but our limits are +exhausted, and we must pause. Of Thackeray it is too early to speak at +length. A certain distance is needful for a just criticism. The present +generation have learned too much from him to be able to judge him +rightly. We do not know the merit of those great pictures which have sunk +into our minds, and which have coloured our thoughts, which are become +habitual memories. In the books we know best, as in the people we know +best, small points, sometimes minor merits, sometimes small faults, have +an undue prominence. When the young critics of this year have gray hairs, +their children will tell them what is the judgment of posterity upon Mr. +Thackeray. + + + + +_THE WAVERLEY NOVELS._[9] + +(1858.) + + +It is not commonly on the generation which was contemporary with the +production of great works of art that they exercise their most magical +influence. Nor is it on the distant people whom we call posterity. +Contemporaries bring to new books formed minds and stiffened creeds; +posterity, if it regard them at all, looks at them as old subjects, +worn-out topics, and hears a disputation on their merits with languid +impartiality, like aged judges in a court of appeal. Even standard +authors exercise but slender influence on the susceptible minds of a +rising generation; they are become ‘papa’s books;’ the walls of the +library are adorned with their regular volumes; but no hand touches them. +Their fame is itself half an obstacle to their popularity; a delicate +fancy shrinks from employing so great a celebrity as the companion of an +idle hour. The generation which is really most influenced by a work of +genius is commonly that which is still young when the first controversy +respecting its merits arises; with the eagerness of youth they read and +re-read; their vanity is not unwilling to adjudicate: in the process +their imagination is formed; the creations of the author range themselves +in the memory; they become part of the substance of the very mind. The +works of Sir Walter Scott can hardly be said to have gone through this +exact process. Their immediate popularity was unbounded. No one—a few +most captious critics apart—ever questioned their peculiar power. Still +they are subject to a transition, which is in principle the same. At the +time of their publication mature contemporaries read them with delight. +Superficial the reading of grown men in some sort must be; it is only +once in a lifetime that we can know the passionate reading of youth; +men soon lose its eager learning power. But from peculiarities in their +structure, which we shall try to indicate, the novels of Scott suffered +less than almost any book of equal excellence from this inevitable +superficiality of perusal. Their plain, and, so to say, cheerful merits +suit the occupied man of genial middle life. Their appreciation was to +an unusual degree coincident with their popularity. The next generation, +hearing the praises of their fathers in their earliest reading time, +seized with avidity on the volumes; and there is much in very many of +them which is admirably fitted for the delight of boyhood. A third +generation has now risen into at least the commencement of literary +life, which is quite removed from the unbounded enthusiasm with which +the Scotch novels were originally received, and does not always share +the still more eager partiality of those who, in the opening of their +minds, first received the tradition of their excellence. New books have +arisen to compete with these; new interests distract us from them. The +time, therefore, is not perhaps unfavourable for a slight criticism of +these celebrated fictions; and their continual republication, without any +criticism for many years, seems almost to demand it. + +There are two kinds of fiction which, though in common literature they +may run very much into one another, are yet in reality distinguishable +and separate. One of these, which we may call the _ubiquitous_, aims +at describing the whole of human life in all its spheres, in all its +aspects, with all its varied interests, aims, and objects. It searches +through the whole life of man; his practical pursuits, his speculative +attempts, his romantic youth, and his domestic age. It gives an entire +picture of all these; or if there be any lineaments which it forbears to +depict, they are only such as the inevitable repression of a regulated +society excludes from the admitted province of literary art. Of this +kind are the novels of Cervantes and Le Sage, and, to a certain extent, +of Smollett or Fielding. In our own time, Mr. Dickens is an author whom +nature intended to write to a certain extent with this aim. He should +have given us _not_ disjointed novels, with a vague attempt at a romantic +plot, but sketches of diversified scenes, and the obvious life of varied +mankind. The literary fates, however, if such beings there are, allotted +otherwise. By a very terrible example of the way in which in this world +great interests are postponed to little ones, the genius of authors is +habitually sacrificed to the tastes of readers. In this age, the great +readers of fiction are young people. The ‘addiction’ of these is to +romance; and accordingly a kind of novel has become so familiar to us as +almost to engross the name, which deals solely with the passion of love; +and if it uses other parts of human life for the occasions of its art, +it does so only cursorily and occasionally, and with a view of throwing +into a stronger or more delicate light those sentimental parts of earthly +affairs which are the special objects of delineation. All prolonged +delineation of other parts of human life is considered ‘dry,’ stupid, and +distracts the mind of the youthful generation from the ‘fantasies’ which +peculiarly charm it. Mr. Olmstead has a story of some deputation of the +Indians, at which the American orator harangued the barbarian audience +about the ‘great spirit,’ and ‘the land of their fathers,’ in the style +of Mr. Cooper’s novels; during a moment’s pause in the great stream, an +old Indian asked the deputation, ‘Why does your chief speak thus to us? +We did not wish great instruction or fine words; we desire brandy and +tobacco.’ No critic in a time of competition will speak uncourteously +of any reader of either sex; but it is indisputable that the old kind +of novel, full of ‘great instruction’ and varied pictures, does not +afford to some young gentlemen and some young ladies either the peculiar +stimulus or the peculiar solace which they desire. + +The Waverley Novels were published at a time when the causes that thus +limit the sphere of fiction were coming into operation, but when they had +not yet become so omnipotent as they are now. Accordingly, these novels +everywhere bear marks of a state of transition. They are not devoted with +anything like the present exclusiveness to the sentimental part of human +life. They describe great events, singular characters, strange accidents, +strange states of society; they dwell with a peculiar interest—and as if +for their own sake—on antiquarian details relating to a past society. +Singular customs, social practices, even political institutions which +existed once in Scotland, and even elsewhere, during the middle ages, are +explained with a careful minuteness. At the same time the sentimental +element assumes a great deal of prominence. The book is in fact, as well +as in theory, a narrative of the feelings and fortunes of the hero and +heroine. An attempt more or less successful has been made to insert an +interesting love-story in each novel. Sir Walter was quite aware that the +best delineation of the oddest characters, or the most quaint societies, +or the strangest incidents, would not in general satisfy his readers. He +has invariably attempted an account of youthful, sometimes of decidedly +juvenile, feelings and actions. The difference between Sir Walter’s +novels and the specially romantic fictions of the present day is, that +in the former the love-story is always, or nearly always, connected with +some great event, or the fortunes of some great historical character, or +the peculiar movements and incidents of some strange state of society; +and that the author did not suppose or expect that his readers would +be so absorbed in the sentimental aspect of human life as to be unable +or unwilling to be interested in, or to attend to, any other. There is +always a _locus in quo_, if the expression may be pardoned, in the +Waverley Novels. The hero and heroine walk among the trees of the forest +according to rule, but we are expected to take an interest in the forest +as well as in them. + +No novel, therefore, of Sir Walter Scott’s can be considered to come +exactly within the class which we have called the ubiquitous. None of +them in any material degree attempts to deal with human affairs in all +their spheres—to delineate as a whole the life of man. The canvas has a +large background, in some cases too large either for artistic effect or +the common reader’s interest; but there are always real boundaries—Sir +Walter had no _thesis_ to maintain. Scarcely any writer will set himself +to delineate the whole of human life, unless he has a doctrine concerning +human life to put forth and inculcate. The effort is _doctrinaire_. +Scott’s imagination was strictly conservative. He could understand (with +a few exceptions) any considerable movement of human life and action, +and could always describe with easy freshness everything which he did +understand; but he was not obliged by stress of fanaticism to maintain +a dogma concerning them, or to show their peculiar relation to the +general sphere of life. He described vigorously and boldly the peculiar +scene and society which in every novel he had selected as the theatre of +romantic action. Partly from their fidelity to nature, and partly from a +consistency in the artist’s mode of representation, these pictures group +themselves from the several novels in the imagination, and an habitual +reader comes to think of and understand what is meant by ‘Scott’s world;’ +but the writer had no such distinct object before him. No one novel was +designed to be a delineation of the world as Scott viewed it. We have +vivid and fragmentary histories; it is for the slow critic of after-times +to piece together their teaching. + +From this intermediate position of the Waverley Novels, or at any rate +in exact accordance with its requirements, is the special characteristic +for which they are most remarkable. We may call this in a brief phrase +their _romantic sense_; and perhaps we cannot better illustrate it than +by a quotation from the novel to which the series owes its most usual +name. It occurs in the description of the Court ball which Charles Edward +is described as giving at Holyrood House the night before his march +southward on his strange adventure. The striking interest of the scene +before him, and the peculiar position of his own sentimental career, are +described as influencing the mind of the hero. + + ‘Under the influence of these mixed sensations, and cheered + at times by a smile of intelligence and approbation from the + Prince as he passed the group, Waverley exerted his powers of + fancy, animation, and eloquence, and attracted the general + admiration of the company. The conversation gradually assumed + the line best qualified for the display of his talents and + acquisitions. The gaiety of the evening was exalted in + character, rather than checked, by the approaching dangers of + the morrow. All nerves were strung for the future, and prepared + to enjoy the present. This mood is highly favourable for the + exercise of the powers of imagination, for poetry, and for that + eloquence which is allied to poetry.’ + +Neither ‘eloquence’ nor ‘poetry’ are the exact words with which it would +be appropriate to describe the fresh style of the Waverley Novels; but +the imagination of their author was stimulated by a fancied mixture of +sentiment and fact, very much as he describes Waverley’s to have been +by a real experience of the two at once. The second volume of Waverley +is one of the most striking illustrations of this peculiarity. The +character of Charles Edward, his adventurous undertaking, his ancestral +rights, the mixed selfishness and enthusiasm of the Highland chiefs, +the fidelity of their hereditary followers, their striking and strange +array, the contrast with the Baron of Bradwardine and the Lowland gentry; +the collision of the motley and half-appointed host with the formed and +finished English society, its passage by the Cumberland mountains and +the blue lake of Ullswater—are unceasingly and without effort present +to the mind of the writer, and incite with their historical interest +the susceptibility of his imagination. But at the same time the mental +struggle, or rather transition, in the mind of Waverley—for his mind +was of the faint order which scarcely struggles—is never for an instant +lost sight of. In the very midst of the inroad and the conflict, the +acquiescent placidity with which the hero exchanges the service of the +imperious for the appreciation of the ‘nice’ heroine, is kept before +us, and the imagination of Scott wandered without effort from the great +scene of martial affairs to the natural but rather unheroic sentiments +of a young gentleman not very difficult to please. There is no trace of +effort in the transition, as is so common in the inferior works of later +copyists. Many historical novelists, especially those who with care and +pains have ‘read up’ their detail, are often evidently in a strait how +to pass from their history to their sentiment. The fancy of Sir Walter +could not help connecting the two. If he had given us the English side of +the race to Derby, he would have described the Bank of England paying in +sixpences, and also the loves of the cashier. + +It is not unremarkable in connection with this, the special +characteristic of the ‘Scotch novels,’ that their author began his +literary life by collecting the old ballads of his native country. Ballad +poetry is, in comparison at least with many other kinds of poetry, a +sensible thing. It describes not only romantic events, but historical +ones, incidents in which there is a form and body and consistence—events +which have a result. Such a poem as ‘Chevy Chace,’ we need not explain, +has its prosaic side. The latest historian of Greece has nowhere been +more successful than in his attempt to derive from Homer, the greatest of +ballad poets, a thorough and consistent account of the political working +of the Homeric state of society. The early natural imagination of men +seizes firmly on all which interests the minds and hearts of natural +men. We find in its delineations the council as well as the marriage; +the harsh conflict as well as the deep love-affair. Scott’s own poetry +is essentially a modernised edition of the traditional poems which his +early youth was occupied in collecting. The _Lady of the Lake_ is a sort +of _boudoir_ ballad, yet it contains its element of common sense and +broad delineation. The exact position of Lowlander and Highlander would +not be more aptly described in a set treatise than in the well-known +lines: + + ‘Saxon, from yonder mountain high + I marked thee send delighted eye + Far to the south and east, where lay, + Extended in succession gay, + Deep waving fields and pastures green, + With gentle slopes and groves between: + These fertile plains, that softened vale, + Were once the birthright of the Gael. + The stranger came with iron hand, + And from our fathers reft the land. + Where dwell we now! See, rudely swell + Crag over crag, and fell o’er fell. + Ask we this savage hill we tread, + For fattened steer or household bread; + Ask we for flocks these shingles dry,— + And well the mountain might reply: + To you, as to your sires of yore, + Belong the target and claymore; + I give you shelter in my breast, + Your own good blades must win the rest. + Pent in this fortress of the North, + Think’st thou we will not sally forth + To spoil the spoiler as we may, + And from the robber rend the prey? + Ay, by my soul! While on yon plain + The Saxon rears one shock of grain; + While of ten thousand herds there strays + But one along yon river’s maze; + The Gael, of plain and river heir, + Shall with strong hand redeem his share.’ + +We need not search the same poem for specimens of the romantic element, +for the whole poem is full of them. The incident in which Ellen +discovers who Fitz-James really is, is perhaps excessively romantic. At +any rate the lines,— + + ‘To him each lady’s look was lent; + On him each courtier’s eye was bent; + Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen, + He stood in simple Lincoln green, + The centre of the glittering ring, + And Snowdoun’s knight is Scotland’s king,’— + +may be cited as very sufficient example of the sort of sentimental +incident which is separable from extreme feeling. When Scott, according +to his own half-jesting but half-serious expression, was ‘beaten out of +poetry’ by Byron, he began to express in more pliable prose the same +combination which his verse had been used to convey. As might have +been expected, the sense became in the novels more free, vigorous, +and flowing, because it is less cramped by the vehicle in which it is +conveyed. The range of character which can be adequately delineated in +narrative verse is much narrower than that which can be described in +the combination of narrative with dramatic prose; and perhaps even the +sentiment of the novels is manlier and freer; a delicate unreality hovers +over the _Lady of the Lake_. + +The sensible element, if we may so express it, of the Waverley Novels +appears in various forms. One of the most striking is in the delineation +of great political events and influential political institutions. We +are not by any means about to contend that Scott is to be taken as an +infallible or an impartial authority for the parts of history which +he delineates. On the contrary, we believe all the world now agrees +that there are many deductions to be made from, many exceptions to be +taken to, the accuracy of his delineations. Still, whatever period or +incident we take, we shall always find in the error a great, in one or +two cases perhaps an extreme, mixture of the mental element which we term +common sense. The strongest _un_sensible feeling in Scott was perhaps +his Jacobitism, which crept out even in small incidents and recurring +prejudice throughout the whole of his active career, and was, so to say, +the emotional aspect of his habitual Toryism. Yet no one can have given +a more sensible delineation, we might say a more statesmanlike analysis, +of the various causes which led to the momentary success, and to the +speedy ruin, of the enterprise of Charles Edward. Mr. Lockhart says, +that notwithstanding Scott’s imaginative readiness to exalt Scotland at +the expense of England, no man would have been more willing to join in +emphatic opposition to an anti-English party, if any such had presented +itself with a practical object. Similarly his Jacobitism, though not +without moments of real influence, passed away when his mind was directed +to broad masses of fact, and general conclusions of political reasoning. +A similar observation may be made as to Scott’s Toryism; although it is +certain that there was an enthusiastic, and, in the malicious sense, +poetical element in Scott’s Toryism, yet quite as indisputably it partook +largely of two other elements, which are in common repute prosaic. He +shared abundantly in the love of administration and organisation, common +to all men of great active powers. He liked to contemplate method at +work and order in action. Everybody hates to hear that the Duke of +Wellington asked ‘how the king’s government was to be carried on.’ No +amount of warning wisdom will bear so fearful a repetition. Still he +_did_ say it, and Scott had a sympathising foresight of the oracle +before it was spoken. One element of his conservatism is his sympathy +with the administrative arrangement, which is confused by the objections +of a Whiggish opposition and is liable to be altogether destroyed by +uprisings of the populace. His biographer, while pointing out the strong +contrast between Scott and the argumentative and parliamentary statesmen +of his age, avows his opinion that in other times, and with sufficient +opportunities, Scott’s ability in managing men would have enabled him to +‘play the part of Cecil or of Gondomar.’ We may see how much a suppressed +enthusiasm for such abilities breaks out, not only in the description of +hereditary monarchs, where the sentiment might be ascribed to a different +origin, but also in the delineation of upstart rulers, who could have +no hereditary sanctity in the eyes of any Tory. Roland Græme, in the +_Abbot_, is well described as losing in the presence of the Regent Murray +the natural impertinence of his disposition. ‘He might have braved with +indifference the presence of an earl merely distinguished by his belt +and coronet; but he felt overawed in that of the soldier and statesman, +the wielder of a nation’s power, and the leader of her armies.’ It is +easy to perceive that the author shares the feeling of his hero by the +evident pleasure with which he dwells on the Regent’s demeanour: ‘He then +turned slowly round toward Roland Græme, and the marks of gaiety, real or +assumed, disappeared from his countenance as completely as the passing +bubbles leave the dark mirror of a still profound lake into which the +traveller has cast a stone; in the course of a minute his noble features +had assumed their natural expression of melancholy gravity,’ &c. In real +life, Scott used to say, that he never remembered feeling abashed in any +one’s presence except the Duke of Wellington’s. Like that of the hero of +his novel, his imagination was very susceptible to the influence of great +achievements and prolonged success in wide-spreading affairs. + +The view which Scott seems to have taken of democracy indicates exactly +the same sort of application of a plain sense to the visible parts of +the subject. His imagination was singularly penetrated with the strange +varieties and motley composition of human life. The extraordinary +multitude and striking contrast of the characters in his novels show this +at once. And even more strikingly is the same habit of mind indicated +‘by a tendency never to omit an opportunity of describing those varied +crowds and assemblages,’ which concentrate for a moment into a unity the +scattered and unlike varieties of mankind. Thus, but a page or two before +the passage which we alluded to in the _Abbot_, we find the following: + + ‘It was indeed no common sight to Roland, the vestibule of a + palace, traversed by its various groups,—some radiant with + gaiety—some pensive, and apparently weighed down by affairs + concerning the State, or concerning themselves. Here the + hoary statesman, with his cautious yet commanding look, his + furred cloak and sable pantoufles; there the soldier in buff + and steel, his long sword jarring against the pavement, and + his whiskered upper lip and frowning brow looking an habitual + defiance of danger, which perhaps was not always made good; + there again passed my lord’s serving-man, high of heart + and bloody of hand, humble to his master and his master’s + equals, insolent to all others. To these might be added the + poor suitor, with his anxious look and depressed mien—the + officer, full of his brief authority, elbowing his betters, and + possibly his benefactors, out of the road—the proud priest, + who sought a better benefice—the proud baron, who sought a + grant of church lands—the robber chief, who came to solicit a + pardon for the injuries he had inflicted on his neighbours—the + plundered franklin, who came to seek vengeance for that which + he had himself received. Besides, there was the mustering + and disposition of guards and soldiers—the despatching of + messengers, and the receiving them—the trampling and neighing + of horses without the gate—the flashing of arms, and rustling + of plumes, and jingling of spurs within it. In short, it was + that gay and splendid confusion, in which the eye of youth sees + all that is brave and brilliant, and that of experience much + that is doubtful, deceitful, false, and hollow—hopes that will + never be gratified—promises which will never be fulfilled—pride + in the disguise of humility—and insolence in that of frank and + generous bounty.’ + +As in the imagination of Shakespeare, so in that of Scott, the principal +form and object were the structure—that is a hard word—the undulation +and diversified composition of human society; the picture of this stood +in the centre, and everything else was accessory and secondary to it. +The old ‘rows of books,’ in which Scott so peculiarly delighted, were +made to contribute their element to this varied imagination of humanity. +From old family histories, odd memoirs, old law-trials, his fancy +elicited new traits to add to the motley assemblage. His objection to +democracy—an objection of which we can only appreciate the emphatic +force, when we remember that his youth was contemporary with the first +French Revolution, and the controversy as to the uniform and stereotyped +rights of man—was, that it would sweep away this entire picture, level +prince and peasant in a common _égalité_,—substitute a scientific +rigidity for the irregular and picturesque growth of centuries,—replace +an abounding and genial life by a symmetrical but lifeless mechanism. All +the descriptions of society in the novels,—whether of feudal society, +of modern Scotch society, or of English society,—are largely coloured +by this feeling. It peeps out everywhere, and liberal critics have +endeavoured to show that it was a narrow Toryism; but in reality, it is +a subtle compound of the natural instinct of the artist with the plain +sagacity of the man of the world. + +It would be tedious to show how clearly the same sagacity appears in his +delineation of the various great events and movements in society which +are described in the Scotch novels. There is scarcely one of them which +does not bear it on its surface. Objections may, as we shall show, be +urged to the delineation which Scott has given of the Puritan resistance +and rebellions, yet scarcely any one will say there is not a worldly +sense in it. On the contrary, the very objection is, that it is too +worldly, and far too exclusively sensible. + +The same thoroughly well-grounded sagacity and comprehensive appreciation +of human life is shown in the treatment of what we may call _anomalous_ +characters. In general, monstrosity is no topic for art. Every one has +known in real life characters which if, apart from much experience, +he had found described in books, he would have thought unnatural and +impossible. Scott, however, abounds in such characters. Meg Merrilies, +Edie Ochiltree, Radcliffe, are more or less of that description. That of +Meg Merrilies especially is as distorted and eccentric as anything can +be. Her appearance is described as making Mannering ‘start;’ and well it +might. + + ‘She was full six feet high, wore a man’s greatcoat over the + rest of her dress, had in her hand a goodly sloethorn cudgel, + and in all points of equipment except her petticoats seemed + rather masculine than feminine. Her dark elf-locks shot out + like the snakes of the gorgon between an old-fashioned bonnet + called a bongrace, heightening the singular effect of her + strong and weather-beaten features, which they partly shadowed, + while her eye had a wild roll that indicated something of + insanity.’ + +Her career in the tale corresponds with the strangeness of her exterior. +‘Harlot, thief, witch, and gipsy,’ as she describes herself, the hero +is preserved by her virtues; half-crazed as she is described to be, he +owes his safety on more than one occasion to her skill in stratagem, and +ability in managing those with whom she is connected, and who are most +likely to be familiar with her weakness and to detect her craft. Yet on +hardly any occasion is the natural reader conscious of this strangeness. +Something is of course attributable to the skill of the artist; for no +other power of mind could produce the effect, unless it were aided by the +unconscious tact of detailed expression. But the fundamental explanation +of this remarkable success is the distinctness with which Scott saw how +such a character as Meg Merrilies arose and was produced out of the +peculiar circumstances of gipsy life in the localities in which he has +placed his scene. He has exhibited this to his readers not by lengthy +or elaborate description, but by chosen incidents, short comments, and +touches of which he scarcely foresaw the effect. This is the only way +in which the fundamental objection to making eccentricity the subject +of artistic treatment can be obviated. Monstrosity ceases to be such +when we discern the laws of nature which evolve it: when a real science +explains its phenomena, we find that it is in strict accordance with what +we call the natural type, but that some rare adjunct or uncommon casualty +has interfered and distorted a nature which is really the same, into +a phenomenon which is altogether different. Just so with eccentricity +in human character; it becomes a topic of literary art only when its +identity with the ordinary principles of human nature is exhibited in +the midst of, and as it were by means of, the superficial unlikeness. +Such a skill, however, requires an easy careless familiarity with usual +human life and common human conduct. A writer must have a sympathy +with health before he can show us how, and where, and to what extent, +that which is unhealthy deviates from it; and it is this consistent +acquaintance with regular life which makes the irregular characters of +Scott so happy a contrast to the uneasy distortions of less sagacious +novelists. + +A good deal of the same criticism may be applied to the delineation which +Scott has given us of the _poor_. In truth, poverty is an anomaly to +rich people. It is very difficult to make out why people who want dinner +do not ring the bell. One half of the world, according to the saying, +do not know how the other half live. Accordingly, nothing is so rare +in fiction as a good delineation of the poor. Though perpetually with +us in reality, we rarely meet them in our reading. The requirements of +the case present an unusual difficulty to artistic delineation. A good +deal of the character of the poor is an unfit topic for continuous art, +and yet we wish to have in our books a lifelike exhibition of the whole +of that character. Mean manners and mean vices are unfit for prolonged +delineation; the every-day pressure of narrow necessities is too petty +a pain and too anxious a reality to be dwelt upon. We can bear the mere +description of the _Parish Register_— + + ‘But this poor farce has neither truth nor art + To please the fancy or to touch the heart. + Dark but not awful, dismal but yet mean, + With anxious bustle moves the cumbrous scene; + Presents no objects tender or profound, + But spreads its cold unmeaning gloom around;’— + +but who could bear to have a long narrative of fortunes ‘dismal but yet +mean,’ with characters ‘dark but not awful,’ and no objects ‘tender or +profound’? Mr. Dickens has in various parts of his writings been led +by a sort of pre-Raphaelite _cultus_ of reality into an error of this +species. His poor people have taken to their poverty very thoroughly; +they are poor talkers and poor livers, and in all ways poor people +to read about. A whole array of writers have fallen into an opposite +mistake. Wishing to preserve their delineations clear from the defects +of meanness and vulgarity, they have attributed to the poor a fancied +happiness and Arcadian simplicity. The conventional shepherd of ancient +times was scarcely displeasing: that which is by everything except +express avowal removed from the sphere of reality does not annoy us by +its deviations from reality; but the fictitious poor of sentimental +novelists are brought almost into contact with real life, half claim +to be copies of what actually exists at our very doors, are introduced +in close proximity to characters moving in a higher rank, over whom no +such ideal charm is diffused, and who are painted with as much truth as +the writer’s ability enables him to give. Accordingly, the contrast is +evident and displeasing: the harsh outlines of poverty will not bear the +artificial rose-tint; they are seen through it, like high cheek-bones +through the delicate colours of artificial youth; we turn away with +some disgust from the false elegance and undeceiving art; we prefer the +rough poor of nature to the petted poor of the refining describer. Scott +has most felicitously avoided both these errors. His poor people are +never coarse and never vulgar; their lineaments have the rude traits +which a life of conflict will inevitably leave on the minds and manners +of those who are to lead it; their notions have the narrowness which +is inseparable from a contracted experience; their knowledge is not +more extended than their restricted means of attaining it would render +possible. Almost alone among novelists Scott has given a thorough, +minute, lifelike description of poor persons, which is at the same time +genial and pleasing. The reason seems to be, that the firm sagacity of +his genius comprehended the industrial aspect of poor people’s life +thoroughly and comprehensively, his experience brought it before him +easily and naturally, and his artist’s mind and genial disposition +enabled him to dwell on those features which would be most pleasing to +the world in general. In fact, his own mind of itself and by its own +nature dwelt on those very peculiarities. He could not remove his firm +and instructed genius into the domain of Arcadian unreality, but he was +equally unable to dwell principally, peculiarly, or consecutively, on +those petty, vulgar, mean details in which such a writer as Crabbe lives +and breathes. Hazlitt said that Crabbe described a poor man’s cottage +like a man who came to distrain for rent; he catalogued every trivial +piece of furniture, defects and cracks and all. Scott describes it as +a cheerful but most sensible landlord would describe a cottage on his +property: he has a pleasure in it. No detail, or few details, in the +life of the inmates escape his experienced and interested eye; but he +dwells on those which do not displease him. He sympathises with their +rough industry and plain joys and sorrows. He does not fatigue himself or +excite their wondering smile by theoretical plans of impossible relief. +He makes the best of the life which is given, and by a sanguine sympathy +makes it still better. A hard life many characters in Scott seem to lead; +but he appreciates, and makes his reader appreciate, the full value of +natural feelings, plain thoughts, and applied sagacity. + +His ideas of political economy are equally characteristic of his strong +sense and genial mind. He was always sneering at Adam Smith, and telling +many legends of that philosopher’s absence of mind and inaptitude for +the ordinary conduct of life. A contact with the Edinburgh logicians +had, doubtless, not augmented his faith in the formal deductions of +abstract economy; nevertheless, with the facts before him, he could give +a very plain and satisfactory exposition of the genial consequences of +old abuses, the distinct necessity for stern reform, and the delicate +humanity requisite for introducing that reform temperately and with +feeling: + + ‘Even so the Laird of Ellangowan ruthlessly commenced his + magisterial reform, at the expense of various established + and superannuated pickers and stealers, who had been his + neighbours for half a century. He wrought his miracles like a + second Duke Humphrey; and by the influence of the beadle’s rod, + caused the lame to walk, the blind to see, and the palsied to + labour. He detected poachers, black-fishers, orchard-breakers, + and pigeon-shooters; had the applause of the bench for his + reward, and the public credit of an active magistrate. + + ‘All this good had its rateable proportion of evil. Even an + admitted nuisance, of ancient standing, should not be abated + without some caution. The zeal of our worthy friend now + involved in great distress sundry personages whose idle and + mendicant habits his own _lâchesse_ had contributed to foster, + until these habits had become irreclaimable, or whose real + incapacity for exertion rendered them fit objects, in their + own phrase, for the charity of all well-disposed Christians. + The “long-remembered beggar,” who for twenty years had made + his regular rounds within the neighbourhood, received rather + as an humble friend than as an object of charity, was sent to + the neighbouring workhouse. The decrepit dame, who travelled + round the parish upon a hand-barrow, circulating from house + to house like a bad shilling, which every one is in haste to + pass to his neighbour; she who used to call for her bearers as + loud, or louder, than a traveller demands post-horses, even she + shared the same disastrous fate. The “daft Jock,” who, half + knave, half idiot, had been the sport of each succeeding race + of village children for a good part of a century, was remitted + to the county bridewell, where, secluded from free air and + sunshine, the only advantages he was capable of enjoying, he + pined and died in the course of six months. The old sailor, who + had so long rejoiced the smoky rafters of every kitchen in the + country, by singing _Captain Ward_ and _Bold Admiral Benbow_, + was banished from the county for no better reason than that + he was supposed to speak with a strong Irish accent. Even the + annual rounds of the pedlar were abolished by the Justice, in + his hasty zeal for the administration of rural police. + + ‘These things did not pass without notice and censure. We + are not made of wood or stone, and the things which connect + themselves with our hearts and habits cannot, like bark or + lichen, be rent away without our missing them. The farmer’s + dame lacked her usual share of intelligence, perhaps also + the self-applause which she had felt while distributing the + _awmous_ (alms), in shape of a _gowpen_ (handful) of oatmeal, + to the mendicant who brought the news. The cottage felt + inconvenience from interruption of the petty trade carried on + by the itinerant dealers. The children lacked their supply of + sugar-plums and toys; the young women wanted pins, ribbons, + combs, and ballads; and the old could no longer barter their + eggs for salt, snuff, and tobacco. All these circumstances + brought the busy Laird of Ellangowan into discredit, which was + the more general on account of his former popularity. Even his + lineage was brought up in judgment against him. They thought + “naething of what the like of Greenside, or Burnville, or + Viewforth, might do, that were strangers in the country; but + Ellangowan! that had been a name amang them since the mirk + Monanday, and lang before—_him_ to be grinding the puir at + that rate!—They ca’d his grandfather the Wicked Laird; but, + though he was whiles fractious aneuch, when he got into roving + company, and had ta’en the drap drink, he would have scorned to + gang on at this gate. Na, na, the muckle chumlay in the Auld + Place reeked like a killogie in his time, and there were as + mony puir folk riving at the banes in the court and about the + door, as there were gentles in the ha’. And the leddy, on ilka + Christmas night as it came round, gae twelve siller pennies to + ilka puir body about, in honour of the twelve apostles like. + They were fond to ca’ it papistrie; but I think our great folk + might take a lesson frae the papists whiles. They gie another + sort o’ help to puir folk than just dinging down a saxpence + in the brod on the Sabbath, and kilting, and scourging, and + drumming them a’ the sax days o’ the week besides.”’ + +Many other indications of the same healthy and natural sense, which +gives so much of their characteristic charm to the Scotch novels, might +be pointed out, if it were necessary to weary our readers by dwelling +longer on a point we have already laboured so much. One more, however, +demands notice because of its importance, and perhaps also because, +from its somewhat less obvious character, it might otherwise escape +without notice. There has been frequent controversy as to the penal +code, if we may so call it, of fiction; that is, as to the apportionment +of reward and punishment respectively to the good and evil personages +therein delineated; and the practice of authors has been as various +as the legislation of critics. One school abandons all thought on the +matter, and declares that in the real life we see around us, good people +often fail, and wicked people continually prosper; and would deduce the +precept, that it is unwise in an art which should hold the ‘mirror up +to nature,’ not to copy the uncertain and irregular distribution of +its sanctions. Another school, with an exactness which savours at times +of pedantry, apportions the success and the failure, the pain and the +pleasure of fictitious life to the moral qualities of those who are +living in it—does not think at all, or but little, of any other quality +in those characters, and does not at all care whether the penalty and +reward are evolved in natural sequence from the circumstances and +characters of the tale, or are owing to some monstrous accident far +removed from all relation of cause or consequence to those facts and +people. Both these classes of writers produce works which jar on the +natural sense of common readers, and are at issue with the analytic +criticism of the best critics. One school leaves an impression of an +uncared-for world, in which there is no right and no wrong; the other, +of a sort of Governesses’ Institution of a world, where all praise and +all blame, all good and all pain, are made to turn on special graces +and petty offences, pesteringly spoken of and teasingly watched for. +The manner of Scott is thoroughly different; you can scarcely lay down +any novel of his without a strong feeling that the world in which the +fiction has been laid, and in which your imagination has been moving, +is one subject to laws of retribution which, though not apparent on a +superficial glance, are yet in steady and consistent operation, and will +be quite sure to work their due effect, if time is only given to them. +Sagacious men know that this is in its best aspect the condition of +life. Certain of the ungodly may, notwithstanding the Psalmist, flourish +even through life like a green bay-tree; for providence, in external +appearance (far differently from the real truth of things, as we may one +day see it), works by a scheme of averages. Most people who ought to +succeed, do succeed; most people who do fail, ought to fail. But there +is no exact adjustment of ‘mark’ to merit; the competitive examination +system appears to have an origin more recent than the creation of +the world;—‘on the whole,’ ‘speaking generally,’ ‘looking at life as +a whole,’ are the words in which we must describe the providential +adjustment of visible good and evil to visible goodness and badness. +And when we look more closely, we see that these general results are +the consequences of certain principles which work half unseen, and +which are effectual in the main, though thwarted here and there. It +is this comprehensive though inexact distribution of good and evil, +which is suited to the novelist, and it is exactly this which Scott +instinctively adopted. Taking a firm and genial view of the common facts +of life,—seeing it as an experienced observer and tried man of action,—he +could not help giving the representation of it which is insensibly borne +in on the minds of such persons. He delineates it as a world moving +according to laws which are always producing their effect, never _have_ +produced it; sometimes fall short a little; are always nearly successful. +Good sense produces its effect, as well as good intention; ability is +valuable as well as virtue. It is this peculiarity which gives to his +works, more than anything else, the life-likeness which distinguishes +them; the average of the copy is struck on the same scale as that of +reality; an unexplained, uncommented-on adjustment works in the one, just +as a hidden, imperceptible principle of apportionment operates in the +other. + +The romantic susceptibility of Scott’s imagination is as obvious in his +novels as his matter-of-fact sagacity. We can find much of it in the +place in which we should naturally look first for it,—his treatment of +his heroines. We are no indiscriminate admirers of these young ladies, +and shall shortly try to show how much they are inferior as imaginative +creations to similar creations of the very highest artists. But the mode +in which the writer speaks of them everywhere indicates an imagination +continually under the illusion which we term romance. A gentle tone +of manly admiration pervades the whole delineation of their words and +actions. If we look carefully at the narratives of some remarkable +female novelists—it would be invidious to give the instances by name—we +shall be struck at once with the absence of this; they do not half like +their heroines. It would be satirical to say that they were jealous of +them; but it is certain that they analyse the mode in which their charms +produce their effects, and the _minutiæ_ of their operation, much in the +same way in which a slightly jealous lady examines the claims of the +heroines of society. The same writers have invented the atrocious species +of plain heroines. Possibly none of the frauds which are now so much the +topic of common remark are so irritating, as that to which the purchaser +of a novel is a victim on finding that he has only to peruse a narrative +of the conduct and sentiments of an ugly lady. ‘Two-and-sixpence to +know the heart which has high cheek-bones!’ Was there ever such an +imposition? Scott would have recoiled from such a conception. Even +Jeanie Deans, though no heroine, like Flora Macivor, is described as +‘comely,’ and capable of looking almost pretty when required, and she +has a compensating set-off in her sister, who is beautiful as well as +unwise. Speaking generally, as is the necessity of criticism, Scott makes +his heroines, at least by profession, attractive, and dwells on their +attractiveness, though not with the wild ecstasy of insane youth, yet +with the tempered and mellow admiration common to genial men of this +world. Perhaps at times we are rather displeased at his explicitness, +and disposed to hang back and carp at the admirable qualities displayed +to us. But this is only a stronger evidence of the peculiarity which +we speak of,—of the unconscious sentiments inseparable from Scott’s +imagination. + +The same romantic tinge undeniably shows itself in Scott’s pictures of +the past. Many exceptions have been taken to the detail of mediæval +life as it is described to us in _Ivanhoe_; but one merit will always +remain to it, and will be enough to secure to it immense popularity. It +describes the middle ages as we should have wished them to have been. We +do not mean that the delineation satisfies those accomplished admirers of +the old Church system who fancy that they have found among the prelates +and barons of the fourteenth century a close approximation to the +theocracy which they would recommend for our adoption. On the contrary, +the theological merits of the middle ages are not prominent in Scott’s +delineation. ‘Dogma’ was not in his way: a cheerful man of the world is +not anxious for a precise definition of peculiar doctrines. The charm of +_Ivanhoe_ is addressed to a simpler sort of imagination, to that kind +of boyish fancy which idolises mediæval society as the ‘fighting time.’ +Every boy has heard of tournaments, and has a firm persuasion that in +an age of tournaments life was thoroughly well understood. A martial +society, where men fought hand to hand on good horses with large lances, +in peace for pleasure, and in war for business, seems the very ideal of +perfection to a bold and simply fanciful boy. _Ivanhoe_ spreads before +him the full landscape of such a realm, with Richard Cœur-de-Lion, a +black horse, and the passage of arms at Ashby. Of course he admires it, +and thinks there was never such a writer, and will never more be such a +world. And a mature critic will share his admiration, at least to the +extent of admitting that nowhere else have the elements of a martial +romance been so gorgeously accumulated without becoming oppressive; their +fanciful charm been so powerfully delineated, and yet so constantly +relieved by touches of vigorous sagacity. One single fact shows how great +the romantic illusion is. The pressure of painful necessity is scarcely +so great in this novel, as in novels of the same writer in which the +scene is laid in modern times. Much may be said in favour of the mediæval +system as contradistinguished from existing society; much has been said. +But no one can maintain that general comfort was as much diffused as +it is now. A certain ease pervades the structure of later society. Our +houses may not last so long, are not so picturesque, will leave no such +ruins behind them; but they are warmed with hot water, have no draughts, +and contain sofas instead of rushes. A slight daily unconscious luxury +is hardly ever wanting to the dwellers in civilisation; like the gentle +air of a genial climate, it is a perpetual minute enjoyment. The absence +of this marks a rude barbaric time. We may avail ourselves of rough +pleasures, stirring amusements, exciting actions, strange rumours; but +life is hard and harsh. The cold air of the keen North may brace and +invigorate, but it cannot soothe us. All sensible people know that the +middle ages must have been very uncomfortable; there was a difficulty +about ‘good food;’—almost insuperable obstacles to the cultivation of +nice detail and small enjoyment. No one knew the abstract facts on which +this conclusion rests better than Scott; but his delineation gives +no general idea of the result. A thoughtless reader rises with the +impression that the middle ages had the same elements of happiness which +we have at present, and that they had fighting besides. We do not assert +that this tenet is explicitly taught; on the contrary, many facts are +explained, and many customs elucidated from which a discriminating and +deducing reader would infer the meanness of poverty and the harshness of +barbarism. But these less imposing traits escape the rapid, and still +more the boyish reader. His general impression is one of romance; and +though, when roused, Scott was quite able to take a distinct view of the +opposing facts, he liked his own mind to rest for the most part in the +same pleasing illusion. + +The same sort of historical romance is shown likewise in Scott’s picture +of remarkable historical characters. His Richard I. is the traditional +Richard, with traits heightened and ennobled in perfect conformity to +the spirit of tradition. Some illustration of the same quality might be +drawn from his delineations of the Puritan rebellions and the Cavalier +enthusiasm. We might show that he ever dwells on the traits and incidents +most attractive to a genial and spirited imagination. But the most +remarkable instance of the power which romantic illusion exercised over +him, is his delineation of Mary Queen of Scots. He refused at one time +of his life to write a biography of that princess ‘because his opinion +was contrary to his feeling.’ He evidently considered her guilt to be +clearly established, and thought, with a distinguished lawyer, that +he should ‘direct a jury to find her guilty;’ but his fancy, like that +of most of his countrymen, took a peculiar and special interest in the +beautiful lady who, at any rate, had suffered so much and so fatally at +the hands of a queen of England. He could not bring himself to dwell with +nice accuracy on the evidence which substantiates her criminality, or on +the still clearer indications of that unsound and over-crafty judgment, +which was the fatal inheritance of the Stuart family, and which, in spite +of advantages that scarcely any other family in the world has enjoyed, +has made their name an historical by-word for misfortune. The picture in +the _Abbot_, one of the best historical pictures which Scott has given +us, is principally the picture of the Queen as the fond tradition of his +countrymen exhibited her. Her entire innocence, it is true, is never +alleged: but the enthusiasm of her followers is dwelt on with approving +sympathy; their confidence is set forth at large; her influence over +them is skilfully delineated; the fascination of charms chastened by +misfortune is delicately indicated. We see a complete picture of the +beautiful queen, of the suffering and sorrowful, but yet not insensible +woman. Scott could not, however, as a close study will show us, quite +conceal the unfavourable nature of his fundamental opinion. In one +remarkable passage the struggle of the judgment is even conspicuous, +and in others the sagacity of the practised lawyer,—the ‘thread of the +attorney,’ as he used to call it, in his nature,—qualifies and modifies +the sentiment hereditary in his countrymen, and congenial to himself. + +This romantic imagination is a habit or power (as we may choose to call +it) of mind, which is almost essential to the highest success in the +historical novel. The aim, at any rate the effect, of this class of +works seems to be to deepen and confirm the received view of historical +personages. A great and acute writer may, from an accurate study of +original documents, discover that those impressions are erroneous, and +by a process of elaborate argument substitute others which he deems more +accurate. But this can only be effected by writing a regular history. +The essence of the achievement is the proof. If Mr. Froude had put +forward his view of Henry the Eighth’s character in a professed novel, he +would have been laughed at. It is only by a rigid adherence to attested +facts and authentic documents, that a view so original could obtain even +a hearing. We start back with a little anger from a representation which +is avowedly imaginative, and which contradicts our impressions. We do not +like to have our opinions disturbed by reasoning; but it is impertinent +to attempt to disturb them by fancies. A writer of the historical novel +is bound by the popular conception of his subject; and commonly it will +be found that this popular impression is to some extent a romantic one. +An element of exaggeration clings to the popular judgment: great vices +are made greater, great virtues greater also; interesting incidents +are made more interesting, softer legends more soft. The novelist who +disregards this tendency will do so at the peril of his popularity. His +business is to make attraction more attractive, and not to impair the +pleasant pictures of ready-made romance by an attempt at grim reality. + +We may therefore sum up the indications of this characteristic excellence +of Scott’s novels by saying, that more than any novelist he has given us +fresh pictures of practical human society, with its cares and troubles, +its excitements and its pleasures; that he has delineated more distinctly +than any one else the framework in which this society inheres, and by +the boundaries of which it is shaped and limited; that he has made more +clear the way in which strange and eccentric characters grow out of that +ordinary and usual system of life; that he has extended his view over +several periods of society, and given an animated description of the +external appearance of each, and a firm representation of its social +institutions; that he has shown very graphically what we may call the +worldly laws of moral government; and that over all these he has spread +the glow of sentiment natural to a manly mind, and an atmosphere of +generosity congenial to a cheerful one. It is from the collective effect +of these causes, and from the union of sense and sentiment which is the +principle of them all, that Scott derives the peculiar healthiness which +distinguishes him. There are no such books as his for the sick-room, or +for freshening the painful intervals of a morbid mind. Mere sense is +dull, mere sentiment unsubstantial; a sensation of genial healthiness is +only given by what combines the solidity of the one and the brightening +charm of the other. + +Some guide to Scott’s defects, or to the limitations of his genius, if +we would employ a less ungenial and perhaps more correct expression, is +to be discovered, as usual, from the consideration of his characteristic +excellence. As it is his merit to give bold and animated pictures of +this world, it is his defect to give but insufficient representations of +qualities which this world does not exceedingly prize,—of such as do not +thrust themselves very forward in it,—of such as are in some sense above +it. We may illustrate this in several ways. + +One of the parts of human nature which are systematically omitted in +Scott, is the searching and abstract intellect. This did not lie in his +way. No man had a stronger sagacity, better adapted for the guidance of +common men, and the conduct of common transactions. Few could hope to +form a more correct opinion on things and subjects which were brought +before him in actual life; no man had a more useful intellect. But on the +other hand, as will be generally observed to be the case, no one was less +inclined to that probing and seeking and anxious inquiry into things in +general which is the necessity of some minds, and a sort of intellectual +famine in their nature. He had no call to investigate the theory of +the universe, and he would not have been able to comprehend those who +did. Such a mind as Shelley’s would have been entirely removed from his +comprehension. He had no call to mix ‘awful talk and asking looks’ with +his love of the visible scene. He could not have addressed the universe: + + ‘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 record 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.’ + +Such thoughts would have been to him ‘thinking without an object,’ +‘abstracted speculations,’ ‘cobwebs of the unintelligible brain.’ Above +all minds, his had the Baconian propensity to work upon ‘stuff.’ At +first sight, it would not seem that this was a defect likely to be very +hurtful to the works of a novelist. The labours of the searching and +introspective intellect, however needful, absorbing, and in some degree +delicious, to the seeker himself, are not in general very delightful +to those who are not seeking. Genial men in middle life are commonly +intolerant of that philosophising which their prototype, in old times, +classed side by side with the lisping of youth. The theological novel, +which was a few years ago so popular, and which is likely to have a +recurring influence in times when men’s belief is unsettled, and persons +who cannot or will not read large treatises have thoughts in their minds +and inquiries in their hearts, suggests to those who are accustomed to it +the absence elsewhere of what is necessarily one of its most distinctive +and prominent subjects. The desire to attain a belief, which has become +one of the most familiar sentiments of heroes and heroines, would have +seemed utterly incongruous to the plain sagacity of Scott, and also to +his old-fashioned art. Creeds are _data_ in his novels; people have +different creeds, but each keeps his own. Some persons will think that +this is not altogether amiss; nor do we particularly wish to take up the +defence of the dogmatic novel. Nevertheless, it will strike those who +are accustomed to the youthful generation of a cultivated time, that +the passion of intellectual inquiry is one of the strongest impulses in +many of them, and one of those which give the predominant colouring to +the conversation and exterior mind of many more. And a novelist will not +exercise the most potent influence over those subject to that passion, if +he entirely omit the delineation of it. Scott’s works have only one merit +in this relation: they are an excellent rest to those who have felt this +passion, and have had something too much of it. + +The same indisposition to the abstract exercises of the intellect +shows itself in the reflective portions of Scott’s novels, and perhaps +contributes to their popularity with that immense majority of the world +who strongly share in that same indisposition: it prevents, however, +their having the most powerful intellectual influence on those who have +at any time of their lives voluntarily submitted themselves to this acute +and refining discipline. The reflections of a practised thinker have a +peculiar charm, like the last touches of the accomplished artist. The +cunning exactitude of the professional hand leaves a trace in the very +language. A nice discrimination of thought makes men solicitous of the +most apt expressions to diffuse their thoughts. Both words and meaning +gain a metallic brilliancy, like the glittering precision of the pure +Attic air. Scott’s is a healthy and genial world of reflection, but it +wants the charm of delicate exactitude. + +The same limitation of Scott’s genius shows itself in a very different +portion of art—in his delineation of his heroines. The same blunt +sagacity of imagination, which fitted him to excel in the rough +description of obvious life, rather unfitted him for delineating the +less substantial essence of the female character. The nice _minutiæ_ +of society, by means of which female novelists have been so successful +in delineating their own sex, were rather too small for his robust and +powerful mind. Perhaps, too, a certain unworldliness of _imagination_ +is necessary to enable men to comprehend or delineate that essence: +unworldliness of _life_ is no doubt not requisite; rather, perhaps, +worldliness is necessary to the acquisition of a sufficient experience. +But an absorption in the practical world does not seem favourable to a +comprehension of anything which does not precisely belong to it. Its +interests are too engrossing; its excitements too keen; it modifies the +fancy, and in the change unfits it for everything else. Something, too, +in Scott’s character and history made it more difficult for him to give a +representation of women than of men. Goethe used to say, that his idea of +woman was not drawn from his experience, but that it came to him before +experience, and that he explained his experience by a reference to it. +And though this is a German, and not very happy, form of expression, yet +it appears to indicate a very important distinction. Some efforts of the +imagination are made so early in life, just as it were at the dawn of +the conscious faculties, that we are never able to fancy ourselves as +destitute of them. They are part of the mental constitution with which, +so to speak, we awoke to existence. These are always far more firm, +vivid, and definite, than any other images of our fancy; and we apply +them, half unconsciously, to any facts and sentiments and actions which +may occur to us later in life, whether arising from within or thrust upon +us from the outward world. Goethe doubtless meant that the idea of the +female character was to him one of these first elements of imagination; +not a thing puzzled out, or which he remembered having conceived, but a +part of the primitive conceptions which, being coeval with his memory, +seemed inseparable from his consciousness. The descriptions of women +likely to be given by this sort of imagination will probably be the +best descriptions. A mind which would arrive at this idea of the female +character by this process, and so early, would be one obviously of more +than usual susceptibility. The early imagination does not commonly take +this direction; it thinks most of horses and lances, tournaments and +knights; only a mind with an unusual and instinctive tendency to this +kind of thought, would be borne thither so early or so effectually. And +even independently of this probable peculiarity of the individual, the +primitive imagination in general is likely to be the most accurate which +men can form; not, of course, of the external manifestations and detailed +manners, but of the inner sentiment and characteristic feeling of women. +The early imagination conceives what it does conceive very justly; fresh +from the facts, stirred by the new aspect of things, undimmed by the +daily passage of constantly forgotten images, not misled by the irregular +analogies of a dislocated life,—the early mind sees what it does see with +a spirit and an intentness never given to it again. A mind like Goethe’s, +of very strong imagination, aroused at the earliest age,—not of course by +passions, but by an unusual strength in that undefined longing which is +the prelude to our passions,—will form the best idea of the inmost female +nature which masculine nature can form. The difference is evident between +the characters of women formed by Goethe’s imagination or Shakespeare’s, +and those formed by such an imagination as that of Scott. The latter seem +so external. We have traits, features, manners; we know the heroine as +she appeared in the street; in some degree we know how she talked, but +we never know how she felt—least of all what she was: we always feel +there is a world behind, unanalysed, unrepresented, which we cannot +attain to. Such a character as Margaret in _Faust_ is known to us to the +very soul; so is Imogen; so is Ophelia. Edith Bellenden, Flora Macivor, +Miss Wardour, are young ladies who, we are told, were good-looking, and +well-dressed (according to the old fashion), and sensible; but we feel +we know but very little of them, and they do not haunt our imaginations. +The failure of Scott in this line of art is more conspicuous, because he +had not in any remarkable degree the later experience of female detail, +with which some minds have endeavoured to supply the want of the early +essential imagination, and which Goethe possessed in addition to it. It +was rather late, according to his biographer, before Scott set up for +a ‘squire of dames;’ he was a ‘lame young man, very enthusiastic about +ballad poetry;’ he was deeply in love with a young lady, supposed to +be imaginatively represented by Flora Macivor, but he was unsuccessful. +It would be over-ingenious to argue, from his failing in a single +love-affair, that he had no peculiar interest in young ladies in general; +but the whole description of his youth shows that young ladies exercised +over him a rather more divided influence than is usual. Other pursuits +intervened, much more than is common with persons of the imaginative +temperament, and he never led the life of flirtation from which Goethe +believed that he derived so much instruction. Scott’s heroines, +therefore, are, not unnaturally, faulty, since from a want of the very +peculiar instinctive imagination he could not give us the essence of +women, and from the habits of his life he could not delineate to us their +detailed life with the appreciative accuracy of habitual experience. +Jeanie Deans is probably the best of his heroines, and she is so because +she is the least of a heroine. The plain matter of-fact element in the +peasant-girl’s life and circumstances suited a robust imagination. There +is little in the part of her character that is very finely described +which is characteristically feminine. She is not a masculine, but she +is an epicene heroine. Her love-affair with Butler, a single remarkable +scene excepted, is rather commonplace than otherwise. + +A similar criticism might be applied to Scott’s heroes. Everyone feels +how commonplace they are—Waverley excepted, whose very vacillation +gives him a sort of character. They have little personality. They are +all of the same type;—excellent young men—rather strong—able to ride +and climb and jump. They are always said to be sensible, and bear out +the character by being not unwilling sometimes to talk platitudes. But +we know nothing of their inner life. They are said to be in love; but +we have no special account of their individual sentiments. People show +their character in their love more than in anything else. These young +gentlemen all love in the same way—in the vague commonplace way of this +world. We have no sketch or dramatic expression of the life within. Their +souls are quite unknown to us. If there is an exception, it is Edgar +Ravenswood. But if we look closely, we may observe that the notion which +we obtain of his character, unusually broad as it is, is not a notion +of him in his capacity of hero, but in his capacity of distressed peer. +His proud poverty gives a distinctness which otherwise his lineaments +would not have. We think little of his love; we think much of his narrow +circumstances and compressed haughtiness. + +The same exterior delineation of character shows itself in his treatment +of men’s religious nature. A novelist is scarcely, in the notion of +ordinary readers, bound to deal with this at all; if he does, it will be +one of his great difficulties to indicate it graphically, yet without +dwelling on it. Men who purchase a novel do not wish a stone or a sermon. +All lengthened reflections must be omitted; the whole armoury of pulpit +eloquence. But no delineation of human nature can be considered complete +which omits to deal with man in relation to the questions which occupy +him as man, with his convictions as to the theory of the universe and +his own destiny; the human heart throbs on few subjects with a passion +so intense, so peculiar, and so typical. From an artistic view, it is +a blunder to omit an element which is so characteristic of human life, +which contributes so much to its animation, and which is so picturesque. +A reader of a more simple mind, little apt to indulge in such criticism, +feels ‘a want of depth,’ as he would speak, in delineations from which +so large an element of his own most passionate and deepest nature is +omitted. It can hardly be said that there is an omission of the religious +nature in Scott. But, at the same time, there is no adequate delineation +of it. If we refer to the facts of his life, and the view of his +character which we collect from them, we shall find that his religion was +of a qualified and double sort. He was a genial man of the world, and had +the easy faith in the kindly _Dieu des bons gens_ which is natural to +such a person; and he had also a half-poetic principle of superstition in +his nature, inclining him to believe in ghosts, legends, fairies, and +elves, which did not affect his daily life, or possibly his superficial +belief, but was nevertheless very constantly present to his fancy, and +which affected, as is the constitution of human nature, through that +frequency, the undefined, half-expressed, inexpressible feelings which +are at the root of that belief. Superstition was a kind of Jacobitism in +his religion; as a sort of absurd reliance on the hereditary principle +modified insensibly his leanings in the practical world, so a belief +in the existence of unevidenced, and often absurd, supernatural beings +qualified his commonest speculations on the higher world. Both these +elements may be thought to enter into the highest religion; there is a +principle of cheerfulness which will justify in its measure a genial +enjoyment, and also a principle of fear which those who think only of +that enjoyment will deem superstition, and which will really become +superstition in the over-anxious and credulous acceptor of it. But in a +true religion these two elements will be combined. The character of God +images itself very imperfectly in any human soul; but in the highest it +images itself as a whole; it leaves an abiding impression which will +justify anxiety and allow of happiness. The highest aim of the religious +novelist would be to show how this operates in human character; to +exhibit in their curious modification our religious love, and also our +religious fear. In the novels of Scott the two elements appear in a state +of separation, as they did in his own mind. We have the superstition +of the peasantry in the _Antiquary_, in _Guy Mannering_, everywhere +almost; we have likewise a pervading tone of genial easy reflection +characteristic of the man of the world who produced, and agreeable to +the people of the world who read, these works. But we have no picture +of the two in combination. We are scarcely led to think on the subject +at all, so much do other subjects distract our interest; but if we do +think, we are puzzled at the contrast. We do not know which is true, the +uneasy belief of superstition, or the easy satisfaction of the world; we +waver between the two, and have no suggestion even hinted to us of the +possibility of a reconciliation. The character of the Puritans certainly +did not in general embody such a reconciliation, but it might have been +made by a sympathising artist the vehicle for a delineation of a struggle +after it. The two elements of love and fear ranked side by side in their +minds with an intensity which is rare even in minds that feel only one +of them. The delineation of Scott is amusing, but superficial. He caught +the ludicrous traits which tempt the mirthful imagination, but no other +side of the character pleased him. The man of the world was displeased +with their obstinate interfering zeal; their intensity of faith was an +opposition force in the old Scotch polity, of which he liked to fancy +the harmonious working. They were superstitious enough; but nobody likes +other people’s superstitions. Scott’s were of a wholly different kind. +He made no difficulty as to the observance of Christmas-day, and would +have eaten potatoes without the faintest scruple, although their name +does not occur in Scripture. Doubtless also his residence in the land +of Puritanism did not incline him to give anything except a satirical +representation of that belief. You must not expect from a Dissenter a +faithful appreciation of the creed from which he dissents. You cannot be +impartial on the religion of the place in which you live; you may believe +it, or you may dislike it; it crosses your path in too many forms for +you to be able to look at it with equanimity. Scott had rather a rigid +form of Puritanism forced upon him in his infancy; it is asking too much +to expect him to be partial to it. The aspect of religion which Scott +delineates best is that which appears in griefs, especially in the grief +of strong characters. His strong _natural_ nature felt the power of +death. He has given us many pictures of rude and simple men subdued, if +only for a moment, into devotion by its presence. + +On the whole, and speaking roughly, these defects in the delineation +which Scott has given us of human life are but two. He omits to give us +a delineation of the soul. We have mind, manners, animation, but it is +the stir of this world. We miss the consecrating power; and we miss +it not only in its own peculiar sphere, which, from the difficulty of +introducing the deepest elements into a novel, would have been scarcely +matter for a harsh criticism, but in the place in which a novelist +might most be expected to delineate it. There are perhaps such things +as the love affairs of immortal beings, but no one would learn it from +Scott. His heroes and heroines are well dressed for this world, but not +for another; there is nothing even in their love which is suitable for +immortality. As has been noticed, Scott also omits any delineation of the +abstract side of unworldly intellect. This too might not have been so +severe a reproach, considering its undramatic, unanimated nature, if it +had stood alone; but taken in connection with the omission which we have +just spoken of, it is most important. As the union of sense and romance +makes the world of Scott so characteristically agreeable,—a fascinating +picture of this world in the light in which we like best to dwell on it; +so the deficiency in the attenuated, striving intellect, as well as in +the supernatural soul, gives to the ‘world’ of Scott the cumbrousness +and temporality—in short, the materialism—which is characteristic of the +world. + +We have dwelt so much on what we think are the characteristic features of +Scott’s imaginative representations, that we have left ourselves no room +to criticise the two most natural points of criticism in a novelist—plot +and style. This is not, however, so important in Scott’s case as it would +commonly be. He used to say, ‘It was of no use having a plot; you could +not keep to it.’ He modified and changed his thread of story from day +to day,—sometimes even from bookselling reasons, and on the suggestion +of others. An elaborate work of narrative art could not be produced in +this way, every one will concede; the highest imagination, able to look +far over the work, is necessary for that task. But the plots produced, +so to say, by the pen of the writer as he passes over the events are +likely to have a freshness and a suitableness to those events, which +is not possessed by the inferior writers who make up a mechanical plot +before they commence. The procedure of the highest genius doubtless is +scarcely a procedure: the view of the whole story comes at once upon its +imagination like the delicate end and the distinct beginning of some long +vista. But all minds do not possess the highest mode of conception; and +among lower modes, it is doubtless better to possess the vigorous fancy +which creates each separate scene in succession as it goes, than the +pedantic intellect which designs everything long before it is wanted. +There is a play in unconscious creation which no voluntary elaboration +and preconceived fitting of distinct ideas can ever hope to produce. If +the whole cannot be created by one bounding effort, it is better that +each part should be created separately and in detail. + +The style of Scott would deserve the highest praise if M. Thiers could +establish his theory of narrative language. He maintains that an +historian’s language approaches perfection in proportion as it aptly +communicates what is meant to be narrated without drawing any attention +to itself. Scott’s style fulfils this condition. Nobody rises from his +works without a most vivid idea of what is related, and no one is able +to quote a single phrase in which it has been narrated. We are inclined, +however, to differ from the great French historian, and to oppose to +him a theory derived from a very different writer. Coleridge used to +maintain that all good poetry was untranslatable into words of the same +language without injury to the sense: the meaning was, in his view, to +be so inseparably intertwined even with the shades of the language, +that the change of a single expression would make a difference in the +accompanying feeling, if not in the bare signification: consequently, all +good poetry must be remembered exactly,—to change a word is to modify +the essence. Rigidly this theory can only be applied to a few kinds +of poetry, or special passages in which the imagination is exerting +itself to the utmost, and collecting from the whole range of associated +language the very expressions which it requires. The highest excitation +of feeling is necessary to this peculiar felicity of choice. In calmer +moments the mind has either a less choice, or less acuteness of selective +power. Accordingly, in prose it would be absurd to expect any such +nicety. Still, on great occasions in imaginative fiction, there should be +passages in which the words seem to cleave to the matter. The excitement +is as great as in poetry. The words should become part of the sense. They +should attract our attention, as this is necessary to impress them on +the memory; but they should not in so doing distract attention from the +meaning conveyed. On the contrary, it is their inseparability from their +meaning which gives them their charm and their power. In truth, Scott’s +language, like his sense, was such as became a bold, sagacious man of +the world. He used the first sufficient words which came uppermost, and +seems hardly to have been sensible, even in the works of others, of that +exquisite accuracy and inexplicable appropriateness of which we have been +speaking. + +To analyse in detail the faults and merits of even a few of the greatest +of the Waverley Novels would be impossible in the space at our command on +the present occasion. We have only attempted a general account of a few +main characteristics. Every critic must, however, regret to have to leave +topics so tempting to remark upon as many of Scott’s stories, and a yet +greater number of his characters. + + + + +_CHARLES DICKENS._[10] + +(1858.) + + +It must give Mr. Dickens much pleasure to look at the collected series of +his writings. He has told us of the beginnings of _Pickwick_. + + ‘I was,’ he relates in what is now the preface to that work, + ‘a young man of three-and-twenty, when the present publishers, + attracted by some pieces I was at that time writing in the + _Morning Chronicle_ newspaper (of which one series had lately + been collected and published in two volumes, illustrated by + my esteemed friend Mr. George Cruikshank), waited upon me + to propose a something that should be published in shilling + numbers—then only known to me, or I believe to anybody else, + by a dim recollection of certain interminable novels in that + form, which used, some five-and-twenty years ago, to be + carried about the country by pedlars, and over some of which + I remember to have shed innumerable tears, before I served my + apprenticeship to Life. When I opened my door in Furnival’s Inn + to the managing partner who represented the firm, I recognised + in him the person from whose hands I had bought, two or three + years previously, and whom I had never seen before or since, my + first copy of the magazine in which my first effusion—dropped + stealthily one evening at twilight, with fear and trembling, + into a dark letter-box, in a dark office, up a dark court in + Fleet Street—appeared in all the glory of print; on which + occasion, by the bye,—how well I recollect it!—I walked down to + Westminster Hall, and turned into it for half-an-hour, because + my eyes were so dimmed with joy and pride, that they could not + bear the street, and were not fit to be seen there. I told my + visitor of the coincidence, which we both hailed as a good + omen; and so fell to business.’ + +After such a beginning, there must be great enjoyment in looking at +the long series of closely printed green volumes, in remembering their +marvellous popularity, in knowing that they are a familiar literature +wherever the English language is spoken,—that they are read with +admiring appreciation by persons of the highest culture at the centre of +civilisation,—that they amuse, and are fit to amuse, the roughest settler +in Vancouver’s Island. + +The penetrating power of this remarkable genius among all classes +at home is not inferior to its diffusive energy abroad. The phrase +‘household book’ has, when applied to the works of Mr. Dickens, a +peculiar propriety. There is no contemporary English writer, whose works +are read so generally through the whole house, who can give pleasure +to the servants as well as to the mistress, to the children as well as +to the master. Mr. Thackeray without doubt exercises a more potent and +plastic fascination within his sphere, but that sphere is limited. It is +restricted to that part of the middle class which gazes inquisitively +at the ‘Vanity Fair’ world. The delicate touches of our great satirist +have, for such readers, not only the charm of wit, but likewise the +interest of valuable information; he tells them of the topics which they +want to know. But below this class there is another and far larger, +which is incapable of comprehending the idling world, or of appreciating +the accuracy of delineations drawn from it,—which would not know the +difference between a picture of Grosvenor Square by Mr. Thackeray and the +picture of it in a Minerva-Press novel,—which only cares for or knows of +its own multifarious, industrial, fig-selling world,—and over these also +Mr. Dickens has power. + +It cannot be amiss to take this opportunity of investigating, even +slightly, the causes of so great a popularity. And if, in the course of +our article, we may seem to be ready with over-refining criticism, or to +be unduly captious with theoretical objections, we hope not to forget +that so great and so diffused an influence is a _datum_ for literary +investigation,—that books which have been thus _tried_ upon mankind and +have thus succeeded, must be books of immense genius,—and that it is +our duty as critics to explain, as far as we can, the nature and the +limits of that genius, but never for one moment to deny or question its +existence. + +Men of genius may be divided into regular and irregular. Certain minds, +the moment we think of them, suggest to us the ideas of symmetry and +proportion. Plato’s name, for example, calls up at once the impression +of something ordered, measured, and settled: it is the exact contrary of +everything eccentric, immature, or undeveloped. The opinions of such a +mind are often erroneous, and some of them may, from change of time, of +intellectual _data_, or from chance, seem not to be quite worthy of it; +but the mode in which those opinions are expressed, and (as far as we can +make it out) the mode in which they are framed, affect us, as we have +said, with a sensation of symmetricalness. It is not very easy to define +exactly to what peculiar internal characteristic this external effect is +due: the feeling is distinct, but the cause is obscure; it lies hid in +the peculiar constitution of great minds, and we should not wonder that +it is not very easy either to conceive or to describe. On the whole, +however, the effect seems to be produced by a peculiar proportionateness, +in each instance, of the mind to the tasks which it undertakes, amid +which we see it, and by which we measure it. Thus we feel that the powers +and tendencies of Plato’s mind and nature were more fit than those of any +other philosopher for the due consideration and exposition of the highest +problems of philosophy, of the doubts and difficulties which concern man +as man. His genius was adapted to its element; any change would mar the +delicacy of the thought, or the polished accuracy of the expression. The +weapon was fitted to its aim. Every instance of proportionateness does +not, however, lead us to attribute this peculiar symmetry to the whole +mind we are observing. The powers must not only be suited to the task +undertaken, but the task itself must also be suited to a human being, +and employ all the marvellous faculties with which he is endowed. The +neat perfection of such a mind as Talleyrand’s is the antithesis to the +symmetry of genius; the niceties neither of diplomacy nor of conversation +give scope to the entire powers of a great nature. We may lay down as the +condition of a regular or symmetrical genius, that it should have the +exact combination of powers suited to graceful and easy success in an +exercise of mind great enough to task the whole intellectual nature. + +On the other hand, men of irregular or unsymmetrical genius are eminent +either for some one or some few peculiarities of mind, have possibly +special defects on other sides of their intellectual nature, at any rate +want what the scientific men of the present day would call the _definite +proportion_ of faculties and qualities suited to the exact work they +have in hand. The foundation of many criticisms of Shakespeare is, that +he is deficient in this peculiar proportion. His overteeming imagination +gives at times, and not unfrequently, a great feeling of irregularity: +there seems to be confusion. We have the tall trees of the forest, +the majestic creations of the highest genius; but we have, besides, +a bushy second growth, an obtrusion of secondary images and fancies, +which prevent our taking an exact measure of such grandeur. We have not +the sensation of intense simplicity, which must probably accompany the +highest conceivable greatness. Such is also the basis of Mr. Hallam’s +criticism on Shakespeare’s language, which Mr. Arnold has lately revived. +‘His expression is often faulty,’ because his illustrative imagination, +somewhat predominating over his other faculties, diffuses about the main +expression a supplement of minor metaphors which sometimes distract the +comprehension, and almost always deprive his style of the charm that +arises from undeviating directness. Doubtless this is an instance of the +very highest kind of irregular genius, in which all the powers exist in +the mind in a very high, and almost all of them in the very highest +measure, but in which from a slight excess in a single one, the charm +of proportion is lessened. The most ordinary cases of irregular genius +are those in which single faculties are abnormally developed, and call +off the attention from all the rest of the mind by their prominence and +activity. Literature, as the ‘fragment of fragments,’ is so full of the +fragments of such minds that it is needless to specify instances. + +Possibly it may be laid down that one of two elements is essential to a +symmetrical mind. It is evident that such a mind must either apply itself +to that which is theoretical or that which is practical, to the world of +abstraction or to the world of objects and realities. In the former case +the deductive understanding, which masters first principles, and makes +deductions from them, the thin ether of the intellect,—the ‘mind itself +by itself,’—must evidently assume a great prominence. To attempt to +comprehend principles without it, is to try to swim without arms, or to +fly without wings. Accordingly, in the mind of Plato, and in others like +him, the abstract and deducing understanding fills a great place; the +imagination seems a kind of eye to descry its data; the artistic instinct +an arranging impulse, which sets in order its inferences and conclusions. +On the other hand, if a symmetrical mind busy itself with the active +side of human life, with the world of concrete men and real things, its +principal quality will be a practical sagacity, which forms with ease a +distinct view and just appreciation of all the mingled objects that the +world presents,—which allots to each its own place, and its intrinsic and +appropriate rank. Possibly no mind gives such an idea of this sort of +symmetry as Chaucer’s. Every thing in it seems in its place. A healthy +sagacious man of the world has gone through the world; he loves it, and +knows it; he dwells on it with a fond appreciation; every object of the +old life of ‘merry England’ seems to fall into its precise niche in his +ordered and symmetrical comprehension. The _Prologue to the Canterbury +Tales_ is in itself a series of memorial tablets to mediæval society; +each class has its tomb, and each its apt inscription. A man without +such an apprehensive and broad sagacity must fail in every extensive +delineation of various life; he might attempt to describe what he did not +penetrate, or if by a rare discretion he avoided that mistake, his works +would want the _binding element_; he would be deficient in that distinct +sense of relation and combination which is necessary for the depiction +of the whole of life, which gives to it unity at first, and imparts to +it a mass in the memory ever afterwards. And eminence in one or other of +these marking faculties,—either in the deductive abstract intellect, or +the practical seeing sagacity,—seems essential to the mental constitution +of a symmetrical genius, at least in man. There are, after all, but two +principal all-important spheres in human life—thought and action; and we +can hardly conceive of a masculine mind symmetrically developed, which +did not evince its symmetry by an evident perfection in one or other of +those pursuits, which did not leave the trace of its distinct reflection +upon the one, or of its large insight upon the other of them. Possibly +it may be thought that in the sphere of pure art there may be room for +a symmetrical development different from these; but it will perhaps be +found, on examination of such cases, either that under peculiar and +appropriate disguises one of these great qualities is present, or that +the apparent symmetry is the narrow perfection of a limited nature, which +may be most excellent in itself, as in the stricter form of sacred art, +but which, as we explained, is quite opposed to that broad perfection of +the thinking being, to which we have applied the name of the symmetry of +genius. + +If this classification of men of genius be admitted, there can be no +hesitation in assigning to Mr. Dickens his place in it. His genius +is essentially irregular and unsymmetrical. Hardly any English +writer perhaps is much more so. His style is an example of it. It is +descriptive, racy, and flowing; it is instinct with new imagery and +singular illustration; but it does not indicate that due proportion of +the faculties to one another which is a beauty in itself, and which +cannot help diffusing beauty over every happy word and moulded clause. We +may choose an illustration at random. The following graphic description +will do: + + ‘If Lord George Gordon had appeared in the eyes of Mr. Willet, + overnight, a nobleman of somewhat quaint and odd exterior, + the impression was confirmed this morning, and increased a + hundredfold. Sitting bolt upright upon his bony steed, with + his long, straight hair dangling about his face and fluttering + in the wind; his limbs all angular and rigid, his elbows stuck + out on either side ungracefully, and his whole frame jogged and + shaken at every motion of his horse’s feet; a more grotesque + or more ungainly figure can hardly be conceived. In lieu of + whip, he carried in his hand a great gold-headed cane, as + large as any footman carries in these days; and his various + modes of holding this unwieldy weapon—now upright before his + face like the sabre of a horse-soldier, now over his shoulder + like a musket, now between his finger and thumb, but always + in some uncouth and awkward fashion—contributed in no small + degree to the absurdity of his appearance. Stiff, lank, and + solemn, dressed in an unusual manner, and ostentatiously + exhibiting—whether by design or accident—all his peculiarities + of carriage, gesture, and conduct, all the qualities, natural + and artificial, in which he differed from other men, he might + have moved the sternest looker-on to laughter, and fully + provoked the smiles and whispered jests which greeted his + departure from the Maypole Inn. + + ‘Quite unconscious, however, of the effect he produced, he + trotted on beside his secretary, talking to himself nearly all + the way, until they came within a mile or two of London, when + now and then some passenger went by who knew him by sight, and + pointed him out to some one else, and perhaps stood looking + after him, or cried in jest or earnest as it might be, “Hurrah, + Geordie! No Popery!” At which he would gravely pull off his + hat, and bow. When they reached the town and rode along the + streets, these notices became more frequent; some laughed, some + hissed, some turned their heads and smiled, some wondered who + he was, some ran along the pavement by his side and cheered. + When this happened in a crush of carts and chairs and coaches, + he would make a dead stop, and pulling off his hat, cry, + “Gentlemen, No Popery!” to which the gentlemen would respond + with lusty voices, and with three times three; and then, on he + would go again with a score or so of the raggedest, following + at his horse’s heels, and shouting till their throats were + parched. + + ‘The old ladies too—there were a great many old ladies in the + streets, and these all knew him. Some of them—not those of the + highest rank, but such as sold fruit from baskets and carried + burdens—clapped their shrivelled hands, and raised a weazen, + piping, shrill “Hurrah, my lord.” Others waved their hands or + handkerchiefs, or shook their fans or parasols, or threw up + windows, and called in haste to those within, to come and see. + All these marks of popular esteem he received with profound + gravity and respect; bowing very low, and so frequently that + his hat was more off his head than on; and looking up at the + houses as he passed along, with the air of one who was making a + public entry, and yet was not puffed-up or proud.’ + +No one would think of citing such a passage as this, as exemplifying the +proportioned beauty of finished writing; it is not the writing of an +evenly developed or of a highly cultured mind; it abounds in jolts and +odd turns; it is full of singular twists and needless complexities: but, +on the other hand, no one can deny its great and peculiar merit. It is an +odd style, and it is very odd how much you read it. It is the overflow of +a copious mind, though not the chastened expression of an harmonious one. + +The same quality characterises the matter of his works. His range is +very varied. He has attempted to describe every kind of scene in English +life, from quite the lowest to almost the highest. He has not endeavoured +to secure success by confining himself to a single path, nor wearied +the public with repetitions of the subjects by the delineation of which +he originally obtained fame. In his earlier works he never writes long +without saying something well; something which no other man would have +said; but even in them it is the characteristic of his power that it +is apt to fail him at once; from masterly strength we pass without +interval to almost infantine weakness,—something like disgust succeeds +in a moment to an extreme admiration. Such is the natural fate of an +unequal mind employing itself on a vast and variegated subject. In +writing on the ‘Waverley Novels,’ we ventured to make a division of +novels into the ubiquitous,—it would have been perhaps better to say +the miscellaneous,—and the sentimental: the first, as its name implies, +busying itself with the whole of human life, the second restricting +itself within a peculiar and limited theme. Mr. Dickens’s novels are +all of the former class. They aim to delineate nearly all that part of +our national life which can be delineated,—at least, within the limits +which social morality prescribes to social art; but you cannot read +his delineation of any part without being struck with its singular +incompleteness. An artist once said of the best work of another artist, +‘Yes, it is a pretty patch.’ If we might venture on the phrase, we should +say that Mr. Dickens’s pictures are graphic scraps; his best books are +compilations of them. + +The truth is, that Mr. Dickens wholly wants the two elements which we +have spoken of, as one or other requisite for a symmetrical genius. He +is utterly deficient in the faculty of reasoning. ‘Mamma, what shall +I think about?’ said the small girl. ‘My dear, don’t think,’ was the +old-fashioned reply. We do not allege that in the strict theory of +education this was a correct reply; modern writers think otherwise; +but we wish some one would say it to Mr. Dickens. He is often troubled +with the idea that he must reflect, and his reflections are perhaps the +worst reading in the world. There is a sentimental confusion about them; +we never find the consecutive precision of mature theory, or the cold +distinctness of clear thought. Vivid facts stand out in his imagination; +and a fresh illustrative style brings them home to the imagination of +his readers; but his continuous philosophy utterly fails in the attempt +to harmonise them,—to educe a theory or elaborate a precept from them. +Of his social thinking we shall have a few words to say in detail; his +didactic humour is very unfortunate: no writer is less fitted for an +excursion to the imperative mood. At present, we only say, what is so +obvious as scarcely to need saying, that his abstract understanding is so +far inferior to his picturesque imagination as to give even to his best +works the sense of jar and incompleteness, and to deprive them altogether +of the crystalline finish which is characteristic of the clear and +cultured understanding. + +Nor has Mr. Dickens the easy and various sagacity which, as has been +said, gives a unity to all which it touches. He has, indeed, a quality +which is near allied to it in appearance. His shrewdness in some things, +especially in traits and small things, is wonderful. His works are +full of acute remarks on petty doings, and well exemplify the telling +power of minute circumstantiality. But the minor species of perceptive +sharpness is so different from diffused sagacity, that the two scarcely +ever are to be found in the same mind. There is nothing less like the +great lawyer, acquainted with broad principles and applying them with +distinct deduction, than the attorney’s clerk who catches at small points +like a dog biting at flies. ‘Over-sharpness’ in the student is the most +unpromising symptom of the logical jurist. You must not ask a horse in +blinkers for a large view of a landscape. In the same way, a detective +ingenuity in microscopic detail is of all mental qualities most unlike +the broad sagacity by which the great painters of human affairs have +unintentionally stamped the mark of unity on their productions. They show +by their treatment of each case that they understand the whole of life; +the special delineator of fragments and points shows that he understands +them only. In one respect the defect is more striking in Mr. Dickens than +in any other novelist of the present day. The most remarkable deficiency +in modern fiction is its omission of the business of life, of all those +countless occupations, pursuits, and callings in which most men live and +move, and by which they have their being. In most novels money _grows_. +You have no idea of the toil, the patience, and the wearing anxiety by +which men of action provide for the day, and lay up for the future, +and support those that are given into their care. Mr. Dickens is not +chargeable with this omission. He perpetually deals with the pecuniary +part of life. Almost all his characters have determined occupations, of +which he is apt to talk even at too much length. When he rises from the +toiling to the luxurious classes, his genius in most cases deserts him. +The delicate refinement and discriminating taste of the idling orders +are not in his way; he knows the dry arches of London Bridge better than +Belgravia. He excels in inventories of poor furniture, and is learned in +pawnbrokers’ tickets. But, although his creative power lives and works +among the middle class and industrial section of English society, he has +never painted the highest part of their daily intellectual life. He made, +indeed, an attempt to paint specimens of the apt and able man of business +in _Nicholas Nickleby_; but the Messrs. Cheeryble are among the stupidest +of his characters. He forgot that breadth of platitude is rather +different from breadth of sagacity. His delineations of middle-class +life have in consequence a harshness and meanness which do not belong to +that life in reality. He omits the relieving element. He describes the +figs which are sold, but not the talent which sells figs well. And it is +the same want of diffused sagacity in his own nature which has made his +pictures of life so odd and disjointed, and which has deprived them of +symmetry and unity. + +The _bizarrerie_ of Mr. Dickens’s genius is rendered more remarkable by +the inordinate measure of his special excellences. The first of these is +his power of observation in detail. We have heard,—we do not know whether +correctly or incorrectly,—that he can go down a crowded street, and tell +you all that is in it, what each shop was, what the grocer’s name was, +how many scraps of orange-peel there were on the pavement. His works give +you exactly the same idea. The amount of detail which there is in them is +something amazing,—to an ordinary writer something incredible. There are +single pages containing telling _minutiæ_, which other people would have +thought enough for a volume. Nor is his sensibility to external objects, +though omnivorous, insensible to the artistic effect of each. There are +scarcely anywhere such pictures of London as he draws. No writer has +equally comprehended the artistic material which is given by its extent, +its aggregation of different elements, its mouldiness, its brilliancy. + +Nor does his genius—though, from some idiosyncrasy of mind or accident of +external situation, it is more especially directed to City life—at all +stop at the Citywall. He is especially at home in the picturesque and +obvious parts of country life, particularly in the comfortable and (so to +say) mouldering portion of it. The following is an instance; if not the +best that could be cited, still one of the best:— + + ‘They arranged to proceed upon their journey next evening, as a + stage-wagon, which travelled for some distance on the same road + as they must take, would stop at the inn to change horses, and + the driver for a small gratuity would give Nell a place inside. + A bargain was soon struck when the wagon came; and in due time + it rolled away; with the child comfortably bestowed among the + softer packages, her grandfather and the schoolmaster walking + on beside the driver, and the landlady and all the good folks + of the inn screaming out their good wishes and farewells. + + ‘What a soothing, luxurious, drowsy way of travelling, to lie + inside that slowly-moving mountain, listening to the tinkling + of the horses’ bells, the occasional smacking of the carter’s + whip, the smooth rolling of the great broad wheels, the rattle + of the harness, the cheery goodnights of passing travellers + jogging past on little short-stepped horses—all made pleasantly + indistinct by the thick awning, which seemed made for lazy + listening under, till one fell asleep! The very going to sleep, + still with an indistinct idea, as the head jogged to and fro + upon the pillow, of moving onward with no trouble or fatigue, + and hearing all these sounds like dreamy music, lulling to the + senses—and the slow waking up, and finding one’s self staring + out through the breezy curtain half-opened in the front, far up + into the cold bright sky with its countless stars, and downward + at the driver’s lantern dancing on like its namesake Jack of + the swamps and marshes, and sideways at the dark grim trees, + and forward at the long bare road rising up, up, up, until it + stopped abruptly at a sharp high ridge as if there were no more + road, and all beyond was sky—and the stopping at the inn to + bait, and being helped out, and going into a room with fire + and candles and winking very much, and being agreeably reminded + that the night was cold, and anxious for very comfort’s sake to + think it colder than it was! What a delicious journey was that + journey in the wagon! + + ‘Then the going on again—so fresh at first, and shortly + afterwards so sleepy. The waking from a sound nap as the mail + came dashing past like a highway comet, with gleaming lamps + and rattling hoofs, and visions of a guard behind, standing up + to keep his feet warm, and of a gentleman in a fur cap opening + his eyes and looking wild and stupefied—the stopping at the + turnpike, where the man was gone to bed, and knocking at the + door until he answered with a smothered shout from under the + bed-clothes in the little room above, where the faint light was + burning, and presently came down, night-capped and shivering, + to throw the gate wide open, and wish all wagons off the road + except by day. The cold sharp interval between night and + morning—the distant streak of light widening and spreading, + and turning from grey to white, and from white to yellow, and + from yellow to burning red—the presence of day, with all its + cheerfulness and life—men and horses at the plough—birds in + the trees and hedges, and boys in solitary fields frightening + them away with rattles. The coming to a town—people busy in + the market; light carts and chaises round the tavern yard; + tradesmen standing at their doors; men running horses up and + down the streets for sale; pigs plunging and grunting in the + dirty distance, getting off with long strings at their legs, + running into clean chemists’ shops and being dislodged with + brooms by ’prentices; the night-coach changing horses—the + passengers cheerless, cold, ugly, and discontented, with + three months’ growth of hair in one night—the coachmen fresh + as from a bandbox, and exquisitely beautiful by contrast:—so + much bustle, so many things in motion, such a variety of + incidents—when was there a journey with so many delights as + that journey in the wagon!’ + +Or, as a relief from a very painful series of accompanying characters, it +is pleasant to read and remember the description of the fine morning on +which Mr. Jonas Chuzzlewit does not reflect. Mr. Dickens has, however, +no feeling analogous to the nature-worship of some other recent writers. +There is nothing Wordsworthian in his bent; the interpreting inspiration +(as that school speak) is not his. Nor has he the erudition in difficult +names which has filled some pages in late novelists with mineralogy and +botany. His descriptions of nature are fresh and superficial; they are +not sermonic or scientific. + +Nevertheless, it may be said that Mr. Dickens’s genius is especially +suited to the delineation of City life. London is like a newspaper. +Everything is there, and everything is disconnected. There is every +kind of person in some houses; but there is no more connection between +the houses than between the neighbours in the lists of ‘births, +marriages, and deaths.’ As we change from the broad leader to the squalid +police-report, we pass a corner and we are in a changed world. This is +advantageous to Mr. Dickens’s genius. His memory is full of instances +of old buildings and curious people, and he does not care to piece +them together. On the contrary, each scene, to his mind, is a separate +scene,—each street a separate street. He has, too, the peculiar alertness +of observation that is observable in those who live by it. He describes +London like a special correspondent for posterity. + +A second most wonderful special faculty which Mr. Dickens possesses +is what we may call his _vivification_ of character, or rather of +characteristics. His marvellous power of observation has been exercised +upon men and women even more than upon town or country; and the store +of human detail, so to speak, in his books is endless and enormous. The +boots at the inn, the pickpockets in the street, the undertaker, the +Mrs. Gamp, are all of them at his disposal; he knows each trait and +incident, and he invests them with a kind of perfection in detail which +in reality they do not possess. He has a very peculiar power of taking +hold of some particular traits, and making a character out of them. He +is especially apt to incarnate particular professions in this way. Many +of his people never speak without some allusion to their occupation. You +cannot separate them from it. Nor does the writer ever separate them. +What would Mr. Mould be if not an undertaker? or Mrs. Gamp if not a +nurse? or Charley Bates if not a pickpocket? Not only is human nature in +them subdued to what it works in, but there seems to be no nature to +subdue; the whole character is the idealisation of a trade, and is not +in fancy or thought distinguishable from it. Accordingly, of necessity, +such delineations become caricatures. We do not in general contrast them +with reality; but as soon as we do, we are struck with the monstrous +exaggerations which they present. You could no more fancy Sam Weller, +or Mark Tapley, or the Artful Dodger really existing, walking about +among common ordinary men and women, than you can fancy a talking duck +or a writing bear. They are utterly beyond the pale of ordinary social +intercourse. We suspect, indeed, that Mr. Dickens does not conceive his +characters to himself as mixing in the society he mixes in. He sees +people in the street, doing certain things, talking in a certain way, +and his fancy petrifies them in the act. He goes on fancying hundreds +of reduplications of that act and that speech; he frames an existence +in which there is nothing else but that aspect which attracted his +attention. Sam Weller is an example. He is a man-servant, who makes a +peculiar kind of jokes, and is wonderfully felicitous in certain similes. +You see him at his first introduction:— + + ‘“My friend,” said the thin gentleman. + + ‘“You’re one o’ the adwice gratis order,” thought Sam, “or + you wouldn’t be so werry fond o’ me all at once.” But he only + said—“Well, sir?” + + ‘“My friend,” said the thin gentlemen, with a conciliatory + hem—“Have you got many people stopping here, now? Pretty busy? + Eh?” + + ‘Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high-dried + man, with a dark squeezed-up face, and small restless black + eyes, that kept winking and twinkling on each side of his + little inquisitive nose, as if they were playing a perpetual + game of peep-bo with that feature. He was dressed all in black, + with boots as shiny as his eyes, a low white neckcloth, and a + clean shirt with a frill to it. A gold watch-chain, and seals, + depended from his fob. He carried his black kid gloves _in_ + his hands, not _on_ them; and as he spoke, thrust his wrists + beneath his coat-tails, with the air of a man who was in the + habit of propounding some regular posers. + + ‘“Pretty busy, eh?” said the little man. + + ‘“Oh, werry well, sir,” replied Sam, “we shan’t be bankrupts, + and we shan’t make our fort’ns. We eats our biled mutton + without capers, and don’t care for horse-radish ven ve can get + beef?” + + ‘“Ah,” said the little man, “you’re a wag, ain’t you?” + + ‘“My eldest brother was troubled with that complaint,” said + Sam, “it may be catching—I used to sleep with him.” + + ‘“This is a curious old house of yours,” said the little man, + looking round him. + + ‘“If you’d sent word you was a coming, we’d ha’ had it + repaired,” replied the imperturbable Sam. + + ‘The little man seemed rather baffled by these several + repulses, and a short consultation took place between him and + the two plump gentlemen. At its conclusion, the little man took + a pinch of snuff from an oblong silver box, and was apparently + on the point of renewing the conversation, when one of the + plump gentlemen, who, in addition to a benevolent countenance, + possessed a pair of spectacles and a pair of black gaiters, + interfered— + + ‘“The fact of the matter is,” said the benevolent gentleman, + “that my friend here” (pointing to the other plump gentleman) + “will give you half a guinea, if you’ll answer one or two—” + + ‘“Now, my dear sir—my dear sir,” said the little man, “pray + allow me—my dear sir, the very first principle to be observed + in these cases is this: if you place a matter in the hands of a + professional man, you must in no way interfere in the progress + of the business; you must repose implicit confidence in him. + Really, Mr. (he turned to the other plump gentleman, and + said)—I forget your friend’s name.” + + ‘“Pickwick,” said Mr. Wardle, for it was no other than that + jolly personage. + + ‘“Ah, Pickwick—really Mr. Pickwick, my dear sir, excuse me—I + shall be happy to receive any private suggestions of yours, + as _amicus curiæ_, but you must see the impropriety of your + interfering with my conduct in this case, with such an _ad + captandum_ argument as the offer of half a guinea. Really, my + dear sir, really,” and the little man took an argumentative + pinch of snuff, and looked very profound. + + ‘“My only wish, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, “was to bring this + very unpleasant matter to as speedy a close as possible.” + + ‘“Quite right—quite right,” said the little man. + + ‘“With which view,” continued Mr. Pickwick, “I made use of the + argument which my experience of men has taught me is the most + likely to succeed in any case.” + + ‘“Ay, ay,” said the little man, “very good, very good indeed; + but you should have suggested it to _me_. My dear sir, + I’m quite certain you cannot be ignorant of the extent of + confidence which must be placed in professional men. If any + authority can be necessary on such a point, my dear sir, let me + refer you to the well-known case in Barnwell and—” + + ‘“Never mind George Barnwell,” interrupted Sam, who had + remained a wondering listener during this short colloquy; + “everybody knows vat sort of a case his was, tho’ it’s always + been my opinion, mind you, that the young ’ooman deserved + scragging a precious sight more than he did. Hows’ever, that’s + neither here nor there. You want me to except of half a guinea. + Werry well, I’m agreeable: I can’t say no fairer than that, can + I, sir? (Mr. Pickwick smiled.) Then the next question is, what + the devil do you want with me, as the man said wen he see the + ghost?” + + ‘“We want to know—” said Mr. Wardle. + + ‘“Now, my dear sir—my dear sir,” interposed the busy little man. + + ‘Mr. Wardle shrugged his shoulders, and was silent. + + ‘“We want to know,” said the little man, solemnly; “and we + ask the question of you, in order that we may not awaken + apprehensions inside—we want to know who you’ve got in this + house at present.” + + ‘“Who there is in the house!” said Sam, in whose mind the + inmates were always represented by that particular article of + their costume, which came under his immediate superintendence. + “There’s a wooden leg in number six; there’s a pair of Hessians + in thirteen; there’s two pair of halves in the commercial; + there’s these here painted tops in the snuggery inside the bar; + and five more tops in the coffee-room.” + + ‘“Nothing more?” said the little man. + + ‘“Stop a bit,” replied Sam, suddenly recollecting himself. + “Yes; there’s a pair of Wellingtons a good deal worn, and a + pair o’ lady’s shoes, in number five.” + + ‘“What sort of shoes?” hastily inquired Wardle, who, together + with Mr. Pickwick, had been lost in bewilderment at the + singular catalogue of visitors. + + ‘“Country make,” replied Sam. + + ‘“Any maker’s name?” + + ‘“Brown.” + + ‘“Where of?” + + ‘“Muggleton.” + + ‘“It _is_ them,” exclaimed Wardle. “By Heavens, we’ve found + them.” + + ‘“Hush!” said Sam. “The Wellingtons has gone to Doctors + Commons.” + + ‘“No,” said the little man. + + ‘“Yes, for a license.” + + ‘“We’re in time,” exclaimed Wardle. “Show us the room; not a + moment is to be lost.” + + ‘“Pray, my dear sir—pray,” said the little man; “caution, + caution.” He drew from his pocket a red silk purse, and looked + very hard at Sam as he drew out a sovereign. + + ‘Sam grinned expressively. + + ‘“Show us into the room at once, without announcing us,” said + the little man, “and it’s yours.”’ + +One can fancy Mr. Dickens hearing a dialogue of this sort,—not nearly +so good, but something like it,—and immediately setting to work to make +it better and put it in a book; then changing a little the situation, +putting the boots one step up in the scale of service, engaging him as +footman to a stout gentleman (but without for a moment losing sight of +the peculiar kind of professional conversation and humour which his first +dialogue presents), and astonishing all his readers by the marvellous +fertility and magical humour with which he maintains that style. Sam +Weller’s father is even a stronger and simpler instance. He is simply +nothing but an old coachman of the stout and extinct sort: you cannot +separate him from the idea of that occupation. But how amusing he is! We +dare not quote a single word of his talk; because we should go on quoting +so long, and every one knows it so well. Some persons may think that this +is not a very high species of delineative art. The idea of personifying +traits and trades may seem to them poor and meagre. Anybody, they may +fancy, can do that. But how would they do it? Whose fancy would not break +down in a page—in five lines? Who could carry on the vivification with +zest and energy and humour for volume after volume? Endless fertility in +laughter-causing detail is Mr. Dickens’s most astonishing peculiarity. It +requires a continuous and careful reading of his works to be aware of his +enormous wealth. Writers have attained the greatest reputation for wit +and humour, whose whole works do not contain so much of either as are to +be found in a very few pages of his. + +Mr. Dickens’s humour is indeed very much a result of the two +peculiarities of which we have been speaking. His power of detailed +observation and his power of idealising individual traits of +character—sometimes of one or other of them, sometimes of both of them +together. His similes on matters of external observation are so admirable +that everybody appreciates them, and it would be absurd to quote +specimens of them; nor is it the sort of excellence which best bears to +be paraded for the purposes of critical example. Its off-hand air and +natural connection with the adjacent circumstances are inherent parts of +its peculiar merit. Every reader of Mr. Dickens’s works knows well what +we mean. And who is not a reader of them? + +But his peculiar humour is even more indebted to his habit of vivifying +external traits, than to his power of external observation. He, as we +have explained, expands traits into people; and it is a source of true +humour to place these, when so expanded, in circumstances in which only +people—that is complete human beings—can appropriately act. The humour +of Mr. Pickwick’s character is entirely of this kind. He is a kind of +incarnation of simple-mindedness and what we may call obvious-mindedness. +The conclusion which each occurrence or position in life most immediately +presents to the unsophisticated mind is that which Mr. Pickwick is sure +to accept. The proper accompaniments are given to him. He is a stout +gentleman in easy circumstances, who is irritated into originality by +no impulse from within, and by no stimulus from without. He is stated +to have ‘retired from business.’ But no one can fancy what he was in +business. Such guileless simplicity of heart and easy impressibility +of disposition would soon have induced a painful failure amid the +harsh struggles and the tempting speculations of pecuniary life. As +he is represented in the narrative, however, nobody dreams of such +antecedents. Mr. Pickwick moves easily over all the surface of English +life from Goswell Street to Dingley Dell, from Dingley Dell to the +Ipswich elections, from drinking milk-punch in a wheelbarrow to sleeping +in the approximate pound, and no one ever thinks of applying to him the +ordinary maxims which we should apply to any common person in life, or +to any common personage in a fiction. Nobody thinks it is wrong in Mr. +Pickwick to drink too much milk-punch in a wheelbarrow, to introduce +worthless people of whom he knows nothing to the families of people for +whom he really cares; nobody holds him responsible for the consequences; +nobody thinks there is anything wrong in his taking Mr. Bob Sawyer and +Mr. Benjamin Allen to visit Mr. Winkle, senior, and thereby almost +irretrievably offending him with his son’s marriage. We do not reject +moral remarks such as these, but they never occur to us. Indeed, the +indistinct consciousness that such observations are possible, and that +they are hovering about our minds, enhances the humour of the narrative. +We are in a conventional world, where the mere maxims of common life do +not apply, and yet which has all the amusing detail, and picturesque +elements, and singular eccentricities of common life. Mr. Pickwick is +a personified ideal; a kind of amateur in life, whose course we watch +through all the circumstances of ordinary existence, and at whose follies +we are amused just as really skilled people are at the mistakes of an +amateur in their art. His being in the pound is not wrong; his being the +victim of Messrs. Dodson is not foolish. ‘Always shout with the mob,’ +said Mr. Pickwick. ‘But suppose there are two mobs,’ said Mr. Snodgrass. +‘Then shout with the loudest,’ said Mr. Pickwick. This is not in him +weakness or time-serving, or want of principle, as in most even of +fictitious people it would be. It is his way. Mr. Pickwick was expected +to say something, so he said ‘Ah!’ in a grave voice. This is not pompous +as we might fancy, or clever as it might be, if intentionally devised; it +is simply his way. Mr. Pickwick gets late at night over the wall behind +the back-door of a young-ladies’ school, is found in that sequestered +place by the schoolmistress and the boarders and the cook, and there is +a dialogue between them. There is nothing out of possibility in this; it +is his way. The humour essentially consists in treating as a moral agent +a being who really is not a moral agent. We treat a vivified accident as +a man, and we are surprised at the absurd results. We are reading about +an acting thing, and we wonder at its scrapes, and laugh at them as if +they were those of the man. There is something of this humour in every +sort of farce. Everybody knows these are not real beings acting in real +life, though they talk as if they were, and want us to believe that they +are. Here, as in Mr. Dickens’s books, we have exaggerations pretending to +comport themselves as ordinary beings, caricatures acting as if they were +characters. + +At the same time it is essential to remember, that however great may be +and is the charm of such exaggerated personifications, the best specimens +of them are immensely less excellent, belong to an altogether lower range +of intellectual achievements, than the real depiction of actual living +men. It is amusing to read of beings _out_ of the laws of morality, but +it is more profoundly interesting, as well as more instructive, to read +of those whose life in its moral conditions resembles our own. We see +this most distinctly when both representations are given by the genius +of one and the same writer. Falstaff is a sort of sack-holding paunch, +an exaggerated over-development which no one thinks of holding down to +the commonplace rules of the ten commandments and the statute-law. We +do not think of them in connection with him. They belong to a world +apart. Accordingly, we are vexed when the king discards him and reproves +him. Such a fate was a necessary adherence on Shakespeare’s part to the +historical tradition; he never probably thought of departing from it, nor +would his audience have perhaps endured his doing so. But to those who +look at the historical plays as pure works of imaginative art, it seems +certainly an artistic misconception to have developed so marvellous an +_un_moral impersonation, and then to have subjected it to an ethical +and punitive judgment. Still, notwithstanding this error, which was very +likely inevitable, Falstaff is probably the most remarkable specimen +of caricature-representation to be found in literature. And its very +excellence of execution only shows how inferior is the kind of art +which creates only such representations. Who could compare the genius, +marvellous as must be its fertility, which was needful to create a +Falstaff with that shown in the higher productions of the same mind +in Hamlet, Ophelia, and Lear? We feel instantaneously the difference +between the aggregating accident which rakes up from the externalities +of life other accidents analogous to itself, and the central ideal of +a real character which cannot show itself wholly in any accidents, +but which exemplifies itself partially in many, which unfolds itself +gradually in wide spheres of action, and yet, as with those we know best +in life, leaves something hardly to be understood, and after years of +familiarity is a problem and a difficulty to the last. In the same way, +the embodied characteristics and grotesque exaggerations of Mr. Dickens, +notwithstanding all their humour and all their marvellous abundance, can +never be for a moment compared with the great works of the real painters +of essential human nature. + +There is one class of Mr. Dickens’s pictures which may seem to form an +exception to this criticism. It is the delineation of the outlaw, we +might say the anti-law, world in _Oliver Twist_. In one or two instances +Mr. Dickens has been so fortunate as to hit on characteristics which, +by his system of idealisation and continual repetition, might really +be brought to look like a character. A man’s trade or profession in +regular life can only exhaust a very small portion of his nature; no +approach is made to the essence of humanity by the exaggeration of the +traits which typify a beadle or an undertaker. With the outlaw world it +is somewhat different. The bare fact of a man belonging to that world +is so important to his nature, that if it is artistically developed +with coherent accessories, some approximation to a distinctly natural +character will be almost inevitably made. In the characters of Bill +Sykes and Nancy this is so. The former is the skulking ruffian who may +be seen any day at the police-courts, and whom anyone may fancy he sees +by walking through St. Giles’s. You cannot attempt to figure to your +imagination the existence of such a person without being thrown into +the region of the passions, the will, and the conscience; the mere fact +of his maintaining, as a condition of life and by settled profession, +a struggle with regular society necessarily brings these deep parts of +his nature into prominence; great crime usually proceeds from abnormal +impulses or strange effort. Accordingly, Mr. Sykes is the character +most approaching to a coherent man who is to be found in Mr. Dickens’s +works. We do not say that even here there is not some undue heightening +admixture of caricature,—but this defect is scarcely thought of amid the +general coherence of the picture, the painful subject, and the wonderful +command of strange accessories. Miss Nancy is a still more delicate +artistic effort. She is an idealisation of the girl who may also be seen +at the police-courts and St. Giles’s; as bad, according to occupation and +common character, as a woman can be, yet retaining a tinge of womanhood, +and a certain compassion for interesting suffering, which under favouring +circumstances might be the germ of a regenerating influence. We need +not stay to prove how much the imaginative development of such a +personage must concern itself with our deeper humanity; how strongly, +if excellent, it must be contrasted with everything conventional or +casual or superficial. Mr. Dickens’s delineation is in the highest degree +excellent. It possesses not only the more obvious merits belonging to the +subject, but also that of a singular delicacy of expression and idea. +Nobody fancies for a moment that they are reading about anything beyond +the pale of ordinary propriety. We read the account of the life which +Miss Nancy leads with Bill Sykes without such an idea occurring to us: +yet, when we reflect upon it, few things in literary painting are more +wonderful than the depiction of a professional life of sin and sorrow, +so as not even to startle those to whom the deeper forms of either are +but names and shadows. Other writers would have given as vivid a picture: +Defoe would have poured out even a more copious measure of telling +circumstantiality, but he would have narrated his story with an inhuman +distinctness, which if not impure is _un_pure; French writers, whom we +need not name, would have enhanced the interest of their narrative by +trading on the excitement of stimulating scenes. It would be injustice +to Mr. Dickens to say that he has surmounted these temptations; the +unconscious evidence of innumerable details proves that, from a certain +delicacy of imagination and purity of spirit, he has not even experienced +them. Criticism is the more bound to dwell at length on the merits of +these delineations, because no artistic merit can make _Oliver Twist_ a +pleasing work. The squalid detail of crime and misery oppresses us too +much. If it is to be read at all, it should be read in the first hardness +of the youthful imagination, which no touch can move too deeply, and +which is never stirred with tremulous suffering at the ‘still sad music +of humanity.’ The coldest critic in later life may never hope to have +again the apathy of his boyhood. + +It perhaps follows from what has been said of the characteristics of +Mr. Dickens’s genius, that it would be little skilled in planning plots +for his novels. He certainly is not so skilled. He says in his preface +to the _Pickwick Papers_ ‘that they were designed for the introduction +of diverting characters and incidents; that no ingenuity of plot was +attempted, or even at that time considered feasible by the author in +connection with the desultory plan of publication adopted;’ and he adds +an expression of regret that ‘these chapters had not been strung together +on a thread of more general interest.’ It is extremely fortunate that no +such attempt was made. In the cases in which Mr. Dickens has attempted +to make a long connected story, or to develop into scenes or incidents +a plan in any degree elaborate, the result has been a complete failure. +A certain consistency of genius seems necessary for the construction +of a consecutive plot. An irregular mind naturally shows itself in +incoherency of incident and aberration of character. The method in +which Mr. Dickens’s mind works, if we are correct in our criticism upon +it, tends naturally to these blemishes. Caricatures are necessarily +isolated; they are produced by the exaggeration of certain conspicuous +traits and features; each being is enlarged on its greatest side; and +we laugh at the grotesque grouping and the startling contrast. But that +connection between human beings on which a plot depends is rather severed +than elucidated by the enhancement of their diversities. Interesting +stories are founded on the intimate relations of men and women. These +intimate relations are based not on their superficial traits, or common +occupations, or most visible externalities, but on the inner life of +heart and feeling. You simply divert attention from that secret life +by enhancing the perceptible diversities of common human nature, and +the strange anomalies into which it may be distorted. The original +germ of _Pickwick_ was a ‘Club of Oddities.’ The idea was professedly +abandoned; but traces of it are to be found in all Mr. Dickens’s books. +It illustrates the professed grotesqueness of the characters as well as +their slender connection. + +The defect of plot is heightened by Mr. Dickens’s great, we might say +complete, inability to make a love-story. A pair of lovers is by custom +a necessity of narrative fiction, and writers who possess a great +general range of mundane knowledge, and but little knowledge of the +special sentimental subject, are often in amusing difficulties. The +watchful reader observes the transition from the hearty description of +well-known scenes, of prosaic streets, or journeys by wood and river, to +the pale colours of ill-attempted poetry, to such sights as the novelist +evidently wishes that he need not try to see. But few writers exhibit +the difficulty in so aggravated a form as Mr. Dickens. Most men by +taking thought can make a lay figure to look not so very unlike a young +gentleman, and can compose a telling schedule of ladylike charms. Mr. +Dickens has no power of doing either. The heroic character—we do not +mean the form of character so called in life and action, but that which +is hereditary in the heroes of novels—is not suited to his style of +art. Hazlitt wrote an essay to inquire ‘Why the heroes of romances are +insipid;’ and without going that length it may safely be said that the +character of the agreeable young gentleman who loves and is loved should +not be of the most marked sort. Flirtation ought not to be an exaggerated +pursuit. Young ladies and their admirers should not express themselves in +the heightened and imaginative phraseology suited to Charley Bates and +the Dodger. Humour is of no use, for no one makes love in jokes: a tinge +of insidious satire may perhaps be permitted as a rare and occasional +relief, but it will not be thought ‘a pretty book,’ if so malicious an +element be at all habitually perceptible. The broad farce in which Mr. +Dickens indulges is thoroughly out of place. If you caricature a pair of +lovers ever so little, by the necessity of their calling you make them +ridiculous. One of Sheridan’s best comedies is remarkable for having no +scene in which the hero and heroine are on the stage together; and Mr. +Moore suggests that the shrewd wit distrusted his skill in the light +dropping love-talk which would have been necessary. Mr. Dickens would +have done well to imitate so astute a policy; but he has none of the +managing shrewdness which those who look at Sheridan’s career attentively +will probably think not the least remarkable feature in his singular +character. Mr. Dickens, on the contrary, pours out painful sentiments +as if he wished the abundance should make up for the inferior quality. +The excruciating writing which is expended on Miss Ruth Pinch passes +belief. Mr. Dickens is not only unable to make lovers talk, but to +describe heroines in mere narrative. As has been said, most men can make +a jumble of blue eyes and fair hair and pearly teeth, that does very well +for a young lady, at least for a good while; but Mr. Dickens will not, +probably cannot, attain even to this humble measure of descriptive art. +He vitiates the repose by broad humour, or disenchants the delicacy by +an unctuous admiration. + +This deficiency is probably nearly connected with one of Mr. Dickens’s +most remarkable excellences. No one can read Mr. Thackeray’s writings +without feeling that he is perpetually treading as close as he dare +to the border-line that separates the world which may be described in +books from the world which it is prohibited so to describe. No one knows +better than this accomplished artist where that line is, and how curious +are its windings and turns. The charge against him is that he knows it +but too well; that with an anxious care and a wistful eye he is ever +approximating to its edge, and hinting with subtle art how thoroughly +he is familiar with, and how interesting he could make, the interdicted +region on the other side. He never violates a single conventional rule; +but at the same time the shadow of the immorality that is not seen is +scarcely ever wanting to his delineation of the society that is seen. +Every one may perceive what is passing in his fancy. Mr. Dickens is +chargeable with no such defect: he does not seem to feel the temptation. +By what we may fairly call an instinctive purity of genius, he not only +observes the conventional rules, but makes excursions into topics which +no other novelist could safely handle, and, by a felicitous instinct, +deprives them of all impropriety. No other writer could have managed +the humour of Mrs. Gamp without becoming unendurable. At the same time +it is difficult not to believe that this singular insensibility to the +temptations to which many of the greatest novelists have succumbed is +in some measure connected with his utter inaptitude for delineating the +portion of life to which their art is specially inclined. He delineates +neither the love-affairs which ought to be, nor those which ought not to +be. + +Mr. Dickens’s indisposition to ‘make capital’ out of the most commonly +tempting part of human sentiment is the more remarkable because he +certainly does not show the same indisposition in other cases. He has +naturally great powers of pathos; his imagination is familiar with the +common sort of human suffering; and his marvellous conversancy with the +detail of existence enables him to describe sick-beds and death-beds +with an excellence very rarely seen in literature. A nature far more +sympathetic than that of most authors has familiarised him with such +subjects. In general, a certain apathy is characteristic of book-writers, +and dulls the efficacy of their pathos. Mr. Dickens is quite exempt +from this defect; but, on the other hand, is exceedingly prone to a +very ostentatious exhibition of the opposite excellence. He dwells on +dismal scenes with a kind of fawning fondness; and he seems unwilling to +leave them, long after his readers have had more than enough of them. +He describes Mr. Dennis the hangman as having a professional fondness +for his occupation: he has the same sort of fondness apparently for the +profession of death-painter. The painful details he accumulates are a +very serious drawback from the agreeableness of his writings. Dismal +‘light literature’ is the dismallest of reading. The reality of the +police reports is sufficiently bad, but a fictitious police report would +be the most disagreeable of conceivable compositions. Some portions of +Mr. Dickens’s books are liable to a good many of the same objections. +They are squalid from noisome trivialities, and horrid with terrifying +crime. In his earlier books this is commonly relieved at frequent +intervals by a graphic and original mirth. As we will not say age, but +maturity, has passed over his powers, this counteractive element has +been lessened; the humour is not so happy as it was, but the wonderful +fertility in painful _minutiæ_ still remains. + +Mr. Dickens’s political opinions have subjected him to a good deal +of criticism, and to some ridicule. He has shown, on many occasions, +the desire—which we see so frequent among able and influential men—to +start as a political reformer. Mr. Spurgeon said, with an application +to himself, ‘If you’ve got the ear of the public, _of course_ you must +begin to tell it its faults.’ Mr. Dickens has been quite disposed to +make this use of his popular influence. Even in _Pickwick_ there are +many traces of this tendency; and the way in which it shows itself in +that book and in others is very characteristic of the time at which +they appeared. The most instructive political characteristic of the +years from 1825 to 1845 is the growth and influence of the scheme of +opinion which we call Radicalism. There are several species of creeds +which are comprehended under this generic name, but they all evince a +marked reaction against the worship of the English constitution and the +affection for the English _status quo_, which were then the established +creed and sentiment. All Radicals are anti-Eldonites. This is equally +true of the Benthamite or philosophical radicalism of the early period, +and the Manchester, or ‘definite-grievance radicalism,’ among the +last vestiges of which we are now living. Mr. Dickens represents a +species different from either. His is what we may call the ‘sentimental +radicalism;’ and if we recur to the history of the time, we shall find +that there would not originally have been any opprobrium attaching to +such a name. The whole course of the legislation, and still more of the +administration, of the first twenty years of the nineteenth century was +marked by a harsh unfeelingness which is of all faults the most contrary +to any with which we are chargeable now. The world of the ‘Six Acts,’ +of the frequent executions, of the Draconic criminal law, is so far +removed from us that we cannot comprehend its having ever existed. It is +more easy to understand the recoil which has followed. All the social +speculation, and much of the social action of the few years succeeding +the Reform Bill, bear the most marked traces of the reaction. The spirit +which animates Mr. Dickens’s political reasonings and observations +expresses it exactly. The vice of the then existing social authorities, +and of the then existing public, had been the forgetfulness of the pain +which their own acts evidently produced,—an unrealising habit which +adhered to official rules and established maxims, and which would not +be shocked by the evident consequences, by proximate human suffering. +The sure result of this habit was the excitement of the habit precisely +opposed to it. Mr. Carlyle, in his _Chartism_, we think, observes of +the poor-law reform: ‘It was then, above all things, necessary that +outdoor relief should cease. But how? What means did great Nature take +for accomplishing that most desirable end? She created a race of men who +believed the cessation of outdoor relief to be the one thing needful.’ +In the same way, and by the same propensity to exaggerated opposition +which is inherent in human nature, the unfeeling obtuseness of the +early part of this century was to be corrected by an extreme, perhaps +an excessive, sensibility to human suffering in the years which have +followed. There was most adequate reason for the sentiment in its origin, +and it had a great task to perform in ameliorating harsh customs and +repealing dreadful penalties; but it has continued to repine at such +evils long after they ceased to exist, and when the only facts that at +all resemble them are the necessary painfulness of due punishment and the +necessary rigidity of established law. Mr. Dickens is an example both +of the proper use and of the abuse of the sentiment. His earlier works +have many excellent descriptions of the abuses which had descended to the +present generation from others whose sympathy with pain was less tender. +Nothing can be better than the description of the poor debtors’ gaol in +_Pickwick_, or of the old parochial authorities in _Oliver Twist_. No +doubt these descriptions are caricatures, all his delineations are so; +but the beneficial use of such art can hardly be better exemplified. +Human nature endures the aggravation of vices and foibles in written +description better than that of excellences. We cannot bear to hear even +the hero of a book for ever called ‘just;’ we detest the recurring praise +even of beauty, much more of virtue. The moment you begin to exaggerate a +character of true excellence, you spoil it; the traits are too delicate +not to be injured by heightening, or marred by over-emphasis. But a +beadle is made for caricature. The slight measure of pomposity that +humanises his unfeelingness introduces the requisite comic element; even +the turnkeys of a debtors’ prison may by skilful hands be similarly +used. The contrast between the destitute condition of Job Trotter and Mr. +Jingle and their former swindling triumph is made comic by a rarer touch +of unconscious art. Mr. Pickwick’s warm heart takes so eager an interest +in the misery of his old enemies, that our colder nature is tempted +to smile. We endure the over-intensity, at any rate the unnecessary +aggravation, of the surrounding misery; and we endure it willingly, +because it brings out better than anything else could have done the +half-comic intensity of a sympathetic nature. + +It is painful to pass from these happy instances of well-used power to +the glaring abuses of the same faculty in Mr. Dickens’s later books. He +began by describing really removable evils in a style which would induce +all persons, however insensible, to remove them if they could; he has +ended by describing the natural evils and inevitable pains of the present +state of being, in such a manner as must tend to excite discontent and +repining. The result is aggravated, because Mr. Dickens never ceases +to hint that these evils are removable, though he does not say by what +means. Nothing is easier than to show the evils of anything. Mr. Dickens +has not unfrequently spoken, and what is worse, he has taught a great +number of parrot-like imitators to speak, in what really is, if they knew +it, a tone of objection to the necessary constitution of human society. +If you will only write a description of it, any form of government will +seem ridiculous. What is more absurd than a despotism, even at its best? +A king of ability or an able minister sits in an orderly room filled +with memorials, and returns, and documents, and memoranda. These are his +world; among these he of necessity lives and moves. Yet how little of +the real life of the nation he governs can be represented in an official +form! How much of real suffering is there that statistics can never tell! +how much of obvious good is there that no memorandum to a minister will +ever mention! how much deception is there in what such documents contain! +how monstrous must be the ignorance of the closet statesman, after all +his life of labour, of much that a ploughman could tell him of! A free +government is almost worse, as it must read in a written delineation. +Instead of the real attention of a laborious and anxious statesman, +we have now the shifting caprices of a popular assembly—elected for +one object, deciding on another; changing with the turn of debate; +shifting in its very composition; one set of men coming down to vote +to-day, to-morrow another and often unlike set, most of them eager for +the dinner-hour, actuated by unseen influences, by a respect for their +constituents, by the dread of an attorney in a far-off borough. What +people are these to control a nation’s destinies, and wield the power +of an empire, and regulate the happiness of millions! Either way we are +at fault. Free government seems an absurdity, and despotism is so too. +Again, every form of law has a distinct expression, a rigid procedure, +customary rules and forms. It is administered by human beings liable to +mistake, confusion, and forgetfulness, and in the long run, and on the +average, is sure to be tainted with vice and fraud. Nothing can be easier +than to make a case, as we may say, against any particular system, by +pointing out with emphatic caricature its inevitable miscarriages, and +by pointing out nothing else. Those who so address us may assume a tone +of philanthropy, and for ever exult that they are not so unfeeling as +other men are; but the real tendency of their exhortations is to make men +dissatisfied with their inevitable condition, and, what is worse, to make +them fancy that its irremediable evils can be remedied, and indulge in a +succession of vague strivings and restless changes. Such, however,—though +in a style of expression somewhat different,—is very much the tone with +which Mr. Dickens and his followers have in later years made us familiar. +To the second-hand repeaters of a cry so feeble, we can have nothing +to say; if silly people cry because they think the world is silly, +let them cry; but the founder of the school cannot, we are persuaded, +peruse without mirth the lachrymose eloquence which his disciples have +perpetrated. The soft moisture of irrelevant sentiment cannot have +entirely entered into his soul. A truthful genius must have forbidden +it. Let us hope that his pernicious example may incite some one of equal +genius to preach with equal efficiency a sterner and a wiser gospel; but +there is no need just now for us to preach it without genius. + +There has been much controversy about Mr. Dickens’s taste. A great many +cultivated people will scarcely concede that he has any taste at all; +a still larger number of fervent admirers point, on the other hand, to +a hundred felicitous descriptions and delineations which abound in apt +expressions and skilful turns and happy images,—in which it would be +impossible to alter a single word without altering for the worse; and +naturally inquire whether such excellences in what is written do not +indicate good taste in the writer. The truth is, that Mr. Dickens has +what we may call creative taste; that is to say, the habit or faculty, +whichever we may choose to call it, which at the critical instant of +artistic production offers to the mind the right word, and the right +word only. If he is engaged on a good subject for caricature, there will +be no defect of taste to preclude the caricature from being excellent. +But it is only in moments of imaginative production that he has any +taste at all. His works nowhere indicate that he possesses in any degree +the passive taste which decides what is good in the writings of other +people, and what is not, and which performs the same critical duty upon a +writer’s own efforts when the confusing mists of productive imagination +have passed away. Nor has Mr. Dickens the gentlemanly instinct which in +many minds supplies the place of purely critical discernment, and which, +by constant association with those who know what is best, acquires a +second-hand perception of that which is best. He has no tendency to +conventionalism for good or for evil; his merits are far removed from the +ordinary path of writers, and it was not probably so much effort to him +as to other men to step so far out of that path: he scarcely knew how far +it was. For the same reason, he cannot tell how faulty his writing will +often be thought, for he cannot tell what people will think. + +A few pedantic critics have regretted that Mr. Dickens had not received +what they call a regular education. And if we understand their meaning, +we believe they mean to regret that he had not received a course of +discipline which would probably have impaired his powers. A regular +education should mean that ordinary system of regulation and instruction +which experience has shown to fit men best for the ordinary pursuits of +life. It applies the requisite discipline to each faculty in the exact +proportion in which that faculty is wanted in the pursuits of life; it +develops understanding, and memory, and imagination, each in accordance +with the scale prescribed. To men of ordinary faculties this is nearly +essential; it is the only mode in which they can be fitted for the +inevitable competition of existence. To men of regular and symmetrical +genius also, such a training will often be beneficial. The world knows +pretty well what are the great tasks of the human mind, and has learnt in +the course of ages with some accuracy what is the kind of culture likely +to promote their exact performance. A man of abilities extraordinary +in degree but harmonious in proportion will be the better for having +submitted to the kind of discipline which has been ascertained to fit a +man for the work to which powers in that proportion are best fitted; he +will do what he has to do better and more gracefully; culture will add +a touch to the finish of nature. But the case is very different with +men of irregular and anomalous genius, whose excellences consist in +the aggravation of some special faculty, or at the most of one or two. +The discipline which will fit such a man for the production of great +literary works is that which will most develop the peculiar powers in +which he excels; the rest of the mind will be far less important; it +will not be likely that the culture which is adapted to promote this +special development will also be that which is most fitted for expanding +the powers of common men in common directions. The precise problem is to +develop the powers of a strange man in a strange direction. In the case +of Mr. Dickens, it would have been absurd to have shut up his observant +youth within the walls of a college. They would have taught him nothing +about Mrs. Gamp there; Sam Weller took no degree. The kind of early life +fitted to develop the power of apprehensive observation is a brooding +life in stirring scenes; the idler in the streets of life knows the +streets; the bystander knows the picturesque effect of life better than +the player; and the meditative idler amid the hum of existence is much +more likely to know its sound and to take in and comprehend its depths +and meanings than the scholastic student intent on books, which, if they +represent any world, represent one which has long passed away,—which +commonly try rather to develop the reasoning understanding than the +seeing observation,—which are written in languages that have long been +dead. You will not train by such discipline a caricaturist of obvious +manners. + +Perhaps, too, a regular instruction and daily experience of the searching +ridicule of critical associates would have detracted from the pluck +which Mr. Dickens shows in all his writings. It requires a great deal +of courage to be a humorous writer; you are always afraid that people +will laugh at you instead of with you: undoubtedly there is a certain +eccentricity about it. You take up the esteemed writers, Thucydides and +the _Saturday Review_; after all, they do not make you laugh. It is not +the function of really artistic productions to contribute to the mirth of +human beings. All sensible men are afraid of it, and it is only with an +extreme effort that a printed joke attains to the perusal of the public: +the chances are many to one that the anxious producer loses heart in the +correction of the press, and that the world never laughs at all. Mr. +Dickens is quite exempt from this weakness. He has what a Frenchman might +call the courage of his faculty. The real daring which is shown in the +_Pickwick Papers_, in the whole character of Mr. Weller senior, as well +as in that of his son, is immense, far surpassing any which has been +shown by any other contemporary writer. The brooding irregular mind is in +its first stage prone to this sort of courage. It perhaps knows that its +ideas are ‘out of the way;’ but with the infantine simplicity of youth, +it supposes that originality is an advantage. Persons more familiar with +the ridicule of their equals in station (and this is to most men the +great instructress of the college time) well know that of all qualities +this one most requires to be clipped and pared and measured. Posterity, +we doubt not, will be entirely perfect in every conceivable element of +judgment; but the existing generation like what they have heard before—it +is much easier. It required great courage in Mr. Dickens to write what +his genius has compelled them to appreciate. + +We have throughout spoken of Mr. Dickens as he was, rather than as he +is; or, to use a less discourteous phrase, and we hope a truer, of his +early works rather than of those which are more recent. We could not do +otherwise consistently with the true code of criticism. A man of great +genius, who has written great and enduring works, must be judged mainly +by them; and not by the inferior productions which, from the necessities +of personal position, a fatal facility of composition, or other cause, he +may pour forth at moments less favourable to his powers. Those who are +called on to review these inferior productions themselves, must speak of +them in the terms they may deserve; but those who have the more pleasant +task of estimating as a whole the genius of the writer, may confine their +attention almost wholly to those happier efforts which illustrate that +genius. We should not like to have to speak in detail of Mr. Dickens’s +later works, and we have not done so. There are, indeed, peculiar reasons +why a genius constituted as his is (at least if we are correct in the +view which we have taken of it) would not endure without injury during a +long life the applause of the many, the temptations of composition, and +the general excitement of existence. Even in his earlier works it was +impossible not to fancy that there was a weakness of fibre unfavourable +to the longevity of excellence. This was the effect of his deficiency in +those masculine faculties of which we have said so much,—the reasoning +understanding and firm far-seeing sagacity. It is these two component +elements which stiffen the mind, and give a consistency to the creed and +a coherence to its effects,—which enable it to protect itself from the +rush of circumstances. If to a deficiency in these we add an extreme +sensibility to circumstances,—a mobility, as Lord Byron used to call it, +of emotion, which is easily impressed, and still more easily carried +away by impression,—we have the idea of a character peculiarly unfitted +to bear the flux of time and chance. A man of very great determination +could hardly bear up against them with such slight aids from within and +with such peculiar sensibility to temptation. A man of merely ordinary +determination would succumb to it; and Mr. Dickens has succumbed. His +position was certainly unfavourable. He has told us that the works of +his later years, inferior as all good critics have deemed them, have +yet been more read than those of his earlier and healthier years. The +most characteristic part of his audience, the lower middle-class, were +ready to receive with delight the least favourable productions of his +genius. Human nature cannot endure this; it is too much to have to endure +a coincident temptation both from within and from without. Mr. Dickens +was too much inclined by natural disposition to lachrymose eloquence +and exaggerated caricature. Such was the kind of writing which he wrote +most easily. He found likewise that such was the kind of writing that +was read most readily; and of course he wrote that kind. Who would have +done otherwise? No critic is entitled to speak very harshly of such +degeneracy, if he is not sure that he could have coped with difficulties +so peculiar. If that rule is to be observed, who is there that will not +be silent? No other Englishman has attained such a hold on the vast +populace; it is little, therefore, to say that no other has surmounted +its attendant temptations. + + + + +_THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY._[11] + +(1856.) + + +This is a marvellous book. Everybody has read it, and every one has read +it with pleasure. It has little advantage of subject. When the volumes +came out, an honest man said, ‘I suppose something happened between the +years 1689 and 1697; but what happened I do not know.’ Every one knows +now. No period with so little obvious interest will henceforth be so +familiarly known. Only a most felicitous and rather curious genius could +and would shed such a light on such an age. If in the following pages we +seem to cavil and find fault, let it be remembered, that the business of +a critic is criticism; that it is _not_ his business to be thankful; that +he must attempt an estimate rather than a eulogy. + +Macaulay seems to have in a high degree the temperament most likely to +be that of a historian. This may be summarily defined as the temperament +which inclines men to take an interest in actions as contrasted with +objects, and in past actions in preference to present actions. We should +expand our meaning. Some people are unfortunately born scientific. They +take much interest in the objects of nature. They feel a curiosity +about shells, snails, horses, butterflies. They are delighted at an +ichthyosaurus, and excited at a polyp; they are learned in minerals, +vegetables, animals; they have skill in fishes, and attain renown in +pebbles: in the highest cases they know the great causes of grand +phenomena, can indicate the courses of the stars or the current of the +waves; but in every case their minds are directed not to the actions of +man, but to the scenery amidst which he lives; not to the inhabitants +of this world, but to the world itself; not to what most resembles +themselves, but to that which is most unlike. What compels men to take +an interest in what they do take an interest in, is commonly a difficult +question—for the most part, indeed, it is an insoluble one; but in this +case it would seem to have a negative cause—to result from the absence +of an intense and vivid nature. The inclination of mind which abstracts +the attention from that in which it can feel sympathy to that in which it +cannot, seems to arise from a want of sympathy. A tendency to devote the +mind to trees and stones as much as, or in preference to, men and women, +appears to imply that the intellectual qualities, the abstract reason, +and the inductive scrutiny which can be applied equally to trees and to +men, to stones and to women, predominate over the more special qualities +solely applicable to our own race,—the keen love, the eager admiration, +the lasting hatred, the lust of rule which fastens men’s interests on +people and to people. As a confirmation of this, we see that, even in +the greatest cases, scientific men have been calm men. Their actions +are unexceptionable; scarcely a spot stains their excellence: if a +doubt is to be thrown on their character, it would be rather that they +were insensible to the temptations than that they were involved in the +offences of ordinary men. An aloofness and abstractedness cleave to their +greatness. There is a coldness in their fame. We think of Euclid as of +fine ice; we admire Newton as we admire the Peak of Teneriffe. Even the +intensest labours, the most remote triumphs of the abstract intellect, +seem to carry us into a region different from our own—to be in a _terra +incognita_ of pure reasoning, to cast a chill on human glory. + +We know that the taste of most persons is quite opposite. The tendency +of man is to take an interest in man, and almost in man only. The world +has a vested interest in itself. Analyse the minds of the crowd of men, +and what will you find? Something of the outer earth, no doubt,—odd +geography, odd astronomy, doubts whether Scutari is in the Crimea, +investigations whether the moon is less or greater than Jupiter; some +idea of herbs, more of horses; ideas, too, more or less vague, of the +remote and supernatural,—notions which the tongue cannot speak, which +it would seem the world would hardly bear if thoroughly spoken. Yet, +setting aside these which fill the remote corners and lesser outworks +of the brain, the whole stress and vigour of the ordinary faculties is +expended on their possessor and his associates, on the man and on his +fellows. In almost all men, indeed, this is not simply an intellectual +contemplation; we not only look on, but act. The impulse to busy +ourselves with the affairs of men goes further than the simple attempt to +know and comprehend them: it warms us with a further life; it incites us +to stir and influence those affairs; its animated energy will not rest +till it has hurried us into toil and conflict. At this stage the mind +of the historian, as we abstractedly fancy it, naturally breaks off: it +has more interest in human affairs than the naturalist; it instinctively +selects the actions of man for occupation and scrutiny, in preference to +the habits of fishes or the structure of stones; but it has not so much +vivid interest in them as the warm and active man. To know is sufficient +for it; it can bear not to take a part. A want of impulse seems born with +the disposition. To be constantly occupied about the actions of others; +to have constantly presented to your contemplation and attention events +and occurrences memorable only as evincing certain qualities of mind and +will, which very qualities in a measure you feel within yourself, and yet +to be without an impulse to exhibit them in the real world, ‘which is the +world of all of us;’ to contemplate, yet never act; ‘to have the House +before you,’ and yet to be content with the reporters’ gallery,—shows a +chill impassiveness of temperament, a sluggish insensibility to ardent +impulse, a heavy immobility under ordinary emotion. The image of the +stout Gibbon placidly contemplating the animated conflicts, the stirring +pleadings of Fox and Burke, watching a revolution and heavily taking no +part in it, gives an idea of the historian as he is likely to be. ‘Why,’ +it is often asked, ‘is history dull? It is a narrative of life, and life +is of all things the most interesting.’ The answer is, that it is written +by men too dull to take the common interest in life, in whom languor +predominates over zeal, and sluggishness over passion. + +Macaulay is not dull, and it may seem hard to attempt to bring him within +the scope of a theory which is so successful in explaining dulness. Yet, +in a modified and peculiar form, we can perhaps find in his remarkable +character unusually distinct traces of the insensibility which we ascribe +to the historian. The means of scrutiny are ample. Macaulay has not spent +his life in a corner; if posterity should refuse—of course they will not +refuse—to read a line of his writings, they would yet be sought out by +studious inquirers, as those of a man of high political position, great +notoriety, and greater oratorical power. We are not therefore obliged, as +in so many cases even among contemporaries, to search for the author’s +character in his books alone; we are able from other sources to find +out his character, and then apply it to explain the peculiarities of +his works. Macaulay has exhibited many high attainments, many dazzling +talents, much singular and well-trained power; but the quality which +would most strike the observers of the interior man is what may be called +his _in_experiencing nature. Men of genius are in general distinguished +by their extreme susceptibility to external experience. Finer and softer +than other men, every exertion of their will, every incident of their +lives, influences them more deeply than it would others. Their essence +is at once finer and more impressible; it receives a distincter mark, +and receives it more easily than the souls of the herd. From a peculiar +sensibility, the man of genius bears the stamp of life commonly more +clearly than his fellows; even casual associations make a deep impression +on him: examine his mind, and you may discern his fortunes. Macaulay has +nothing of this. You could not tell what he has been. His mind shows no +trace of change. What he is, he was; and what he was, he is. He early +attained a high development, but he has not increased it since; years +have come, but they have whispered little; as was said of the second +Pitt, ‘He never grew, he was cast.’ The volume of ‘speeches’ which he +has published places the proof of this in every man’s hand. His first +speeches are as good as his last; his last scarcely richer than his +first. He came into public life at an exciting season; he shared of +course in that excitement, and the same excitement still quivers in his +mind. He delivered marvellous rhetorical exercises on the Reform Bill +when it passed; he speaks of it with rhetorical interest even now. He is +still the man of ’32. From that era he looks on the past. He sees ‘Old +Sarum’ in the seventeenth century, and Gatton in the civil wars. You may +fancy an undertone. The Norman barons commenced the series of reforms +which ‘_we_ consummated;’ Hampden was ‘preparing for the occasion in +which I had a part;’ William ‘for the debate in which I took occasion to +observe.’ With a view to that era everything begins; up to that moment +everything ascends. That was the ‘fifth act’ of the human race; the +remainder of history is only an afterpiece. All this was very natural at +the moment; nothing could be more probable than that a young man of the +greatest talents, entering at once into important life at a conspicuous +opportunity, should exaggerate its importance; he would fancy it was +the ‘crowning achievement,’ the greatest ‘in the tide of time.’ But the +singularity is, that he should retain the idea now; that years have +brought no influence, experience no change. The events of twenty years +have been full of rich instruction on the events of twenty years ago; +but they have not instructed him. His creed is a fixture. It is the same +on his peculiar topic—on India. Before he went there he made a speech on +the subject; Lord Canterbury, who must have heard a million speeches, +said it was the best he had ever heard. It is difficult to fancy that so +much vivid knowledge could be gained from books—from horrible Indian +treatises; that such imaginative mastery should be possible without +actual experience. Not forgetting, or excepting, the orations of Burke, +it was perhaps as remarkable a speech as was ever made on India by an +Englishman who had not been in India. Now he has been there he speaks no +better—rather worse; he spoke excellently without experience, he speaks +no better with it,—if anything, it rather puts him out. His speech on the +Indian charter a year or two ago was not finer than that on the charter +of 1833. Before he went to India he recommended that writers should be +examined in the classics; after being in India he recommended that they +should be examined in the same way. He did not say he had seen the place +in the meantime; he did not think that had anything to do with it. You +could never tell from any difference in his style what he had seen, or +what he had not seen. He is so insensible to passing objects, that they +leave no distinctive mark, no intimate peculiar trace. + +Such a man would naturally think literature more instructive than life. +Hazlitt said of Mackintosh, ‘He might like to read an _account_ of India; +but India itself, with its burning, shining face, was a mere blank, an +endless waste to him. Persons of this class have no more to say to a +plain matter of fact staring them in the face than they have to say to +a _hippopotamus_.’ This was a keen criticism on Sir James, savouring of +the splenetic mind from which it came. As a complete estimate, it would +be a most unjust one of Macaulay; but we know that there is a whole class +of minds which prefers the literary delineation of objects to the actual +eyesight of them. To some life is difficult. An insensible nature, like a +rough hide, resists the breath of passing things; an unobserving retina +in vain depicts whatever a quicker eye does not explain. But any one can +understand a book; the work is done, the facts observed, the formulæ +suggested, the subjects classified. Of course it needs labour, and a +following fancy, to peruse the long lucubrations and descriptions of +others; but a fine detective sensibility is unnecessary; type is plain, +an earnest attention will follow it and know it. To this class Macaulay +belongs: and he has characteristically maintained that dead authors are +more fascinating than living people. + + ‘Those friendships,’ he tells us, ‘are exposed to no danger + from the occurrences by which other attachments are weakened + or dissolved. Time glides by; fortune is inconstant; tempers + are soured; bonds which seemed indissoluble are daily sundered + by interest, by emulation, or by caprice. But no such cause + can affect the silent converse which we hold with the highest + of human intellects. That placid intercourse is disturbed by + no jealousies or resentments. These are the old friends who + are never seen with new faces; who are the same in wealth and + in poverty, in glory and in obscurity. With the dead there is + no rivalry. In the dead there is no change. Plato is never + sullen. Cervantes is never petulant. Demosthenes never comes + unseasonably. Dante never stays too long. No difference of + political opinion can alienate Cicero. No heresy can excite the + horror of Bossuet.’ + +But Bossuet is dead; and Cicero was a Roman; and Plato wrote in Greek. +Years and manners separate us from the great. After dinner, Demosthenes +_may_ come unseasonably; Dante _might_ stay too long. _We_ are alienated +from the politician, and have a horror of the theologian. Dreadful +idea, having Demosthenes for an intimate friend! He had pebbles in his +mouth; he was always urging action; he spoke such good Greek; we cannot +dwell on it,—it is too much. Only a mind impassive to our daily life, +unalive to bores and evils, to joys and sorrows, incapable of the deepest +sympathies, a prey to print, could imagine it. The mass of men have +stronger ties and warmer hopes. The exclusive devotion to books tires. We +require to love and hate, to act and live. + +It is not unnatural that a person of this temperament should preserve a +certain aloofness even in the busiest life. Macaulay has ever done so. He +has been in the thick of political warfare, in the van of party conflict. +Whatever a keen excitability would select for food and opportunity, has +been his; but he has not been excited. He has never thrown himself upon +action, he has never followed trivial details with an anxious passion. +He has ever been a man for a great occasion. He was by nature a _deus +ex machinâ_. Somebody has had to fetch him. His heart was in Queen +Anne’s time. When he came, he spoke as Lord Halifax might have spoken. +Of course, it may be contended that this is the _eximia ars_; that this +solitary removed excellence is particularly and essentially sublime. +But, simply and really, greater men have been more deeply ‘immersed +in matter.’ The highest eloquence quivers with excitement; there is +life-blood in the deepest action; a man like Strafford seems flung upon +the world. An orator should never talk like an observatory; no coldness +should strike upon the hearer. + +It is characteristic also that Macaulay should be continually thinking +of posterity. In general, that expected authority is most ungrateful; +those who think of it most, it thinks of least. The way to secure its +favour is, to give vivid essential pictures of the life before you; to +leave a fresh glowing delineation of the scene to which you were born, +of the society to which you have peculiar access. This is gained, not by +thinking of your posterity, but by living in society; not by poring on +what is to be, but by enjoying what is. That spirit of thorough enjoyment +which pervades the great delineators of human life and human manners, +was not caused by ‘being made after supper, out of a cheese-paring;’ +it drew its sustenance from a relishing, enjoying, sensitive life, and +the flavour of the description is the reality of that enjoyment. Of +course, this is not so in science. You may leave a name by an abstract +discovery, without having led a vigorous existence; yet what a name is +this! Taylor’s theorem will go down to posterity,—possibly its discoverer +was for ever dreaming and expecting it would; but what does posterity +know of the deceased Taylor? _Nominis umbra_ is rather a compliment; for +it is not substantial enough to have a shadow. But in other walks,—say in +political oratory, which is the part of Macaulay’s composition in which +his value for posterity’s opinion is most apparent,—the way to interest +posterity is to think but little of it. What gives to the speeches of +Demosthenes the interest they have? The intense, vivid, glowing interest +of the speaker in all that he is speaking about. Philip is not a person +whom ‘posterity will censure,’ but the man ‘whom I hate:’ the matter +in hand not one whose interest depends on the memory of men, but in +which an eager intense nature would have been absorbed if there had +been no posterity at all, on which he wished to deliver his own soul. A +_casual_ character, so to speak, is natural to the most intense words; +externally, even, they will interest the ‘after world’ more for having +interested the present world; they must have a life of _some_ place +and _some_ time before they can have one of all space and all time. +Macaulay’s oratory is the very opposite of this. School-boyish it is +not, for it is the oratory of a very sensible man; but the theme of a +schoolboy is not more devoid of the salt of circumstance. The speeches on +the Reform Bill have been headed, ‘Now, a man came up from college and +spoke thus;’ and, like a college man, he spoke rather to the abstract +world than to the present. He knew no more of the people who actually did +live in London than of people who would live in London, and there was +therefore no reason for speaking to one more than to the other. After +years of politics, he speaks so still. He looks on a question (he says) +as posterity will look on it; he appeals from this to future generations; +he regards existing men as painful prerequisites of great-grandchildren. +This seems to proceed, as has been said, from a distant and unimpressible +nature. But it is impossible to deny that it has one great advantage: +it has made him take pains. A man who speaks to people a thousand years +off will naturally speak carefully: he tries to be heard over the clang +of ages, over the rumours of myriads. Writing for posterity is like +writing on foreign post paper: you cannot say to a man at Calcutta what +you would say to a man at Hackney; you think ‘the yellow man is a very +long way off; this is fine paper, it will go by a ship;’ so you try to +say something worthy of the ship, something noble, which will keep and +travel. Writers like Macaulay, who think of future people, have a respect +for future people. Each syllable is solemn, each word distinct. No author +trained to periodical writing has so little of its slovenliness and its +imperfection. + +This singularly constant contemplation of posterity has coloured his +estimate of social characters. He has no toleration for those great men +in whom a lively sensibility to momentary honours has prevailed over a +consistent reference to the posthumous tribunal. He is justly severe on +Lord Bacon: + + ‘In his library all his rare powers were under the guidance of + an honest ambition, of an enlarged philanthropy, of a sincere + love of truth. There no temptation drew him away from the + right course. Thomas Aquinas could pay no fees, Duns Scotus + could confer no peerages. The “Master of the Sentences” had no + rich reversions in his gift. Far different was the situation + of the great philosopher when he came forth from his study + and his laboratory to mingle with the crowd which filled the + galleries of Whitehall. In all that crowd there was no man + equally qualified to render great and lasting services to + mankind. But in all that crowd there was not a heart more set + on things which no man ought to suffer to be necessary to his + happiness,—on things which can often be obtained only by the + sacrifice of integrity and honour. To be the leader of the + human race in the career of improvement, to found on the ruins + of ancient intellectual dynasties a more prosperous and more + enduring empire, to be revered to the latest generations as + the most illustrious among the benefactors of mankind,—all + this was within his reach. But all this availed him nothing, + while some quibbling special pleader was promoted before him to + the Bench,—while some heavy country gentleman took precedence + of him by virtue of a purchased coronet,—while some pander, + happy in a fair wife, could obtain a more cordial salute from + Buckingham,—while some buffoon, versed in all the latest + scandal of the Court, could draw a louder laugh from James.’ + +Yet a less experience, or a less opportunity of experience, would have +warned a mind more observant that the bare desire for long posthumous +renown is but a feeble principle in common human nature. Bacon had +as much of it as most men. The keen excitability to this world’s +temptations must be opposed by more exciting impulses, by more retarding +discouragements, by conscience, by religion, by fear. If you would +vanquish earth, you must ‘invent heaven.’ It is the fiction of a cold +abstractedness that the possible respect of unseen people can commonly be +more desired than the certain homage of existing people. + +In a more conspicuous manner the chill nature of the most brilliant +among English historians is shown in his defective dealing with the +passionate eras of our history. He has never been attracted, or not +proportionally attracted, by the singular mixture of heroism and +slavishness, of high passion and base passion, which mark the Tudor +period. The defect is apparent in his treatment of a period on which +he has written powerfully—the time of the civil wars. He has never in +the highest manner appreciated either of the two great characters—the +Puritan and the Cavalier—which are the form and life of those years. +What historian, indeed, 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 would +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? It is easy for a _doctrinaire_ to +bear a _post-mortem_ examination,—it is much the same whether he be +alive or dead; but not so with those who live during their life, whose +essence is existence, whose being is in animation. There seem to be +some characters who are not made for history, as there are some who +are not made for old age. A Cavalier is always young. The buoyant life +arises before us rich in hope, strong in vigour, irregular in action; +men young and ardent, framed in the ‘prodigality of nature;’ open to +every enjoyment, alive to every passion; eager, impulsive; brave without +discipline; noble without principle; prizing luxury, despising danger, +capable of high sentiment, but in each of whom the + + ‘Addiction was to courses vain; + His companies unlettered, rude and shallow, + His hours filled up with riots, banquets, sports, + And never noted in him any study, + Any retirement, any sequestration + From open haunts and popularity.’ + +We see these men setting forth or assembling to defend their King and +Church; and we see it without surprise; a rich daring loves danger; a +deep excitability likes excitement. If we look around us, we may see +what is analogous. Some say that the battle of the Alma was won by the +‘uneducated gentry;’ the ‘uneducated gentry’ would be Cavaliers now. The +political sentiment is part of the character. The essence of Toryism +is enjoyment. Talk of the ways of spreading a wholesome Conservatism +throughout this country: give painful lectures, distribute weary tracts +(and perhaps this is as well—you may be able to give an argumentative +answer to a few objections, you may diffuse a distinct notion of +the dignified dulness of politics); but as far as communicating and +establishing your creed are 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. Sir Walter Scott is an example of this. Every habit +and practice of old Scotland was inseparably in his mind associated +with genial enjoyment. To propose to touch one of her institutions, to +abolish one of those practices, was to touch a personal pleasure—a point +on which his mind reposed, a thing of memory and hope. So long as this +world is this world, will a buoyant life be the proper source of an +animated Conservatism. The ‘Church-and-King’ enthusiasm has even a deeper +connection with the Cavaliers. Carlyle has said, in his vivid way, ‘Two +or three young gentlemen have said, “Go to, I will _make_ a religion.”’ +This is the exact opposite of what the irregular, enjoying man can think +or conceive. What! is he, with his untrained mind and his changeful +heart and his ruleless practice, to create a creed? Is the gushing life +to be asked to construct a cistern? Is the varying heart to be its own +master, the evil practice its own guide? Sooner will a ship invent its +own rudder, devise its own pilot, than the eager being will find out the +doctrine which is to restrain him. The very intellect is a type of the +confusion of the soul. It has little arguments on a thousand subjects, +hearsay sayings, original flashes, small and bright, struck from the +heedless mind by the strong impact of the world. And it has nothing else. +It has no systematic knowledge; it has a hatred of regular attention. +What can an understanding of this sort do with refined questioning or +subtle investigation? It is obliged in a sense by its very nature to take +what comes; it is overshadowed in a manner by the religion to which it +is born; its conscience tells it that it owes obedience to something; +it craves to worship something; that something, in both cases, it takes +from the past. ‘Thou hast not chosen me, but I have chosen thee,’ might +his faith say to a believer of this kind. A certain bigotry is altogether +natural to him. His creed seems to him a primitive fact, as certain and +evident as the stars. The political faith (for it is a faith) of these +persons is of a kind analogous. The virtue of loyalty assumes in them a +passionate aspect, and overflows, as it were, all the intellect which +belongs to the topic. This virtue, this need of our nature, arises, as +political philosophers tell us, from the conscious necessity which man is +under of obeying an external moral rule. We feel that we are by nature +and by the constitution of all things under an obligation to conform to +a certain standard, and we seek to find or to establish in the sphere +without, an authority which shall enforce it, shall aid us in compelling +others and also in mastering ourselves. When a man impressed with this +principle comes in contact with the institution of civil government as +it now exists and as it has always existed, he finds what he wants—he +discovers an authority; and he feels bound to submit to it. We do not, of +course, mean that all this takes place distinctly and consciously in the +mind of the person; on the contrary, the class of minds most subject to +its influence are precisely those which have in general the least defined +and accurate consciousness of their own operations, or of what befalls +them. In matter of fact, they find themselves under the control of laws +and of a polity from the earliest moment that they can remember, and they +obey it from habit and custom years before they know why. Only in later +life, when distinct thought is from an outward occurrence forced upon +them, do they feel the necessity of some such power; and in proportion to +their passionate and impulsive disposition they feel it the more. The law +has in a less degree on them the same effect which military discipline +has in a greater. It braces them to defined duties, and subjects them +to a known authority. Quieter minds find this authority in an internal +conscience; but in riotous natures its still small voice is lost if it be +not echoed in loud harsh tones from the firm and outer world: + + ‘Their breath is agitation, and their life + A storm whereon they ride.’ + +From without they crave a bridle and a curb. The doctrine of +non-resistance is no _accident_ of the Cavalier character, though it +seems at first sight singular in an eager, tumultuous disposition. So +inconsistent is human nature, that it proceeds from the very extremity +of that tumult. They know that they cannot allow themselves to question +the authority which is upon them; they feel its necessity too acutely, +their intellect is untrained in subtle disquisitions, their conscience +fluctuating, their passions rising. They are sure that if they once +depart from that authority, their whole soul will be in anarchy. As a +riotous state tends to fall under a martial tyranny, a passionate mind +tends to subject itself to an extrinsic law—to enslave itself to an +outward discipline. ‘That is what the king says, boy, and that was ever +enough for Sir Henry Lee.’ An hereditary monarch is, indeed, the very +embodiment of this principle. The authority is so defined, so clearly +vested, so evidently intelligible; it descends so distinctly from the +past, it is imposed so conspicuously from without. Anything free refers +to the people; anything elected seems self-chosen. ‘The divinity that +doth hedge a king’ consists in his evidently representing an unmade, +unchosen, hereditary duty. + +The greatness of this character is not in Macaulay’s way, and its faults +are. Its license affronts him; its riot alienates him. He is for ever +contrasting the dissoluteness of Prince Rupert’s horse with the restraint +of Cromwell’s pikemen. A deep enjoying nature finds no sympathy. The +brilliant style passes forward: we dwell on its brilliancy, but it is +cold. Macaulay has no tears for that warm life, no tenderness for that +extinct joy. The ignorance of the Cavalier, too, moves his wrath: ‘They +were ignorant of what every schoolgirl knows.’ Their loyalty to their +sovereign is the devotion of the Egyptians to the god Apis, who selected +‘a calf to adore.’ Their non-resistance offends the philosopher: their +license is commented on with the tone of a precisian. Their indecorum +does not suit the dignity of the narrator. Their rich free nature is +unappreciated; the tingling intensity of their joy is unnoticed. In a +word, there is something of the schoolboy about the Cavalier—there is +somewhat of a schoolmaster about the historian. + +It might be thought, at first sight, that the insensibility and +coldness which are unfavourable to the appreciation of the Cavalier +would be particularly favourable to that of the Puritan. Some may say +that a natural aloofness from things earthly would dispose a man to +the doctrines of a sect which enjoins above all other commandments +abstinence and aloofness _from_ those things. In Macaulay’s case it +certainly has had no such consequence. He was bred up in the circle +which more than any other has resembled that of the greatest and best +Puritans—in the circle which has presented the evangelical doctrine in +its most influential and celebrated, and not its least genial form. Yet +he has revolted against it. The bray of ‘Exeter Hall’ is a phrase which +has become celebrated: it is an odd one for his father’s son. The whole +course of his personal fortunes, the entire scope of his historical +narrative, show an utter want of sympathy with the Puritan disposition. +It would be idle to quote passages; it will be enough to recollect the +contrast between the estimate—say, of Cromwell—by Carlyle and that by +Macaulay, to be aware of the enormous discrepancy. The one’s manner +evinces an instinctive sympathy, the other’s an instinctive aversion. + +We believe that this is but a consequence of the same impassibility +of nature which we have said so much of. M. de Montalembert, in a +striking _éloge_ on a French historian—a man of the Southey type—after +speaking of his life in Paris during youth (a youth cast in the early +and exciting years of the first Revolution, and of the prelude to it), +and graphically portraying a man subject to scepticism, but not given +to vice; staid in habits, but unbelieving in opinion; without faith and +without irregularity,—winds up the whole by the sentence, that ‘_he was +hardened at once against good and evil_.’ In his view, the insensibility +which was a guard against exterior temptation was also a hindrance to +inward belief: and there is a philosophy in this. The nature of man +is not two things, but one thing. We have not one set of affections, +hopes, sensibilities, to be affected by the present world, and another +and a different to be affected by the invisible world: we are moved by +grandeur, or we are not; we are stirred by sublimity, or we are not; we +hunger after righteousness, or we do not; we hate vice, or we do not; +we are passionate, or not passionate; loving, or not loving; cold, or +not cold; our heart is dull, or it is wakeful; our soul is alive, or it +is dead. Deep under the surface of the intellect lies the _stratum_ of +the passions, of the intense, peculiar, simple impulses which constitute +the heart of man; there is the eager essence, the primitive desiring +being. What stirs this latent being we know. In general it is stirred +by everything. Sluggish natures are stirred little, wild natures are +stirred much; but all are stirred somewhat. It is not important whether +the object be in the visible or invisible world: whoso loves what he +has seen, will love what he has not seen; whoso hates what he has seen, +will hate what he has not seen. Creation is, as it were, but the garment +of the Creator: whoever is blind to the beauty on its surface, will be +insensible to the beauty beneath; whoso is dead to the sublimity before +his senses, will be dull to that which he imagines; whoso is untouched by +the visible man, will be unmoved by the invisible God. These are no new +ideas; and the conspicuous evidence of history confirms them. Everywhere +the deep religious organisation has been deeply sensitive to this world. +If we compare what are called sacred and profane literatures, the depth +of human affection is deepest in the sacred. A warmth as of life is on +the Hebrew, a chill as of marble is on the Greek. In Jewish history the +most tenderly religious character is the most sensitive to earth. Along +every lyric of the Psalmist thrills a deep spirit of human enjoyment; he +was alive as a child to the simple aspects of the world; the very errors +of his mingled career are but those to which the open, enjoying character +is most prone; its principle, so to speak, was a tremulous passion for +that which he had seen, as well as that which he had not seen. There is +no paradox, therefore, in saying that the same character which least +appreciates the impulsive and ardent Cavalier is also the most likely not +to appreciate the warm zeal of an overpowering devotion. + +Some years ago it would have been necessary to show at length that +the Puritans had such a devotion. The notion had been that they were +fanatics, who simulated zeal, and hypocrites, who misquoted the Old +Testament. A new era has arrived; one of the great discoveries which the +competition of authors has introduced into historical researches has +attained a singular popularity. Times are changed. We are rather now, in +general, in danger of holding too high an estimate of the puritanical +character than a too low or contemptuous one. Among the disciples of +Carlyle it is considered that having been a Puritan is the next best +thing to having been in Germany. But though we cannot sympathise with +everything that the expounders of the new theory allege, and though we +should not select for praise the exact peculiarities most agreeable to +the slightly grim ‘gospel of earnestness,’ we acknowledge the great +service which they have rendered to English history. No one will now ever +overlook, that in the greater, in the original Puritans—in Cromwell, for +example—the whole basis of the character was a passionate, deep, rich, +religious organisation. + +This is not in Macaulay’s way. It is not that he is sceptical; far +from it. ‘Divines of all persuasions,’ he tells us, ‘are agreed that +there is a religion;’ and he acquiesces in their teaching. But he +has no passionate self-questionings, no indomitable fears, no asking +perplexities. He is probably pleased at the exemption. He has praised +Bacon for a similar want of interest. ‘Nor did he ever meddle with those +enigmas which have puzzled hundreds of generations, and will puzzle +hundreds more. He said nothing about the grounds of moral obligation, or +the freedom of the human will. He had no inclination to employ himself +in labours resembling those of the damned in the Grecian Tartarus—to +spin for ever on the same wheel round the same pivot. He lived in an +age in which disputes on the most subtle points of divinity excited an +intense interest throughout Europe; and nowhere more than in England. +He was placed in the very thick of the conflict. He was in power at the +time of the Synod of Dort, and must for months have been daily deafened +with talk about election, reprobation, and final perseverance. Yet we +do not remember a line in his works from which it can be inferred that +he was either a Calvinist or an Arminian. While the world was resounding +with the noise of a disputatious philosophy and a disputatious theology, +the Baconian school, like Allworthy seated between Square and Thwackum, +preserved a calm neutrality,—half-scornful, half-benevolent,—and, content +with adding to the sum of practical good, left the war of words to those +who liked it.’ This may be the writing of good sense, but it is not the +expression of an anxious or passionate religious nature. + +Such is the explanation of Macaulay’s not prizing so highly as he should +prize the essential excellences of the Puritan character. He is defective +in the one point in which they were very great; he is eminent in the very +point in which they were most defective. A spirit of easy cheerfulness +pervades his writings, a pleasant geniality overflows his history: the +rigid asceticism, the pain for pain’s sake, of the Puritan is altogether +alien to him. Retribution he would deny; sin is hardly a part of his +creed. His religion is one of thanksgiving. His notion of philosophy—it +would be a better notion of his own writing—is _illustrans commoda vitæ_. + +The English Revolution is the very topic for a person of this character. +It is eminently an unimpassioned movement. It requires no appreciation +of the Cavalier or of the zealot; no sympathy with the romance of this +world; no inclination to pass beyond, and absorb the mind’s energies +in another. It had neither the rough enthusiasm of barbarism nor the +delicate grace of high civilisation; the men who conducted it had neither +the deep spirit of Cromwell’s Puritans nor the chivalric loyalty of the +enjoying English gentleman. They were hard-headed sensible men, who knew +that politics were a kind of business, that the essence of business is +compromise, of practicality concession. They drove no theory to excess; +for they had no theory. Their passions did not hurry them away; for +their temperament was still, their reason calculating and calm. Locke +is the type of the best character of his era. There is nothing in him +which a historian such as we have described could fail to comprehend, +or could not sympathise with when he did comprehend. He was the very +reverse of a Cavalier; he came of a Puritan stock; he retained through +life a kind of chilled Puritanism; he had nothing of its excessive, +overpowering, interior zeal, but he retained the formal decorum which +it had given to the manners, the solid earnestness of its intellect, +the heavy respectability of its character. In all the nations across +which Puritanism has passed you may notice something of its indifference +to this world’s lighter enjoyments; no one of them has been quite able +to retain its singular interest in what is beyond the veil of time and +sense. The generation to which we owe our Revolution was in the first +stage of the descent. Locke thought a zealot a dangerous person, and +a poet little better than a rascal. It has been said, with perhaps an +allusion to Macaulay, that our historians have held that ‘all the people +who lived before 1688 were either knaves or fools.’ This is, of course, +an exaggeration; but those who have considered what sort of person a +historian is likely to be, will not be surprised at his preference for +the people of that era. They had the equable sense which he appreciates; +they had not the deep animated passions to which his nature is insensible. + +Yet, though Macaulay shares in the common temperament of historians, +and in the sympathy with, and appreciation of, the characters most +congenial to that temperament, he is singularly contrasted with them +in one respect—he has a vivid fancy, they have a dull one. History is +generally written on the principle that human life is a transaction; +that people come to it with defined intentions and a calm self-possessed +air, as stockjobbers would buy ‘omnium,’ as timber-merchants buy ‘best +middling;’ people are alike, and things are alike; everything is a +little dull, every one a little slow; manners are not depicted, traits +are not noticed; the narrative is confined to those great transactions +which can be understood without any imaginative delineation of their +accompaniments. There are two kinds of things—those which you need only +to _understand_, and those which you need also to _imagine_. That a man +bought nine hundredweight of hops is an intelligible idea—you do not +want the hops delineated or the man described; that he went into society +suggests an inquiry—you want to know what the society was like, and how +far he was fitted to be there. The great business transactions of the +political world are of the intelligible description. Macaulay has himself +said: + + ‘A history, in which every particular incident may be true, + may on the whole be false. The circumstances which have + most influence on the happiness of mankind, the changes of + manners and morals, the transition of communities from poverty + to wealth, from knowledge to ignorance, from ferocity to + humanity,—these are, for the most part, noiseless revolutions. + Their progress is rarely indicated by what historians are + pleased to call important events. They are not achieved by + armies, or enacted by senates. They are sanctioned by no + treaties, and recorded in no archives. They are carried on in + every school, in every church, behind ten thousand counters, at + ten thousand firesides. The upper current of society presents + no certain criterion by which we can judge of the direction + in which the under current flows. We read of defeats and + victories; but we know that nations may be miserable amidst + victories, and prosperous amidst defeats. We read of the fall + of wise ministers, and of the rise of profligate favourites; + but we must remember how small a proportion the good or evil + effected by a single statesman can bear to the good or evil of + a great social system.’ + +But of this sluggishness of imagination he has certainly no trace +himself. He is willing to be ‘behind ten thousand counters,’ to be a +guest ‘at ten thousand firesides.’ He is willing to see ‘ordinary men as +they appear in their ordinary business and in their ordinary pleasures.’ +He has no objection to ‘mingle in the crowds of the Exchange and the +coffee-house.’ He would ‘obtain admittance to the convivial table and +the domestic hearth.’ So far as his dignity will permit, ‘he will bear +with vulgar expressions.’ And a singular efficacy of fancy gives him the +power to do so. Some portion of the essence of human nature is concealed +from him; but all its accessories are at his command. He delineates any +trait; he can paint, and justly paint, any manners he chooses. + + ‘A perfect historian,’ he tells us, ‘is he in whose work the + character and spirit of an age is exhibited in miniature. He + relates no fact, he attributes no expression to his characters, + which is not authenticated by sufficient testimony; but, by + judicious selection, rejection, and arrangement, he gives to + truth those attractions which have been usurped by fiction. In + his narrative a due subordination is observed—some transactions + are prominent, others retire; but the scale on which he + represents them is increased or diminished, not according to + the dignity of the persons concerned in them, but according to + the degree in which they elucidate the condition of society + and the nature of man. He shows us the court, the camp, and + the senate; but he shows us also the nation. He considers no + anecdote, no peculiarity of manner, no familiar saying, as too + insignificant for his notice, which is not too insignificant + to illustrate the operation of laws, of religion, and of + education, and to mark the progress of the human mind. Men will + not merely be described, but will be made intimately known + to us. The changes of manners will be indicated, not merely + by a few general phrases, or a few extracts from statistical + documents, but by appropriate images presented in every line. + If a man, such as we are supposing, should write the history of + England, he would assuredly not omit the battles, the sieges, + the negotiations, the seditions, the ministerial changes; but + with these he would intersperse the details which are the + charm of historical romances. At Lincoln Cathedral there is + a beautiful painted window, which was made by an apprentice + out of the pieces of glass which had been rejected by his + master. It is so far superior to every other in the church, + that, according to the tradition, the vanquished artist killed + himself from mortification. Sir Walter Scott, in the same + manner, has used those fragments of truth which historians have + scornfully thrown behind them in a manner which may well excite + their envy. He has constructed out of their gleanings works + which, even considered as histories, are scarcely less valuable + than theirs. But a truly great historian would reclaim those + materials which the novelist has appropriated. The history + of the Government, and the history of the people, would be + exhibited in that mode in which alone they can be exhibited + justly, in inseparable conjunction and intermixture. We should + not then have to look for the wars and votes of the Puritans in + Clarendon, and for their phraseology in _Old Mortality_; for + one half of King James in Hume, and for the other half in the + _Fortunes of Nigel_.’ + +So far as the graphic description of exterior life goes, he has +completely realised his idea. + +This union of a flowing fancy with an insensible organisation is very +rare. In general, a delicate fancy is joined with a poetic organisation. +Exactly why, it would be difficult to explain. It is for metaphysicians +in large volumes to explain the genesis of the human faculties; but, +as a fact, it seems to be clear that, for the most part, imaginative +men are the most sensitive to the poetic side of human life and natural +scenery. They are drawn by a strong instinct to what is sublime, grand, +and beautiful. They do not care for the coarse business of life. They +dislike to be cursed with its ordinary cares. Their nature is vivid; it +is interested by all which naturally interests; it dwells on the great, +the graceful, and the grand. On this account it naturally runs away from +history. The very name of it is too oppressive. Are not all such works +written in the _Index Expurgatorius_ of the genial satirist as works +which it was impossible to read? The coarse and cumbrous matter revolts +the soul of the fine and fanciful voluptuary. Take it as you will, human +life is like the earth on which man dwells. There are exquisite beauties, +grand imposing objects, scattered here and there; but the spaces between +these are wide; the mass of common clay is huge; the dead level of vacant +life, of commonplace geography, is immense. The poetic nature cannot bear +the preponderance; it seeks relief in selected scenes, in special topics, +in favourite beauties. History, which is the record of human existence, +is a faithful representative of it, at least in this: the poetic mind +cannot bear the weight of its narrations and the commonplaceness of its +events. + +This peculiarity of character gives to Macaulay’s writing one of its +most curious characteristics. He throws over matters which are in their +nature dry and dull,—transactions—budgets—bills,—the charm of fancy which +a poetical mind employs to enhance and set forth the charm of what is +beautiful. An attractive style is generally devoted to what is in itself +specially attractive; here it is devoted to subjects which are often +unattractive, are sometimes even repelling, at the best are commonly +neutral, not inviting attention, if they do not excite dislike. In these +new volumes there is a currency reform, pages on Scotch Presbyterianism, +a heap of Parliamentary debates. Who could be expected to make anything +interesting of such topics? It is not cheerful to read in the morning +papers the debates of yesterday, though they happened last night; one +cannot like a Calvinistic divine when we see him in the pulpit; it is +awful to read on the currency, even when it concerns the bank-notes +which we use. How, then, can we care for a narrative when the divine is +dead, the shillings extinct, the whole topic of the debate forgotten +and passed away? Yet such is the power of style, so great is the charm +of very skilful words, of narration which is always passing forward, +of illustration which always hits the mark, that such subjects as +these not only become interesting, but very interesting. The proof is +evident. No book is so sought after. The Chancellor of the Exchequer +said, ‘all members of Parliament had read it.’ What other books could +ever be fancied to have been read by them? A county member—a real county +member—hardly reads two volumes _per_ existence. Years ago Macaulay said +a History of England might become more in demand at the circulating +libraries than the last novel. He has actually made his words true. It is +no longer a phrase of rhetoric, it is a simple fact. + +The explanation of this remarkable notoriety is, the contrast of the +topic and the treatment. Those who read for the sake of entertainment +are attracted by the one; those who read for the sake of instruction are +attracted by the other. Macaulay has something that suits the readers +of Mr. Hallam; he has something which will please the readers of Mr. +Thackeray. The first wonder to find themselves reading such a style; +the last are astonished at reading on such topics—at finding themselves +studying by casualty. This marks the author. Only a buoyant fancy and +an impassive temperament could produce a book so combining weight with +levity. + +Something similar may be remarked of the writings of a still +greater man—of Edmund Burke. The contrast between the manner of his +characteristic writings and their matter is very remarkable. He too threw +over the detail of business and of politics those graces and attractions +of manner which seem in some sort inconsistent with them; which are +adapted for topics more intrinsically sublime and beautiful. It was for +this reason that Hazlitt asserted that ‘no woman ever cared for Burke’s +writings.’ The matter, he said, was ‘hard and dry,’ and no superficial +glitter or eloquence could make it agreeable to those who liked what is, +in its very nature, fine and delicate. The charm of exquisite narration +has, in a great degree, in Macaulay’s case, supplied the deficiency; but +it may be _perhaps_ remarked, that some trace of the same phenomenon has +again occurred, from similar causes, and that his popularity, though +great among both sexes, is in some sense more masculine than feminine. +The absence of this charm of narration, to which accomplished women are, +it would seem, peculiarly sensitive, is very characteristic of Burke. +His mind was the reverse of historical. Although he had rather a coarse, +incondite temperament, not finely susceptible to the best influences, to +the most exquisite beauties of the world in which he lived, he yet lived +in that world thoroughly and completely. He did not take an interest, +as a poet does, in the sublime because it is sublime, in the beautiful +because it is beautiful; but he had the passions of more ordinary men in +a degree, and of an intensity, which ordinary men may be most thankful +that they have not. In no one has the intense faculty of intellectual +hatred—the hatred which the absolute dogmatist has for those in whom he +incarnates and personifies the opposing dogma—been fiercer or stronger; +in no one has the intense ambition to rule and govern,—in scarcely any +one has the daily ambition of the daily politician been fiercer and +stronger: he, if any man, cast himself upon his time. After one of his +speeches, peruse one of Macaulay’s: you seem transported to another +sphere. The fierce living interest of the one contrasts with the cold +rhetorical interest of the other; you are in a different part of the +animal kingdom; you have left the viviparous intellect; you have left +products warm and struggling with hasty life; you have reached the +oviparous, and products smooth and polished, cold and stately. + +In addition to this impassive nature, inclining him to write on +past transactions—to this fancy, enabling him to adorn and describe +them—Macaulay has a marvellous memory to recall them; and what we may +call the Scotch intellect, enabling him to conceive them. The memory +is his most obvious power. An enormous reading seems always present to +him. No effort seems wanted—no mental excogitation. According to his +own description of a like faculty, ‘it would have been strange indeed +if you had asked for anything that was not to be found in that immense +storehouse. The article you required was not only there, it was ready. It +was in its own compartment. In a moment it was brought down, unpacked, +and explained.’ He has a literary illustration for everything; and his +fancy enables him to make a skilful use of his wealth. He always selects +the exact likeness of the idea which he wishes to explain. And though +it be less obvious, yet his writing would have been deficient in one +of its most essential characteristics if it had not been for what we +have called his Scotch intellect, which is a curious matter to explain. +It may be thought that Adam Smith had little in common with Sir Walter +Scott. Sir Walter was always making fun of him; telling odd tales of +his abstraction and singularity; not obscurely hinting, that a man who +could hardly put on his own coat, and certainly could not buy his own +dinner, was scarcely fit to decide on the proper course of industry and +the mercantile dealings of nations. Yet, when Sir Walter’s own works +come to be closely examined, they will be found to contain a good deal +of political economy of a certain sort,—and not a very bad sort. Any one +who will study his description of the Highland clans in _Waverley_; his +observations on the industrial side (if so it is to be called) of the +Border-life; his plans for dealing with the poor of his own time,—will be +struck not only with a plain sagacity, which we could equal in England, +but with the digested accuracy and theoretical completeness which they +show. You might cut paragraphs, even from his lighter writings, which +would be thought acute in the _Wealth of Nations_. There appears to be +in the genius of the Scotch people—fostered, no doubt, by the abstract +metaphysical education of their Universities, but also, by way of natural +taste, supporting that education, and rendering it possible and popular—a +power of reducing human actions to formulæ or principles. An instance +is now in a high place. People who are not lawyers,—rural people, who +have sense of their own, but have no access to the general repute and +opinion which expresses the collective sense of the great world,—never +can be brought to believe that Lord Campbell is a great man. They read +his speeches in the House of Lords—his occasional flights of eloquence +on the bench—his attempts at pathos—his stupendous _gaucheries_—and they +cannot be persuaded that a person guilty of such things can have really +first-rate talent. If you ask them how he came to be Chief Justice of +England, they mutter something angry, and say ‘Well, Scotchmen _do_ get +on somehow.’ This is really the true explanation. In spite of a hundred +defects, Lord Campbell has the Scotch faculties in perfection. He reduces +legal matters to a sound broad principle better than any man who is now +a judge. He has a steady, comprehensive, abstract, distinct consistency, +which elaborates a formula and adheres to a formula; and it is this +which has raised him from a plain—a very plain—Scotch lawyer to be Lord +Chief Justice of England. Macaulay has this too. Among his more brilliant +qualities, it has escaped the attention of critics; the more so, because +his powers of exposition and expression make it impossible to conceive +for a moment that the amusing matter we are reading is really Scotch +economy. + + ‘During the interval,’ he tells us, ‘between the Restoration + and the Revolution, the riches of the nation had been rapidly + increasing. Thousands of busy men found every Christmas that, + after the expenses of the year’s housekeeping had been defrayed + out of the year’s income, a surplus remained; and how that + surplus was to be employed was a question of some difficulty. + In our time, to invest such a surplus, at something more than + three per cent., on the best security that has ever been + known in the world, is the work of a few minutes. But in the + seventeenth century, a lawyer, a physician, a retired merchant, + who had saved some thousands, and who wished to place them + safely and profitably, was often greatly embarrassed. Three + generations earlier, a man who had accumulated wealth in a + profession generally purchased real property, or lent his + savings on mortgage. But the number of acres in the kingdom + had remained the same; and the value of those acres, though + it had greatly increased, had by no means increased so fast + as the quantity of capital which was seeking for employment. + Many, too, wished to put their money where they could find + it at an hour’s notice, and looked about for some species of + property which could be more readily transferred than a house + or a field. A capitalist might lend on bottomry or on personal + security; but, if he did so, he ran a great risk of losing + interest and principal. There were a few joint-stock companies, + among which the East India Company held the foremost place; + but the demand for the stock of such companies was far greater + than the supply. Indeed, the cry for a new East India Company + was chiefly raised by persons who had found difficulty in + placing their savings at interest on good security. So great + was that difficulty, that the practice of hoarding was common. + We are told that the father of Pope the poet, who retired from + business in the City about the time of the Revolution, carried + to a retreat in the country a strong box containing nearly + twenty thousand pounds, and took out from time to time what + was required for household expenses; and it is highly probable + that this was not a solitary case. At present the quantity of + coin which is hoarded by private persons is so small, that it + would, if brought forth, make no perceptible addition to the + circulation. But in the earlier part of the reign of William + the Third, all the greatest writers on currency were of opinion + that a very considerable mass of gold and silver was hidden in + secret drawers and behind wainscots. + + ‘The natural effect of this state of things was, that a crowd + of projectors, ingenious and absurd, honest and knavish, + employed themselves in devising new schemes for the employment + of redundant capital. It was about the year 1688 that the + word stockjobber was first heard in London. In the short + space of four years a crowd of companies, every one of which + confidently held out to subscribers the hope of immense gains, + sprang into existence: the Insurance Company, the Paper + Company, the Lutestring Company, the Pearl-Fishery Company, + the Glass-Bottle Company, the Alum Company, the Blythe Coal + Company, the Swordblade Company. There was a Tapestry Company, + which would soon furnish pretty hangings for all the parlours + of the middle class and for all the bedchambers of the higher. + There was a Copper Company, which proposed to explore the + mines of England, and held out a hope that they would prove + not less valuable than those of Potosi. There was a Diving + Company, which undertook to bring up precious effects from + shipwrecked vessels, and which announced that it had laid in + a stock of wonderful machines, resembling complete suits of + armour. In front of the helmet was a huge glass eye, like that + of a Cyclop; and out of the crest went a pipe, through which + the air was to be admitted. The whole process was exhibited + on the Thames. Fine gentlemen and fine ladies were invited + to the show, were hospitably regaled, and were delighted by + seeing the divers in their panoply descend into the river, + and return laden with old iron and ship’s tackle. There was a + Greenland Fishing Company, which could not fail to drive the + Dutch whalers and herring-busses out of the Northern Ocean. + There was a Tanning Company, which promised to furnish leather + superior to the best that was brought from Turkey or Russia. + There was a society which undertook the office of giving + gentlemen a liberal education on low terms, and which assumed + the sounding name of the Royal Academies Company. In a pompous + advertisement it was announced that the directors of the + Royal Academies Company had engaged the best masters in every + branch of knowledge, and were about to issue twenty thousand + tickets at twenty shillings each. There was to be a lottery: + two thousand prizes were to be drawn; and the fortunate + holders of the prizes were to be taught, at the charge of the + Company, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, French, Spanish, conic sections, + trigonometry, heraldry, japanning, fortification, bookkeeping, + and the art of playing the theorbo. Some of these companies + took large mansions, and printed their advertisements in gilded + letters. Others, less ostentatious, were content with ink, + and met at coffee-houses in the neighbourhood of the Royal + Exchange. Jonathan’s and Garraway’s were in a constant ferment + with brokers, buyers, sellers, meetings of directors, meetings + of proprietors. Time-bargains soon came into fashion. Extensive + combinations were formed, and monstrous fables were circulated, + for the purpose of raising or depressing the price of shares. + Our country witnessed for the first time those phenomena with + which a long experience has made us familiar. A mania, of which + the symptoms were essentially the same with those of the mania + of 1720, of the mania of 1825, of the mania of 1845, seized the + public mind. An impatience to be rich, a contempt for those + slow but sure gains which are the proper reward of industry, + patience, and thrift, spread through society. The spirit of + the cogging dicers of Whitefriars took possession of the grave + senators of the City, wardens of trades, deputies, aldermen. + It was much easier and much more lucrative to put forth a + lying prospectus announcing a new stock, to persuade ignorant + people that the dividends could not fall short of twenty per + cent., and to part with five thousand pounds of this imaginary + wealth for ten thousand solid guineas, than to load a ship + with a well-chosen cargo for Virginia or the Levant. Every day + some new bubble was puffed into existence, rose buoyant, shone + bright, burst, and was forgotten.’ + +You will not find the cause of panics so accurately explained in the +dryest of political economists—in the Scotch M’Culloch. + +These peculiarities of character and mind may be very conspicuously +traced through the _History of England_, and in the _Essays_. Their first +and most striking quality is the _intellectual entertainment_ which they +afford. This, as practical readers know, is a kind of sensation which +is not very common, and which is very productive of great and healthy +enjoyment. It is quite distinct from the amusement which is derived from +common light works. The latter is very great; but it is passive. The +mind of the reader is not awakened to any independent action: you see +the farce, but you see it without effort; not simply without painful +effort, but without any perceptible mental activity whatever. Again, +entertainment of intellect is contrasted with the high enjoyment of +consciously following pure and difficult reasoning; such a sensation is +a sort of sublimated pain. The highest and most intense action of the +intellectual powers is like the most intense action of the bodily on a +high mountain. We climb and climb: we have a thrill of pleasure, but +we have also a sense of effort and anguish. Nor is the sensation to be +confounded with that which we experience from the best and purest works +of art. The pleasure of high tragedy is also painful: the whole soul +is stretched; the spirit pants; the passions scarcely breathe: it is +a rapt and eager moment, too intense for continuance—so overpowering, +that we scarcely know whether it be joy or pain. The sensation of +intellectual entertainment is altogether distinguished from these by not +being accompanied by any pain, and yet being consequent on, or being +contemporaneous with, a high and constant exercise of mind. While we read +works which so delight us, we are conscious that we are delighted, and +are conscious that we are not idle. The opposite pleasures of indolence +and exertion seem for a moment combined. A sort of elasticity pervades +us; thoughts come easily and quickly; we seem capable of many ideas; +we follow cleverness till we fancy that we are clever. This feeling is +only given by writers who stimulate the mind just to the degree which is +pleasant, and who do not stimulate it more; who exact a moderate exercise +of mind, and who seduce us to it insensibly. This can only be, of +course, by a charm of style; by the inexplicable _je ne sais quoi_ which +attracts our attention; by constantly raising and constantly satisfying +our curiosity. And there seems to be a further condition. A writer who +wishes to produce this constant effect must not appeal to any single, +separate faculty of mind, but to the whole mind at once. The fancy tires, +if you appeal only to the fancy; the understanding is aware of its +dulness, if you appeal only to the understanding; the curiosity is soon +satiated unless you pique it with variety. This is the very opportunity +for Macaulay. He has fancy, sense, abundance; he appeals to both fancy +and understanding. There is no sense of effort. His books read like an +elastic dream. There is a continual sense of instruction; for who had +an idea of the transactions before? The emotions, too, which he appeals +to are the easy admiration, the cool disapprobation, the gentle worldly +curiosity, which quietly excite us, never fatigue us,—which we could bear +for ever. To read Macaulay for a day, would be to pass a day of easy +thought, of pleasant placid emotion. + +Nor is this a small matter. In a state of high civilisation it is no +simple matter to give multitudes a large and healthy enjoyment. The old +bodily enjoyments are dying out; there is no room for them any more; +the complex apparatus of civilisation cumbers the ground. We are thrown +back upon the mind, and the mind is a barren thing. It can spin little +from itself: few that describe what they see are in the way to discern +much. Exaggerated emotions, violent incidents, monstrous characters, +crowd our canvas; they are the resource of a weakness which would obtain +the fame of strength. Reading is about to become a series of collisions +against aggravated breakers, of beatings with imaginary surf. In such +times a book of sensible attraction is a public benefit; it diffuses a +sensation of vigour through the multitude. Perhaps there is a danger +that the extreme popularity of the manner may make many persons fancy +they understand the matter more perfectly than they do: some readers may +become conceited; several boys believe that they too are Macaulays. Yet, +duly allowing for this defect, it is a great good that so many people +should learn so much on such topics so agreeably; that they should feel +that they _can_ understand them; that their minds should be stimulated +by a consciousness of health and power. + +The same peculiarities influence the style of the narrative. The art of +narration is the art of writing in hooks-and-eyes. The principle consists +in making the appropriate thought follow the appropriate thought, the +proper fact the proper fact; in first preparing the mind for what is to +come, and then letting it come. This can only be achieved by keeping +continually and insensibly before the mind of the reader some one object, +character, or image, whose variations are the events of the story, whose +unity is the unity of it. Scott, for example, keeps before you the mind +of some one person,—that of Morton in _Old Mortality_, of Rebecca in +_Ivanhoe_, of Lovel in _The Antiquary_,—whose fortunes and mental changes +are the central incidents, whose personality is the string of unity. +It is the defect of the great Scotch novels that their central figure +is frequently not their most interesting topic,—that their interest is +often rather in the accessories than in the essential principle—rather +in that which surrounds the centre of narration than in the centre +itself. Scott tries to meet this objection by varying the mind which he +selects for his unit; in one of his chapters it is one character, in +the next a different; he shifts the scene from the hero to the heroine, +from the ‘Protector of the settlement’ of the story to the evil being +who mars it perpetually: but when narrowly examined, the principle of +his narration will be found nearly always the same,—the changes in the +position—external or mental—of some one human being. The most curiously +opposite sort of narration is that of Hume. He seems to carry a _view_, +as the moderns call it, through everything. He forms to himself a +metaphysical—that perhaps is a harsh word—an intellectual conception +of the time and character before him; and the gradual working out or +development of that view is the principle of his narration. He tells the +story of the conception. You rise from his pages without much remembrance +of or regard for the mere people, but with a clear notion of an +elaborated view, skilfully abstracted and perpetually impressed upon you. +A critic of detail should scarcely require a better task than to show how +insensibly and artfully the subtle historian infuses his doctrine among +the facts, indicates somehow—you can scarcely say how—their relation to +it; strings them, as it were, upon it, concealing it in seeming beneath +them, while in fact it altogether determines their form, their grouping, +and their consistency. The style of Macaulay is very different from +either of these. It is a diorama of political pictures. You seem to begin +with a brilliant picture,—its colours are distinct, its lines are firm; +on a sudden it changes, at first gradually, you can scarcely tell how +or in what, but truly and unmistakably,—a slightly different picture is +before you; then the second vision seems to change,—it too is another and +yet the same; then the third shines forth and fades; and so without end. +The unity of this delineation is the identity—the apparent identity—of +the picture; in no two moments does it seem quite different, in no two is +it identically the same. It grows and alters as our bodies would appear +to alter and grow, if you could fancy any one watching them, and being +conscious of their daily little changes. The events are picturesque +variations; the unity is a unity of political painting, of represented +external form. It is evident how suitable this is to a writer whose +understanding is solid, whose sense is political, whose fancy is fine and +delineative. + +To this merit of Macaulay is to be added another. No one describes +so well what we may call the _spectacle_ of a character. The art of +delineating character by protracted description is one which grows in +spite of the critics. In vain is it alleged that the character should +be shown dramatically; that it should be illustrated by events; that it +should be exhibited in its actions. The truth is, that these homilies are +excellent, but incomplete; true, but out of season. There is a utility +in verbal portrait, as Lord Stanhope says there is in painted. Goethe +used to observe, that in society—in a _tête-à-tête_, rather—you often +thought of your companion as if he was his portrait: you were silent; +you did not care what he said; but you considered him as a picture, as +a whole, especially as regards yourself and your relations towards him. +You require something of the same kind in literature; _some_ description +of a man is clearly necessary as an introduction to the story of his +life and actions. But more than this is wanted; you require to have the +object placed before you as a whole, to have the characteristic traits +mentioned, the delicate qualities drawn out, the firm features gently +depicted. As the practice which Goethe hints at is, of all others, +the most favourable to a just and calm judgment of character, so the +literary substitute is essential as a steadying element, as a summary, +to bring together and give a unity to our views. We must see the man’s +face. Without it, we seem to have heard a great deal about the person, +but not to have known him; to be aware that he had done a good deal, +but to have no settled, ineradicable notion what manner of man he was. +This is the reason why critics like Macaulay, who sneer at the practice +when estimating the works of others, yet make use of it at great length, +and, in his case, with great skill, when they come to be historians +themselves. The kind of characters whom Macaulay can describe is +limited—at least we think so—by the bounds which we indicated just now. +There are some men whom he is too impassive to comprehend; but he can +always tell us of such as he does comprehend, what they looked like, and +what they were. + +A great deal of this vividness Macaulay of course owes to his style. +Of its effectiveness there can be no doubt; its agreeableness no one +who has just been reading it is likely to deny. Yet it has a defect. It +is not, as Bishop Butler would have expressed it, such a style as ‘is +suitable to such a being as man, in such a world as the present one.’ It +is too omniscient. Everything is too plain. All is clear; nothing is +doubtful. Instead of probability being, as the great thinker expressed +it, ‘the very guide of life,’ it has become a rare exception—an uncommon +phenomenon. You rarely come across anything which is not decided; and +when you do come across it, you seem to wonder that the positiveness, +which has accomplished so much, should have been unwilling to decide +everything. This is hardly the style for history. The data of historical +narratives, especially of modern histories, are a heap of confusion. +No one can tell where they lie, or where they do not lie; what is in +them, or what is not in them. Literature is called the ‘fragment of +fragments;’ little has been written, and but little of that little has +been preserved. So history is a vestige of vestiges; few facts leave any +trace of themselves, any witness of their occurrence; of fewer still +is that witness preserved; a slight track is all anything leaves, and +the confusion of life, the tumult of change, sweeps even that away in +a moment. It is not possible that these data can be very fertile in +certainties. Few people would make anything of them: a memoir here, +a MS. there—two letters in a magazine—an assertion by a person whose +veracity is denied,—these are the sort of evidence out of which a flowing +narrative is to be educed; and of course it ought not to be too flowing. +‘If you please, sir, tell me what you do _not_ know,’ was the inquiry of +a humble pupil addressed to a great man of science. It would have been a +relief to the readers of Macaulay if he had shown a little the outside of +uncertainties, which there must be—the gradations of doubt, which there +ought to be—the singular accumulation of difficulties, which must beset +the extraction of a very easy narrative from very confused materials. + +This defect in style is, indeed, indicative of a defect in understanding. +Macaulay’s mind is eminently gifted, but there is a want of graduation in +it. He has a fine eye for probabilities, a clear perception of evidence, +a shrewd guess at missing links of fact; but each probability seems to +him a certainty, each piece of evidence conclusive, each analogy exact. +The heavy Scotch intellect is a little prone to this: one figures it as a +heap of formulæ, and if fact _b_ is reducible to formula B, that is all +which it regards; the mathematical mill grinds with equal energy at flour +perfect and imperfect—at matter which is quite certain and at matter +which is only a little probable. But the great cause of this error is, +an abstinence from practical action. Life is a school of probability. +In the writings of every man of patient practicality, in the midst of +whatever other defects, you will find a careful appreciation of the +degrees of likelihood; a steady balancing of them one against another; +a disinclination to make things too clear, to overlook the debit side +of the account in mere contemplation of the enormousness of the credit. +The reason is obvious: action is a business of risk; the real question +is the magnitude of that risk. Failure is ever impending; success is +ever uncertain; there is always, in the very best of affairs, a slight +probability of the former, a contingent possibility of the non-occurrence +of the latter. For practical men, the problem ever is to test the amount +of these inevitable probabilities; to make sure that no one increases too +far; that by a well-varied choice the number of risks may in itself be +a protection—be an insurance to you, as it were, against the capricious +result of any one. A man like Macaulay, who stands aloof from life, is +not so instructed; he sits secure: nothing happens in his study: he does +not care to test probabilities; he loses the detective sensation. + +Macaulay’s so-called inaccuracy is likewise a phase of this defect. +Considering the enormous advantages which a picturesque style gives to +ill-disposed critics; the number of points of investigation which it +suggests; the number of assertions it makes, sentence by sentence; the +number of ill-disposed critics that there are in the world; remembering +Macaulay’s position,—set on a hill to be spied at by them,—he can +scarcely be thought an inaccurate historian. Considering all things, +they have found few certain blunders, hardly any direct mistakes. Every +sentence of his style requires minute knowledge; the vivid picture has +a hundred details; each of those details must have an evidence, an +authority, a proof. An historian like Hume passes easily over a period; +his chart is large; if he gets the conspicuous headlands, the large +harbours, duly marked, he does not care. Macaulay puts in the depth of +each wave, every remarkable rock, every tree on the shore. Nothing gives +a critic so great an advantage. It is difficult to do this for a volume; +simple for a page. It is easy to select a particular event, and learn all +which any one can know about it; examine Macaulay’s descriptions, say he +is wrong, that X is not buried where he asserts, that a little boy was +one year older than he states. But how would the critic manage, if he had +to work out all this for a million facts, for a whole period? Few men, we +suspect, would be able to make so few errors of simple and provable fact. +On the other hand, few men would arouse a sleepy critic by such startling +assertion. If Macaulay finds a new theory, he states it as a fact. Very +likely it really is the most probable theory; at any rate, we know of +no case in which his theory is not one among the most plausible. If it +had only been so stated, it would have been well received. His view of +Marlborough’s character, for instance, is a specious one; it has a good +deal of evidence, a large amount of real probability, but it has scarcely +more. Marlborough _may_ have been as bad as is said, but we can hardly be +_sure_ of it at this time. + +Macaulay’s ‘party-spirit’ is another consequence of his positiveness. +When he inclines to a side, he inclines to it too much. His opinions are +a shade too strong; his predilections some degrees at least too warm. +William is too perfect, James too imperfect. The Whigs are a trifle +like angels; the Tories like, let us say, ‘our inferiors.’ Yet this is +evidently an honest party-spirit. It does not lurk in the corners of +sentences, it is not insinuated without being alleged; it does not, +like the unfairness of Hume, secrete itself so subtly in the turns of +the words, that when you look to prove it, it is gone. On the contrary, +it rushes into broad day. William is loaded with panegyric; James is +always spoken evil of. Hume’s is the artful pleading of a hired advocate; +Macaulay’s the bold eulogy of a sincere friend. As far as effect goes, +this is an error. The very earnestness of the affection leads to a +reaction; we are tired of having William called the ‘just;’ we cannot +believe so many pages; ‘all that’ can scarcely be correct. As we said, if +the historian’s preference for persons and parties had been duly tempered +and mitigated, if the probably good were only said to be probably good, +if the rather bad were only alleged to be rather bad, the reader would +have been convinced, and the historian would have escaped the savage +censure of envious critics. + +The one thing which detracts from the pleasure of reading these +volumes, is the doubt whether they should have been written. Should not +these great powers be reserved for great periods? Is this abounding, +picturesque style suited for continuous history? Are small men to be so +largely described? Should not admirable delineation be kept for admirable +people? We think so. You do not want Raphael to paint sign-posts, or +Palladio to build dirt-pies. Much of history is necessarily of little +value,—the superficies of circumstance, the scum of events. It is very +well to have it described, indeed you must have it described; the chain +must be kept complete; the narrative of a country’s fortunes will not +allow of breaks or gaps. Yet all things need not be done equally well. +The life of a great painter is short. Even the industry of Macaulay will +not complete this history. It is a pity to spend such powers on such +events. It would have been better to have some new volumes of essays +solely on great men and great things. The diffuseness of the style +would have been then in place; we could have borne to hear the smallest +_minutiæ_ of magnificent epochs. If an inferior hand had executed +the connecting-links, our notions would have acquired an insensible +perspective; the works of the great artist, the best themes, would have +stood out from the canvas. They are now confused by the equal brilliancy +of the adjacent inferiorities. + +Much more might be said on this narrative. As it will be read for very +many years, it will employ the critics for very many years. It would be +unkind to make all the best observations. Something, as Mr. Disraeli said +in a budget-speech, something should be left for ‘future statements of +this nature.’ There will be an opportunity. Whatever those who come after +may say against this book, it will be, and remain, the ‘Pictorial History +of England.’ + + + + +_BERANGER._[12] + +(1857.) + + +The invention of books has at least one great advantage. It has +half-abolished one of the worst consequences of the diversity of +languages. Literature enables nations to understand one another. Oral +intercourse hardly does this. In English a distinguished foreigner +says not what he thinks, but what he can. There is a certain intimate +essence of national meaning which is as untranslatable as good poetry. +Dry thoughts are cosmopolitan; but the delicate associations of language +which express character, the traits of speech which mark the man, differ +in every tongue, so that there are not even cumbrous circumlocutions +that are equivalent in another. National character is a deep thing—a shy +thing; you cannot exhibit much of it to people who have a difficulty in +understanding your language; you are in strange society, and you feel you +will not be understood. ‘Let an English gentleman,’ writes Mr. Thackeray, +‘who has dwelt two, four, or ten years in Paris, say at the end of any +given period how much he knows of French society, how many French houses +he has entered, and how many French friends he has made. Intimacy there +is none; we see but the outsides of the people. Year by year we live in +France, and grow grey and see no more. We play _écarté_ with Monsieur +de Trêfle every night; but what do we know of the heart of the man—of +the inward ways, thoughts, and customs of Trêfle? We have danced with +Countess Flicflac Tuesdays and Thursdays ever since the peace; and how +far are we advanced in her acquaintance since we first twirled her round +a room? We know her velvet gown and her diamonds; we know her smiles and +her simpers and her rouge; but the real, rougeless, _intime_ Flicflac we +know not.’[13] Even if our words did not stutter, as they do stutter on +our tongue, she would not tell us what she is. Literature has half mended +this. Books are exportable; the essence of national character lies flat +on a printed page. Men of genius with the impulses of solitude produce +works of art, whose words can be read and re-read and partially taken in +by foreigners to whom they could never be uttered, the very thought of +whose unsympathising faces would freeze them on the surface of the mind. +Alexander Smith has accused poetical reviewers of beginning as far as +possible from their subject. It may seem to some, though it is not so +really, that we are exemplifying this saying in commencing as we have +commenced an article on Béranger. + +There are two kinds of poetry—which one may call poems of this world, +and poems not of this world. We see a certain society on the earth held +together by certain relations, performing certain acts, exhibiting +certain phenomena, calling forth certain emotions. The millions of +human beings who compose it have their various thoughts, feelings, and +desires. They hate, act, and live. The social bond presses them closely +together; and from their proximity new sentiments arise which are half +superficial and do not touch the inmost soul, but which nevertheless are +unspeakably important in the actual constitution of human nature, and +work out their effects for good and for evil on the characters of those +who are subjected to their influence. These sentiments of the world, as +one may speak, differ from the more primitive impulses and emotions of +our inner nature as the superficial phenomena of the material universe +from what we fancy is its real essence. Passing hues, transient changes +have their course before our eyes; a multiplex diorama is for ever +displayed; underneath it all we fancy—such is the inevitable constitution +of our thinking faculty—a primitive immovable essence, which is modified +into all the ever-changing phenomena we see, which is the grey granite +whereon they lie, the primary substance whose _débris_ they all are. +Just so from the original and primitive emotions of man, society—the +evolving capacity of combined action—brings out desires which seem new, +in a sense are new, which have no existence out of the society itself, +are coloured by its customs at the moment, change with the fashions of +the age. Such a principle is what we may call social gaiety: the love of +combined amusement which all men feel and variously express, and which +is to the higher faculties of the soul what a gay running stream is to +the everlasting mountain—a light, altering element which beautifies +while it modifies. Poetry does not shrink from expressing such feelings; +on the contrary, their renovating cheerfulness blends appropriately +with her inspiriting delight. Each age and each form of the stimulating +imagination has a fashion of its own. Sir Walter sings in his modernised +chivalry: + + ‘Waken, lords and ladies gay, + On the mountain dawns the day; + All the jolly chase is here, + With hawk and horse and hunting-spear. + Hounds are in their couples yelling, + Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, + Merrily, merrily, mingle they: + Waken, lords and ladies gay. + + ‘Louder, louder chant the lay, + Waken, lords and ladies gay; + Tell them youth and mirth and glee + Run a course as well as we. + Time, stern huntsman, who can balk? + Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk; + Think of this, and rise with day, + Gentle lords and ladies gay.’ + +The poet of the people, ‘_vilain et très vilain_,’ sings with the pauper +Bohemian: + + ‘Voir, c’est avoir. Allons courir! + Vie errante + Est chose enivrante. + Voir, c’est avoir. Allons courir! + Car tout voir, c’est tout conquérir. + + ‘Nous n’avons donc, exempts d’orgueil, + De lois vaines, + De lourdes chaines; + Nous n’avons donc, exempts d’orgueil, + Ni berceau, ni toit, ni cercueil. + Mais croyez-en notre gaîté, + Noble ou prêtre, + Valet ou maître; + Mais, croyez-en notre gaîté, + Le bonheur, c’est la liberté. + + ‘Oui, croyez-en notre gaîté, + Noble ou prêtre, + Valet ou maître; + Oui, croyez-en notre gaîté, + Le bonheur, c’est la liberté.’ + +The forms of these poems of social amusement are, in truth, as various +as the social amusement itself. The variety of the world, singularly +various as it everywhere is, is nowhere so various as in that. Men have +more ways of amusing themselves than of doing anything else they do. But +the essence—the characteristic—of these poems everywhere is, that they +express more or less well the lighter desires of human nature;—those that +have least of unspeakable depth, partake most of what is perishable and +earthly, and least of the immortal soul. The objects of these desires +are social accidents; excellent, perhaps, essential, possibly—so is +human nature made—in one form and variety or another, to the well-being +of the soul, yet in themselves transitory, fleeting, and in other moods +contemptible. The old saying was, that to endure solitude a man must +either be a beast or a god. It is in the lighter play of social action, +in that which is neither animal nor divine, which in its half-way +character is so natural to man, that these poems of society, which we +have called poems of amusement, have their place. + +This species does not, however, exhaust the whole class. Society gives +rise to another sort of poems, differing from this one as contemplation +differs from desire. Society may be thought of as an object. The varied +scene of men,—their hopes, fears, anxieties, maxims, actions,—presents +a sight more interesting to man than any other which has ever existed, +or which can exist; and it may be viewed in all moods of mind, and with +the change of inward emotion as the external object seems to change: not +that it really does so, but that some sentiments are more favourable to +clear-sightedness than others are; and some bring before us one aspect +of the subject, and fix our attention upon it, others a different one, +and bind our minds to that likewise. Among the most remarkable of these +varied views is the world’s view of itself. The world, such as it is, +has made up its mind what it is. Childishly deceivable by charlatans +on every other subject,—imposed on by pedantry, by new and unfounded +science, by ancient and unfounded reputation, a prey to pomposity, +overrun with recondite fools, ignorant of all else,—society knows itself. +The world knows a man of the world. A certain tradition pervades it; a +_disciplina_ of the market-place teaches what the collective society of +men has ever been, and what, so long as the nature of man is the same, it +cannot and will not cease to be. Literature, the written expression of +human nature in every variety, takes up this variety likewise. Ancient +literature exhibits it from obvious causes in a more simple manner +than modern literature can. Those who are brought up in times like the +present necessarily hear a different set of opinions, fall in with +other words, are under the shadow of a higher creed. In consequence, +they cannot have the simple _naïveté_ of the old world; they cannot +speak with easy equanimity of the fugitiveness of life, the necessity of +death, of goodness as a mean, of sin as an extreme. The theory of the +universe has ceased to be an open question. Still the spirit of Horace +is alive, and as potent as that of any man. His tone is that of prime +ministers; his easy philosophy is that of courts and parliaments; you +may hear his words where no other foreign words are ever heard. He is +but the extreme and perfect type of a whole class of writers, some of +whom exist in every literary age, and who give an expression to what we +may call the poetry of equanimity, that is, the world’s view of itself; +its self-satisfaction, its conviction that you must bear what comes, +not hope for much, think _some_ evil, never be excited, admire little, +and then you will be at peace. This creed does not sound attractive in +description. Nothing, it has been said, is so easy as to be ‘religious +on paper:’ on the other hand, it is rather difficult to be worldly in +speculation; the mind of man, when its daily maxims are put before +it, revolts from anything so stupid, so mean, so poor. It requires a +consummate art to reconcile men in print to that moderate and insidious +philosophy which creeps into all hearts, colours all speech, influences +all action. We may not stiffen common sense into a creed; our very +ambition forbids:— + + ‘It hears a voice within us tell + Calm’s not life’s crown, though calm is well: + ’Tis all perhaps which man acquires; + But ’tis not what our youth desires.’ + +Still a great artist may succeed in making ‘calm’ interesting. Equanimity +has its place in literature; the poetry of equipoise is possible. Poems +of society have, thus, two divisions: that which we mentioned first, +the expression of the feelings which are called out by the accidents +of society; next, the harmonised expression of that philosophy of +indifference with which the world regards the fortunes of individuals and +its own. + +We have said that no modern nation can produce literature embodying +this kind of cool reflection and delineation as it was once produced. +By way of compensation, however, it may be, it no doubt is, easier now +to produce the lyrical kind of poems of society—the light expression +of its light emotions—than it was in ancient times. Society itself is +better. There is something hard in Paganism, which is always felt even +in the softest traits of the most delicate society in antiquity. The +social influence of women in modern times gives an interest, a little +pervading excitement, to social events. Civilisation, besides, has made +comfort possible; it has, at least in part, created a scene in which +society can be conducted. Its petty conveniences may or may not be +great benefits according to a recondite philosophy; but there can be +no doubt that for actual men and women in actual conversation it is of +the greatest importance that their feet should not be cold; that their +eyes and mouths should not be troubled with smoke; that sofas should be +good, and attractive chairs many. Modern times have the advantage of the +ancient in the scenery of flirtation. The little boy complained that you +could not find ‘drawing-room’ in the dictionary. Perhaps even because our +reflections are deeper, our inner life less purely pagan, our apparent +life is softer and easier. Some have said, that one reason why physical +science made so little progress in ancient times was, that people were in +doubt about more interesting things; men must have, it has been alleged, +a settled creed as to human life and human hopes, before they will +attend to shells and snails and pressure. And whether this be so or not, +perhaps a pleasant society is only possible to persons at ease as to what +is beyond society. Those only can lie on the grass who fear no volcano +underneath, and can bear to look at the blue vault above. + +Among modern nations it is not difficult to say where we should look for +success in the art of social poetry. ‘Wherever,’ said Mr. Lewes the other +day, ‘the French go, they take what they call their civilisation—that +is, a _café_ and a theatre.’ And though this be a trifle severe, yet in +its essence its meaning is correct. The French have in some manner or +other put their mark on all the externals of European life. The essence +of every country remains little affected by their teaching; but in all +the superficial embellishments of society they have enjoined the fashion; +and the very language in which those embellishments are spoken of, shows +at once whence they were derived. Something of this is doubtless due to +the accidents of a central position, and an early and prolonged political +influence; but more to a certain neatness of nature, a certain finish of +the senses, which enables them more easily than others to touch lightly +the light things of society, to see the _comme-il-faut_. ‘I like,’ said a +good judge, ‘to hear a Frenchman talk; he strikes a light.’ On a hundred +topics he gives the bright sharp edge, where others have only a blunt +approximation. + +Nor is this anticipation disappointed. Reviewers do not advance such +theories unless they correspond with known results. For many years the +French have not been more celebrated for memoirs which professedly +describe a real society than they have been for the light social song +which embodies its sentiments and pours forth its spirit. The principle +on which such writings are composed is the taking some incident—not +voluntarily (for the incident doubtless of itself takes a hold on the +poet’s mind)—and out of that incident developing all which there is in +it. A grave form is of course inconsistent with such art. The spirit +of such things is half-mirthful; a very profound meaning is rarely to +be expected; but little incidents are not destitute of meaning, and a +delicate touch will delineate it in words. A profound excitement likewise +such poems cannot produce; they do not address the passions or the +intuitions, the heart or the soul, but a gentle pleasure, half sympathy, +half amusement, is that at which they aim. They do not please us equally +in all moods of mind: sometimes they seem nothing and nonsense, like +society itself. We must not be too active or too inactive, to like them; +the tension of mind must not be too great; in our highest moods the +littlenesses of life are petty; the mind must not be obtusely passive; +light touches will not stimulate a sluggish inaction. This dependence on +the mood of mind of the reader makes it dangerous to elucidate this sort +of art by quotation; Béranger has, however, the following:— + + ‘_Laideur et Beauté._ + + ‘Sa trop grande beauté m’obsède; + C’est un masque aisément trompeur. + Oui, je voudrais qu’elle fût laide, + Mais laide, laide à faire peur. + Belle ainsi faut-il que je l’aime! + Dieu, reprends ce don éclatant; + Je le demande à l’enfer même: + Qu’elle soit laide et que je l’aime autant. + + ‘A ces mots m’apparaît le diable; + C’est le père de la laideur. + “Rendons-la,” dit-il, “effroyable, + De tes rivaux trompons l’ardeur. + J’aime assez ces métamorphoses. + Ta belle ici vient en chantant; + Perles, tombez; fanez-vous, roses: + La voilà laide, et tu l’aimes autant.” + + ‘—Laide! moi? dit-elle étonnée. + Elle s’approche d’un miroir, + Doute d’abord, puis, consternée, + Tombe en un morne désespoir. + “Pour moi seul tu jurais de vivre,” + Lui dis-je, à ses pieds me jetant; + “A mon seul amour il te livre. + Plus laide encore, je t’aimerais autant.” + + ‘Ses yeux éteints fondent en larmes, + Alors sa douleur m’attendrit. + “Ah! rendez, rendez-lui ses charmes.” + “—Soit!” répond Satan, qui sourit. + Ainsi que naît la fraîche aurore, + Sa beauté renaît à l’instant. + Elle est, je crois, plus belle encore: + Elle est plus belle, et moi je l’aime autant. + + ‘Vite au miroir elle s’assure + Qu’on lui rend bien tous ses appas; + Des pleurs restent sur sa figure, + Qu’elle essuie en grondant tout bas. + Satan s’envole, et la cruelle + Fuit et s’écrie en me quittant: + “Jamais fille que Dieu fit belle + Ne doit aimer qui peut l’aimer autant.”’ + +And this is even a more characteristic specimen: + + ‘_La Mouche._ + + ‘Au bruit de notre gaîté folle, + Au bruit des verres, des chansons, + Quelle mouche murmure et vole, + Et revient quand nous la chassons? (_bis._) + C’est quelque dieu, je le soupçonne, + Qu’un peu de bonheur rend jaloux. + Ne souffrons point qu’elle bourdonne, } + Qu’elle bourdonne autour de nous. } (_bis._) + + ‘Transformée en mouche hideuse, + Amis, oui, c’est, j’en suis certain, + La Raison, déité grondeuse, + Qu’irrite un si joyeux festin. + L’orage approche, le ciel tonne, + Voilà ce que dit son courroux. + Ne souffrons point qu’elle bourdonne, + Qu’elle bourdonne autour de nous. + + ‘C’est la Raison qui vient me dire: + “A ton âge on vit en reclus. + Ne bois plus tant, cesse de rire, + Cesse d’aimer, ne chante plus.” + Ainsi son beffroi toujours sonne + Aux lueurs des feux les plus doux. + Ne souffrons point qu’elle bourdonne, + Qu’elle bourdonne autour de nous. + + ‘C’est la Raison, gare à Lisette! + Son dard la menace toujours. + Dieux! il perce la collerette: + Le sang coule! accourez, Amours! + Amours! poursuivez la félonne; + Qu’elle expire enfin sous vos coups. + Ne souffrons point qu’elle bourdonne, + Qu’elle bourdonne autour de nous. + + ‘Victoire! amis, elle se noie + Dans l’aï que Lise a versé. + Victoire! et qu’aux mains de la Joie + Le sceptre enfin soit replacé. (_bis._) + Un souffle ébranle sa couronne; + Une mouche nous troublait tous. + Ne craignons plus qu’elle bourdonne, } + Qu’elle bourdonne autour de nous.’ } (_bis._) + +To make poetry out of a fly is a difficult operation. It used to be said +of the Lake school of criticism, in Mr. Wordsworth’s early and more rigid +days, that there was no such term as ‘elegant’ in its nomenclature. The +reason is that, dealing, or attempting to deal, only with the essential +aboriginal principles of human nature, that school had no room and no +occasion for those minor contrivances of thought and language which are +necessary to express the complex accumulation of little feelings, the +secondary growth of human emotion. The underwood of nature is ‘elegant;’ +the bare ascending forest-tree despises what is so trivial,—it is grave +and solemn. To such verses, on the other hand, as have been quoted, +‘elegance’ is essential; the delicate finish of fleeting forms is the +only excellence they can have. + +The characteristic deficiencies of French literature have no room to +show themselves in this class of art. ‘Though France herself denies,’ +says a recent writer, ‘yet all other nations with one voice proclaim +her inferiority to her rivals in poetry and romance, and in all the +other elevated fields of fiction. 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.’ In metaphysics, the reason seems to be that the French +character is incapable of being mastered by an unseen idea, without being +so tyrannised over by it as to be incapable of artistic development. +Such a character as Robespierre’s may explain what we mean. His entire +nature was taken up and absorbed in certain ideas; he had almost a vanity +in them; he was of them, and they were of him. But they appear in his +mind, in his speeches, in his life, in their driest and barest form; +they have no motion, life, or roundness. We are obliged to use many +metaphors remotely and with difficulty to indicate the procedure of the +imagination. In one of these metaphors we figure an idea of imagination +as a living thing, a kind of growing plant, with a peculiar form, and +ever preserving its identity, but absorbing from the earth and air all +kindred, suitable, and, so to say, annexable materials. In a mind such +as Robespierre’s, in the type of the fanatic mind, there is no such +thing. The ideas seem a kind of dry hard capsules, never growing, never +enlarging, never uniting. Development is denied them; they cannot expand, +or ripen, or mellow. Dogma is a dry hard husk; poetry has the soft down +of the real fruit. Ideas seize on the fanatic mind just as they do on +the poetical; they have the same imperious ruling power. The difference +is, that in the one the impelling force is immutable, iron, tyrannical; +in the other the rule is expansive, growing, free, taking up from all +around it moment by moment whatever is fit, as in the political world a +great constitution arises through centuries, with a shape that does not +vary, but with movement for its essence and the fluctuation of elements +for its vitality. A thin poor mind like Robespierre’s seems pressed and +hampered by the bony fingers of a skeleton hand; a poet’s is expanded +and warmed at the same time that it is impelled by a pure life-blood of +imagination. The French, as we have said, are hardly capable of this. +When great remote ideas seize upon them at all, they become fanatics. +The wild, chimerical, revolutionary, mad Frenchman has the stiffest of +human minds. He is under the law of his creed; he has not attained to +the higher freedom of the impelling imagination. The prosing rhetoric +of the French tragedy shows the same defect in another form. The ideas +which should have become living realities, remain as lean abstractions. +The characters are speaking officials, jets of attenuated oratory. But +exactly on this very account the French mind has a genius for the poetry +of society. Unable to remove itself into the higher region of imagined +forms, it has the quickest detective insight into the exact relation +of surrounding superficial phenomena. There are two ways of putting +it: either, being fascinated by the present, they cannot rise to what +is not present; or being by defect of nature unable to rise to what is +not present, they are concentrated and absorbed in that which is so. Of +course there ought not to be, but there is, a world of _bonbons_, of +_salons_, of _esprit_. Living in the present, they have the poetry of the +present. The English genius is just the opposite. Our cumbrous intellect +has no call to light artificialities. We do not excel in punctuated +detail or nicely-squared elaboration. It puts us out of patience that +others should. A respectable Englishman murmured in the _Café de Paris_, +‘I wish I had a hunch of mutton.’ He could not bear the secondary +niceties with which he was surrounded. Our art has the same principle. +We excel in strong, noble imagination, in solid stuff. Shakespeare is +tough work; he has the play of the rising energy, the buoyant freedom +of the unbounded mind; but no writer is so destitute of the simplifying +dexterities of the manipulating intellect. + +It is dangerous for a foreigner to give an opinion on _minutiæ_ of style, +especially on points affecting the characteristic excellences of national +style. The French language is always neat; all French styles somehow seem +good. But Béranger appears to have a peculiar neatness. He tells us that +all his songs are the production of a painful effort. If so, the reader +should be most grateful; _he_ suffers no pain. The delicate elaboration +of the writer has given a singular currency to the words. Difficult +writing is rarely easy reading. It can never be so when the labour is +spent in piecing together elements not joined by an insensible touch of +imagination. The highest praise is due to a writer whose ideas are more +delicately connected by unconscious genius than other men’s are, and +yet who spends labour and toil in giving the production a yet cunninger +finish, a still smoother connection. The characteristic aloofness of the +Gothic mind, its tendency to devote itself to what is not present, is +represented in composition by a want of care in the pettinesses of style. +A certain clumsiness pervades all tongues of German origin. Instead of +the language having been sharpened and improved by the constant keenness +of attentive minds, it has been habitually used obtusely and crudely. +Light, loquacious Gaul has for ages been the contrast. If you take up a +pen just used by a good writer, for a moment you seem to write rather +well. A language long employed by a delicate and critical society is +a treasure of dexterous felicities. It is not, according to the fine +expression of Mr. Emerson, ‘fossil poetry;’ it is crystallised _esprit_. + +A French critic has praised Béranger for having retained the _refrain_, +or burden, ‘_la rime de l’air_,’ as he calls it. Perhaps music is more +necessary as an accompaniment to the poetry of society than it is to +any other poetry. Without a sensuous reminder, we might forget that it +was poetry; especially in a sparkling, glittering, attenuated language, +we might be absorbed as in the defined elegances of prose. In half +trivial compositions we easily forget the little central fancy. The +music prevents this: it gives oneness to the parts, pieces together the +shavings of the intellect, makes audible the flow of imagination. + +The poetry of society tends to the poetry of love. All poetry tends that +way. By some very subtle links, which no metaphysician has skilfully +tracked, the imagination, even in effects and employments which seem +remote, is singularly so connected. One smiles to see the feeling +recur. Half the poets can scarcely keep away from it: in the high and +dry epic you may see the poet return to it. And perhaps this is not +unaccountable. The more delicate and stealing the sensuous element, the +more the mind is disposed to brood upon it; the more we dwell on it in +stillness, the more it influences the wandering, hovering faculty which +we term imagination. The first constructive effort of imagination is +beyond the limit of consciousness; the faculty works unseen. But we +know that it works in a certain soft leisure only: and this in ordinary +minds is almost confined to, in the highest is most commonly accompanied +by, the subtlest emotion of reverie. So insinuating is that feeling, +that no poet is alive to all its influences; so potent is it, that the +words of a great poet, in our complex modern time, are rarely ever free +from its traces. The phrase ‘stealing calm,’ which most naturally and +graphically describes the state of soul in which the imagination works, +quite equally expresses, it is said, the coming in and continuance of the +not uncommon emotion. Passing, however, from such metaphysics, there is +no difficulty in believing that the poetry of society will tend to the +most romantic part of society,—away from aunts and uncles, antiquaries +and wigs, to younger and pleasanter elements. The talk of society does +so, probably its literature will do so likewise. There are, nevertheless, +some limiting considerations, which make this tendency less all-powerful +than we might expect it to be. In the first place, the poetry of society +cannot deal with passion. Its light touch is not competent to express +eager, intense emotion. Rather, we should say, the essential nature +of the poetry of amusement is inconsistent with those rugged, firm, +aboriginal elements which passion brings to the surface. The volcano is +inconsistent with careless talk; you cannot comfortably associate with +lava. Such songs as those of Burns are the very antithesis to the levity +of society. A certain explicitness pervades them: + + ‘Come, let me take thee to my breast, + And pledge we ne’er shall sunder; + And I shall spurn as vilest dust + The warld’s wealth and grandeur.’ + +There is a story of his having addressed a lady in society, some time +after he came to Edinburgh, in this direct style, and being offended that +she took notice of it. The verses were in English, and were not intended +to mean anything particular, only to be an elegant attention; but you +might as well ask a young lady to take brandy with you as compliment +her in this intense manner. The eager peasant-poet was at fault in +the polished refinements of the half-feeling drawing-room. Again, the +poetry of society can scarcely deal with affection. No poetry, except +in hints, and for moments, perhaps ever can. You might as well tell +secrets to the town-crier. The essence of poetry somehow is publicity. +It is very odd when one reads many of the sentiments which are expressed +there,—the brooding thought, the delicate feeling, the high conception. +What is the use of telling these to the mass of men? Will the grocer feel +them?—will the greasy butcher in the blue coat feel them? Are there not +some emphatic remarks by Lord Byron on Mr. Sanders (‘the d—d saltfish +seller’ of Venice), who could not appreciate _Don Juan_? Nevertheless, +for some subtle reason or other, poets do crave, almost more than other +men, the public approbation. To have a work of art in your imagination, +and that no one else should know of it, is a great pain. But even this +craving has its limits. Art can only deal with the universal. Characters, +sentiments, actions, must be described in what in the old language +might be called their conceptual shape. There must always be an idea in +them. If one compares a great character in fiction, say that of Hamlet, +with a well-known character in life, we are struck almost at once by +the typical and representative nature of the former. We seem to have a +more _summary_ conception of it, if the phrase may be allowed, than we +have of the people we know best in reality. Indeed, our notion of the +fictitious character rather resembles a notion of actual persons of whom +we know a little, and but a little,—of a public man, suppose, of whom +from his speeches and writings we know something, but with whom we never +exchanged a word. We generalise a few traits; we do what the historian +will have to do hereafter; we _make_ a man, so to speak, resembling the +real one, but more defined, more simple and comprehensible. The objects +on which affection turns are exactly the opposite. In their essence +they are individual, peculiar. Perhaps they become known under a kind +of confidence; but even if not, nature has hallowed the details of near +life by an inevitable secrecy. You cannot expect other persons to feel +them; you cannot tell your own intellect what they are. An individuality +lurks in our nature. Each soul (as the divines speak) clings to each +soul. Poetry is impossible on such points as these: they seem too sacred, +too essential. The most that it can do is, by hints and little marks in +the interstices of a universalised delineation, to suggest that there is +something more than what is stated, and more inward and potent than what +is stated. Affection as a settled subject is incompatible with art. And +thus the poetry of society is limited on its romantic side in two ways: +first, by the infinite, intense nature of passion, which forces the voice +of art beyond the social tone; and by the confidential, incomprehensible +nature of affection, which will not bear to be developed for the public +by the fancy in any way. + +Being so bounded within the ordinary sphere of their art, poets of this +world have contrived or found a substitute. In every country there is a +society which is no society. The French, which is the most worldly of +literatures, has devoted itself to the delineation of this outside world. +There is no form, comic or serious, dramatic or lyrical, in which the +subject has not been treated: the burden is— + + ‘Lisette, ma Lisette, + Tu m’as trompé toujours; + Mais vive la grisette! + Je veux, Lisette, + Boire à nos amours.’ + +There is obviously no need of affection in _this_ society. The whole +plot of the notorious novel, _La Dame aux Camélias_,—and a very +remarkable one it is,—is founded on the incongruity of real feeling +with this world, and the singular and inappropriate consequences which +result, if, by any rare chance, it does appear there. Passion is almost +_à fortiori_ out of the question. The depths of human nature have nothing +to do with this life. On this account, perhaps, it is that it harmonises +so little with the English literature and character. An Englishman can +scarcely live on the surface; his passions are too strong, his power +of _finesse_ too little. Accordingly, since Defoe, who treated the +subject with a coarse matter-of-factness, there has been nothing in our +literature of this kind—nothing at least professedly devoted to it. How +far this is due to real excellence, how far to the _bourgeois_ and not +very outspoken temper of our recent writers, we need not in this place +discuss. There is no occasion to quote in this country the early poetry +of Béranger, at least not the sentimental part of it. We may take, in +preference, one of his poems written in old, or rather in middle age: + + ‘_Cinquante Ans._ + + ‘Pourquoi ces fleurs? est-ce ma fête? + Non; ce bouquet vient m’annoncer + Qu’un demi-siècle sur ma tête + Achève aujourd’hui de passer. + Oh! combien nos jours sont rapides! + Oh! combien j’ai perdu d’instants! + Oh! combien je me sens de rides! + Hélas! hélas! j’ai cinquante ans. + + ‘A cet âge, tout nous échappe; + Le fruit meurt sur l’arbre jauni. + Mais à ma porte quelqu’un frappe; + N’ouvrons point: mon rôle est fini. + C’est, je gage, un docteur qui jette + Sa carte, où s’est logé le Temps. + Jadis, j’aurais dit: C’est Lisette. + Hélas! hélas! j’ai cinquante ans. + + ‘En maux cuisants vieillesse abonde: + C’est la goutte qui nous meurtrit; + La cécité, prison profonde; + La surdité, dont chacun rit. + Puis la raison, lampe qui baisse, + N’a plus que des feux tremblotants. + Enfants, honorez la vieillesse! + Hélas! hélas! j’ai cinquante ans! + + ‘Ciel! j’entends la Mort, qui, joyeuse, + Arrive en se frottant les mains. + A ma porte la fossoyeuse + Frappe; adieu, messieurs les humains! + En bas, guerre, famine et peste; + En haut, plus d’astres éclatants. + Ouvrons, tandis que Dieu me reste. + Hélas! hélas! j’ai cinquante ans. + + ‘Mais non; c’est vous! vous, jeune amie, + Sœur de charité des amours! + Vous tirez mon âme endormie + Du cauchemar des mauvais jours. + Semant les roses de votre âge + Partout, comme fait le printemps, + Parfumez les rêves d’un sage. + Hélas! hélas! j’ai cinquante ans.’ + +This is the last scene of the _grisette_, of whom we read in so many +songs sparkling with youth and gaiety. + +A certain intellectuality, however, pervades Béranger’s love-songs. +You seem to feel, to see, not merely the emotion, but the mind, in the +background viewing that emotion. You are conscious of a considerateness +qualifying and contrasting with the effervescing champagne of the +feelings described. Desire is rarefied; sense half becomes an idea. You +may trace a similar metamorphosis in the poetry of passion itself. If +we contrast such a poem as Shelley’s _Epipsychidion_ with the natural +language of common passion, we see how curiously the intellect can take +its share in the dizziness of sense. In the same way, in the lightest +poems of Béranger we feel that it may be infused, may interpenetrate the +most buoyant effervescence. + +Nothing is more odd than to contrast the luxurious and voluptuous nature +of much of Béranger’s poetry with the circumstances of his life. He never +in all his productive time had more than 80_l._ a year; the smallest +party of pleasure made him live, he tells us himself, most ascetically +for a week; so far from leading the life of a Sybarite, his youth was +one of anxiety and privation. A more worldly poet has probably never +written, but no poet has shown in life so philosophic an estimate of +this world’s goods. His origin is very unaristocratic. He was born in +August 1780, at the house of his grandfather, a poor old tailor. Of his +mother we hear nothing. His father was a speculative, sanguine man, who +never succeeded. His principal education was given him by an aunt, who +taught him to read and to write, and perhaps generally incited his mind. +His school-teaching tells of the philosophy of the revolutionary time. +By way of primary school for the town of Péronne, a patriotic member of +the National Assembly had founded an _institut d’enfants_. ‘It offered,’ +we are told, ‘at once the image of a club and that of a camp; the boys +wore a military uniform; at every public event they named deputations, +delivered orations, voted addresses: letters were written to the citizen +Robespierre and the citizen Tallien.’ Naturally, amid such great affairs +there was no time for mere grammar; they did not teach _Latin_. Nor did +Béranger ever acquire any knowledge of that language; and he may be said +to be destitute of what is in the usual sense called culture. Accordingly +it has in these days been made a matter of wonder by critics, whom we +may think pedantic, that one so destitute should be able to produce such +works. But a far keener judge has pronounced the contrary. Goethe, who +certainly did not undervalue the most elaborate and artful cultivation, +at once pronounced Béranger to have ‘a nature most happily endowed, +firmly grounded in himself, purely developed from himself, and quite +in harmony with himself.’ In fact, as these words mean, Béranger, by +happiness of nature or self-attention, has that _centrality_ of mind, +which is the really valuable result of colleges and teaching. He puts +things together; he refers things to a principle; rather, they group +themselves in his intelligence insensibly round a principle. There is +nothing _distrait_ in his genius; the man has attained to be himself; +a cool oneness, a poised personality pervades him. ‘The unlearned,’ it +has been said, ‘judge at random.’ Béranger is not unlearned in this +sense. There is no one who judges more simply, smoothly, and uniformly. +His ideas refer to an exact measure. He has mastered what comes before +him. And though doubtless unacquainted with foreign and incongruous +literatures, he has mastered his own literature, which was shaped by +kindred persons, and has been the expression of analogous natures; and +this has helped him in expressing himself. + +In the same way, his poor youth and boyhood have given a reality to his +productions. He seems to have had this in mind in praising the ‘practical +education which I have received.’ He was bred a printer; and the highest +post he attained was a clerkship at the university, worth, as has been +said, 80_l._ per annum. Accordingly he has everywhere a sympathy with the +common people, an unsought familiarity with them and their life. Sybarite +poetry commonly wants this. The aristocratic nature is superficial; it +relates to a life protected from simple wants, depending on luxurious +artifices. ‘Mamma,’ said the simple-minded nobleman, ‘when poor people +have no bread, why do not they eat buns? they are much better.’ An +over-perfumed softness pervades the poetry of society. You see this in +the songs of Moore, the best of the sort we have; all is beautiful, soft, +half-sincere. There is a little falsetto in the tone, everything reminds +you of the drawing-room and the _pianoforte_; and not only so—for all +poetry of society must in a measure do this—but it seems fit for no other +scene. Naturalness is the last word of praise that would be suitable. In +the scented air we forget that there is a _pavé_ and a multitude. Perhaps +France is of all countries which have ever existed the one in which +we might seek an exception from this luxurious limitation. A certain +_égalité_ may pervade its art as its society. There is no such difference +as with us between the shoeblack and the gentleman. A certain refinement +is very common; an extreme refinement possibly rare. Béranger was able to +write his poems in poverty: they are popular with the poor. + +A success even greater than what we have described as having been +achieved by Béranger in the first class of the poems of society—that of +amusement—has been attained by him in the second class, expressive of +epicurean speculation. Perhaps it is one of his characteristics that +the two are for ever running one into another. There is animation in +his thinking; there is meaning in his gaiety. It requires no elaborate +explanation to make evident the connection between scepticism and +luxuriousness. Every one thinks of the Sadducee as in cool halls and soft +robes; no one supposes that the Sybarite believes. Pain not only purifies +the mind, but deepens the nature. A simple, happy life is animal; it +is pleasant, and it perishes. All writers who have devoted themselves +to the explanation of this world’s view of itself are necessarily in a +certain measure Sadducees. The world is Sadducee itself; it cannot be +anything else without recognising a higher creed, a more binding law, +a more solemn reality—without ceasing to be the world. Equanimity is +incredulous; impartiality does not care; an indifferent politeness is +sceptical. Though not a single speculative opinion is expressed, we may +feel this in _Roger Bontemps_:— + + ‘_Roger Bontemps._ + + ‘Aux gens atrabilaires + Pour exemple donné, + En un temps de misères + Roger Bontemps est né. + ‘Vivre obscur à sa guise, + Narguer les mécontents: + Eh gai! c’est la devise + Du gros Roger Bontemps. + + ‘Du chapeau de son père + Coiffé dans les grands jours, + De roses ou de lierre + Le rajeunir toujours; + Mettre un manteau de bure, + Vieil ami de vingt ans: + Eh gai! c’est la parure + Du gros Roger Bontemps. + + ‘Posséder dans sa hutte + Une table, un vieux lit, + Des cartes, une flûte, + Un broc que Dieu remplit, + Un portrait de maîtresse, + Un coffre et rien dedans: + Eh gai! c’est la richesse + Du gros Roger Bontemps. + + ‘Aux enfans de la ville + Montrer de petits jeux; + Etre un faiser habile + De contes graveleux; + Ne parler que de danse + Et d’almanachs chantants: + Eh gai! c’est la science + Du gros Roger Bontemps. + + ‘Faute de vin d’élite, + Sabler ceux du canton; + Préférer Marguerite + Aux dames du grand ton; + De joie et de tendresse + Remplir tous ses instants: + Eh gai! c’est la sagesse + Du gros Roger Bontemps. + + ‘Dire au Ciel: Je me fie, + Mon père, à ta bonté; + De ma philosophie + Pardonne la gaîté; + Que ma saison dernière + Soit encore un printemps: + Eh gai! c’est la prière + Du gros Roger Bontemps. + + ‘Vous, pauvres pleins d’envie, + Vous, riches désireux, + Vous, dont le char dévie + Après un cours heureux; + Vous, qui perdrez peut-être + Des titres éclatants, + Eh gai! prenez pour maître + Le gros Roger Bontemps.’ + +At the same time, in Béranger the scepticism is not extreme. The +skeleton is not paraded. That the world is a passing show, a painted +scene, is admitted; you seem to know that it is all acting and rouge and +illusion: still the pleasantness of the acting is dwelt on, the rouge +is never rubbed off, the dream runs lightly and easily. No nightmare +haunts you, you have no uneasy sense that you are about to awaken. +Persons who require a sense of reality may complain; pain is perhaps +necessary to sharpen their nerves, a tough effort to harden their +consciousness: but if you pass by this objection of the threshold, if +you admit the possibility of a superficial and fleeting world, you will +not find a better one than Béranger’s world. Suppose all the world +were a _restaurant_, his is a good _restaurant_; admit that life is an +effervescing champagne, his is the best for the moment. + +In several respects Béranger contrasts with Horace, the poet whom in +general he most resembles. The song of _Roger Bontemps_ suggests one of +the most obvious differences. It is essentially democratic. As we have +said before, Béranger is the poet of the people; he himself says, _Le +peuple c’est ma muse_. Throughout Horace’s writings, however much he may +speak, and speak justly, of the simplicity of his tastes, you are always +conscious that his position is exceptional. Everybody cannot be the +friend of Mæcenas; every cheerful man of the world cannot see the springs +of the great world. The intellect of most self-indulgent men must satisfy +itself with small indulgences. Without a hard ascent you can rarely see +a great view. Horace had the almost unequalled felicity of watching the +characters and thoughts and tendencies of the governors of the world, the +nicest manipulation of the most ingenious statesmen, the inner tastes and +predilections which are the origin of the most important transactions; +and yet had the ease and pleasantness of the common and effortless life. +So rare a fortune cannot be a general model; the gospel of Epicureanism +must not ask a close imitation of one who had such very special +advantages. Béranger gives the acceptors of that creed a commoner type. +Out of nothing but the most ordinary advantages—the garret, the almost +empty purse, the not over-attired _grisette_—he has given them a model of +the sparkling and quick existence for which their fancy is longing. You +cannot imagine commoner materials. In another respect Horace and Béranger +are remarkably contrasted. Béranger, sceptical and indifferent as he is, +has a faith in, and zeal for, liberty. It seems odd that he should care +for that sort of thing; but he does care for it. Horace probably had a +little personal shame attaching to such ideas. No regimental officer of +our own time can have ‘joined’ in a state of more crass ignorance, than +did the stout little student from Athens in all probability join the +army of Brutus; the legionaries must have taken the measure of him, as +the sergeants of our living friends. Anyhow he was not partial to such +reflections; zeal for political institutions is quite as foreign to him +as any other zeal. A certain hope in the future is characteristic of +Béranger— + + ‘Qui découvrit un nouveau monde? + Un fou qu’on raillait en tout lieu.’ + +Modern faith colours even bystanding scepticism. Though probably with no +very accurate ideas of the nature of liberty, Béranger believes that it +is a great good, and that France will have it. + +The point in which Béranger most resembles Horace is that which is the +most essential in the characters of them both—their geniality. This +is the very essence of the poems of society; it springs in the verses +of amusement, it harmonises with acquiescing sympathy the poems of +indifference. And yet few qualities in writing are so rare. A certain +malevolence enters into literary ink; the point of the pen pricks. Pope +is the very best example of this. With every desire to imitate Horace, +he cannot touch any of his subjects, or any kindred subjects, without +infusing a bitter ingredient. It is not given to the children of men to +be philosophers without envy. Lookers-on can hardly bear the spectacle +of the great world. If you watch the carriages rolling down to the House +of Lords, you will try to depreciate the House of Lords. Idleness is +cynical. Both Béranger and Horace are exceptions to this. Both enjoy +the roll of the wheels; both love the glitter of the carriages; neither +is angry at the sun. Each knows that he is as happy as he can be—that +he is all that he can be in his contemplative philosophy. In his means +of expression for the purpose in hand, the Frenchman has the advantage. +The Latin language is clumsy. Light pleasure was an exotic in the Roman +world; the terms in which you strive to describe it suit rather the +shrill camp and droning law-court. In English, as we hinted just now, +we have this too. Business is in our words; a too heavy sense clogs our +literature; even in a writer so apt as Pope at the _finesse_ of words, +you feel that the solid Gothic roots impede him. It is difficult not +to be cumbrous. The horse may be fleet and light, but the wheels are +ponderous and the road goes heavily. Béranger certainly has not this +difficulty; nobody ever denied that a Frenchman could be light, that the +French language was adapted for levity. + +When we ascribed an absence of bitterness and malevolence to Béranger, +we were far from meaning that he is not a satirist. Every light writer +in a measure must be so. Mirth is the imagery of society; and mirth must +make fun of somebody. The nineteenth century has not had many shrewder +critics than its easy natured poet. Its intense dulness particularly +strikes him. He dreads the dreariness of the Academy; pomposity bores +him; formalism tires him; he thinks, and may well think, it dreary to have + + ‘Pour grands hommes des journalistes, + Pour amusement l’Opéra.’ + +But skilful as is the mirth, its spirit is genial and good-natured. ‘You +have been making fun of me, Sydney, for twenty years,’ said a friend to +the late Canon of St. Paul’s, ‘and I do not think you have said a single +thing I should have wished you not to say.’ So far as its essential +features are concerned, the nineteenth century may say the same of its +musical satirist. Perhaps, however, the Bourbons might a little object. +Clever people have always a _little_ malice against the stupid. + +There is no more striking example of the degree in which the gospel of +good works has penetrated our modern society, than that Béranger has +talked of ‘utilising his talent.’ The epicurean poet considers that he +has been a political missionary. Well may others be condemned to the +penal servitude of industry, if the lightest and idlest of skilful men +boasts of being subjected to it. If Béranger thinks it necessary to +think that he has been useful, others may well think so too; let us +accept the heavy doctrine of hard labour; there is no other way to heave +off the rubbish of this world. The mode in which Béranger is anxious +to prove that he made his genius of use, is by diffusing a taste for +liberty, and expressing an enthusiasm for it; and also, as we suppose, +by quizzing those rulers of France who have not shared either the taste +or the enthusiasm. Although, however, such may be the idea of the poet +himself, posterity will scarcely confirm it. Political satire is the +most ephemeral kind of literature. The circumstances to which it applies +are local and temporary; the persons to whom it applies die. A very few +months will make unintelligible what was at first strikingly plain. +Béranger has illustrated this by an admission. There was a delay in +publishing the last volume of his poems, many of which relate to the +years or months immediately preceding the Revolution of 1830; the delay +was not long, as the volume appeared in the first month of 1833, yet he +says that many of the songs relate to the passing occurrences of a period +‘_déjà loin de nous_.’ On so shifting a scene as that of French political +life, the jests of each act are forgotten with the act itself; the eager +interest of each moment withdraws the mind from thinking of or dwelling +on anything past. And in all countries administration is ephemeral; what +relates to it is transitory. Satires on its detail are like the jests of +a public office; the clerks change, oblivion covers their peculiarities; +the point of the joke is forgotten. There are some considerable +exceptions to the saying that foreign literary opinion is a ‘contemporary +posterity’; but in relation to satires on transitory transactions it is +exactly expressive. No Englishman will now care for many of Béranger’s +songs which were once in the mouths of all his countrymen, which coloured +the manners of revolutions, perhaps influenced their course. The fame +of a poet may have a reference to politics; but it will be only to the +wider species, to those social questions which never die, the elements of +that active human nature which is the same age after age. Béranger can +hardly hope for this. Even the songs which relate to liberty can hardly +hope for this immortality. They have the vagueness which has made French +aspirations for freedom futile. So far as they express distinct feeling, +their tendency is rather anti-aristocratic than in favour of simple real +liberty. And an objection to mere rank, though a potent, is neither a +very agreeable nor a very poetical sentiment. Moreover, when the love of +liberty is to be imaginatively expressed, it requires to an Englishman’s +ear a sound bigger and more trumpet-tongued than the voice of Béranger. + +On a deeper view, however, an attentive student will discover a great +deal that is most instructive in the political career of the not very +business-like poet. His life has been contemporaneous with the course +of a great change; and throughout it the view which he has taken of the +current events is that which sensible men took at the time, and which +a sensible posterity (and these events will from their size attract +attention enough to insure their being viewed sensibly) is likely to +take. Béranger was present at the taking of the Bastille, but he was then +only nine years old; the accuracy of opinion which we are claiming for +him did not commence so early. His mature judgment begins with the career +of Napoleon; and no one of the thousands who have written on that subject +has viewed it perhaps more justly. He had no love for the despotism of +the Empire, was alive to the harshness of its administration, did not +care too much for its glory, must have felt more than once the social +exhaustion. At the same time, no man was penetrated more profoundly, no +literary man half so profoundly, with the popular admiration for the +genius of the Empire. His own verse has given the truest and most lasting +expression of it: + + ‘_Les Souvenirs du Peuple._ + + ‘On parlera de sa gloire + Sous le chaume bien longtemps. + L’humble toit, dans cinquante ans, + Ne connaîtra plus d’autre histoire. + Là viendront les villageois, + Dire alors à quelque vieille: + “Par des récits d’autrefois, + Mère, abrégez notre veille. + Bien, dit-on, qu’il nous ait nui, + Le peuple encor le révère, + Oui, le révère. + Parlez-nous de lui, grand’mère; + Parlez-nous de lui.” (_bis._) + + ‘“Mes enfants, dans ce village, + Suivi de rois, il passa. + Voilà bien longtemps de ça: + Je venais d’entrer en ménage. + A pied grimpant le coteau + Où pour voir je m’étais mise, + Il avait petit chapeau + Avec redingote grise. + Près de lui je me troublai; + Il me dit: ‘Bonjour, ma chère, + Bonjour, ma chère.’” + —“Il vous a parlé, grand’mère! + Il vous a parlé!” + + ‘“L’an d’après, moi, pauvre femme, + A Paris étant un jour, + Je le vis avec sa cour: + Il se rendait à Notre-Dame. + Tous les cœurs étaient contents; + On admirait son cortége. + Chacun disait: ‘Quel beau temps! + Le ciel toujours le protége.’ + Son sourire était bien doux, + D’un fils Dieu le rendait père, + Le rendait père.” + —“Quel beau jour pour vous, grand’mère! + Quel beau jour pour vous!” + + ‘“Mais, quand la pauvre Champagne + Fut en proie aux étrangers, + Lui, bravant tous les dangers, + Semblait seul tenir la campagne. + Un soir, tout comme aujourd’hui, + J’entends frapper à la porte. + J’ouvre. Bon Dieu! c’était lui, + Suivi d’une faible escorte. + Il s’asseoit où me voilà, + S’écriant: ‘Oh! quelle guerre! + Oh! quelle guerre!” + —“Il s’est assis là, grand’mère! + Il s’est assis là!” + + ‘“‘J’ai faim,’ dit-il; et bien vite + Je sers piquette et pain bis; + Puis il sèche ses habits, + Même à dormir le feu l’invite. + Au réveil, voyant mes pleurs, + Il me dit: ‘Bonne espérance! + Je cours, de tous ses malheurs, + Sous Paris, venger la France.’ + Il part; et, comme un trésor, + J’ai depuis gardé son verre, + Gardé son verre.” + “Vous l’avez encor, grand’mère! + Vous l’avez encor!” + + ‘“Le voici. Mais à sa perte + Le héros fut entraîné. + Lui, qu’un pape a couronné, + Est mort dans une île déserte. + Longtemps aucun ne l’a cru; + On disait: ‘Il va paraître; + Par mer il est accouru; + L’étranger va voir son maître.’ + Quand d’erreur on nous tira, + Ma douleur fut bien amère! + Fut bien amère!” + —“Dieu vous bénira, grand’mère; + Dieu vous bénira.”’ + +This is a great exception to the transitoriness of political poetry. Such +a character as that of Napoleon displayed on so large a stage, so great a +genius amid such scenery of action, insures an immortality. ‘The page of +universal history’ which he was always coveting, he has attained; and it +is a page which, from its singularity and its errors, its shame and its +glory, will distract the attention from other pages. No one who has ever +had in his mind the idea of Napoleon’s character can forget it. Nothing +too can be more natural than that the French should remember it. His +character possessed the primary imagination, the elementary conceiving +power, in which they are deficient. So far from being restricted to the +poetry of society, he would not have even appreciated it. A certain +bareness marks his mind; his style is curt; the imaginative product is +left rude; there is the distinct abstraction of the military diagram. The +tact of light and passing talk, the detective imagination which is akin +to that tact, and discovers the quick essence of social things,—he never +had. In speaking of his power over popular fancies, Béranger has called +him ‘the greatest poet of modern times.’ No genius can be more unlike his +own, and therefore perhaps it is that he admires it so much. During the +Hundred Days, Béranger says he was never under the illusion, then not +rare, that the Emperor could become a constitutional monarch. The lion, +he felt, would not change his skin. After the return of the Bourbons, +he says, doubtless with truth, that his ‘_instinct du peuple_’ told him +they could never ally themselves with liberal principles, or unite with +that new order of society which, though dating from the Revolution, had +acquired in five-and-twenty years a half-prescriptive right. They and +their followers came in to _take_ possession, and it was impossible they +could unite with what _was_ in possession. During the whole reign of the +hereditary Bourbon dynasty, Béranger was in opposition. Representing the +natural sentiments of the new Frenchman, he could not bear the natural +tendency of the ruling power to the half-forgotten practices of old +France. The legitimate Bourbons were by their position the chieftains of +the party advocating their right by birth; they could not be the kings of +a people; and the poet of the people was against them. After the genius +of Napoleon, all other governing minds would seem tame and contracted; +and Charles X. was not a man to diminish the inevitable feeling. Béranger +despised him. As the poet warred with the weapons of poetry, the +Government retorted with the penalties of State. He was turned out of his +petty clerkship, he was twice imprisoned; but these things only increased +his popularity; and a firm and genial mind, so far from being moved, sang +songs at La Force itself. The Revolution of 1830 was willing to make his +fortune. + + ‘Je l’ai traitée,’ he says, ‘comme une puissance qui peut avoir + des caprices auxquels il faut être en mesure de résister. Tous + ou presque tous mes amis ont passé au ministère: j’en ai même + encore un ou deux qui restent suspendus à ce mât de cocagne. Je + me plais à croire qu’ils y sont accrochés par la basque, malgré + les efforts qu’ils font pour descendre. J’aurais donc pu avoir + part à la distribution des emplois. Malheureusement je n’ai + pas l’amour des sinécures, et tout travail obligé m’est devenu + insupportable, hors peut-être encore celui d’expéditionnaire. + Des médisants out prétendu que je faisais de la vertu. Fi donc! + je faisais de la paresse. Ce défaut m’a tenu lieu de bien des + qualités; aussi je le recommande à beaucoup de nos honnêtes + gens. Il expose pourtant à de singuliers reproches. C’est à + cette paresse si douce, que des censeurs rigides ont attribué + l’éloignement où je me suis tenu de ceux de mes honorables + amis qui ont eu le malheur d’arriver au pouvoir. Faisant trop + d’honneur à ce qu’ils veulent bien appeler ma bonne tête, et + oubliant trop combien il y a loin du simple bon sens à la + science des grandes affaires, ces censeurs prétendent que mes + conseils eussent éclairé plus d’un ministre. A les croire, + tapi derrière le fauteuil de velours de nos hommes d’état, + j’aurais conjuré les vents, dissipé les orages, et fait nager + la France dans un océan de délices. Nous aurions tous de la + liberté à revendre ou plutôt à donner, car nous n’en savons + pas bien encore le prix. Eh! messieurs mes deux ou trois amis, + qui prenez un chansonnier pour un magicien, on ne vous a donc + pas dit que le pouvoir est une cloche qui empêche ceux qui la + mettent en branle d’entendre aucun autre son? Sans doute des + ministres consultent quelquefois ceux qu’ils ont sous la main: + consulter est un moyen de parler de soi qu’on néglige rarement. + Mais il ne suffirait pas de consulter de bonne foi des gens + qui conseilleraient de même. Il faudrait encore exécuter: ceci + est la part du caractère. Les intentions les plus pures, le + patriotisme le plus éclairé ne le donnent pas toujours. Qui + n’a vu de hauts personnages quitter un donneur d’avis avec une + pensée courageuse, et, l’instant d’après, revenir vers lui, + de je ne sais quel lieu de fascination, avec l’embarras d’un + démenti donné aux résolutions les plus sages? “Oh!” disent-ils, + “nous n’y serons plus repris! quelle galère!” Le plus honteux + ajoute: “Je voudrais bien vous voir à ma place!” Quand un + ministre dit cela, soyez sûr qu’il n’a plus la tête à lui. + Cependant il en est un, mais un seul, qui, sans avoir perdu la + tête, a répété souvent ce mot de la meilleure foi du monde; + aussi ne l’adressait-il jamais à un ami.’ + +The statesman alluded to in the last paragraph is Manuel, his intimate +friend, from whom he declares he could never have been separated, but +whose death prevented his obtaining political honours. Nobody can +read the above passage without feeling its tone of political sense. +An enthusiasm for, yet half distrust of, the Revolution of July seems +as sound a sentiment as could be looked for even in the most sensible +contemporary. What he has thought of the present dynasty we do not know. +He probably has as little concurred in the silly encomiums of its mere +partisans as in the wild execrations of its disappointed enemies. His +opinion could not have been either that of the English who _fêted_ Louis +Napoleon in 1855, or of those who despised him in 1851. The political +fortunes of France during the last ten years must have been a painful +scene of observation to one who remembered the taking of the Bastille. If +there be such a thing as failure in the world, this looks like it. + +Although we are very far from thinking that Béranger’s claims on +posterity are founded on his having utilised his talent in favour of +liberty, it is very natural that he should think or half-think himself +that it is so. His power over the multitude must have given him great +pleasure; it is something to be able to write mottoes for a revolution; +to write words for people to use, and hear people use those words. +The same sort of pleasure which Horace derived from his nearness to +the centre of great action, Béranger has derived from the power which +his thorough sympathy with his countrymen has given him over them. +A political satire may be ephemeral from the rapid oblivion of its +circumstances; but it is not unnatural that the author, inevitably proud +of its effect, may consider it of higher worth than mere verses of +society. + +This shrewd sense gives a solidity to the verses of Béranger which the +social and amusing sort of poetry commonly wants; but nothing can redeem +it from the reproach of wanting _back_ thought. This is inevitable in +such literature; as it professes to delineate for us the light essence +of a fugitive world, it cannot be expected to dwell on those deep and +eternal principles on which that world is based. It ignores them as +light talk ignores them. The most opposite thing to the poetry of +society is the poetry of inspiration. There exists, of course, a kind +of imagination which detects the secrets of the universe—which fills +us sometimes with dread, sometimes with hope—which awakens the soul, +which makes pure the feelings, which explains nature, reveals what is +above nature, chastens ‘the deep heart of man.’ Our senses teach us +what the world is; our intuitions where it is. We see the blue and +gold of the world, its lively amusements, its gorgeous if superficial +splendour, its currents of men; we feel its light spirits, we enjoy its +happiness; we enjoy it, and we are puzzled. What is the object of all +this? Why do we do all this? What is the universe _for_? Such a book as +Béranger’s suggests this difficulty in its strongest form. It embodies +the essence of all that pleasure-loving, pleasure-giving, unaccountable +world in which men spend their lives,—which they are compelled to live +in, but which the moment you get out of it seems so odd that you can +hardly believe it is real. On this account, as we were saying before, +there is no book the impression of which varies so much in different +moods of mind. Sometimes no reading is so pleasant; at others you +half-despise and half-hate the idea of it; it seems to sum up and make +clear the littleness of your own nature. Few can bear the theory of their +amusements; it is essential to the pride of man to believe that he is +industrious. We are irritated at literary laughter, and wroth at printed +mirth. We turn angrily away to that higher poetry which gives the outline +within which all these light colours are painted. From the capital of +levity, and its self-amusing crowds; from the elastic _vaudeville_ and +the grinning actors; from _chansons_ and _cafés_ we turn away to the +solemn in nature, to the blue over-arching sky: the one remains, the many +pass; no number of seasons impairs the bloom of those hues, they are as +soft to-morrow as to-day. The immeasurable depth folds us in. ‘Eternity,’ +as the original thinker said, ‘is everlasting.’ We breathe a deep breath. +And perhaps we have higher moments. We comprehend the ‘unintelligible +world;’ we see into ‘the life of things;’ we fancy we know whence we +come and whither we go; words we have repeated for years have a meaning +for the first time; texts of old Scripture seem to apply to _us_.... +And—and—Mr. Thackeray would say, You come back into the town, and order +dinner at a _restaurant_, and read Béranger once more. + +And though this is true—though the author of _Le Dieu des Bonnes Gens_ +has certainly no claim to be called a profound divine—though we do not +find in him any proper expression, scarcely any momentary recognition, +of those intuitions which explain in a measure the scheme and idea of +things, and form the back-thought and inner structure of such minds +as ours,—his sense and sympathy with the people enable him, perhaps +compel him, to delineate those essential conditions which constitute the +structure of exterior life, and determine with inevitable certainty the +common life of common persons. He has no call to deal with heaven or the +universe, but he knows the earth; he is restricted to the boundaries of +time, but he understands time. He has extended his delineations beyond +what in this country would be considered correct; _Les Cinq Étages_ can +scarcely be quoted here; but a perhaps higher example of the same kind of +art may be so: + + ‘_Le Vieux Vagabond._ + + ‘Dans ce fossé cessons de vivre; + Je finis vieux, infirme et las; + Les passants vont dire: “Il est ivre.” + Tant mieux! ils ne me plaindront pas. + J’en vois qui détournent la tête; + D’autres me jettent quelques sous. + Courez vite, allez à la fête: + Vieux vagabond, je puis mourir sans vous. + + ‘Oui, je meurs ici de vieillesse, + Parce qu’on ne meurt pas de faim. + J’espérais voir de ma détresse + L’hôpital adoucir la fin; + Mais tout est plein dans chaque hospice, + Tant le peuple est infortuné. + La rue, hélas! fut ma nourrice: + Vieux vagabond, mourons où je suis né. + + ‘Aux artisans, dans mon jeune âge, + J’ai dit: “Qu’on m’enseigne un métier.” + “Va, nous n’avons pas trop d’ouvrage,” + Répondaient-ils, “va mendier.” + Riches, qui me disiez: “Travaille,” + J’eus bien des os de vos repas; + J’ai bien dormi sur votre paille: + Vieux vagabond, je ne vous maudis pas. + + ‘J’aurais pu voler, moi, pauvre homme; + Mais non: mieux vaut tendre la main. + Au plus, j’ai dérobé la pomme + Qui mûrit au bord du chemin. + Vingt fois pourtant on me verrouille + Dans les cachots, de par le roi. + De mon seul bien on me dépouille: + Vieux vagabond, le soleil est à moi. + + ‘Le pauvre a-t-il une patrie? + Que me font vos vins et vos blés, + Votre gloire et votre industrie, + Et vos orateurs assemblés? + Dans vos murs ouverts à ses armes + Lorsque l’étranger s’engraissait, + Comme un sot j’ai versé des larmes: + Vieux vagabond, sa main me nourrissait. + + ‘Comme un insecte fait pour nuire, + Hommes, que ne m’écrasiez-vous! + Ah! plutôt vous deviez m’instruire + A travailler au bien de tous. + Mis à l’abri du vent contraire, + Le ver fût devenu fourmi; + Je vous aurais chéris en frère: + Vieux vagabond, je meurs votre ennemi.’ + +Pathos in such a song as this enters into poetry. We sympathise with +the essential lot of man. Poems of this kind are doubtless rare in +Béranger. His commoner style is lighter and more cheerful; but no poet +who has painted so well the light effervescence of light society can, +when he likes, paint so well the solid, stubborn forms with which it is +encompassed. The genial, firm sense of a large mind sees and comprehends +all of human life, which lies within the sphere of sense. He is an +epicurean, as all merely sensible men by inevitable consequence are; and +as an epicurean, he prefers to deal with the superficial and gay forms of +life; but he can deal with others when he chooses to be serious. Indeed, +there is no melancholy like the melancholy of the epicurean. He is alive +to the fixed conditions of earth, but not to that which is above earth. +He muses on the temporary, as such; he admits the skeleton, but not the +soul. It is wonderful that Béranger is so cheerful as he is. + +We may conclude as we began. In all his works, in lyrics of levity, of +politics, of worldly reflection,—Béranger, if he had not a single object, +has attained a uniform result. He has given us an idea of the essential +French character, such as we fancy it must be, but can never for +ourselves hope to see that it is. We understand the nice tact, the quick +intelligence, the gay precision; the essence of the drama we know—the +spirit of what we have seen. We know his feeling:— + + ‘J’aime qu’un Russe soit Russe, + Et qu’un Anglais soit Anglais; + Si l’on est Prussien en Prusse, + En France soyons Français.’ + +He has acted accordingly: he has delineated to us the essential Frenchman. + + + + +_MR. CLOUGH’S POEMS._[14] + +(1862.) + + +No one can be more rigid than we are in our rules as to the publication +of remains and memoirs. It is very natural that the friends of a +cultivated man who seemed about to do something, but who died before +he did it, should desire to publish to the world the grounds of their +faith, and the little symptoms of his immature excellence. But though +they act very naturally, they act very unwisely. In the present state +of the world there are too many half-excellent people: there is a +superfluity of persons who have all the knowledge, all the culture, all +the requisite taste,—all the tools, in short, of achievement, but who +are deficient in the latent impulse and secret vigour which alone can +turn such instruments to account. They have all the outward and visible +signs of future success; they want the invisible spirit, which can +only be demonstrated by trial and victory. Nothing, therefore, is more +tedious or more worthless than the posthumous delineation of the possible +successes of one who did not succeed. The dreadful remains of nice young +persons which abound among us prove almost nothing as to the future fate +of those persons, if they had survived. We can only tell that any one +is a man of genius by his having produced some work of genius. Young +men must practise themselves in youthful essays; and to some of their +friends these may seem works not only of fair promise, but of achieved +excellence. The cold world of critics and readers will not, however, +think so; that world well understands the distinction between promise and +performance, and sees that these laudable _juvenilia_ differ from good +books as much as legitimate bills of exchange differ from actual cash. + +If we did not believe that Mr. Clough’s poems, or at least several +of them, had real merit, not as promissory germs, but as completed +performances, it would not seem to us to be within our province to notice +them. Nor, if Mr. Clough were now living among us, would he wish us to +do so. The marked peculiarity, and, so to say, the _flavour_ of his +mind, was a sort of truthful scepticism, which made him anxious never +to overstate his own assurance of anything; which disinclined him to +overrate the doings of his friends; and which absolutely compelled him +to underrate his own past writings, as well as his capability for future +literary success. He could not have borne to have his poems reviewed with +‘nice remarks’ and sentimental epithets of insincere praise. He was equal +to his precept:— + + ‘Where are the great, whom thou wouldst wish to praise thee? + Where are the pure, whom thou wouldst choose to love thee? + Where are the brave, to stand supreme above thee, + Whose high commands would cheer, whose chiding raise thee? + Seek, seeker, in thyself; submit to find + In the stones, bread, and life in the blank mind.’ + +To offer petty praise and posthumous compliments to a stoic of this +temper, is like buying sugar-plums for St. Simon Stylites. We venture to +write an article on Mr. Clough, because we believe that his poems depict +an intellect in a state which is always natural ‘to such a being as man +in such a world as the present,’ which is peculiarly natural to us just +now; and because we believe that many of these poems are very remarkable +for true vigour and artistic excellence, although they certainly have +defects and shortcomings, which would have been lessened, if not removed, +if their author had lived longer and had written more. + +In a certain sense there are two great opinions about everything. There +are two about the universe itself. The world as we know it is this. +There is a vast, visible, indisputable sphere, of which we never lose +the consciousness, of which no one seriously denies the existence, about +the most important part of which most people agree tolerably and fairly. +On the other hand, there is the invisible world, about which men are +not agreed at all, which all but the faintest minority admit to exist +somehow and somewhere, but as to the nature or locality of which there +is no efficient popular demonstration, no such compulsory argument as +will _force_ the unwilling conviction of any one disposed to denial. +As our minds rise, as our knowledge enlarges, as our wisdom grows, as +our instincts deepen, our conviction of this invisible world is daily +strengthened, and our estimate of its nature is continually improved. +But—and this is the most striking peculiarity of the whole subject—the +more we improve, the higher we rise, the nobler we conceive the unseen +world which is in us and about us, in which we live and move, the more +unlike that world becomes to the world which we _do_ see. The divinities +of Olympus were in a very plain and intelligible sense part and parcel +of this earth; they were better specimens than could be found below, but +they belonged to extant species; they were better editions of visible +existences; they were like the heroines whom young men imagine after +seeing the young ladies of their vicinity—they were better and handsomer, +but they were of the same sort; they had never been seen, but they +might have been seen any day. So too of the God with whom the Patriarch +wrestled: he might have been wrestled with even if he was not; he was +that sort of person. If we contrast with these the God of whom Christ +speaks—the God who has not been seen at any time, whom no man hath seen +or can see, who is infinite in nature, whose ways are past finding out, +the transition is palpable. We have passed from gods—from an invisible +world which is similar to, which is a _natural appendix_ to, the world in +which we live,—and we have come to believe in an invisible world, which +is altogether unlike that which we see, which is certainly not opposed +to our experience, but is altogether beyond and unlike our experience; +which belongs to another set of things altogether; which is, as we speak, +transcendental. The ‘possible’ of early barbarism is like the reality of +early barbarism; the ‘may be,’ the ‘great perhaps,’ of late civilisation +is most unlike the earth, whether barbaric or civilised. + +Two opinions as to the universe naturally result from this fundamental +contrast. There are plenty of minds like that of Voltaire, who have +simply no sense or perception of the invisible world whatever, who have +no ear for religion, who are in the technical sense unconverted, whom no +conceivable process could convert without altering what to bystanders +and ordinary observers is their identity. They are, as a rule, acute, +sensible, discerning, and humane; but the first observation which the +most ordinary person would make as to them is, that they are ‘limited;’ +they understand palpable existence; they elaborate it, and beautify and +improve it; but an admiring bystander, who can do none of these things, +who can beautify nothing, who, if he tried, would only make what is ugly +uglier, is conscious of a latent superiority, which he can hardly help +connecting with his apparent inferiority. We cannot write Voltaire’s +sentences; we cannot make things as clear as he made them; but we do +not much care for our deficiency. Perhaps we think ‘things ought not +to be so plain as all that.’ There is a hidden, secret, unknown side +to this universe, which these picturesque painters of the visible, +these many-handed manipulators of the palpable, are not aware of, which +would spoil their dexterity if it were displayed to them. Sleep-walkers +can tread safely on the very edge of a precipice; but those who see, +cannot. On the other hand, there are those whose minds have not only +been converted, but in some sense _inverted_. They are so occupied with +the invisible world as to be absorbed in it entirely; they have no true +conception of that which stands plainly before them; they never look +coolly at it, and are cross with those who do; they are wrapt up in their +own faith as to an unseen existence; they rush upon mankind with ‘Ah, +there it is! there it is!—don’t you see it?’ and so incur the ridicule of +an age. + +The best of us try to avoid both fates. We strive, more or less, to ‘make +the best of both worlds.’ We know that the invisible world cannot be duly +discerned, or perfectly appreciated. We know that we see as in a glass +darkly; but still we look on the glass. We frame to ourselves some image +which we know to be incomplete, which probably is in part untrue, which +we try to improve day by day, of which we do not deny the defects,—but +which nevertheless is our ‘all;’ which we hope, when the accounts are +taken, may be found not utterly _unlike_ the unknown reality. This is, +as it seems, the best religion for finite beings, living, if we may say +so, on the very edge of two dissimilar worlds, on the very line on which +the infinite, unfathomable sea surges up, and just where the queer little +bay of this world ends. We count the pebbles on the shore, and image to +ourselves as best we may the secrets of the great deep. + +There are, however, some minds (and of these Mr. Clough’s was one) +which will not accept what appears to be an intellectual destiny. They +struggle against the limitations of mortality, and will not condescend +to use the natural and needful aids of human thought. They will not +_make their image_. They struggle after an ‘actual abstract.’ They feel, +and they rightly feel, that every image, every translation, every mode +of conception by which the human mind tries to place before itself the +Divine mind, is imperfect, halting, changing. They feel, from their own +experience, that there is no one such mode of representation which will +suit their own minds at all times, and they smile with bitterness at the +notion that they could contrive an image which will suit all other minds. +They could not become fanatics or missionaries, or even common preachers +without forfeiting their natural dignity, and foregoing their very +essence. To cry in the streets, to uplift their voice in Israel, to be +‘pained with hot thoughts,’ to be ‘preachers of a dream,’ would reverse +their whole cast of mind. It would metamorphose them into something +which omits every striking trait for which they were remarked, and which +contains every trait for which they were not remarked. On the other hand, +it would be quite as opposite to their whole nature to become followers +of Voltaire. No one knows more certainly and feels more surely that there +is an invisible world, than those very persons who decline to make an +image or representation of it, who shrink with a nervous horror from +every such attempt when it is made by any others. All this inevitably +leads to what common, practical people term a ‘curious’ sort of mind. You +do not know how to describe these ‘universal negatives,’ as they seem to +be. They will not fall into place in the ordinary intellectual world any +how. If you offer them any known religion, they ‘won’t have that;’ if you +offer them no religion, they will not have that either; if you ask them +to accept a new and as yet unrecognised religion, they altogether refuse +to do so. They seem not only to believe in an ‘unknown God,’ but in a God +whom no man can ever know. Mr. Clough has expressed, in a sort of lyric, +what may be called their essential religion: + + ‘O Thou whose image in the shrine + Of human spirits dwells divine! + Which from that precinct once conveyed, + To be to outer day displayed, + Doth vanish, part, and leave behind + Mere blank and void of empty mind, + Which wilful fancy seeks in vain + With casual shapes to fill again! + + O Thou, that in our bosom’s shrine + Dost dwell, unknown because divine! + I thought to speak, I thought to say, + “The light is here,” “Behold the way,” + “The voice was thus” and “Thus the word,” + And “Thus I saw,” and “That I heard,”— + But from the lips that half essayed + The imperfect utterance fell unmade. + + O Thou, in that mysterious shrine + Enthroned, as I must say, divine! + I will not frame one thought of what + Thou mayest either be or not. + I will not prate of “thus” and “so,” + And be profane with “yes” and “no,” + Enough that in our soul and heart + Thou, whatso’er Thou mayst be, art.’ + +It was exceedingly natural that Mr. Clough should incline to some such +creed as this, with his character and in his circumstances. He had by +nature, probably, an exceedingly real mind, in the good sense of that +expression and the bad sense. The actual visible world as it was, and as +he saw it, exercised over him a compulsory influence. The hills among +which he had wandered, the cities he had visited, the friends whom he +knew,—these were his world. Many minds of the poetic sort easily melt +down these palpable facts into some impalpable ether of their own. To +such a mind as Shelley’s the ‘solid earth’ is an immaterial fact; it +is not even a cumbersome difficulty—it is a preposterous imposture. +Whatever may exist, all that _clay_ does not exist; it would be too +absurd to think so. Common persons can make nothing of this dreaminess; +and Mr. Clough, though superficial observers set him down as a dreamer, +could not make much either. To him, as to the mass of men, the vulgar, +outward world was a primitive fact. ‘Taxes _is_ true,’ as the miser +said. Reconcile what you have to say with green peas, for green peas are +certain; such was Mr. Clough’s idea. He could not dissolve the world into +credible ideas and then believe those ideas, as many poets have done. +He could not catch up a creed as ordinary men do. He had a _straining_, +inquisitive, critical mind; he scrutinised every idea before he took it +in; he did not allow the moral forces of life to act as they should; he +was not content to gain a belief ‘by going on living.’ He said, + + ‘_Action will furnish belief_; but will that belief be the true one? + This is the point, you know.’ + +He felt the coarse facts of the plain world so thoroughly that he could +not readily take in anything, which did not seem in accordance with them +and like them. And what common idea of the invisible world seems in the +least in accordance with them or like them? + +A journal-writer in one of his poems has expressed this: + + ‘Comfort has come to me here in the dreary streets of the city, + Comfort—how do you think?—with a barrel-organ to bring it. + Moping along the streets, and cursing my day as I wandered, + All of a sudden my ear met the sound of an English psalm-tune. + Comfort me it did, till indeed I was very near crying. + Ah, there is some great truth, partial very likely, but needful, + Lodged, I am strangely sure, in the tones of the English psalm-tune: + Comfort it was at least; and I must take without question + Comfort, however it come, in the dreary streets of the city. + + ‘What with trusting myself, and seeking support from within me, + Almost I could believe I had gained a religious assurance, + Formed in my own poor soul a great moral basis to rest on. + Ah, but indeed I see, I feel it factitious entirely; + I refuse, reject, and put it utterly from me; + I will look straight out, see things, not try to evade them; + Fact shall be fact for me, and the Truth the Truth as ever, + Flexible, changeable, vague, and multiform, and doubtful.— + Off, and depart to the void, thou subtle, fanatical tempter!’ + +Mr. Clough’s fate in life had been such as to exaggerate this naturally +peculiar temper. He was a pupil of Arnold’s; one of his best, most +susceptible and favourite pupils. Some years since there was much doubt +and interest as to the effect of Arnold’s teaching. His sudden death, so +to say, cut his life in the middle, and opened a tempting discussion as +to the effect of his teaching when those taught by him should have become +men and not boys. The interest which his own character then awakened, and +must always awaken, stimulated the discussion, and there was much doubt +about it. But now we need doubt no longer. The Rugby ‘men’ are _real_ +men, and the world can pronounce its judgment. Perhaps that part of the +world which cares for such things has pronounced it. Dr. Arnold was +almost indisputably an admirable master for a common English boy,—the +small, apple-eating animal whom we know. He worked, he pounded, if the +phrase may be used, into the boy a belief, or at any rate a floating, +confused conception, that there are great subjects, that there are +strange problems, that knowledge has an indefinite value, that life is +a serious and solemn thing. The influence of Arnold’s teaching upon the +majority of his pupils was probably very vague, but very good. To impress +on the ordinary Englishman a general notion of the importance of what is +intellectual and the reality of what is supernatural, is the greatest +benefit which can be conferred upon him. The common English mind is too +coarse, sluggish, and worldly to take such lessons too much to heart. It +is improved by them in many ways, and is not harmed by them at all. But +there are a few minds which are very likely to think too much of such +things. A susceptible, serious, intellectual boy may be injured by the +incessant inculcation of the awfulness of life and the magnitude of great +problems. It is not desirable to take this world too much _au sérieux_; +most persons will not; and the one in a thousand who will, should not. +Mr. Clough was one of those who will. He was one of Arnold’s favourite +pupils, because he gave heed so much to Arnold’s teaching; and exactly +because he gave heed to it, was it bad for him. He required quite another +sort of teaching: to be told to take things easily; not to try to be wise +overmuch; to be ‘something beside critical;’ to go on living quietly +and obviously, and see what truth would come to him. Mr. Clough had to +his latest years what may be noticed in others of Arnold’s disciples,—a +fatigued way of looking at great subjects. It seemed as if he had been +put into them before his time, had seen through them, heard all which +could be said about them, had been bored by them, and had come to want +something else. + +A still worse consequence was, that the faith, the doctrinal teaching +which Arnold impressed on the youths about him, was one personal +to Arnold himself, which arose out of the peculiarities of his own +character, which can only be explained by them. As soon as an inquisitive +mind was thrown into a new intellectual atmosphere, and was obliged +to naturalise itself in it, to consider the creed it had learned with +reference to the facts which it encountered and met, much of that creed +must fade away. There were inevitable difficulties in it, which only +the personal peculiarities of Arnold prevented his perceiving, and +which everyone else must soon perceive. The new intellectual atmosphere +into which Mr. Clough was thrown was peculiarly likely to have this +disenchanting effect. It was the Oxford of Father Newman; an Oxford +utterly different from Oxford as it is, or from the same place as it had +been twenty years before. A complete estimate of that remarkable thinker +cannot be given here; it would be no easy task even now, many years after +his influence has declined, nor is it necessary for the present purpose. +Two points are quite certain of Father Newman, and they are the only two +which are at present material. He was undeniably a consummate master of +the difficulties of the creeds of other men. With a profoundly religious +organisation which was hard to satisfy, with an imagination which could +not help setting before itself simply and exactly what different creeds +would come to and mean in life, with an analysing and most subtle +intellect which was sure to detect the weak point in an argument if a +weak point there was, with a manner at once grave and fascinating,—he was +a nearly perfect religious disputant, whatever may be his deficiencies as +a religious teacher. The most accomplished theologian of another faith +would have looked anxiously to the joints of his harness before entering +the lists with an adversary so prompt and keen. To suppose that a youth +fresh from Arnold’s teaching, with a hasty faith in a scheme of thought +radically inconsistent, should be able to endure such an encounter, was +absurd. Arnold flattered himself that he was a principal opponent of Mr. +Newman; but he was rather a principal fellow-labourer. There was but one +quality in a common English boy which would have enabled him to resist +such a reasoner as Mr. Newman. We have a heavy apathy on exciting topics, +which enables us to leave dilemmas unsolved, to forget difficulties, +to go about our pleasure or our business, and to leave the reasoner to +pursue his logic: ‘any how he is very _long_’—_that_ we comprehend. +But it was exactly this happy apathy, this commonplace indifference, +that Arnold prided himself on removing. He objected strenuously to Mr. +Newman’s creed, but he prepared anxiously the very soil in which that +creed was sure to grow. A multitude of such minds as Mr. Clough’s, from +being Arnoldites, became Newmanites. + +A second quality in Mr. Newman is at least equally clear. He was much +better skilled in finding out the difficulties of other men’s creeds +than in discovering and stating a distinct basis for his own. In most +of his characteristic works he does not even attempt it. His argument +is essentially an argument _ad hominem_; an argument addressed to the +present creed of the person with whom he is reasoning. He says: ‘Give +up what you hold already, or accept what I now say; for that which you +already hold involves it.’ Even in books where he is especially called on +to deal with matters of first principle, the result is unsatisfactory. +We have heard it said that he has in later life accounted for the +argumentative vehemence of his book _against_ the Church of Rome by +saying: ‘I did it as a duty; I _put_ myself into a state of mind to write +that book.’ And this is just the impression which his arguments give. His +elementary principles seem _made_, not born. Very likely he would admit +the fact, and yet defend his practice. He would say: ‘Such a being as +man is, in such a world as this is, _must_ do so; he must make a venture +for his religion; he may see a greater probability that the doctrine of +the Church is true than that it is false; he may see before he believes +in her that she has greater evidence than any other creed; but he must +do the rest for himself. _By means of his will_ he must put himself into +a new state of mind; he must cast in his lot with the Church here and +hereafter; _then_ his belief will gradually strengthen; he will in time +become sure of what she says.’ He undoubtedly, in the time of his power, +persuaded many young men to try some such process as this. The weaker, +the more credulous, and the more fervent, were able to persevere; those +who had not distinct perceptions of real truth, who were dreamy and +fanciful by nature, persevered without difficulty. But Mr. Clough could +not do so; he felt it was ‘something factitious.’ He began to speak of +the ‘ruinous force of the will,’ and ‘our terrible notions of duty.’ He +ceased to be a Newmanite. + +Thus Mr. Clough’s career and life were exactly those most likely to +develop and foster a morbid peculiarity of his intellect. He had, as we +have explained, by nature an unusual difficulty in forming a creed as to +the unseen world; he could not get the visible world out of his head; his +strong grasp of plain facts and obvious matters was a difficulty to him. +Too easily one great teacher inculcated a remarkable creed; then another +great teacher took it away; then this second teacher made him believe +for a time some of his own artificial faith; then it would not do. He +fell back on that vague, impalpable, unembodied religion which we have +attempted to describe. + +He has himself given in a poem, now first published, a very remarkable +description of this curious state of mind. He has prefixed to it the +characteristic motto, ‘_Il doutait de tout, même de l’amour_.’ It is the +delineation of a certain love-passage in the life of a hesitating young +gentleman, who was in Rome at the time of the revolution of 1848; who +could not make up his mind about the revolution, who could not make up +his mind whether he liked Rome, who could not make up his mind whether +he liked the young lady, who let her go away without him, who went in +pursuit of her, and could not make out which way to look for her,—who, +in fine, has some sort of religion, but cannot himself tell what it is. +The poem was not published in the author’s lifetime, and there are some +lines which we are persuaded he would have further polished, and some +parts which he would have improved, if he had seen them in print. It +is written in conversational hexameters, in a tone of semi-satire and +half-belief. Part of the commencement is a good example of them: + + ‘Rome disappoints me much; I hardly as yet understand, but + _Rubbishy_ seems the word that most exactly would suit it. + AU the foolish destructions, and all the sillier savings, + All the incongruous things of past incompatible ages, + Seem to be treasured up here to make fools of present and future. + Would to Heaven the old Goths had made a cleaner sweep of it! + Would to Heaven some new ones would come and destroy these churches! + However, one can live in Rome as also in London. + Rome is better than London, because it is other than London. + It is a blessing, no doubt, to be rid, at least for a time, of + All one’s friends and relations,—yourself (forgive me!) included,— + All the _assujettissement_ of having been what one has been, + What one thinks one is, or thinks that others suppose one; + Yet, in despite of all, we turn like fools to the English. + Vernon has been my fate; who is here the same that you knew him,— + Making the tour, it seems, with friends of the name of Trevellyn. + + ‘Rome disappoints me still; but I shrink and adapt myself to it. + Somehow a tyrannous sense of a superincumbent oppression + Still, wherever I go, accompanies ever, and makes me + Feel like a tree (shall I say?) buried under a ruin of brickwork. + Rome, believe me, my friend, is like its own Monte Testaceo, + Merely a marvellous mass of broken and castaway wine-pots. + Ye Gods! what do I want with this rubbish of ages departed, + Things that Nature abhors, the experiments that she has failed in? + What do I find in the Forum? An archway and two or three pillars. + Well, but St. Peter’s? Alas, Bernini has filled it with sculpture! + No one can cavil, I grant, at the size of the great Coliseum. + Doubtless the notion of grand and capacious and massive amusement, + This the old Romans had; but tell me, is this an idea? + Yet of solidity much, but of splendour little is extant: + “Brickwork I found thee, and marble I left thee!” their Emperor vaunted; + “Marble I thought thee, and brickwork I find thee!” the Tourist + may answer.’ + +As he goes on, he likes Rome rather better, but hazards the following +imprecation on the Jesuits:— + + ‘Luther, they say, was unwise; he didn’t see how things were going; + Luther was foolish,—but, O great God! what call you Ignatius? + O my tolerant soul, be still! but you talk of barbarians, + Alaric, Attila, Genseric;—why, they came, they killed, they + Ravaged, and went on their way; but these vile, tyrannous Spaniards, + These are here still,—how long, O ye heavens, in the country of Dante? + These, that fanaticised Europe, which now can forget them, release not + This, their choicest of prey, this Italy; here you see them,— + Here, with emasculate pupils and gimcrack churches of Gesù, + Pseudo-learning and lies, confessional-boxes and postures,— + Here, with metallic beliefs and regimental devotions,— + Here, overcrusting with slime, perverting, defacing, debasing + Michael Angelo’s dome, that had hung the Pantheon in heaven, + Raphael’s Joys and Graces, and thy clear stars, Galileo!’ + +The plot of the poem is very simple, and certainly is not very exciting. +The moving force, as in most novels of verse or prose, is the love of the +hero for the heroine; but this love assuredly is not of a very impetuous +and overpowering character. The interest of this story is precisely that +it is not overpowering. The over-intellectual hero, over-anxious to be +composed, will not submit himself to his love; over-fearful of what is +voluntary and factitious, he will not make an effort and cast in his lot +with it. He states his view of the subject better than we can state it:— + + ‘I am in love, meantime, you think; no doubt you would think so. + I am in love, you say, with those letters, of course, you would say so. + I am in love, you declare. I think not so; yet I grant you + It is a pleasure indeed to converse with this girl. Oh, rare gift, + Rare felicity, this! she can talk in a rational way, can + Speak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and of thinking, + Yet in perfection retain her simplicity; never, one moment, + Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her, consents to + Step from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to those vain + Conscious understandings that vex the minds of mankind. + No, though she talk, it is music; her fingers desert not the keys; ’tis + Song, though you hear in the song the articulate vocables sounded, + Syllables singly and sweetly the words of melodious meaning. + I am in love, you say; I do not think so, exactly. + There are two different kinds, I believe, of human attraction: + One which simply disturbs, unsettles, and makes you uneasy, + And another that poises, retains, and fixes and holds you. + I have no doubt, for myself, in giving my voice for the latter. + I do not wish to be moved, but growing where I was growing, + There more truly to grow, to live where as yet I had languished. + I do not like being moved: for the will is excited; and action + Is a most dangerous thing; I tremble for something factitious, + Some malpractice of heart and illegitimate process; + We are so prone to these things, with our terrible notions of duty. + Ah, let me look, let me watch, let me wait, unhurried, unprompted! + Bid me not venture on aught that could alter or end what is present! + Say not, Time flies, and Occasion, that never returns, is departing! + Drive me not out, ye ill angels with fiery swords, from my Eden, + Waiting, and watching, and looking! Let love be its own inspiration! + Shall not a voice, if a voice there must be, from the airs that environ, + Yea, from the conscious heavens, without our knowledge or effort, + Break into audible words? And love be its own inspiration?’ + +It appears, however, that even this hesitating hero would have come to +the point at last. In a book, at least, the hero has nothing else to do. +The inevitable restrictions of a pretty story hem him in; to wind up the +plot, he must either propose or die, and usually he prefers proposing. +Mr. Claude—for such is the name of Mr. Clough’s hero—is evidently on his +road towards the inevitable alternative, when his fate intercepts him by +the help of a person who meant nothing less. There is a sister of the +heroine, who is herself engaged to a rather quick person, and who cannot +make out anyone’s conducting himself differently from her George Vernon. +She writes:— + + ‘Mr. Claude, you must know, is behaving a little bit better; + He and Papa are great friends; but he really is too _shilly-shally_,— + So unlike George! Yet I hope that the matter is going on fairly. + I shall, however, get George, before he goes, to say something. + Dearest Louise, how delightful to bring young people together!’ + +As the heroine says, ‘dear Georgina’ wishes for nothing so much as to +show her adroitness. George Vernon does interfere, and Mr. Claude may +describe for himself the change it makes in his fate: + + ‘Tibur is beautiful too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio + Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence; + Tibur and Anio’s tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever, + With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain, + Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:— + So not seeing I sung; so seeing and listening say I, + Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl, + Here with Albunea’s home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me;[15] + Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone, + Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters! + Tivoli’s waters and rocks; and fair under Monte Gennaro, + (Haunt even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of the shadows, + Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces,) + Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations, + Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:— + So not seeing I sung; so now—Nor seeing, nor hearing, + Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan embraces, + Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the Monte Gennaro, + Seated on Anio’s bank, nor sipping Bandusian waters, + But on Montorio’s height, looking down on the tile-clad streets, the + Cupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and kitchen-gardens, + Which, by the grace of the Tibur, proclaim themselves Rome of the Roman,— + But on Montorio’s height, looking forth to the vapoury mountains, + Cheating the prisoner Hope with illusions of vision and fancy,— + But on Montorio’s height, with these weary soldiers by me, + Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate Pope and Tourist. + ... + Yes, on Montorio’s height for a last farewell of the city,— + So it appears; though then I was quite uncertain about it. + So, however, it was. And now to explain the proceeding. + I was to go, as I told you, I think, with the people to Florence. + Only the day before, the foolish family Vernon + Made some uneasy remarks, as we walked to our lodging together, + As to intentions, forsooth, and so forth. I was astounded, + Horrified quite; and obtaining just then, as it happened, an offer + (No common favour) of seeing the great Ludovisi collection, + Why, I made this a pretence, and wrote that they must excuse me. + How could I go? Great Heavens! to conduct a permitted flirtation. + Under those vulgar eyes, the observed of such observers! + Well, but I now, by a series of fine diplomatic inquiries, + Find from a sort of relation, a good and sensible woman, + Who is remaining at Rome with a brother too ill for removal, + That it was wholly unsanctioned, unknown,—not, I think, by Georgina: + She, however, ere this,—and that is the best of the story,— + She and the Vernon, thank Heaven, are wedded and gone—honeymooning. + So—on Montorio’s height for a last farewell of the city. + Tibur I have not seen, nor the lakes that of old I had dreamt of; + Tibur I shall not see, nor Anio’s waters, nor deep en- + Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace; + Tibur I shall not see;—but something better I shall see. + Twice I have tried before, and failed in getting the horses; + Twice I have tried and failed: this time it shall not be a failure.’ + +But, of course, he does not reach Florence till the heroine and her +family are gone; and he hunts after them through North Italy, not very +skilfully, and then he returns to Rome; and he reflects, certainly not in +a very dignified or heroic manner: + + ‘I cannot stay at Florence, not even to wait for a letter. + Galleries only oppress me. Remembrance of hope I had cherished + (Almost more than as hope, when I passed through Florence the first time) + Lies like a sword in my soul. I am more a coward than ever, + Chicken-hearted, past thought. The _cafés_ and waiters distress me. + All is unkind, and, alas! I am ready for any one’s kindness. + Oh, I knew it of old, and knew it, I thought, to perfection, + If there is any one thing in the world to preclude all kindness, + It is the need of it,—it is this sad, self-defeating dependence. + Why is this, Eustace? Myself, were I stronger, I think I could tell you. + But it is odd when it comes. So plumb I the deeps of depression, + Daily in deeper, and find no support, no will, no purpose. + All my old strengths are gone. And yet I shall have to do something. + Ah, the key of our life, that passes all wards, opens all locks, + Is not _I will_, but _I must_. I must,—I must,—and I do it. + + ‘After all, do I know that I really cared so about her? + Do whatever I will, I cannot call up her image; + For when I close my eyes, I see, very likely, St. Peter’s, + Or the Pantheon façade, or Michael Angelo’s figures, + Or, at a wish, when I please, the Alban hills and the Forum,— + But that face, those eyes,—ah no, never anything like them; + Only, try as I will, a sort of featureless outline, + And a pale blank orb, which no recollection will add to. + After all, perhaps there was something factitious about it; + I have had pain, it is true: I have wept, and so have the actors. + + ‘At the last moment I have your letter, for which I was waiting; + I have taken my place, and see no good in inquiries. + Do nothing more, good Eustace, I pray you. It only will vex me. + Take no measures. Indeed, should we meet, I could not be certain; + All might be changed, you know. Or perhaps there was nothing to be + changed. + It is a curious history, this; and yet I foresaw it; + I could have told it before. The Fates, it is clear, are against us; + For it is certain enough I met with the people you mention; + They were at Florence the day I returned there, and spoke to me even; + Stayed a week, saw me often; departed, and whither I know not. + Great is Fate, and is best. I believe in Providence partly. + What is ordained is right, and all that happens is ordered. + Ah, no, that isn’t it. But yet I retain my conclusion. + I will go where I am led, and will not dictate to the chances. + Do nothing more, I beg. If you love me, forbear interfering.’ + +And the heroine, like a sensible, quiet girl, sums up: + + ‘You have heard nothing; of course, I know you can have heard nothing. + Ah, well, more than once I have broken my purpose, and sometimes, + Only too often, have looked for the little lake-steamer to bring him. + But it is only fancy,—I do not really expect it. + Oh, and you see I know so exactly how he would take it: + Finding the chances prevail against meeting again, he would banish + Forthwith every thought of the poor little possible hope, which + I myself could not help, perhaps, thinking only too much of; + He would resign himself, and go. I see it exactly. + So I also submit, although in a different manner. + Can you not really come? We go very shortly to England.’ + +And there, let us hope, she found a more satisfactory lover and husband. + +The same defect which prevented Mr. Claude from obtaining his bride +will prevent this poem from obtaining universal popularity. The public +like stories which come to something; Mr. Arnold teaches that a great +poem must be founded on a great action, and this one is founded on a +long inaction. But Art has many mansions. Many poets, whose cast of +thought unfits them for very diffused popularity, have yet a concentrated +popularity which suits them and which lasts. Henry Taylor has wisely +said ‘that a poet does not deserve the name who would not rather be read +a thousand times by one man, than a single time by a thousand.’ This +repeated perusal, this testing by continual repetition and close contact, +is the very test of intellectual poetry; unless such poetry can identify +itself with our nature, and dissolve itself into our constant thought, +it is nothing, or less than nothing; it is an ineffectual attempt to +confer a rare pleasure; it teazes by reminding us of that pleasure, +and tires by the effort which it demands from us. But if a poem really +possesses this capacity of intellectual absorption—if it really is in +matter of fact accepted, apprehended, delighted in, and retained by a +large number of cultivated and thoughtful minds,—its non-recognition by +what is called the public is no more against it than its non-recognition +by the coal-heavers. The half-educated and busy crowd, whom we call the +public, have no more right to impose their limitations on highly educated +and meditative thinkers, than the uneducated and yet more numerous crowd +have to impose their still narrower limitations on the half-educated. The +coal-heaver will not read any books whatever; the mass of men will not +read an intellectual poem: it can hardly ever be otherwise. But timid +thinkers must not dread to have a secret and rare faith. But little deep +poetry is very popular, and no severe art. Such poetry as Mr. Clough’s, +especially, can never be so; its subjects would forbid it, even if its +treatment were perfect: but it may have a better fate; it may have a +tenacious hold on the solitary, the meditative, and the calm. It is this +which Mr. Clough would have wished; he did not desire to be liked by +‘inferior people’—at least he would have distrusted any poem of his own +which they did like. + +The artistic skill of these poems, especially of the poem from which we +have extracted so much, and of a long vacation pastoral published in the +Highlands, is often excellent, and occasionally fails when you least +expect it. There was an odd peculiarity in Mr. Clough’s mind; you never +could tell whether it was that he would not show himself to the best +advantage, or whether he _could_ not; it is certain that he very often +did not, whether in life or in books. His intellect moved with a great +difficulty, and it had a larger inertia than any other which we have ever +known. Probably there was an awkwardness born with him, and his shyness +and pride prevented him from curing that awkwardness as most men would +have done. He felt he might fail, and he knew that he hated to fail. He +neglected, therefore, many of the thousand petty trials which fashion +and form the accomplished man of the world. Accordingly, when at last +he wanted to do something, or was obliged to attempt something, he had +occasionally a singular difficulty. He could not get his matter out of +him. + +In poetry he had a further difficulty, arising from perhaps an +over-cultivated taste. He was so good a disciple of Wordsworth, he hated +so thoroughly the common sing-song metres of Moore and Byron, that he +was apt to try to write what will seem to many persons to have scarcely +a metre at all. It is quite true that the metre of intellectual poetry +should not be so pretty as that of songs, or so plain and impressive +as that of vigorous passion. The rhythm should pervade it and animate +it, but should not protrude itself upon the surface, or intrude itself +upon the attention. It should be a latent charm, though a real one. Yet, +though this doctrine is true, it is nevertheless a dangerous doctrine. +Most writers need the strict fetters of familiar metre; as soon as they +are emancipated from this, they fancy that _any_ words of theirs are +metrical. If a man will read any expressive and favourite words of his +own often enough, he will come to believe that they are rhythmical; +probably they have a rhythm as he reads them; but no notation of pauses +and accents could tell the reader how to read them in that manner; +and when read in any other mode they may be prose itself. Some of Mr. +Clough’s early poems, which are placed at the beginning of this volume, +are perhaps examples, more or less, of this natural self-delusion. Their +writer could read them as verse, but that was scarcely his business; and +the common reader fails. + +Of one metre, however, the hexameter, we believe the most accomplished +judges, and also common readers, agree that Mr. Clough possessed a very +peculiar mastery. Perhaps he first showed in English its _flexibility_. +Whether any consummate poem of great length and sustained dignity can +be written in this metre, and in our language, we do not know. Until a +great poet has written his poem, there are commonly no lack of plausible +arguments that seem to prove he cannot write it; but Mr. Clough has +certainly shown that, in the hands of a skilful and animated artist, it +is capable of adapting itself to varied descriptions of life and manners, +to noble sentiments, and to changing thoughts. It is perhaps the most +flexible of English metres. Better than any others, it changes from grave +to gay without desecrating what should be solemn, or disenchanting that +which should be graceful. And Mr. Clough was the first to prove this, by +writing a noble poem, in which it was done. + +In one principal respect Mr. Clough’s two poems in hexameters, and +especially the Roman one, from which we made so many extracts, are very +excellent. Somehow or other he makes you understand what the people of +whom he is writing precisely were. You may object to the means, but +you cannot deny the result. By fate he was thrown into a vortex of +theological and metaphysical speculation, but his genius was better +suited to be the spectator of a more active and moving scene. The play of +mind upon mind; the contrasted view which contrasted minds take of great +subjects; the odd irony of life which so often thrusts into conspicuous +places exactly what no one would expect to find in those places,—these +were his subjects. Under happy circumstances, he might have produced on +such themes something which the mass of readers would have greatly liked; +as it is, he has produced a little which meditative readers will much +value, and which they will long remember. + +Of Mr. Clough’s character it would be out of place to say anything, +except in so far as it elucidates his poems. The sort of conversation for +which he was most remarkable rises again in the _Amours de Voyage_, and +gives them to those who knew him in life a very peculiar charm. It would +not be exact to call the best lines a pleasant cynicism; for cynicism +has a bad name, and the ill-nature and other offensive qualities which +have given it that name were utterly out of Mr. Clough’s way. Though +without much fame, he had no envy. But he had a strong realism. He saw +what it is considered cynical to see—the absurdities of many persons, the +pomposities of many creeds, the splendid zeal with which missionaries +rush on to teach what they do not know, the wonderful earnestness with +which most incomplete solutions of the universe are thrust upon us as +complete and satisfying. ‘_Le fond de la Providence_,’ says the French +novelist, ‘_c’est l’ironie_.’ Mr. Clough would not have said that; but he +knew what it meant, and what was the portion of truth contained in it. +Undeniably this _is_ an _odd_ world, whether it should have been so or +no; and all our speculations upon it should begin with some admission of +its strangeness and singularity. The habit of dwelling on such thoughts +as these will not of itself make a man happy, and may make unhappy one +who is inclined to be so. Mr. Clough in his time felt more than most +men the weight of the unintelligible world; but such thoughts make +an instructive man. Several survivors may think they owe much to Mr. +Clough’s quiet question, ‘Ah, then, you think—?’ Many pretending creeds, +and many wonderful demonstrations, passed away before that calm inquiry. +He had a habit of putting your own doctrine concisely before you, so that +you might see what it came to, and that you did not like it. Even now +that he is gone, some may feel the recollection of his society a check on +unreal theories and half-mastered thoughts. Let us part from him in his +own words:— + + ‘Some future day, when what is now is not, + When all old faults and follies are forgot, + And thoughts of difference passed like dreams away, + We’ll meet again, upon some future day. + + When all that hindered, all that vexed our love, + As tall rank weeds will climb the blade above, + When all but it has yielded to decay, + We’ll meet again, upon some future day. + + When we have proved, each on his course alone, + The wider world, and learnt what’s now unknown, + Have made life clear, and worked out each a way, + We’ll meet again,—we shall have much to say. + + With happier mood, and feelings born anew, + Our boyhood’s bygone fancies we’ll review, + Talk o’er old talks, play as we used to play, + And meet again, on many a future day. + + Some day, which oft our hearts shall yearn to see, + In some far year, though distant yet to be, + Shall we indeed,—ye winds and waters, say!— + Meet yet again, upon some future day?’ + + + + +_HENRY CRABB ROBINSON._[16] + +(1869.) + + +Perhaps I should be ashamed to confess it, but I own I opened the three +large volumes of Mr. Robinson’s memoirs with much anxiety. Their bulk, +in the first place, appalled me; but that was by no means my greatest +apprehension. I knew I had a hundred times heard Mr. Robinson say, that +he hoped something he would leave behind would ‘be published and be worth +publishing.’ I was aware too—for it was no deep secret—that for half a +century or more he had kept a diary, and that he had been preserving +correspondence besides; and I was dubious what sort of things these +would be, and what—to use Carlyle’s words—any human editor could make of +them. Even when Mr. Robinson used to talk so, I used to shudder; for the +men who have tried to be memoir-writers and failed, are as numerous, or +nearly so, as those who have tried to be poets and failed. A specific +talent is as necessary for the one as for the other. But as soon as I +had read a little of the volumes, all these doubts passed away. I saw at +once that Mr. Robinson had an excellent power of narrative-writing, and +that the editor of his remains had made a most judicious use of excellent +materials. + +Perhaps more than anything it was the modesty of my old friend (I think +I may call Mr. Robinson my old friend, for though he _thought_ me a +modern youth, I _did_ know him twenty years)—perhaps, I say, it was his +modesty which made me nervous about his memoirs more than anything else. +I have so often heard him say (and say it with a vigour of emphasis +which is rarer in our generation even than in his),—‘Sir, I have no +literary talent. I cannot write. I never _could_ write anything, and I +never _would_ write anything,’—that being so taught, and so vehemently, +I came to believe. And there was this to justify my creed. The notes Mr. +Robinson used to scatter about him—and he was fond of writing rather +elaborate ones—were not always very good. At least they were too long +for the busy race of the present generation, and introduced Schiller +and Goethe where they need not have appeared. But in these memoirs +(especially in the Reminiscences and the Diary; for the moment he gets +to a letter the style is worse) the words flow with such an effectual +simplicity, that even Southey, the great master of such prose, could +hardly have written better. Possibly it was his real interest in his +old stories which preserved Mr. Robinson; in his letters he was not +so interested and he fell into words and amplifications; but in those +ancient anecdotes, which for years were his life and being, the style, +as it seems to me, could scarcely be mended even in a word. And though, +undoubtedly, the book is much too long in the latter half, I do not blame +Dr. Sadler, the editor and biographer, for it, or indeed blame anyone. +Mr. Robinson had led a very long and very varied life, and some of his +old friends had an interest in one part of his reminiscences and some +in another. An unhappy editor entrusted with ‘a deceased’s papers,’ +cannot really and in practice omit much that any surviving friends much +want to have put in. One man calls with a letter ‘in which my dear and +honoured friend gave me advice that was of such inestimable value, I +hope, I cannot but think you will find room for it.’ And another calls +with memoranda of a dinner—a most ‘superior occasion,’ as they say in the +North—at which, he reports, ‘there was conversation to which I never, or +scarcely ever, heard anything equal. There were A. B. and C. D. and E. +F., all masters, as you remember, of the purest conversational eloquence; +surely I need not hesitate to believe that you will say something of +that dinner.’ And so an oppressed biographer has to serve up the +crumbs of ancient feasts, though well knowing in his heart that they +are crumbs, and though he feels, too, that the critics will attack him, +and cruelly say it is his fault. But remembering this, and considering +that Mr. Robinson wrote a diary beginning in 1811, going down to 1867, +and occupying thirty-five closely written volumes, and that there were +‘Reminiscences’ and vast unsorted papers, I think Dr. Sadler has managed +admirably well. His book is brief to what it might have been, and all his +own part is written with delicacy, feeling, and knowledge. He quotes, +too, from Wordsworth by way of motto— + + ‘A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays + And confident to-morrows; with a face + Not worldly minded, for it bears too much + A nation’s impress,—gaiety and health, + Freedom and hope;—but keen withal and shrewd: + His gestures note,—and, hark, his tones of voice + Are all vivacious as his mien and looks.’ + +It was a happy feeling for Mr. Robinson’s character that selected these +lines to stand at the beginning of his memoirs. + +And yet in one material respect—in this case perhaps the most material +respect—Dr. Sadler has failed, and not in the least from any fault of +his. Sydney Smith used to complain that ‘no one had ever made him his +trustee or executor;’ being really a very sound and sensible man of +business, he felt that it was a kind of imputation on him, and that he +was not appreciated. But some one more justly replied, ‘But how could +_you_, Sydney Smith, expect to be made an executor? Is there any one +who wants their “remains” to be made fun of?’ Now every trustee of +biographical papers is exactly in this difficulty, that he cannot make +fun. The melancholy friends who left the papers would not at all like +it. And, besides, there grows upon every such biographer an ‘official’ +feeling—a confused sense of vague responsibilities—a wish not to impair +the gravity of the occasion or to offend anyone by levity. But there +are some men who cannot be justly described quite gravely; and Crabb +Robinson is one of them. A certain grotesqueness was a part of him, +and, unless you liked it, you lost the very best of him. He is called, +and properly called, in these memoirs Mr. Robinson; but no well-judging +person ever called him so in life. He was always called ‘old Crabb,’ +and that is the only name which will ever bring up his curious image to +me. He was, in the true old English sense of the word, a ‘character;’ +one whom a very peculiar life, certainly, and perhaps also a rather +peculiar nature to begin with, had formed and moulded into something so +exceptional and singular that it did not seem to belong to ordinary life, +and almost caused a smile when you saw it moving there. ‘An aberrant +form,’ I believe, the naturalists call the seal and such things in +natural history; odd shapes that can only be explained by a long past, +and which swim with a certain incongruity in their present _milieu_. +Now ‘old Crabb’ was (to me at least) just like that. You watched with +interest and pleasure his singular gestures, and his odd way of saying +things, and muttered, as if to keep up the recollection, ‘And _this_ is +the man who was the friend of Goethe, and is the friend of Wordsworth!’ +There was a certain animal oddity about ‘old Crabb,’ which made it a kind +of mental joke to couple him with such great names, and yet he was to +his heart’s core thoroughly coupled with them. If you leave out all his +strange ways (I do not say Dr. Sadler has quite left them out, but to +some extent he has been obliged, by place and decorum, to omit them), you +lose the life of the man. You cut from the Ethiopian his skin, and from +the leopard his spots. I well remember poor Clough, who was then fresh +from Oxford, and was much puzzled by the corner of London to which he had +drifted, looking at ‘old Crabb’ in a kind of terror for a whole breakfast +time, and muttering in mute wonder, almost to himself, as he came away, +‘Not at all the regular patriarch.’ And certainly no one could accuse Mr. +Robinson of an insipid regularity either in face or nature. + +Mr. Robinson was one of the original founders of University College, +and was for many years both on its senate and council; and as he lived +near the college he was fond of collecting at breakfast all the elder +students—especially those who had any sort of interest in literature. +Probably he never appeared to so much advantage, or showed all the best +of his nature, so well as in those parties. Like most very cheerful +old people, he at heart preferred the company of the very young; and +a set of young students, even after he was seventy, suited him better +as society than a set of grave old men. Sometimes, indeed, he would +invite—I do not say some of his contemporaries, few of them even in +1847 were up to breakfast parties, but persons of fifty and sixty—those +whom young students call old gentlemen. And it was amusing to watch the +consternation of some of them at the surprising youth and levity of +their host. They shuddered at the freedom with which we treated him. +Middle-aged men, of feeble heads and half-made reputations, have a nice +dislike to the sharp arguments and the unsparing jests of ‘boys at +college;’ they cannot bear the rough society of those who, never having +tried their own strength, have not yet acquired a fellow-feeling for +weakness. Many such persons, I am sure, were half hurt with Mr. Robinson +for not keeping those ‘impertinent boys’ more at a just distance; but Mr. +Robinson liked fun and movement, and disliked the sort of dignity which +shelters stupidity. There was little to gratify the unintellectual part +of man at these breakfasts, and what there was was not easy to be got +at. Your host, just as you were sitting down to breakfast, found he had +forgotten to make the tea, then he could not find his keys, then he rang +the bell to have them searched for; but long before the servant came he +had gone off into ‘Schiller-Goethe,’ and could not the least remember +what he had wanted. 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. + +It is said in these memoirs that Mr. Robinson’s parents were very +good-looking, and that when married they were called the handsome couple. +But in his old age very little regular beauty adhered to him, if he ever +had any. His face was pleasing from its animation, its kindness, and +its shrewdness, but the nose was one of the most slovenly which nature +had ever turned out, and the chin of excessive length, with portentous +power of extension. But, perhaps, for the purpose of a social narrator +(and in later years this was Mr. Robinson’s position), this oddity of +feature was a gift. It was said, and justly said, that Lord Brougham +used to punctuate his sentences with his nose; just at the end of a +long parenthesis he _could_, and did, turn up his nose, which served to +note the change of subject as well, or better, than a printed mark. Mr. +Robinson was not so skilful as this, but he made a very able use of the +chin at a conversational crisis, and just at the point of a story pushed +it out, and then very slowly drew it in again, so that you always knew +when to laugh, and the oddity of the gesture helped you in laughing. + +Mr. Robinson had known nearly every literary man worth knowing in +England and Germany for fifty years and more. He had studied at Jena in +the ‘great time,’ when Goethe, and Schiller, and Wieland were all at +their zenith; he had lived with Charles Lamb and his set, and Rogers +and his set, besides an infinite lot of little London people; he had +taught Madame de Staël German philosophy in Germany, and helped her in +business afterwards in England; he was the real friend of Wordsworth, +and had known Coleridge and Southey almost from their ‘coming out’ to +their death. And he was not a mere literary man. He had been a _Times_ +correspondent in the days of Napoleon’s early German battles, now more +than ‘seventy years since;’ he had been off Corunna in Sir John Moore’s +time; and last, but almost first it should have been, he was an English +barrister, who had for years a considerable business, and who was full of +picturesque stories about old judges. Such a varied life and experience +belong to very few men, and his social nature—at once accessible and +assailant—was just the one to take advantage of it. He seemed to be +lucky all through: in childhood he remembered when John Gilpin came out; +then he had seen—he could not hear—John Wesley preach; then he had heard +Erskine, and criticised him intelligently, in some of the finest of the +well-known ‘State trials;’ and so on during all his vigorous period. + +I do not know that it would be possible to give a better idea of Mr. +Robinson’s best conversations than by quoting almost at random from the +earlier part of these memoirs:— + + ‘At the Spring assizes of 1791, when I had nearly attained my + sixteenth year, I had the delight of hearing Erskine. It was + a high enjoyment, and I was able to profit by it. The subject + of the trial was the validity of a will—Braham _v._ Rivett. + Erskine came down specially retained for the plaintiff, and + Mingay for the defendant. The trial lasted two days. The title + of the heir being admitted, the proof of the will was gone into + at once. I have a recollection of many of the circumstances + after more than fifty-four years; but of nothing do I retain so + perfect a recollection as of the figure and voice of Erskine. + There was a charm in his voice, a fascination in his eye; and + so completely had he won my affection, that I am sure had + the verdict been given against him I should have burst out + crying. Of the facts and of the evidence, I do not pretend to + recollect anything beyond my impressions and sensations. My + pocket-book records that Erskine was engaged two and a half + hours in opening the case, and Mingay two hours and twenty + minutes in his speech in defence. E.’s reply occupied three + hours. The testatrix was an old lady in a state of imbecility. + The evil spirit of the case was an attorney. Mingay was loud + and violent, and gave Erskine an opportunity of turning into + ridicule his imagery and illustrations. For instance, M. having + compared R. to the Devil going into the Garden of Eden, E. drew + a closer parallel than M. intended. Satan’s first sight of Eve + was related in Milton’s words— + + ‘“Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, + In every gesture dignity and love;” + + and then a picture of idiotcy from Swift was contrasted. + But the sentence that weighed on my spirits was a pathetic + exclamation—“If, gentlemen, you should by your verdict + annihilate an instrument so solemnly framed, _I should retire + a troubled man from this court_.” And as he uttered the word + _court_, he beat his breast and I had a difficulty in not + crying out. When in bed the following night I awoke several + times in a state of excitement approaching fever—the words + “_troubled man from this court_” rang in my ears. + + ‘A new trial was granted, and ultimately the will was set + aside. I have said I profited by Erskine. I remarked his great + artifice, if I may call it so; and in a small way I afterwards + practised it. It lay in his frequent repetitions. He had one or + two leading arguments and main facts on which he was constantly + dwelling. But then he had marvellous skill in varying his + phraseology, so that no one was sensible of tautology in the + expressions. Like the doubling of a hare, he was perpetually + coming to his old place. Other great advocates I have remarked + were ambitious of a great variety of arguments. + + ‘About the same time that I thus first heard the most perfect + of forensic orators, I was also present at an exhibition + equally admirable, and which had a powerful effect upon + my mind. It was, I believe, in October 1790, and not long + before his death, that I heard John Wesley in the great round + meeting-house at Colchester. He stood in a wide pulpit, and on + each side of him stood a minister, and the two held him up, + having their hands under his armpits. His feeble voice was + barely audible. But his reverend countenance, especially his + long white locks, formed a picture never to be forgotten. There + was a vast crowd of lovers and admirers. It was for the most + part pantomime, but the pantomime went to the heart. Of the + kind I never saw anything comparable to it in after life.’ + +And again:— + + ‘It was at the Summer Circuit that Rolfe made his first + appearance. He had been at the preceding Sessions. I have + a pleasure in recollecting that I at once foresaw that he + would become a distinguished man. In my Diary I wrote, “Our + new junior, Mr. Rolfe, made his appearance. His manners are + genteel; his conversation easy and sensible. He is a very + acceptable companion, but I fear a dangerous rival.” And my + brother asking me who the new man was, I said, “I will venture + to predict that you will live to see that young man attain a + higher rank than any one you ever saw upon the circuit.” It + is true he is not higher than Leblanc, who was also a puisne + judge, but Leblanc was never Solicitor-General; nor, probably, + is Rolfe yet at the end of his career. One day, when some + one remarked, “Christianity is part and parcel of the law of + the land,” Rolfe said to me, “Were you ever employed to draw + an indictment against a man for not loving his neighbour as + himself?” + + ‘Rolfe is, by universal repute, if not the very best, at least + one of the best judges on the Bench. He is one of the few with + whom I have kept up an acquaintance.’[17] + +Of course, these stories came over and over again. It is the excellence +of a reminiscent to have a few good stories, and his misfortune that +people will remember what he says. In Mr. Robinson’s case an unskilled +person could often see the anecdote somewhere impending, and there was +often much interest in trying whether you could ward it off or not. There +was one great misfortune which had happened to his guests, though he used +to tell it as one of the best things that had ever happened to himself. +He had picked up a certain bust of Wieland by Schadow, which it appears +had been lost, and in the finding of which Goethe, even Goethe, rejoiced. +After a very long interval I still shudder to think how often I have +heard that story; it was one which no skill or care could long avert, for +the thing stood opposite our host’s chair, and the sight of it was sure +to recall him. Among the ungrateful students to whom he was so kind, the +first question always asked of anyone who had breakfasted at his house +was, ‘Did you undergo the _bust_?’ + +A reader of these memoirs would naturally and justly think that the +great interest of Mr. Robinson’s conversation was the strength of the +past memory; but quite as amusing or more so was the present weakness. +He never could remember names, and was very ingenious in his devices to +elude the defect. There is a story in these Memoirs:— + + ‘I was engaged to dine with Mr. Wansey at Walthamstow. When I + arrived there I was in the greatest distress, through having + forgotten his name. And it was not till after half an hour’s + worry that I recollected he was a Unitarian, which would answer + as well; for I instantly proceeded to Mr. Cogan’s. Having + been shown into a room, young Mr. Cogan came—“Your commands, + sir?”—“Mr. Cogan, I have taken the liberty to call on you in + order to know where I am to dine to-day.” He smiled. I went on: + “The truth is, I have accepted an invitation to dine with a + gentleman, a recent acquaintance, whose name I have forgotten; + but I am sure you can tell me, for he is a Unitarian, and the + Unitarians are very few here.”’ + +And at his breakfasts it was always the same; he was always in difficulty +as to some person’s name or other, and he had regular descriptions which +recurred, like Homeric epithets, and which he expected you to apply +to the individual. Thus poor Clough always appeared—‘That admirable +and accomplished man. You know whom I mean. The one who never says +anything.’ And of another living poet he used to say: ‘Probably the most +able, and certainly the most consequential, of all the young persons I +know. You know which it is. The one with whom I could never _presume_ +to be intimate. The one whose father I knew so many years.’ And another +particular friend of my own always occurred as—‘That great friend of +yours that has been in Germany—that most accomplished and interesting +person—that most able and excellent young man. Sometimes I like him, +and sometimes I _hate_ him. You,’ turning to me, ‘know whom I mean, you +villain!’ And certainly I did know; for I had heard the same adjectives, +and been referred to in the same manner very many times. + +Of course, a main part of Mr. Robinson’s conversation was on literary +subjects; but of this, except when it related to persons whom he had +known, or sonnets to ‘the conception of which he was privy,’ I do not +think it would be just to speak very highly. He spoke sensibly and +clearly—he could not on any subject speak otherwise; but the critical +faculty is as special and as peculiar almost as the poetical; and Mr. +Robinson in serious moments was quite aware of it, and he used to deny +that he had the former faculty more than the latter. He used to read +much of Wordsworth to me; but I doubt—though many of his friends will +think I am a great heretic—I doubt if he read the best poems; and even +those he did read (and he read very well) rather suffered from coming in +the middle of a meal, and at a time when you wanted to laugh, and not +to meditate. Wordsworth was a solitary man, and it is only in solitude +that his best poems, or indeed any of his characteristic poems, can be +truly felt or really apprehended. There are some at which I never look, +even now, without thinking of the wonderful and dreary faces which Clough +used to make while Mr. Robinson was reading them. To Clough certain of +Wordsworth’s poems were part of his inner being, and he suffered at +hearing them obtruded at meal times, just as a High Churchman would +suffer at hearing the collects of the Church. Indeed, these poems were +among the collects of Clough’s Church. + +Still less do I believe that there is any special value in the +expositions of German philosophy in these volumes, or that there was any +in those which Mr. Robinson used to give on such matters in conversation. +They are clear, no doubt, and accurate; but they are not the expositions +of a born metaphysician. He speaks in these Memoirs of his having a +difficulty in concentrating his ‘attention on works of speculation.’ +And such books as Kant can only be really mastered, can perhaps only be +usefully studied, by those who have an unusual facility in concentrating +their mind on impalpable abstractions, and an uncommon inclination to do +so. Mr. Robinson had neither; and I think the critical philosophy had +really very little effect on him, and had, during the busy years which +had elapsed since he studied it, very nearly run off him. There was +something very curious in the sudden way that anything mystical would +stop in him. At the end of a Sunday breakfast, after inflicting on you +much which was transcendental in Wordsworth or Goethe, he would say, +as we left him, with an air of relish, ‘Now I am going to run down to +Essex Street to hear Madge. I shall not be in time for the prayers; but +I do not so much care about that; what I do like is the sermon; it is +so clear.’ Mr. Madge was a Unitarian of the old school, with as little +mystical and transcendental in his nature as any one who ever lived. +There was a living piquancy in the friend of Goethe—the man who _would_ +explain to you his writings—being also the admirer of ‘Madge;’ it was +like a proser, lengthily eulogising Kant to you, and then saying, ‘Ah! +but I do love Condillac; he is so clear.’ + +But, on the other hand, I used to hold—I was reading law at the time, and +so had some interest in the matter—that Mr. Robinson much underrated his +legal knowledge, and his practical power as a lawyer. What he used to +say was, ‘I never knew any law, sir, but I knew the practice.... I left +the bar because I feared my incompetence might be discovered. I was a +tolerable junior; but I was rising to be a leader, which I was unfit to +be; and so I retired, not to disgrace myself by some fearful mistake.’ +In these Memoirs he says that he retired when he had made the sum of +money which he thought enough for a bachelor with few wants and not a +single expensive taste. The simplicity of his tastes is certain; very few +Englishmen indeed could live with so little show or pretence. But the +idea of his gross incompetence is absurd. No one who was incompetent ever +said so. There are, I am sure, plenty of substantial and well-satisfied +men at the English bar who do not know nearly as much law as Mr. Robinson +knew, and who have not a tithe of his sagacity, but who believe in +themselves and in whom their clients believe. On the other hand, Mr. +Robinson had many great qualifications for success at the bar. He was a +really good speaker: when over seventy I have heard him make a speech +that good speakers in their full vigour would be glad to make. He had +a good deal of the actor in his nature, which is thought, and I fancy +justly thought, to be necessary to the success of all great advocates, +and perhaps of all great orators. He was well acquainted with the petty +technicalities which intellectual men in middle life in general cannot +learn, for he had passed some years in an attorney’s office. Above +all, he was a very thinking man, and had an ‘idea of business’—that +inscrutable something which at once and altogether distinguishes the man +who is safe in the affairs of life from those who are unsafe. I do not +suppose he knew much black-letter law; but there are plenty of judges on +the bench who, unless they are much belied, also know very little—perhaps +none. And a man who can intelligently read Kant, like Mr. Robinson, need +not fear the book-work of English law. A very little serious study would +have taught him law enough to lead the Norfolk circuit. He really had +a sound, moderate, money-making business, and only a little pains was +wanted to give him more. + +The real reason why he did not take the trouble, I fancy, was that, +being a bachelor, he was a kind of amateur in life, and did not really +care. He could not spend what he had on himself, and used to give away +largely, though in private. And even more, as with most men who have not +thoroughly worked when young, daily, regular industry was exceedingly +trying to him. No man could be less idle; far from it, he was always +doing something; but then he was doing what he chose. Sir Walter Scott, +one of the best workers of his time, used always to say that ‘he had no +temptation to be idle, but the greatest temptation, when one thing was +wanted of him, to go and do something else.’ Perhaps the only persons +who, not being forced by mere necessity, really conquer this temptation, +are those who were early broken to the yoke, and are fixed to the furrow +by habit. Mr. Robinson loitered in Germany, so he was not one of these. + +I am not regretting this. It would be a base idolatry of practical life, +to require every man to succeed in it as far as he could, and to devote +to it all his mind. The world certainly does not need it; it pays well, +and it will never lack good servants. There will always be enough of +sound, strong men to be working barristers and judges, let who will +object to become so. But I own I think a man ought to be able to be a +‘Philistine’ if he chooses; there is a sickly incompleteness about people +too fine for the world, and too nice to work their way in it. And when a +man like Mr. Robinson had a real sagacity for affairs, it is for those +who respect his memory to see that his reputation does not suffer from +his modesty, and that his habitual self-depreciations—which, indeed, +extended to his powers of writing as well as to those of acting—are not +taken to be exactly true. + +In fact, Mr. Robinson was usefully occupied in University College +business and University Hall business, and other such things. But there +is no special need to write on them in connection with his name; and it +would need a good deal of writing to make them intelligible to those +who do not know them now. And the greater part of his life was spent in +society where his influence was always manly and vigorous. I do not mean +that he was universally popular; it would be defacing his likeness to say +so. ‘I am a man,’ he once told me, ‘to whom a great number of persons +entertain the very strongest objection.’ Indeed he had some subjects +on which he could hardly bear opposition. Twice he nearly quarrelled +with me: once for writing in favour of Louis Napoleon, which, as he had +caught in Germany a thorough antipathy to the first Napoleon, seemed to +him quite wicked; and next for my urging that Hazlitt was a much greater +writer than Charles Lamb—a harmless opinion which I still hold, but which +Mr. Robinson met with this outburst: ‘You, sir, you prefer the works of +that scoundrel, that odious, that malignant writer, to the exquisite +essays of that angelic creature!’ I protested that there was no evidence +that angels could write particularly well; but it was in vain, and it +was some time before he forgave me. Some persons who casually encountered +peculiarities like these, did not always understand them. In his last +years, too, augmenting infirmities almost disqualified Mr. Robinson for +general society, and quite disabled him from showing his old abilities +in it. Indeed, I think that these Memoirs will give almost a new idea of +his power to many young men who had only seen him casually, and at times +of feebleness. After ninety it is not easy to make new friends. And, in +any case, this book will always have a great charm for those who knew Mr. +Robinson well when they were themselves young, because it will keep alive +for them the image of his buoyant sagacity, and his wise and careless +kindness. + + + + +_WORDSWORTH, TENNYSON, AND BROWNING; OR, PURE, ORNATE, AND GROTESQUE ART +IN ENGLISH POETRY.[18]_ + +(1864.) + + +We couple these two books together, not because of their likeness, for +they are as dissimilar as books can be; nor on account of the eminence +of their authors, for in general two great authors are too much for one +essay; but because they are the best possible illustration of something +we have to say upon poetical art—because they may give to it life and +freshness. The accident of contemporaneous publication has here brought +together two books very characteristic of modern art, and we want to show +how they are characteristic. + +Neither English poetry nor English criticism have ever recovered the +_eruption_ which they both made at the beginning of this century into +the fashionable world. The poems of Lord Byron were received with an +avidity that resembles our present avidity for sensation novels, and were +read by a class which at present reads little but such novels. Old men +who remember those days may be heard to say, ‘We hear nothing of poetry +now-a-days; it seems quite down.’ And ‘down’ it certainly is, if for +poetry it be a descent to be no longer the favourite excitement of the +more frivolous part of the ‘upper’ world. That stimulating poetry is now +little read. A stray schoolboy may still be detected in a wild admiration +for the _Giaour_ or the _Corsair_ (and it is suitable to his age, +and he should not be reproached for it), but the _real_ posterity—the +quiet students of a past literature—never read them or think of them. A +line or two linger on the memory; a few telling strokes of occasional +and felicitous energy are quoted, but this is all. As wholes, these +exaggerated stories were worthless; they taught nothing, and therefore +they are forgotten. If now-a-days a dismal poet were, like Byron, to +lament the fact of his birth, and to hint that he was too good for the +world, the _Saturday Reviewers_ would say that ‘they doubted if he _was_ +too good; that a sulky poet was a questionable addition to a tolerable +world; that he need not have been born, as far as they were concerned.’ +Doubtless, there is much in Byron besides his dismal exaggeration, but +it was that exaggeration which made ‘the sensation’ which gave him a +wild moment of dangerous fame. As so often happens, the cause of his +momentary fashion is the cause also of his lasting oblivion. Moore’s +former reputation was less excessive, yet it has not been more permanent. +The prettiness of a few songs preserves the memory of his name, but as +a poet to _read_ he is forgotten. There is nothing to read in him; no +exquisite thought, no sublime feeling, no consummate description of true +character. Almost the sole result of the poetry of that time is the harm +which it has done. It degraded for a time the whole character of the +art. It said by practice, by a most efficient and successful practice, +that it was the aim, the _duty_ of poets, to catch the attention of the +passing, the fashionable, the busy world. If a poem ‘fell dead,’ it was +nothing; it was composed to please the ‘London’ of the year, and if that +London did not like it, why, it had failed. It fixed upon the minds +of a whole generation, it engraved in popular memory and tradition, a +vague conviction that poetry is but one of the many _amusements_ for the +enjoying classes, for the lighter hours of all classes. The mere notion, +the bare idea, that poetry is a deep thing, a teaching thing, the most +surely and wisely elevating of human things, is even now to the coarse +public mind nearly unknown. + +As was the fate of poetry, so inevitably was that of criticism. The +science that expounds which poetry is good and which is bad, is dependent +for its popular reputation on the popular estimate of poetry itself. The +critics of that day had _a_ day, which is more than can be said for some +since; they professed to tell the fashionable world in what books it +would find new pleasure, and therefore they were read by the fashionable +world. Byron counted the critic and poet equal. The _Edinburgh Review_ +penetrated among the young, and into places of female resort where it +does not go now. As people ask, ‘Have you read _Henry Dunbar_? and what +do you think of it?’ so they then asked, ‘Have you read the _Giaour_? +and what do you think of it?’ Lord Jeffrey, a shrewd judge of the world, +employed himself in telling it what to think; not so much what it ought +to think, as what at bottom it did think, and so by dexterous sympathy +with current society he gained contemporary fame and power. Such fame +no critic must hope for now. His articles will not penetrate where the +poems themselves do not penetrate. When poetry was noisy, criticism was +loud; now poetry is a still small voice, and criticism must be smaller +and stiller. As the function of such criticism was limited, so was its +subject. For the great and (as time now proves) the _permanent_ part of +the poetry of his time—for Shelley and for Wordsworth—Lord Jeffrey had +but one word. He said[19] ‘It won’t do.’ And it will not do to amuse a +drawing-room. + +The doctrine that poetry is a light amusement for idle hours, a metrical +species of sensational novel, did not indeed become popular without +gainsayers. Thirty years ago, Mr. Carlyle most rudely contradicted it. +But perhaps this is about all that he has done. He has denied, but he has +not disproved. He has contradicted the floating paganism, but he has not +founded the deep religion. All about and around us a _faith_ in poetry +struggles to be extricated, but it is not extricated. Some day, at the +touch of the true word, the whole confusion will by magic cease; the +broken and shapeless notions will cohere and crystallize into a bright +and true theory. But this cannot be yet. + +But though no complete theory of the poetic art as yet be possible for +us, though perhaps only our children’s children will be able to speak on +this subject with the assured confidence which belongs to accepted truth, +yet something of some certainty may be stated on the easier elements, and +something that will throw light on these two new books. But it will be +necessary to assign reasons, and the assigning of reasons is a dry task. +Years ago, when criticism only tried to show how poetry could be made a +good amusement, it was not impossible that criticism itself should be +amusing. But now it must at least be serious, for we believe that poetry +is a serious and a deep thing. + +There should be a word in the language of literary art to express what +the word ‘picturesque’ expresses for the fine arts. _Picturesque_ means +fit to be put into a picture; we want a word _literatesque_, ‘fit +to be put into a book.’ An artist goes through a hundred different +country scenes, rich with beauties, charms and merits, but he does not +paint any of them. He leaves them alone; he idles on till he finds the +hundred-and-first—a scene which many observers would not think much of, +but which _he_ knows by virtue of his art will look well on canvas, +and this he paints and preserves. Susceptible observers, though not +artists, feel this quality too; they say of a scene, ‘How picturesque!’ +meaning by this a quality distinct from that of beauty, or sublimity, or +grandeur—meaning to speak not only of the scene as it is in itself, but +also of its fitness for imitation by art; meaning not only that it is +good, but that its goodness is such as ought to be transferred to paper; +meaning not simply that it fascinates, but also that its fascination is +such as ought to be copied by man. A fine and insensible instinct has put +language to this subtle use; it expresses an idea without which fine art +criticism could not go on, and it is very natural that the language of +pictorial art should be better supplied with words than that of literary +criticism, for the eye was used before the mind, and language embodies +primitive sensuous ideas, long ere it expresses, or need express, +abstract and literary ones. + +The reason why a landscape is ‘picturesque’ is often said to be, that +such landscape represents an ‘idea.’ But this explanation, though, in +the minds of some who use it, it is near akin to the truth, fails to +explain that truth to those who did not know it before; the word ‘idea’ +is so often used in these subjects when people do not know anything +else to say; it represents so often a kind of intellectual insolvency, +when philosophers are at their wits’ end, that shrewd people will never +readily on any occasion give it credit for meaning anything. A wise +explainer must, therefore, look out for other words to convey what he has +to say. _Landscapes_, like everything else in nature, divide themselves +as we look at them into a sort of rude classification. We go down a +river, for example, and we see a hundred landscapes on both sides of it, +resembling one another in much, yet differing in something; with trees +here, and a farmhouse there, and shadows on one side, and a deep pool +far on, a collection of circumstances most familiar in themselves, but +making a perpetual novelty by the magic of their various combinations. +We travel so for miles and hours, and then we come to a scene which also +has these various circumstances and adjuncts, but which combines them +best, which makes the best whole of them, which shows them in their best +proportion at a single glance before the eye. Then we say, ‘This is the +place to paint the river; this is the picturesque point!’ Or, if not +artists or critics of art, we feel without analysis or examination that +somehow this bend or sweep of the river shall in future be _the river +to us_: that it is the image of it which we will retain in our mind’s +eye, by which we will remember it, which we will call up when we want to +describe or think of it. Some fine countries, some beautiful rivers, have +not this picturesque quality: they give us elements of beauty, but they +do not combine them together; we go on for a time delighted, but _after_ +a time somehow we get wearied; we feel that we are taking in nothing and +learning nothing; we get no collected image before our mind; we see the +accidents and circumstances of that sort of scenery, but the summary +scene we do not see; we find _disjecta membra_, but no form; various +and many and faulty approximations are displayed in succession; but the +absolute perfection in that country’s or river’s scenery—its _type_—is +withheld. We go away from such places in part delighted, but in part +baffled; we have been puzzled by pretty things; we have beheld a hundred +different inconsistent specimens of the same sort of beauty; but the +rememberable idea, the full development, the characteristic individuality +of it, we have not seen. + +We find the same sort of quality in all parts of painting. We see a +portrait of a person we know, and we say, ‘It is like—yes, like, of +course, but it is not _the man_;’ we feel it could not be anyone else, +but still, somehow it fails to bring home to us the individual as we know +him to be. _He_ is not there. An accumulation of features like his are +painted, but his essence is not painted; an approximation more or less +excellent is given, but the characteristic expression, the _typical_ +form, of the man is withheld. + +Literature—the painting of words—has the same quality, but wants the +analogous word. The word ‘_literatesque_’ would mean, if we possessed it, +that perfect combination in the _subject-matter_ of literature, which +suits the _art_ of literature. We often meet people, and say of them, +sometimes meaning well and sometimes ill, ‘How well so-and-so would do +in a book!’ Such people are by no means the best people; but they are +the most effective people—the most rememberable people. Frequently, +when we first know them, we like them because they explain to us so much +of our experience; we have known many people ‘like that,’ in one way or +another, but we did not seem to understand them; they were nothing to us, +for their traits were indistinct; we forgot them, for they hitched on +to nothing, and we could not classify them. But when we see the _type_ +of the genus, at once we seem to comprehend its character; the inferior +specimens are explained by the perfect embodiment; the approximations are +definable when we know the ideal to which they draw near. There are an +infinite number of classes of human beings, but in each of these classes +there is a distinctive type which, if we could expand it in words, would +define the class. We cannot expand it in formal terms any more than a +landscape, or a species of landscape; but we have an art, an art of +words, which can draw it. Travellers and others often bring home, in +addition to their long journals—which, though so living to them, are so +dead, so inanimate, so undescriptive to all else—a pen-and-ink sketch, +rudely done very likely, but which, perhaps, even the more for the blots +and strokes, gives a distinct notion, an emphatic image, to all who see +it. We say at once, _now_ we know the sort of thing. The sketch has _hit_ +the mind. True literature does the same. It describes sorts, varieties, +and permutations, by delineating the type of each sort, the ideal of each +variety, the central, the marking trait of each permutation. + +On this account, the greatest artists of the world have ever shown +an enthusiasm for reality. To care for notions and abstractions; to +philosophise; to reason out conclusions; to care for schemes of thought, +are signs in the artistic mind of secondary excellence. A Schiller, +a Euripides, a Ben Jonson, cares for _ideas_—for the parings of the +intellect, and the distillation of the mind; a Shakespeare, a Homer, +a Goethe, finds his mental occupation, the true home of his natural +thoughts, in the real world—‘which is the world of all of us’—where the +face of nature, the moving masses of men and women, are ever changing, +ever multiplying, ever mixing one with the other. The reason is plain—the +business of the poet, of the artist, is with _types_; and those types are +mirrored in reality. As a painter must not only have a hand to execute, +but an eye to distinguish—as he must go here and there through the +real world to catch the picturesque man, the picturesque scene, which +is to live on his canvas—so the poet must find in that reality, the +_literatesque_ man, the _literatesque_ scene which nature intends for +him, and which will live in his page. Even in reality he will not find +this type complete, or the characteristics perfect; but there he will +find, at least, something, some hint, some intimation, some suggestion; +whereas, in the stagnant home of his own thoughts he will find nothing +pure, nothing as it is, nothing which does not bear his own mark, which +is not somehow altered by a mixture with himself. + +The first conversation of Goethe and Schiller illustrates this conception +of the poet’s art. Goethe was at that time prejudiced against Schiller, +we must remember, partly from what he considered the outrages of the +_Robbers_, partly because of the philosophy of Kant. Schiller’s ‘Essay on +_Grace and Dignity_,’ he tells us— + + ‘Was yet less of a kind to reconcile me. The philosophy of + Kant, which exalts the dignity of mind so highly, while + appearing to restrict it, Schiller had joyfully embraced: + it unfolded the extraordinary qualities which Nature had + implanted in him; and in the lively feeling of freedom and + self-direction, he showed himself unthankful to the Great + Mother, who surely had not acted like a step-dame towards him. + Instead of viewing her as self-subsisting, as producing with + a living force, and according to appointed laws, alike the + highest and the lowest of her works, he took her up under the + aspect of some empirical native qualities of the human mind. + Certain harsh passages I could even directly apply to myself: + they exhibited my confession of faith in a false light; and I + felt that if written without particular attention to me, they + were still worse; for, in that case, the vast chasm which lay + between us gaped but so much the more distinctly.’ + +After a casual meeting at a Society for Natural History, they walked +home, and Goethe proceeds: + + ‘We reached his house; the talk induced me to go in. I then + expounded to him, with as much vivacity as possible, the + _Metamorphosis of Plants_,[20] drawing out on paper, with + many characteristic strokes, a symbolic plant for him, as I + proceeded. He heard and saw all this, with much interest and + distinct comprehension; but when I had done, he shook his head + and said: “This is no experiment, this is an idea.” I stopped + with some degree of irritation; for the point which separated + us was most luminously marked by this expression. The opinions + in _Dignity and Grace_ again occurred to me; the old grudge was + just awakening; but I smothered it, and merely said: “I was + happy to find that I had got ideas without knowing it, nay, + that I saw them before my eyes.” + + ‘Schiller had much more prudence and dexterity of management + than I; he was also thinking of his periodical the _Horen_, + about this time, and of course rather wished to attract than + repel me. Accordingly, he answered me like an accomplished + Kantite; and as my stiff-necked Realism gave occasion to many + contradictions, much battling took place between us, and at + last a truce, in which neither party would consent to yield the + victory, but each held himself invincible. Positions like the + following grieved me to the very soul: _How can there ever be + an experiment, that shall correspond with an idea? The specific + quality of an idea is, that no experiment can reach it or agree + with it._ Yet if he held as an idea, the same thing which I + looked upon as an experiment, there must certainly, I thought, + be some community between us—some ground whereon both of us + might meet!’ + +With Goethe’s natural history, or with Kant’s philosophy, we have here +no concern; but we can combine the expressions of the two great poets +into a nearly complete description of poetry. The ‘symbolic plant’ is the +_type_, of which we speak, the ideal at which inferior specimens aim, the +class characteristic in which they all share, but which none shows forth +fully. Goethe was right in searching for this in reality and nature; +Schiller was right in saying that it was an ‘idea,’ a transcending +notion to which approximations could be found in experience, but only +approximations—which could not be found there itself. Goethe, as a poet, +rightly felt the primary necessity of outward suggestion and experience; +Schiller, as a philosopher, rightly felt its imperfection. + +But in these delicate matters, it is easy to misapprehend. There is, +undoubtedly, a sort of poetry which is produced as it were out of the +author’s mind. The description of the poet’s own moods and feelings is +a common sort of poetry—perhaps the commonest sort. But the peculiarity +of such cases is, that the poet does not describe himself _as_ himself: +autobiography is not his object; he takes himself as a specimen of +human nature; he describes, not himself, but a distillation of himself: +he takes such of his moods as are most characteristic, as most typify +certain moods of certain men, or certain moods of all men; he chooses +preponderant feelings of special sorts of men, or occasional feelings +of men of all sorts; but with whatever other difference and diversity, +the essence is that such self-describing poets describe what is _in_ +them, but not _peculiar_ to them,—what is generic, not what is special +and individual. Gray’s _Elegy_ describes a mood which Gray felt more +than other men, but which most others, perhaps all others, feel too. It +is more popular, perhaps, than any English poem, because that sort of +feeling is the most diffused of high feelings, and because Gray added to +a singular nicety of fancy an habitual proneness to a _contemplative_—a +discerning but unbiassed—meditation on death and on life. Other poets +cannot hope for such success: a subject so popular, so grave, so wise, +and yet so suitable to the writer’s nature, is hardly to be found. But +the same ideal, the same unautobiographical character is to be found +in the writings of meaner men. Take sonnets of Hartley Coleridge, for +example:— + + I. + + TO A FRIEND. + + ‘When we were idlers with the loitering rills, + The need of human love we little noted: + Our love was nature; and the peace that floated + On the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills, + To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills: + One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted, + That, wisely doating, ask’d not why it doated, + And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills. + But now I find, how dear thou wert to me; + That man is more than half of nature’s treasure, + Of that fair Beauty which no eye can see, + Of that sweet music which no ear can measure; + And now the streams may sing for others’ pleasure, + The hills sleep on in their eternity.’ + + II. + + TO THE SAME. + + ‘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 thronged 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.’ + + III. + + TO THE SAME. + + ‘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, + O’er rough and smooth to travel side by side.’ + +The contrast of instructive and enviable locomotion with refining but +instructive meditation is not special and peculiar to these two, but +general and universal. It was set down by Hartley Coleridge because he +was the most meditative and refining of men. + +What sort of literatesque types are fit to be described in the sort of +literature called poetry, is a matter on which much might be written. +Mr. Arnold, some years since, put forth a theory that the art of poetry +could only delineate _great actions_. But though, rightly interpreted +and understood—using the word action so as to include high and sound +activity in contemplation—this definition may suit the highest poetry, +it certainly cannot be stretched to include many inferior sorts and +even many good sorts. Nobody in their senses would describe Gray’s +_Elegy_ as the delineation of a ‘great action;’ some kinds of mental +contemplation may be energetic enough to deserve this name, but Gray +would have been frightened at the very word. He loved scholarlike calm +and quiet inaction; his very greatness depended on his _not_ acting, on +his ‘wise passiveness,’ on his indulging the grave idleness which so well +appreciates so much of human life. But the best answer—the _reductio ad +absurdum_—of Mr. Arnold’s doctrine, is the mutilation which it has caused +him to make of his own writings. It has forbidden him, he tells us, to +reprint _Empedocles_—a poem undoubtedly containing defects and even +excesses, but containing also these lines:— + + ‘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 join’d your train, + Ye Sun-born virgins! on the road of Truth. + Then we could still enjoy; then neither thought + Nor outward things were clos’d and dead to us, + But we receiv’d the shock of mighty thoughts + On simple minds with a pure natural joy; + And if the sacred load oppress’d our brain, + We had the power to feel the pressure eas’d, + The brow unbound, the thoughts flow free again, + In the delightful commerce of the world. + We had not lost our balance then, nor grown + Thought’s slaves, and dead to every natural joy. + The smallest thing could give us pleasure then— + The sports of the country people; + A flute note from the woods; + Sunset over the sea: + Seed-time and harvest; + The reapers in the corn; + The vinedresser in his vineyard; + The village-girl at her wheel. + Fulness of life and power of feeling, ye + Are for the happy, for the souls at ease, + Who dwell on a firm basis of content. + But he who has outliv’d his prosperous days, + But he, whose youth fell on a different world + From that on which his exil’d age is thrown; + Whose mind was fed on other food, was train’d + By other rules than are in vogue to-day; + Whose habit of thought is fix’d, who will not change, + But in a world he loves not must subsist + In ceaseless opposition, be the guard + Of his own breast, fetter’d to what he guards, + That the world win no mastery over him; + Who has no friend, no fellow left, not one; + Who has no minute’s breathing space allow’d + To nurse his dwindling faculty of joy;— + Joy and the outward world must die to him + As they are dead to me.’ + +What freak of criticism can induce a man who has written such poetry as +this, to discard it, and say it is not poetry? Mr. Arnold is privileged +to speak of his own poems, but no other critic could speak so and not be +laughed at. + +We are disposed to believe that no very sharp definition can be given—at +least in the present state of the critical art—of the boundary line +between poetry and other sorts of imaginative delineation. Between the +undoubted dominions of the two kinds there is a debatable land; everybody +is agreed that the ‘Œdipus at Colonus’ is poetry: everyone is agreed +that the wonderful appearance of Mrs. Veal is _not_ poetry. But the +exact line which separates grave novels in verse like _Aylmer’s Field_ +or _Enoch Arden_, from grave novels not in verse like _Silas Marner_ or +_Adam Bede_, we own we cannot draw with any confidence. Nor, perhaps, +is it very important; whether a narrative is thrown into verse or not, +certainly depends in part on the taste of the age, and in part on its +mechanical helps. Verse is the only mechanical help to the memory in +rude times, and there is little writing till a cheap something is found +to write upon, and a cheap something to write with. Poetry—verse, at +least—is the literature of _all work_ in early ages; it is only later +ages which write in what _they_ think a natural and simple prose. +There are other casual influences in the matter too; but they are not +material now. We need only say here that poetry, because it has a more +marked rhythm than prose, must be more intense in meaning and more +concise in style than prose. People expect a ‘marked rhythm’ to imply +something worth marking; if it fails to do so they are disappointed. +They are displeased at the visible waste of a powerful instrument; they +call it ‘doggerel,’ and rightly call it, for the metrical expression +of full thought and eager feeling—the burst of metre—incident to high +imagination, should not be wasted on petty matters which prose does +as well,—which it does better—which it suits by its very limpness and +weakness, whose small changes it follows more easily, and to whose lowest +details it can fully and without effort degrade itself. Verse, too, +should be _more concise_, for long-continued rhythm tends to jade the +mind, just as brief rhythm tends to attract the attention. Poetry should +be memorable and emphatic, intense, and _soon over_. + +The great divisions of poetry, and of all other literary art, arise from +the different modes in which these _types_—these characteristic men, +these characteristic feelings—may be variously described. There are +three principal modes which we shall attempt to describe—the _pure_, +which is sometimes, but not very wisely, called the classical; the +_ornate_, which is also unwisely called romantic; and the _grotesque_, +which might be called the mediæval. We will describe the nature of these +a little. Criticism, we know, must be brief—not, like poetry, because +its charm is too intense to be sustained—but, on the contrary, because +its interest is too weak to be prolonged; but elementary criticism, if +an evil, is a necessary evil; a little while spent among the simple +principles of art is the first condition, the absolute pre-requisite, +for surely apprehending and wisely judging the complete embodiments and +miscellaneous forms of actual literature. + +The definition of _pure_ literature is, that it describes the type in +its simplicity—we mean, with the exact amount of accessory circumstance +which is necessary to bring it before the mind in finished perfection, +and no more than that amount. The _type_ needs some accessories from its +nature—a picturesque landscape does not consist wholly of picturesque +features. There is a setting of surroundings—as the Americans would say, +of fixings—without which the reality is not itself. By a traditional mode +of speech, as soon as we see a picture in which a complete effect is +produced by detail so rare and so harmonised as to escape us, we say, How +‘classical’! The whole which is to be seen appears at once and through +the detail, but the detail itself is not seen: we do not think of that +which gives us the idea; we are absorbed in the idea itself. Just so in +literature, the pure art is that which works with the fewest strokes; the +fewest, that is, for its purpose, for its aim is to call up and bring +home to men an idea, a form, a character, and if that idea be twisted, +that form be involved, that character perplexed, many strokes of literary +art will be needful. Pure art does not mutilate its object; it represents +it as fully as is possible with the slightest effort which is possible: +it shrinks from no needful circumstances, as little as it inserts any +which are needless. The precise peculiarity is not merely that no +incidental circumstance is inserted which does not tell on the main +design: no art is fit to be called art which permits a stroke to be put +in without an object; but that only the minimum of such circumstance is +inserted at all. The form is sometimes said to be bare, the accessories +are sometimes said to be invisible, because the appendages are so choice +that the shape only is perceived. + +The English literature undoubtedly contains much impure literature; +impure in its style, if not in its meaning: but it also contains one +great, one nearly perfect, model of the pure style in the literary +expression of typical _sentiment_; and one not perfect, but gigantic and +close approximation to perfection in the pure delineation of objective +character. Wordsworth, perhaps, comes as near to choice purity of style +in sentiment as is possible; Milton, with exceptions and conditions to be +explained, approaches perfection by the strenuous purity with which he +depicts character. + +A wit once said, that ‘_pretty_ women had more features than _beautiful_ +women,’ and though the expression may be criticised, the meaning is +correct. Pretty women seem to have a great number of attractive points, +each of which attracts your attention, and each one of which you remember +afterwards; yet these points have not grown together, their features have +not linked themselves into a single inseparable whole. But a beautiful +woman is a whole as she is; you no more take her to pieces than a Greek +statue; she is not an aggregate of divisible charms, she is a charm +in herself. Such ever is the dividing test of pure art; if you catch +yourself admiring its details, it is defective; you ought to think of it +as a single whole which you must remember, which you must admire, which +somehow subdues you while you admire it, which is a ‘possession’ to you +‘for ever.’ + +Of course, no individual poem embodies this ideal perfectly; of course, +every human word and phrase has its imperfections, and if we choose an +instance to illustrate that ideal, the instance has scarcely a fair +chance. By contrasting it with the ideal, we suggest its imperfections; +by protruding it as an example, we turn on its defectiveness the +microscope of criticism. Yet these two sonnets of Wordsworth may be fitly +read in this place, not because they are quite without faults, or because +they are the very best examples of their kind of style; but because they +are luminous examples; the compactness of the sonnet and the gravity +of the sentiment, hedging in the thoughts, restraining the fancy, and +helping to maintain a singleness of expression. + + ‘THE TROSACHS. + + ‘There’s not a nook within this solemn Pass, + But were an apt Confessional for one + Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, + That Life is but a tale of morning grass + Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase + That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes + Feed it ’mid Nature’s old felicities, + Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass + Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy guest, + If from a golden perch of aspen spray + (October’s workmanship to rival May) + The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast + That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, + Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!’ + + ‘COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802. + + ‘Earth has not anything to show more fair: + Dull would he be of soul who could pass by + A sight so touching in its majesty: + This city now doth, like a garment, wear + The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, + Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie + Open unto the fields and to the sky; + All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. + Never did sun more beautifully steep + In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; + Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! + The river glideth at his own sweet will: + Dear God! The very houses seem asleep; + And all that mighty heart is lying still!’ + +Instances of barer style than this may easily be found instances of +colder style—few better instances of purer style. Not a single expression +(the invocation in the concluding couplet of the second sonnet perhaps +excepted) can be spared, yet not a single expression rivets the +attention. If, indeed, we take out the phrase— + + ‘The city now doth, like a garment, wear + The beauty of the morning,’ + +and the description of the brilliant yellow of autumn— + + ‘October’s workmanship to rival May,’ + +they have independent value, but they are not noticed in the sonnet when +we read it through; they fall into place there, and being in their place, +are not seen. The great subjects of the two sonnets, the religious aspect +of beautiful but grave nature—the religious aspect of a city about to +awaken and be alive, are the only ideas left in our mind. To Wordsworth +has been vouchsafed the last grace of the self-denying artist; you think +neither of him nor his style, but you cannot help thinking of—you _must_ +recall—the exact phrase, the _very_ sentiment he wished. + +Milton’s purity is more eager. In the most exciting parts of +Wordsworth—and these sonnets are not very exciting—you always feel, you +never forget, that what you have before you is the excitement of a +recluse. There is nothing of the stir of life; nothing of the brawl of +the world. But Milton, though always a scholar by trade, though solitary +in old age, was through life intent on great affairs, lived close to +great scenes, watched a revolution, and if not an actor in it, was at +least secretary to the actors. He was familiar—by daily experience and +habitual sympathy—with the earnest debate of arduous questions, on which +the life and death of the speakers certainly depended, on which the +weal or woe of the country perhaps depended. He knew how profoundly the +individual character of the speakers—their inner and real nature—modifies +their opinion on such questions; he knew how surely that nature will +appear in the expression of them. This great experience, fashioned +by a fine imagination, gives to the debate of the Satanic Council +in Pandæmonium its reality and its life. It is a debate in the Long +Parliament, and though the theme of _Paradise Lost_ obliged Milton to +side with the monarchical element in the universe, his old habits are +often too much for him; and his real sympathy—the impetus and energy of +his nature—side with the rebellious element. For the purposes of art this +is much better. Of a court, a poet can make but little; of a heaven, he +can make very little; but of a courtly heaven, such as Milton conceived, +he can make nothing at all. The idea of a court and the idea of a heaven +are so radically different, that a distinct combination of them is always +grotesque and often ludicrous. _Paradise Lost_, as a whole, is radically +tainted by a vicious principle. It professes to justify the ways of God +to man, to account for sin and death, and it tells you that the whole +originated in a political event; in a court squabble as to a particular +act of patronage and the due or undue promotion of an eldest son. Satan +may have been wrong, but on Milton’s theory he had an arguable case at +least. There was something arbitrary in the promotion; there were little +symptoms of a job; in _Paradise Lost_ it is always clear that the devils +are the weaker, but it is never clear that the angels are the better. +Milton’s sympathy and his imagination slip back to the Puritan rebels +whom he loved, and desert the courtly angels whom he could not love, +although he praised them. There is no wonder that Milton’s hell is better +than his heaven, for he hated officials and he loved rebels,—he employs +his genius below, and accumulates his pedantry above. On the great debate +in Pandæmonium all his genius is concentrated. The question is very +practical; it is, ‘What are we devils to do, now we have lost heaven?’ +Satan, who presides over and manipulates the assembly—Moloch, + + ‘The fiercest spirit + That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair,’ + +who wants to fight again; Belial, ‘the man of the world,’ who does not +want to fight any more; Mammon, who is for commencing an industrial +career; Beelzebub, the official statesman, + + ‘Deep on his front engraven, + Deliberation sat and Public care,’ + +who, at Satan’s instance, proposes the invasion of earth—are as distinct +as so many statues. Even Belial, ‘the man of the world,’ the sort of man +with whom Milton had least sympathy, is perfectly painted. An inferior +artist would have made the actor who ‘counselled ignoble ease and +peaceful sloth,’ a degraded and ugly creature; but Milton knew better. +He knew that low notions require a better garb than high notions. Human +nature is not a high thing, but at least it has a high idea of itself; it +will not accept mean maxims, unless they are gilded and made beautiful. +A prophet in goatskin may cry, ‘Repent, repent,’ but it takes ‘purple +and fine linen’ to be able to say ‘Continue in your sins.’ The world +vanquishes with its speciousness and its show, and the orator who is to +persuade men to worldliness must have a share in them. Milton well knew +this; after the warlike speech of the fierce Moloch, he introduces a +brighter and a more graceful spirit. + + ‘He ended frowning, and his look denounced + Desp’rate revenge, and battle dangerous + To less than Gods. On th’ other side up rose + Belial, in act more graceful and humane: + A fairer person lost not Heaven; he seem’d + For dignity composed and high exploit: + But all was false and hollow, though his tongue + Dropt manna, and could make the worse appear + The better reason, to perplex and dash + Maturest counsels; for his thoughts were low; + To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds + Tim’rous and slothful: yet he pleased the ear, + And with persuasive accent thus began:’ + +He does not begin like a man with a strong case, but like a man with a +weak case; he knows that the pride of human nature is irritated by mean +advice, and though he may probably persuade men to take it, he must +carefully apologise for giving it. Here, as elsewhere, though the formal +address is to devils, the real address is to men: to the human nature +which we know, not to the fictitious diabolic nature we do not know. + + ‘I should be much for open war, O Peers! + As not behind in hate, if what was urged + Main reason to persuade immediate war, + Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast + Ominous conjecture on the whole success: + When he who most excels in fact of arms, + In what he counsels, and in what excels + Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair, + And utter dissolution, as the scope + Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. + First, what revenge? The tow’rs of Heav’n are fill’d + With armed watch, that render all access + Impregnable; oft on the bord’ring deep + Encamp their legions, or with obscure wing + Scout far and wide into the realm of night, + Scorning surprise. Or could we break our way + By force, and at our heels all Hell should rise + With blackest insurrection, to confound + Heav’n’s purest light, yet our Great Enemy, + All incorruptible, would on His throne + Sit unpolluted, and th’ ethereal mould + Incapable of stain would soon expel + Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire + Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope + Is flat despair. We must exasperate + Th’ Almighty Victor to spend all His rage, + And that must end us: that must be our cure, + To be no more? Sad cure; for who would lose, + Though full of pain, this intellectual being, + Those thoughts that wander through eternity, + To perish rather, swallow’d up and lost + In the wide womb of uncreated night, + Devoid of sense and motion? And who knows, + Let this be good, whether our angry Foe + Can give it, or will ever? How He can + Is doubtful; that He never will is sure. + Will He, so wise, let loose at once His ire + Belike through impotence, or unaware, + To give His enemies their wish, and end + Them in His anger, whom His anger saves + To punish endless? Wherefore cease we then? + Say they who counsel war, we are decreed, + Reserved, and destined, to eternal woe; + Whatever doing, what can we suffer more, + What can we suffer worse? Is this then worst, + Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms?’ + ... + +And so on. + +Mr. Pitt knew this speech by heart, and Lord Macaulay has called it +incomparable; and these judges of the oratorical art have well decided. +A mean foreign policy cannot be better defended. Its sensibleness is +effectually explained, and its tameness as much as possible disguised. + +But we have not here to do with the excellence of Belial’s policy, but +with the excellence of his speech; and with that speech in a peculiar +manner. This speech, taken with the few lines of description with which +Milton introduces them, embody, in as short a space as possible, with as +much perfection as possible, the delineation of the type of character +common at all times, dangerous in many times; sure to come to the surface +in moments of difficulty, and never more dangerous than then. As Milton +describes it, it is one among several _typical_ characters which will +ever have their place in great councils, which will ever be heard at +important decisions, which are part of the characteristic and inalienable +whole of this statesmanlike world. The debate in Pandæmonium is a debate +among these typical characters at the greatest conceivable crisis, and +with adjuncts of solemnity which no other situation could rival. It is +the greatest classical triumph, the highest achievement of the pure style +in English literature; it is the greatest description of the highest and +most typical characters with the most choice circumstances and in the +fewest words. + +It is not unremarkable that we should find in Milton and in _Paradise +Lost_ the best specimen of pure style. Milton was a schoolmaster in a +pedantic age, and there is nothing so unclassical—nothing so impure in +style—as pedantry. The out-of-door conversational life of Athens was as +opposed to bookish scholasticism as a life can be. The most perfect books +have been written not by those who thought much of books, but by those +who thought little, by those who were under the restraint of a sensitive +talking world, to which books had contributed something, and a various, +eager life the rest. Milton is generally unclassical in spirit where he +is learned, and naturally, because the purest poets do not overlay their +conceptions with book knowledge, and the classical poets, having in +comparison no books, were under little temptation to impair the purity +of their style by the accumulation of their research. Over and above +this, there is in Milton, and a little in Wordsworth also, one defect +which is in the highest degree faulty and unclassical, which mars the +effect and impairs the perfection of the pure style. There is a want of +spontaneity, and a sense of effort. It has been happily said that Plato’s +words must have _grown_ into their places. No one would say so of Milton +or even of Wordsworth. About both of them there is a taint of duty; a +vicious sense of the good man’s task. Things seem right where they are, +but they seem to be put where they are. Flexibility is essential to the +consummate perfection of the pure style, because the sensation of the +poet’s efforts carries away our thoughts from his achievements. We are +admiring his labours when we should be enjoying his words. But this is a +defect in those two writers, not a defect in pure art. Of course it _is_ +more difficult to write in few words than to write in many; to take the +best adjuncts, and those only, for what you have to say, instead of using +all which comes to hand; it _is_ an additional labour if you write verses +in a morning, to spend the rest of the day in _choosing_, that is, in +making those verses fewer. But a perfect artist in the pure style is as +effortless and as natural as in any style, perhaps is more so. Take the +well-known lines:— + + ‘There was a little lawny islet + By anemone and violet, + Like mosaic, paven: + And its roof was flowers and leaves + Which the summer’s breath enweaves, + Where nor sun, nor showers, nor breeze, + Pierce the pines and tallest trees, + Each a gem engraven: + Girt by many an azure wave + With which the clouds and mountains pave + A lake’s blue chasm.’ + +Shelley had many merits and many defects. This is not the place for a +complete or indeed for any estimate of him. But one excellence is most +evident. His words are as flexible as any words; the rhythm of some +modulating air seems to move them into their place without a struggle +by the poet, and almost without his knowledge. This is the perfection +of pure art, to embody typical conceptions in the choicest, the fewest +accidents, to embody them so that each of these accidents may produce its +full effect, and so to embody them without effort. + +The extreme opposite to this pure art is what may be called ornate art. +This species of art aims also at giving a delineation of the typical +idea in its perfection and its fulness, but it aims at so doing in a +manner most different. It wishes to surround the type with the greatest +number of circumstances which it will bear. It works not by choice and +selection, but by accumulation and aggregation. The idea is not, as in +the pure style, presented with the least clothing which it will endure, +but with the richest and most involved clothing that it will admit. + +We are fortunate in not having to hunt out of past literature an +illustrative specimen of the ornate style. Mr. Tennyson has just given +one admirable in itself, and most characteristic of the defects and the +merits of this style. The story of _Enoch Arden_, as he has enhanced +and presented it, is a rich and splendid composite of imagery and +illustration. Yet how simple that story is in itself. A sailor who sells +fish, breaks his leg, gets dismal, gives up selling fish, goes to sea, is +wrecked on a desert island, stays there some years, on his return finds +his wife married to a miller, speaks to a landlady on the subject, and +dies. Told in the pure and simple, the unadorned and classical style, +this story would not have taken three pages, but Mr. Tennyson has been +able to make it the principal—the largest tale in his new volume. He +has done so only by giving to every event and incident in the volume an +accompanying commentary. He tells a great deal about the torrid zone, +which a rough sailor like Enoch Arden certainly would not have perceived; +and he gives to the fishing village, to which all the characters belong, +a softness and a fascination which such villages scarcely possess in +reality. + +The description of the tropical island on which the sailor is thrown, is +an absolute model of adorned art:— + + ‘The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns + And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, + The slender coco’s drooping crown of plumes, + The lightning flash of insect and of bird, + The lustre of the long convolvuluses + That coil’d around the stately stems, and ran + Ev’n to the limit of the land, the glows + And glories of the broad belt of the world, + All these he saw; but what he fain had seen + He could not see, the kindly human face, + Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard + The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, + The league-long roller thundering on the reef, + The moving whisper of huge trees that branch’d + And blossom’d in the zenith, or the sweep + Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, + As down the shore he ranged, or all day long + Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, + A shipwreck’d sailor, waiting for a sail: + No sail from day to day, but every day + The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts + Among the palms and ferns and precipices; + The blaze upon the waters to the east; + The blaze upon his island overhead; + The blaze upon the waters to the west; + Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven, + The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again + The scarlet shafts of sunrise—but no sail.’ + +No expressive circumstances can be added to this description, no +enhancing detail suggested. A much less happy instance is the description +of Enoch’s life before he sailed:— + + ‘While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, + Or often journeying landward; for in truth + Enoch’s white horse, and Enoch’s ocean spoil + In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, + Rough-redden’d with a thousand winter gales, + Not only to the market-cross were known, + But in the leafy lanes behind the down, + Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp, + And peacock yew-tree of the lonely Hall, + Whose Friday fare was Enoch’s ministering.’ + +So much has not often been made of selling fish. The essence of ornate +art is in this manner to accumulate round the typical object, everything +which can be said about it, every associated thought that can be +connected with it without impairing the essence of the delineation. + +The first defect which strikes a student of ornate art—the first which +arrests the mere reader of it—is what is called a want of simplicity. +Nothing is described as it is; everything has about it an atmosphere of +something else. The combined and associated thoughts, though they set +off and heighten particular ideas and aspects of the central and typical +conception, yet complicate it: a simple thing—‘a daisy by the river’s +brim’—is never left by itself, something else is put with it; something +not more connected with it than ‘lion-whelp’ and the ‘peacock yew-tree’ +are with the ‘fresh fish for sale’ that Enoch carries past them. Even +in the highest cases, ornate art leaves upon a cultured and delicate +taste, the conviction that it is not the highest art, that it is somehow +excessive and over-rich, that it is not chaste in itself or chastening to +the mind that sees it—that it is in an explained manner unsatisfactory, +‘a thing in which we feel there is some hidden want!’ + +That want is a want of ‘definition.’ We must all know landscapes, river +landscapes especially, which are in the highest sense beautiful, which +when we first see them give us a delicate pleasure; which in some—and +these the best cases—give even a gentle sense of surprise that such +things should be so beautiful, and yet when we come to live in them, +to spend even a few hours in them, we seem stifled and oppressed. On +the other hand there are people to whom the seashore is a companion, +an exhilaration; and not so much for the brawl of the shore as for the +limited vastness, the finite infinite of the ocean as they see it. +Such people often come home braced and nerved, and if they spoke out +the truth, would have only to say, ‘We have seen the horizon line;’ if +they were let alone indeed, they would gaze on it hour after hour, so +great to them is the fascination, so full the sustaining calm, which +they gain from that union of form and greatness. To a very inferior +extent, but still, perhaps, to an extent which most people understand +better, a common arch will have the same effect. A bridge completes a +river landscape; if of the old and many-arched sort, it regulates by a +long series of defined forms the vague outline of wood and river, which +before had nothing to measure it; if of the new scientific sort, it +introduces still more strictly a geometrical element; it stiffens the +scenery which was before too soft, too delicate, too vegetable. Just such +is the effect of pure style in literary art. It calms by conciseness; +while the ornate style leaves on the mind a mist of beauty, an excess of +fascination, a complication of charm, the pure style leaves behind it the +simple, defined, measured idea, as it is, and by itself. That which is +chaste chastens; there is a poised energy—a state half thrill and half +tranquillity—which pure art gives, which no other can give; a pleasure +justified as well as felt; an ennobled satisfaction at what ought to +satisfy us, and must ennoble us. + +Ornate art is to pure art what a painted statue is to an unpainted. It is +impossible to deny that a touch of colour does bring out certain parts; +does convey certain expressions; does heighten certain features, but +it leaves on the work as a whole, a want, as we say, ‘of something;’ a +want of that inseparable chasteness which clings to simple sculpture, an +impairing predominance of alluring details which impairs our satisfaction +with our own satisfaction; which makes us doubt whether a higher being +than ourselves will be satisfied even though we are so. In the very same +manner, though the rouge of ornate literature excites our eye, it also +impairs our confidence. + +Mr. Arnold has justly observed that this self-justifying, self-proving +purity of style is commoner in ancient literature than in modern +literature, and also that Shakespeare is not a great or an unmixed +example of it. No one can say that he is. His works are full of +undergrowth, are full of complexity, are not models of style; except by a +miracle, nothing in the Elizabethan age could be a model of style; the +restraining taste of that age was feebler and more mistaken than that of +any other equally great age. Shakespeare’s mind so teemed with creation +that he required the most just, most forcible, most constant restraint +from without. He most needed to be guided among poets, and he was the +least and worst guided. As a whole no one can call his works finished +models of the pure style, or of any style. But he has many passages +of the most pure style, passages which could be easily cited if space +served. And we must remember that the task which Shakespeare undertook +was the most difficult which any poet has ever attempted, and that it +is a task in which after a million efforts every other poet has failed. +The Elizabethan drama—as Shakespeare has immortalised it—undertakes to +delineate in five acts, under stage restrictions, and in mere dialogue, a +whole list of _dramatis personæ_ a set of characters enough for a modern +novel, and with the distinctness of a modern novel. Shakespeare is not +content to give two or three great characters in solitude and in dignity, +like the classical dramatists; he wishes to give a whole party of +characters in the play of life, and according to the nature of each. He +would ‘hold the mirror up to nature,’ not to catch a monarch in a tragic +posture, but a whole group of characters engaged in many actions, intent +on many purposes, thinking many thoughts. There is life enough, there +is action enough, in single plays of Shakespeare to set up an ancient +dramatist for a long career. And Shakespeare succeeded. His characters, +taken _en masse_, and as a whole, are as well known as any novelist’s +characters; cultivated men know all about them, as young ladies know all +about Mr. Trollope’s novels. But no other dramatist has succeeded in such +an aim. No one else’s characters are staple people in English literature, +hereditary people whom everyone knows all about in every generation. The +contemporary dramatists, Beaumont and Fletcher, Ben Jonson, Marlowe, +&c., had many merits, some of them were great men. But a critic must say +of them the worst thing he has to say: ‘they were men who failed in +their characteristic aim;’ they attempted to describe numerous sets of +complicated characters, and they failed. No one of such characters, or +hardly one, lives in common memory; the _Faustus_ of Marlowe, a really +great idea, is not remembered. They undertook to write what they could +not write—five acts full of real characters, and in consequence, the fine +individual things they conceived are forgotten by the mixed multitude, +and known only to a few of the few. Of the Spanish theatre we cannot +speak; but there are no such characters in any French tragedy: the whole +aim of that tragedy forbad it. Goethe has added to literature a few great +characters; he may be said almost to have added to literature the idea +of ‘intellectual creation,’—the idea of describing the great characters +through the intellect; but he has not added to the common stock what +Shakespeare added, a new multitude of men and women; and these not in +simple attitudes, but amid the most complex parts of life, with all +their various natures roused, mixed, and strained. The severest art must +have allowed many details, much overflowing circumstance to a poet who +undertook to describe what almost defies description. Pure art would have +commanded him to use details lavishly, for only by a multiplicity of such +could the required effect have been at all produced. Shakespeare could +accomplish it, for his mind was a spring, an inexhaustible fountain of +human nature, and it is no wonder that being compelled by the task of +his time to let the fulness of his nature overflow, he sometimes let it +overflow too much, and covered with erroneous conceits and superfluous +images characters and conceptions which would have been far more justly, +far more effectually, delineated with conciseness and simplicity. But +there is an infinity of pure art in Shakespeare, although there is a +great deal else also. + +It will be said, if ornate art be as you say, an inferior species of art, +why should it ever be used? If pure art be the best sort of art, why +should it not always be used? + +The reason is this: literary art, as we just now explained, is concerned +with literatesque characters in literatesque situations; and the +_best_ art is concerned with the _most_ literatesque characters in the +_most_ literatesque situations. Such are the subjects of pure art; it +embodies with the fewest touches, and under the most select and choice +circumstances, the highest conceptions; but it does not follow that only +the best subjects are to be treated by art, and then only in the very +best way. Human nature could not endure such a critical commandment +as that, and it would be an erroneous criticism which gave it. _Any_ +literatesque character may be described in literature under _any_ +circumstances which exhibit its literatesqueness. + +The essence of pure art consists in its describing what is as it is, +and this is very well for what can bear it, but there are many inferior +things which will not bear it, and which nevertheless ought to be +described in books. A certain kind of literature deals with illusions, +and this kind of literature has given a colouring to the name romantic. +A man of rare genius, and even of poetical genius, has gone so far as to +make these illusions the true subject of poetry—almost the sole subject. + + ‘Without,’ says Father Newman, of one of his characters, ‘being + himself a poet, he was in the season of poetry, in the sweet + spring-time, when the year is most beautiful because it is new. + Novelty was beauty to a heart so open and cheerful as his; + not only because it was novelty, and had its proper charm as + such, but because when we first see things, we see them in a + gay confusion, which is a principal element of the poetical. + As time goes on, and we number and sort and measure things,—as + we gain views, we advance towards philosophy and truth, but we + recede from poetry. + + ‘When we ourselves were young, we once on a time walked on a + hot summer day from Oxford to Newington—a dull road, as anyone + who has gone it knows; yet it was new to us; and we protest + to you, reader, believe it or not, laugh or not, as you will, + to us it seemed on that occasion quite touchingly beautiful; + and a soft melancholy came over us, of which the shadows fall + even now, when we look back upon that dusty, weary journey. And + why? because every object which met us was unknown and full + of mystery. A tree or two in the distance seemed the beginning + of a great wood, or park, stretching endlessly; a hill implied + a vale beyond, with that vale’s history; the bye-lanes, with + their green hedges, wound on and vanished, yet were not lost + to the imagination. Such was our first journey; but when we + had gone it several times, the mind refused to act, the scene + ceased to enchant, stern reality alone remained; and we thought + it one of the most tiresome, odious roads we ever had occasion + to traverse.’ + +That is to say, that the function of the poet is to introduce a ‘gay +confusion,’ a rich medley which does not exist in the actual world—which +perhaps could not exist in any world—but which would seem pretty if it +did exist. Everyone who reads _Enoch Arden_ will perceive that this +notion of all poetry is exactly applicable to this one poem. Whatever +be made of Enoch’s ‘Ocean-spoil in ocean-smelling osier,’ of the +‘portal-warding lion-whelp, and the peacock yew-tree,’ everyone knows +that in himself Enoch could not have been charming. People who sell +fish about the country (and that is what he did, though Mr. Tennyson +won’t speak out, and wraps it up) never are beautiful. As Enoch was and +must be coarse, in itself the poem must depend for a charm on a ‘gay +confusion’—on a splendid accumulation of impossible accessories. + +Mr. Tennyson knows this better than many of us—he knows the country +world; he has proved that no one living knows it better; he has painted +with pure art—with art which describes what is a race perhaps more +refined, more delicate, more conscientious, than the sailor—the _Northern +Farmer_, and we all know what a splendid, what a living thing, he has +made of it. He could, if he only would, have given us the ideal sailor in +like manner—the ideal of the natural sailor we mean—the characteristic +present man as he lives and is. But this he has not chosen. He has +endeavoured to describe an exceptional sailor, at an exceptionally +refined port, performing a graceful act, an act of relinquishment. And +with this task before him, his profound taste taught him that ornate +art was a necessary medium—was the sole effectual instrument—for his +purpose. It was necessary for him if possible to abstract the mind from +reality, to induce us _not_ to conceive or think of sailors as they +are while we are reading of his sailors, but to think of what a person +who did not know, might fancy sailors to be. A casual traveller on the +seashore, with the sensitive mood and the romantic imagination Dr. +Newman has described, might fancy, would fancy, a seafaring village to +be like that. Accordingly, Mr. Tennyson has made it his aim to call off +the stress of fancy from real life, to occupy it otherwise, to bury it +with pretty accessories; to engage it on the ‘peacock yew-tree,’ and the +‘portal-warding lion-whelp.’ Nothing, too, can be more splendid than the +description of the tropics as Mr. Tennyson delineates them, but a sailor +would not have felt the tropics in that manner. The beauties of nature +would not have so much occupied him. He would have known little of the +scarlet shafts of sunrise and nothing of the long convolvuluses. As in +Robinson Crusoe, his own petty contrivances and his small ailments would +have been the principal subject to him. ‘For three years,’ he might have +said, ‘my back was bad; and then I put two pegs into a piece of drift +wood and so made a chair; and after that it pleased God to send me a +chill.’ In real life his piety would scarcely have gone beyond that. + +It will indeed be said, that though the sailor had no words for, and +even no explicit consciousness of, the splendid details of the torrid +zone, yet that he had, notwithstanding, a dim latent inexpressible +conception of them: though he could not speak of them or describe them, +yet they were much to him. And doubtless such is the case. Rude people +are impressed by what is beautiful—deeply impressed—though they could +not describe what they see, or what they feel. But what is absurd in +Mr. Tennyson’s description—absurd when we abstract it from the gorgeous +additions and ornaments with which Mr. Tennyson distracts us—is, that his +hero feels nothing else but these great splendours. We hear nothing of +the physical ailments, the rough devices, the low superstitions, which +really would have been the _first_ things, the favourite and principal +occupations of his mind. Just so when he gets home he _may_ have had +such fine sentiments, though it is odd, and he _may_ have spoken of +them to his landlady, though that is odder still,—but it is incredible +that his whole mind should be made up of fine sentiments. Beside those +sweet feelings, if he had them, there must have been many more obvious, +more prosaic, and some perhaps more healthy. Mr. Tennyson has shown +a profound judgment in distracting us as he does. He has given us a +classic delineation of the _Northern Farmer_ with no ornament at all—as +bare a thing as can be—because he then wanted to describe a true type +of real men: he has given us a sailor crowded all over with ornament +and illustration, because he then wanted to describe an unreal type of +fancied men,—not sailors as they are, but sailors as they might be wished. + +Another prominent element in _Enoch Arden_ is yet more suitable to, yet +more requires the aid of, ornate art. Mr. Tennyson undertook to deal with +_half belief_. The presentiments which Annie feels are exactly of that +sort which everybody has felt, and which everyone has half believed—which +hardly anyone has more than half believed. Almost everyone, it has been +said, would be angry if anyone else reported that he believed in ghosts; +yet hardly anyone, when thinking by himself, wholly disbelieves them. +Just so such presentiments as Mr. Tennyson depicts, impress the inner +mind so much that the outer mind—the rational understanding—hardly likes +to consider them nicely or to discuss them sceptically. For these dubious +themes an ornate or complex style is needful. Classical art speaks out +what it has to say plainly and simply. Pure style cannot hesitate; it +describes in concisest outline what is, as it is. If a poet really +believes in presentiments he can speak out in pure style. One who could +have been a poet—one of the few in any age of whom one can say certainly +that they could have been and have not been—has spoken thus:— + + ‘When Heaven sends sorrow, + Warnings go first, + Lest it should burst + With stunning might + On souls too bright + To fear the morrow. + + ‘Can science bear us + To the hid springs + Of human things? + Why may not dream, + Or thought’s day-gleam, + Startle, yet cheer us? + + ‘Are such thoughts fetters, + While faith disowns + Dread of earth’s tones, + Recks but Heaven’s call, + And on the wall, + Reads but Heaven’s letters?’ + +But if a poet is not sure whether presentiments are true or not true; if +he wishes to leave his readers in doubt; if he wishes an atmosphere of +indistinct illusion and of moving shadow, he must use the romantic style, +the style of miscellaneous adjunct, the style ‘which shirks, not meets’ +your intellect, the style which, as you are scrutinising, disappears. + +Nor is this all, or even the principal lesson, which _Enoch Arden_ may +suggest to us, of the use of ornate art. That art is the appropriate art +for an _unpleasing type_. Many of the characters of real life, if brought +distinctly, prominently, and plainly before the mind, as they really are, +if shown in their inner nature, their actual essence, are doubtless very +unpleasant. They would be horrid to meet and horrid to think of. We fear +it must be owned that Enoch Arden is this kind of person. A dirty sailor +who did _not_ go home to his wife is not an agreeable being: a varnish +must be put on him to make him shine. It is true that he acts rightly; +that he is very good. But such is human nature that it finds a little +tameness in mere morality. Mere virtue belongs to a charity schoolgirl, +and has a taint of the catechism. All of us feel this, though most of us +are too timid, too scrupulous, too anxious about the virtue of others to +speak out. We are ashamed of our nature in this respect, but it is not +the less our nature. And if we look deeper into the matter there are many +reasons why we should not be ashamed of it. The soul of man, and as we +necessarily believe of beings greater than man, has many parts beside +its moral part. It has an intellectual part, an artistic part, even a +religious part, in which mere morals have no share. In Shakespeare or +Goethe, even in Newton or Archimedes, there is much which will not be +cut down to the shape of the commandments. They have thoughts, feelings, +hopes—immortal thoughts and hopes—which have influenced the life of men, +and the souls of men, ever since their age, but which the ‘whole duty +of man,’ the ethical compendium, does not recognise. Nothing is more +unpleasant than a virtuous person with a mean mind. A highly developed +moral nature joined to an undeveloped intellectual nature, an undeveloped +artistic nature, and a very limited religious nature, is of necessity +repulsive. It represents a bit of human nature—a good bit, of course—but +a bit only, in disproportionate, unnatural, and revolting prominence; +and therefore, unless an artist use delicate care, we are offended. The +dismal act of a squalid man needed many condiments to make it pleasant, +and therefore Mr. Tennyson was right to mix them subtly and to use them +freely. + +A mere act of self-denial can indeed scarcely be pleasant upon paper. +An heroic struggle with an external adversary, even though it end in a +defeat, may easily be made attractive. Human nature likes to see itself +look grand, and it looks grand when it is making a brave struggle with +foreign foes. But it does not look grand when it is divided against +itself. An excellent person striving with temptation is a very admirable +being in reality, but he is not a pleasant being in description. We +hope he will win and overcome his temptation; but we feel that he would +be a more interesting being, a higher being, if he had not felt that +temptation so much. The poet must make the struggle great in order to +make the self-denial virtuous, and if the struggle be too great, we are +apt to feel some mixture of contempt. The internal metaphysics of a +divided nature are but an inferior subject for art, and if they are to be +made attractive, much else must be combined with them. If the excellence +of Hamlet had depended on the ethical qualities of Hamlet, it would +not have been the masterpiece of our literature. He acts virtuously of +course, and kills the people he ought to kill, but Shakespeare knew that +such goodness would not much interest the pit. He made him a handsome +prince, and a puzzling meditative character; these secular qualities +relieve his moral excellence, and so he becomes ‘nice.’ In proportion +as an artist has to deal with types essentially imperfect, he must +disguise their imperfections; he must accumulate around them as many +first-rate accessories as may make his readers forget that they are +themselves second-rate. The sudden _millionaires_ of the present day +hope to disguise their social defects by buying old places, and hiding +among aristocratic furniture; just so a great artist who has to deal with +characters artistically imperfect, will use an ornate style, will fit +them into a scene where there is much else to look at. + +For these reasons ornate art is, within the limits, as legitimate as pure +art. It does what pure art could not do. The very excellence of pure +art confines its employment. Precisely because it gives the best things +by themselves and exactly as they are, it fails when it is necessary to +describe inferior things among other things, with a list of enhancements +and a crowd of accompaniments that in reality do not belong to it. +Illusion, half belief, unpleasant types, imperfect types, are as much +the proper sphere of ornate art, as an inferior landscape is the proper +sphere for the true efficacy of moonlight. A really great landscape +needs sunlight and bears sunlight; but moonlight is an equaliser of +beauties; it gives a romantic unreality to what will not stand the bare +truth. And just so does romantic art. + +There is, however, a third kind of art which differs from these on the +point in which they most resemble one another. Ornate art and pure art +have this in common, that they paint the types of literature in a form +as perfect as they can. Ornate art, indeed, uses undue disguises and +unreal enhancements; it does not confine itself to the best types; on +the contrary, it is its office to make the best of imperfect types and +lame approximations; but ornate art, as much as pure art, catches its +subject in the best light it can, takes the most developed aspect of +it which it can find, and throws upon it the most congruous colours it +can use. But grotesque art does just the contrary. It takes the type, +so to say, _in difficulties_. It gives a representation of it in its +minimum development, amid the circumstances least favourable to it, just +while it is struggling with obstacles, just where it is encumbered with +incongruities. It deals, to use the language of science, not with normal +types but with abnormal specimens; to use the language of old philosophy, +not with what nature is striving to be, but with what by some lapse she +has happened to become. + +This art works by contrast. It enables you to see, it makes you see, +the perfect type by painting the opposite deviation. It shows you what +ought to be by what ought not to be; when complete it reminds you of +the perfect image, by showing you the distorted and imperfect image. Of +this art we possess in the present generation one prolific master. Mr. +Browning is an artist working by incongruity. Possibly hardly one of his +most considerable efforts can be found which is not great because of its +odd mixture. He puts together things which no one else would have put +together, and produces on our minds a result which no one else would +have produced, or tried to produce. His admirers may not like all we +may have to say of him. But in our way we too are among his admirers. +No one ever read him without seeing not only his great ability but his +great _mind_. He not only possesses superficial useable talents, but +the strong something, the inner secret something, which uses them and +controls them; he is great not in mere accomplishments, but in himself. +He has applied a hard strong intellect to real life; he has applied the +same intellect to the problems of his age. He has striven to know what +is: he has endeavoured not to be cheated by counterfeits, not to be +infatuated with illusions. His heart is in what he says. He has battered +his brain against his creed till he believes it. He has accomplishments +too, the more effective because they are mixed. He is at once a student +of mysticism and a citizen of the world. He brings to the club-sofa +distinct visions of old creeds, intense images of strange thoughts: he +takes to the bookish student tidings of wild Bohemia, and little traces +of the _demi-monde_. He puts down what is good for the naughty, and what +is naughty for the good. Over women his easier writings exercise that +imperious power which belongs to the writings of a great man of the world +upon such matters. He knows women, and therefore they wish to know him. +If we blame many of Browning’s efforts, it is in the interest of art, and +not from a wish to hurt or degrade him. + +If we wanted to illustrate the nature of grotesque art by an exaggerated +instance, we should have selected a poem which the chance of late +publication brings us in this new volume. Mr. Browning has undertaken +to describe what may be called _mind in difficulties_—mind set to make +out the universe under the worst and hardest circumstances. He takes +‘Caliban,’ not perhaps exactly Shakespeare’s Caliban, but an analogous +and worse creature; a strong thinking power, but a nasty creature—a gross +animal, uncontrolled and unelevated by any feeling of religion or duty. +The delineation of him will show that Mr. Browning does not wish to take +undue advantage of his readers by a choice of nice subjects. + + ‘Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, + Flat on his belly in the pit’s much mire, + With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin; + And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush, + And feels about his spine small eft-things course, + Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh; + And while above his head a pompion plant, + Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye, + Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard, + And now a flower drops with a bee inside, + And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch:’ + +This pleasant creature proceeds to give his idea of the origin of the +Universe, and it is as follows. Caliban speaks in the third person, and +is of opinion that the maker of the Universe took to making it on account +of his personal discomfort:— + + ‘Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos! + ’Thinketh, He dwelleth i’ the cold o’ the moon. + + ‘’Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match, + But not the stars: the stars came otherwise; + Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that: + Also this isle, what lives and grows thereon, + And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same. + + ‘’Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease: + He hated that He cannot change His cold, + Nor cure its ache. ’Hath spied an icy fish + That longed to ’scape the rock-stream where she lived, + And thaw herself within the lukewarm brine + O’ the lazy sea her stream thrusts far amid, + A crystal spike ’twixt two warm walls of wave; + Only she ever sickened, found repulse + At the other kind of water, not her life, + (Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o’ the sun) + Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe, + And in her old bounds buried her despair, + Hating and loving warmth alike: so He. + + ‘’Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle, + Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing. + Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech; + Yon auk, one fire-eye, in a ball of foam, + That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown + He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye + By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue + That pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm, + And says a plain word when she finds her prize, + But will not eat the ants; the ants themselves + That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks + About their hole—He made all these and more, + Made all we see, and us, in spite: how else?’ + +It may seem perhaps to most readers that these lines are very difficult, +and that they are unpleasant. And so they are. We quote them to +illustrate, not the _success_ of grotesque art, but the _nature_ of +grotesque art. It shows the end at which this species of art aims, and +if it fails it is from over-boldness in the choice of a subject by the +artist, or from the defects of its execution. A thinking faculty more in +difficulties—a great type,—an inquisitive, searching intellect under more +disagreeable conditions, with worse helps, more likely to find falsehood, +less likely to find truth, can scarcely be imagined. Nor is the mere +description of the thought at all bad: on the contrary, if we closely +examine it, it is very clever. Hardly anyone could have amassed so many +ideas at once nasty and suitable. But scarcely any readers—any casual +readers—who are not of the sect of Mr. Browning’s admirers will be able +to examine it enough to appreciate it. From a defect, partly of subject, +and partly of style, many of Mr. Browning’s works make a demand upon the +reader’s zeal and sense of duty to which the nature of most readers is +unequal. They have on the turf the convenient expression ‘staying power’: +some horses can hold on and others cannot. But hardly any reader not of +especial and peculiar nature can hold on through such composition. There +is not enough of ‘staying power’ in human nature. One of his greatest +admirers once owned to us that he seldom or never began a new poem +without looking on in advance, and foreseeing with caution what length +of intellectual adventure he was about to commence. Whoever will work +hard at such poems will find much mind in them: they are a sort of quarry +of ideas, but who ever goes there will find these ideas in such a jagged, +ugly, useless shape that he can hardly bear them. + +We are not judging Mr. Browning simply from a hasty, recent production. +All poets are liable to misconceptions, and if such a piece as ‘Caliban +upon Setebos’ were an isolated error, a venial and particular exception, +we should have given it no prominence. We have put it forward because it +just elucidates both our subject and the characteristics of Mr. Browning. +But many other of his best known pieces do so almost equally; what +several of his devotees think his best piece is quite enough illustrative +for anything we want. It appears that on Holy Cross day at Rome the +Jews were obliged to listen to a Christian sermon in the hope of their +conversion, though this is, according to Mr. Browning, what they really +said when they came away:— + + ‘Fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak! + Blessedest Thursday’s the fat of the week. + Rumble and tumble, sleek and rough, + Stinking and savoury, smug and gruff, + Take the church-road, for the bell’s due chime + Gives us the summons—’tis sermon-time. + + ‘Boh, here’s Barnabas! Job, that’s you? + Up stumps Solomon—bustling too? + Shame, man! greedy beyond your years + To handsel the bishop’s shaving-shears? + Fair play’s a jewel! leave friends in the lurch? + Stand on a line ere you start for the church. + + ‘Higgledy, piggledy, packed we lie, + Rats in a hamper, swine in a stye, + Wasps in a bottle, frogs in a sieve, + Worms in a carcase, fleas in a sleeve. + Hist! square shoulders, settle your thumbs + And buzz for the bishop—here he comes.’ + +And after similar nice remarks for a church, the edified congregation +concludes:— + + ‘But now, while the scapegoats leave our flock, + And the rest sit silent and count the clock, + Since forced to muse the appointed time + On these precious facts and truths sublime,— + Let us fitly employ it, under our breath, + In saying Ben Ezra’s Song of Death. + + ‘For Rabbi Ben Ezra, the night he died, + Called sons and son’s sons to his side, + And spoke, “This world has been harsh and strange; + Something is wrong: there needeth a change. + But what, or where? at the last, or first? + In one point only we sinned, at worst. + + ‘“The Lord will have mercy on Jacob yet, + And again in his border see Israel set. + When Judah beholds Jerusalem, + The stranger-seed shall be joined to them: + To Jacob’s House shall the Gentiles cleave. + So the Prophet saith and his sons believe. + + ‘“Ay, the children of the chosen race + Shall carry and bring them to their place: + In the land of the Lord shall lead the same, + Bondsmen and handmaids. Who shall blame, + When the slave enslave, the oppressed ones o’er + The oppressor triumph for evermore? + + ‘“God spoke, and gave us the word to keep: + Bade never fold the hands nor sleep + ’Mid a faithless world,—at watch and ward, + Till Christ at the end relieve our guard. + By His servant Moses the watch was set: + Though near upon cock-crow, we keep it yet. + + ‘“Thou! if Thou wast He, who at mid watch came, + By the starlight, naming a dubious Name! + And if, too heavy with sleep—too rash + With fear—O Thou, if that martyr gash + Fell on Thee coming to take Thine own, + And we gave the Cross, when we owed the Throne— + + ‘“Thou art the Judge. We are bruised thus. + But, the judgment over, join sides with us! + Thine too is the cause! and not more Thine + Than ours, is the work of these dogs and swine, + Whose life laughs through and spits at their creed, + Who maintain Thee in word, and defy Thee in deed! + + ‘“We withstood Christ then? be mindful how + At least we withstand Barabbas now! + Was our outrage sore? But the worst we spared, + To have called these—Christians, had we dared! + Let defiance to them pay mistrust of Thee, + And Rome make amends for Calvary! + + ‘“By the torture, prolonged from age to age, + By the infamy, Israel’s heritage, + By the Ghetto’s plague, by the garb’s disgrace, + By the badge of shame, by the felon’s place, + By the branding-tool, the bloody whip, + And the summons to Christian fellowship,— + + ‘“We boast our proof that at least the Jew + Would wrest Christ’s name from the Devil’s crew. + Thy face took never so deep a shade + But we fought them in it, God our aid! + A trophy to bear, as we march, Thy band + South, East, and on to the Pleasant Land!”’ + +It is very natural that a poet whose wishes incline, or whose genius +conducts him to a grotesque art, should be attracted towards mediæval +subjects. There is no age whose legends are so full of grotesque +subjects, and no age whose real life was so fit to suggest them. Then, +more than at any other time, good principles have been under great +hardships. The vestiges of ancient civilisation, the germs of modern +civilisation, the little remains of what had been, the small beginnings +of what is, were buried under a cumbrous mass of barbarism and cruelty. +Good elements hidden in horrid accompaniments are the special theme of +grotesque art, and these mediæval life and legends afford more copiously +than could have been furnished before Christianity gave its new elements +of good, or since modern civilisation has removed some few at least of +the old elements of destruction. A _buried_ life like the spiritual +mediæval was Mr. Browning’s natural element, and he was right to be +attracted by it. His mistake has been, that he has not made it pleasant; +that he has forced his art to topics on which no one could charm, or on +which he, at any rate, could not; that on these occasions and in these +poems he has failed in fascinating men and women of sane taste. + +We say ‘sane’ because there is a most formidable and estimable _insane_ +taste. The will has great though indirect power over the taste, just as +it has over the belief. There are some horrid beliefs from which human +nature revolts, from which at first it shrinks, to which, at first, no +effort can force it. But if we fix the mind upon them they have a power +over us just because of their natural offensiveness. They are like the +sight of human blood: experienced soldiers tell us that at first men are +sickened by the smell and newness of blood almost to death and fainting, +but that as soon as they harden their hearts and stiffen their minds, +as soon as they _will_ bear it, then comes an appetite for slaughter, a +tendency to gloat on carnage, to love blood, at least for the moment, +with a deep, eager love. It is a principle that if we put down a healthy +instinctive aversion, nature avenges herself by creating an unhealthy +insane attraction. For this reason, the most earnest truth-seeking men +fall into the worst delusions; they will not let their mind alone; they +force it towards some ugly thing, which a crotchet of argument, a conceit +of intellect recommends, and nature punishes their disregard of her +warning by subjection to the ugly one, by belief in it. Just so the most +industrious critics get the most admiration. They think it unjust to rest +in their instinctive natural horror: they overcome it, and angry nature +gives them over to ugly poems and marries them to detestable stanzas. + +Mr. Browning possibly, and some of the worst of Mr. Browning’s admirers +certainly, will say that these grotesque objects exist in real life, +and therefore they ought to be, at least may be, described in art. But, +though pleasure is not the end of poetry, pleasing is a condition of +poetry. An exceptional monstrosity of horrid ugliness cannot be made +pleasing, except it be made to suggest—to recall—the perfection, the +beauty, from which it is a deviation. Perhaps in extreme cases no art is +equal to this; but then such self-imposed problems should not be worked +by the artist; these out-of-the-way and detestable subjects should be let +alone by him. It is rather characteristic of Mr. Browning to neglect this +rule. He is the most of a realist, and the least of an idealist, of any +poet we know. He evidently sympathises with some part at least of Bishop +Blougram’s apology. Anyhow this world exists. ‘There _is_ good wine—there +_are_ pretty women—there _are_ comfortable benefices—there _is_ money, +and it is pleasant to spend it. Accept the creed of your age and you get +these, reject that creed and you lose them. And for what do you lose +them? For a fancy creed of your own, which no one else will accept, which +hardly anyone will call a “creed,” which most people will consider a sort +of unbelief.’ Again, Mr. Browning evidently loves what we may call the +realism, the grotesque realism, of orthodox Christianity. Many parts of +it in which great divines have felt keen difficulties are quite pleasant +to him. He must _see_ his religion, he must have an ‘object-lesson’ +in believing. He must have a creed that will _take_, which wins and +holds the miscellaneous world, which stout men will heed, which nice +women will adore. The spare moments of solitary religion—the ‘obdurate +questionings,’ the high ‘instincts,’ the ‘first affections,’ the ‘shadowy +recollections,’ + + ‘Which, do they what they may, + Are yet the fountain-light of all our day— + Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;’ + +the great but vague faith—the unutterable tenets—seem to him worthless, +visionary; they are not enough immersed in matter; they move about ‘in +worlds not realised.’ We wish he could be tried like the prophet once; +he would have found God in the earthquake and the storm; he would have +deciphered from them a bracing and a rough religion: he would have known +that crude men and ignorant women felt them too, and he would accordingly +have trusted them; but he would have distrusted and disregarded the +‘still small voice:’ he would have said it was ‘fancy’—a thing you +thought you heard to-day, but were not sure you had heard to-morrow: he +would call it a nice illusion, an immaterial prettiness; he would ask +triumphantly ‘How are you to get the mass of men to heed this little +thing?’ he would have persevered and insisted ‘_My wife_ does not hear +it.’ + +But although a suspicion of beauty, and a taste for ugly reality, have +led Mr. Browning to exaggerate the functions, and to caricature the +nature of grotesque art, we own, or rather we maintain, that he has given +many excellent specimens of that art within its proper boundaries and +limits. Take an example, his picture of what we may call the _bourgeois_ +nature in _difficulties_; in the utmost difficulty, in contact with magic +and the supernatural. He has made of it something homely, comic, true; +reminding us of what _bourgeois_ nature really is. By showing us the type +under abnormal conditions, he reminds us of the type under its best and +most satisfactory conditions:— + + ‘Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick, + By famous Hanover city; + The river Weser, deep and wide, + Washes its walls on the southern side; + A pleasanter spot you never spied; + But, when begins my ditty, + Almost five hundred years ago, + To see the townsfolk suffer so + From vermin, was a pity. + + ‘Rats! + They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, + And bit the babies in the cradles, + And ate the cheeses out of the vats, + And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles, + Split open the kegs of salted sprats, + Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats, + And even spoiled the women’s chats, + By drowning their speaking + With shrieking and squeaking + In fifty different sharps and flats. + + ‘At last the people in a body + To the Town Hall came flocking: + “’Tis clear,” cried they, “our Mayor’s a noddy; + And as for our Corporation—shocking, + To think we buy gowns lined with ermine, + For dolts that can’t or won’t determine + What’s best to rid us of our vermin! + You hope, because you’re old and obese, + To find in the furry civic robe ease? + Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking + To find the remedy we’re lacking, + Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!” + At this the Mayor and Corporation + Quaked with a mighty consternation.’ + +A person of musical abilities proposes to extricate the civic dignitaries +from the difficulty, and they promise him a thousand guilders if he does. + + ‘Into the street the Piper stept, + Smiling first a little smile, + As if he knew what magic slept + In his quiet pipe the while; + Then, like a musical adept, + To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, + And green and blue his sharp eye twinkled + Like a candle-flame when salt is sprinkled; + And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered + You heard as if an army muttered; + And the muttering grew to a grumbling; + And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling: + And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. + Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, + Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, + Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, + Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, + Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, + Families by tens and dozens. + Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives— + Followed the Piper for their lives. + From street to street he piped advancing, + And step for step they followed dancing + Until they came to the river Weser, + Wherein all plunged and perished! + —Save one who, stout as Julius Cæsar, + Swam across and lived to carry + (As he, the manuscript he cherished) + To Rat-land home his commentary: + Which was, “At the first shrill notes of the pipe, + I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, + And putting apples, wondrous ripe, + Into a cider-press’s gripe: + And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, + And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, + And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks, + And a breaking the hoops of butter casks; + And it seemed as if a voice + (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery + Is breathed) called out, Oh rats, rejoice! + The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! + So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, + Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! + And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, + All ready staved, like a great sun shone + Glorious scarce an inch before me, + Just as methought it said, Come, bore me! + —I found the Weser rolling o’er me.” + You should have heard the Hamelin people + Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. + “Go,” cried the Mayor, “and get long poles, + Poke out the nests and block up the holes! + Consult with carpenters and builders, + And leave in our town not even a trace + Of the rats!”—when suddenly, up the face + Of the Piper perked in the market-place, + With a “First, if you please, my thousand guilders!” + + ‘A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; + So did the Corporation too. + For council dinners made rare havoc + With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; + And half the money would replenish + Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish. + To pay this sum to a wandering fellow + With a gipsy coat of red and yellow! + “Beside,” quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, + “Our business was done at the river’s brink; + We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, + And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think. + So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink + From the duty of giving you something for drink, + And a matter of money to put in your poke; + But as for the guilders, what we spoke + Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. + Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. + A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!” + + ‘The Piper’s face fell, and he cried, + “No trifling! I can’t wait, beside! + I’ve promised to visit by dinner time + Bagdat, and accept the prime + Of the Head-Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in, + For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen, + Of a nest of scorpions no survivor— + With him I proved no bargain-driver. + With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver! + And folks who put me in a passion + May find me pipe to another fashion.” + + ‘“How?” cried the Mayor, “d’ye think I’ll brook + Being worse treated than a Cook? + Insulted by a lazy ribald + With idle pipe and vesture piebald? + You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, + Blow your pipe there till you burst!” + + ‘Once more he stept into the street; + And to his lips again + Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; + And ere he blew three notes (such sweet + Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning + Never gave the enraptured air) + There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling + Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, + Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, + Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, + And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, + Out came the children running. + + ‘All the little boys and girls, + With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, + And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, + Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after + The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. + ... + And I must not omit to say + That in Transylvania there’s a tribe + Of alien people that ascribe + The outlandish ways and dress + On which their neighbours lay such stress, + To their fathers and mothers having risen + Out of some subterraneous prison + Into which they were trepanned + Long time ago in a mighty band + Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, + But how or why they don’t understand.’ + +Something more we had to say of Mr. Browning, but we must stop. It is +singularly characteristic of this age that the poems which rise to the +surface should be examples of ornate art, and grotesque art, not of pure +art. We live in the realm of the _half_ educated. The number of readers +grows daily, but the quality of readers does not improve rapidly. The +middle class is scattered, headless; it is well-meaning, but aimless; +wishing to be wise, but ignorant how to be wise. The aristocracy of +England never was a literary aristocracy, never even in the days of its +full power—of its unquestioned predominance, did it guide—did it even +seriously try to guide—the taste of England. Without guidance young men, +and tired men, are thrown amongst a mass of books; they have to choose +which they like; many of them would much like to improve their culture, +to chasten their taste, if they knew how. But left to themselves they +take, not pure art, but showy art; not that which permanently relieves +the eye and makes it happy whenever it looks, and as long as it looks, +but _glaring_ art which catches and arrests the eye for a moment, +but which in the end fatigues it. But before the wholesome remedy of +nature—the fatigue arrives—the hasty reader has passed on to some new +excitement, which in its turn stimulates for an instant, and then is +passed by for ever. These conditions are not favourable to the due +appreciation of pure art—of that art which must be known before it is +admired—which must have fastened irrevocably on the brain before you +appreciate it—which you must love ere it will seem worthy of your love. +Women too, whose voice in literature counts as well as that of men—and +in a light literature counts for more than that of men—women, such as +we know them, such as they are likely to be, ever prefer a delicate +unreality to a true or firm art. A dressy literature, an exaggerated +literature seem to be fated to us. These are our curses, as other times +had theirs. + + ‘And yet + Think not the living times forget, + Ages of heroes fought and fell, + That Homer in the end might tell; + O’er grovelling generations past + Upstood the Doric fane at last; + And countless hearts on countless years + Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears, + Rude laughter and unmeaning tears; + Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome + The pure perfection of her dome. + Others I doubt not, if not we, + The issue of our toils shall see; + Young children gather as their own + The harvest that the dead had sown, + The dead forgotten and unknown.’[21] + + + + +APPENDIX. + + + + +_THE IGNORANCE OF MAN._[22] + +(1862.) + + +A bold man once said that religion and morality were inconsistent. +He argued thus: The essence of religion—part of the essence, at any +rate—is recompense; a belief in another life is only another name for +the anticipation of a time when wickedness will be punished, and when +goodness will be rewarded. If you admit a Providence, you acknowledge +the existence of an adjusting agency, of a power which is recompensing +by its very definition, and of its very nature, which allots happiness +to virtue and pain to vice. On the other hand, the essence of morality +is disinterestedness; a man who does good for the sake of a future gain +to himself is, in a moral point of view, altogether inferior to one who +does good for the good’s sake, who hopes for nothing again, who is not +thinking of himself, who is not calculating his own futurity. Between a +man who does good to the world because he takes an intelligent view of +his real interest, and another who does harm to the world because he is +blind to that interest, there is only an intellectual difference,—the +one is mentally longsighted, the other mentally short-sighted. By the +admission of all mankind, a disinterested action is better than a selfish +action; a disinterested man is higher than a selfish man. Yet how is it +possible that a religious man can be disinterested? Heaven overarches +him, hell yawns before him. How can he help having his eyes attracted by +the one and terrified by the other? He boasts, indeed, that religion is +useful to mankind by producing good actions; he extols the attractive +influence of future reward, and the deterring efficacy of apprehended +penalty. But his boast is absurd and premature; by holding forth these +anticipated bribes, by menacing these pains, he extracts from virtue +_its virtue_; he makes it selfishness like the rest; he constructs +an edifying and hoping saint, but he spoils the disinterested and +uncalculating man. + +These thoughts are not often boldly expressed. Fundamental difficulties +rarely are. They constantly confuse the mind, and they are always +floating like a vague mist in the intellectual air; they distort and blur +the outlines of everything else, but they have no distinct outline of +their own. An obscure difficulty is a pervading evil; the first requisite +for removing it is to make it clear; if you assign a limit, you notify +the frontier at which it may be attacked. + +The objection is, in most people’s apprehensions, and in its common +incomplete expressions, confined exclusively to the doctrine of a future +life, but it is at least equally applicable to the belief in a God who +rules and governs. We can of course conceive of supernatural beings who +do not interfere with us, who do not care for us, who do not help us, who +have no connection with our moral life, who do good to no one, who do +evil to no one. Such were the gods of Lucretius, the most fascinating of +pure inventions; but such gods are not the gods of religion. The ancient +Epicurean, in times when obscure difficulties were discussed in plainer +words than is now either possible or advisable, expressly defended +them on that ground. He did not want his gods to interfere with him; +he thought it would impair the ideal languor of their life, as well as +the inapprehensive security of his own life. They lived ‘self-scanned, +self-centred, self-secure,’ and he was, in so far as was possible, to +do so also. He did not wish the voluptuaries of heaven to become the +busybodies of earth. He liked to have a pleasant dream of the upper +world, but he did not wish it to descend and rule him. But as soon as +we abandon the natural fiction of the voluptuous imagination; as soon +as we accept the idea of a God who is a providence in the universe, and +not an idol in heaven; as soon as we allow that He loves good and hates +evil; as soon as we are sure that He is our Father, and chastises us +as children; as soon as we acknowledge a God such as the human heart +and conscience crave for, the God of Christianity,—we at once reach the +primitive difficulty. Here is a Being whom _we know_ will reward the +good and punish the evil; how can we do good without reference to that +supernatural recompense, or evil without shrinking from that apprehended +penalty? + +Nor is it for this purpose in the least material, though for many other +purposes it is very material, whether we consider God as acting by +irrevocable laws fixed once for all, or upon a system which (though +foreseen and immutable to Him, to whom all the future is as present +as all the past) is according to our view of it,—to our translation of +it, so to speak, into our limited capacities,—capable of flexibility at +His touch, and of modification at His pleasure. If we know that we are +rewarded and punished, it matters little, as respects our hope and our +apprehension, whether that punishment be inflicted by a machine or by a +person; in one case we shall shun the contact with the lacerating wheel, +in the other we shall dread a blow from the punitive hand. But in either +case the pain will be the determining motive, the deterring thought. We +shall act as we do act, not from a disinterested intention to do our +duty whatever be the consequences, but from a sincere wish to get off +patent and proximate suffering. The difficulty of reconciling a true +morality with a true religion is not confined to that part of religion +which relates to the anticipated life of man hereafter, but extends to +the very idea of a superintending providence and preadjusting Creator, in +whatever mode we conceive that superintendence to be exercised, and that +adjustment to have been made. + +The answer most commonly given to this difficulty is unquestionably +fallacious. It is said that the desire of eternal life for ourselves is +a motive far greater and far better than the desire of anything else, +either for ourselves or for others. It is not conceived as a form of +selfishness at all—at least, not when regarded in this connection, and +employed to solve this problem. At other times, indeed, divines are ready +enough to twist the argument the other way. They will expand at length +the notion that there is a ‘common sense’ in the Gospel; that it appeals +to ‘business-like motives;’ that there is nothing ‘high-flown’ about +it; that it aims to persuade sensible men of this world, on sufficient +reasons of sound prudence, to sacrifice the present world in order to +gain the invisible one; that, whatever sentimentalists may assert, it +is reward which incites to achievement, and fear that restrains from +misdoing. Sermons are written in consecrated paragraphs, each of which is +sufficient to itself, and the connection between which is not intended +to be precisely adjusted; each has an edifying tendency, and the writer +and the hearer wish for no more. Otherwise it would not be possible, as +it often is, to hear religion commended in the same discourse at one time +as self-sacrificing, and at another as prudential; to have a eulogium on +disinterestedness in the exordium, and an appeal to selfishness at the +conclusion. A mode of composition which less disguised the true ideas +of the composer, would show that many divines really believe a desire +for a long pleasure in heaven, to be not only more longsighted and +sensible, but intrinsically higher, nobler, and better than a desire +for a short happiness on earth. Yet, when stated in short sentences and +plain English, the idea is palpably absurd. The ‘wish to come into a good +thing’ is of the same ethical order, whether the good thing be celestial +or be terrestrial, be distantly future, or be close at hand. + +A second mode of solving the difficulty, though more ingenious, and in +every way far better, is erroneous also. It is said, ‘men generally +act from mixed motives, and they do so in this case. They are partly +disinterested, and partly not disinterested. They are desirous of doing +good because it is good, and they are desirous also of having the reward +of goodness hereafter. They wish at the very same time to benefit their +neighbour in this world, and also to benefit themselves in the world +to come.’ The reply is ingenious, but it overlooks the point of the +difficulty; it mistakes the nature of mixed motives. The constitution +of man is such that if you strengthen one of two co-operating motives, +you weaken, other things being equal, the force of the other: the lesser +impulse tends always to be absorbed in the stronger, and it may pass +entirely out of thought if the stronger is strengthened, if the greater +become more prominent. We see this in common life; it is undoubtedly +possible for a statesman to act at the same moment both from the love +of office and from the love of his country; from a wish to prolong +his power and a wish to benefit his nation. But strengthen one of +these motives, and, _cæteris paribus_, you weaken the other. Make the +statesman love office more, you thereby make him love his country less; +he will be readier to sacrifice what he will call a ‘vague theory and +an impracticable purpose’ for the sake of the power which he loves; +he will cease to care to do what he ought, from a wish to retain the +capacity of doing something. Or, suppose a further case: there have +been many times and countries where the loss of office was equivalent +to the loss of liberty, perhaps to that of life. In one age of English +history, one great historian says, ‘There was but a single step from the +throne to the scaffold.’ In another age, another great historian says, +‘It was as dangerous to be leader of opposition as to be a highwayman.’ +The possessors of power in those times, upon principle, destroyed or +endeavoured to destroy their predecessors. Such a prospect would induce +a statesman to love office for its own sake. It would absorb the whole +of his attention; he could hardly be asked to think of his country. +Extraordinary men would do so, but ordinary men would be overwhelmed +by the ‘violent motive’ of personal fear; they would only be thinking +of themselves even when they were doing what in truth and fact was +beneficial to their country. + +The case is similar to the ‘violent motive,’ as Paley calls it, of +religion, when presented in the same manner in which Paley presents it. +If you could extend before men the awful vision of everlasting perdition, +if they could see it as they see the things of earth—as they see Fleet +Street and St. Paul’s; if you could show men likewise the inciting vision +of an everlasting heaven, if they could see that too with undeniable +certainty and invincible distinctness,—who could say that they would have +a thought for any other motive? The personal incentive to good action, +and the personal dissuasion from bad action, would absorb all other +considerations, whether deterrent or persuasive. We could no more break +a divine law than we could commit a murder in the open street. The fact +that men act from mixed motives is no explanation of the great difficulty +with which we started; for the precise peculiarity of that difficulty is +to raise one of those mixed motives to an intensity which seems likely to +absorb, extinguish, and annihilate the other. + +The true explanation is precisely the reverse. The moral part of +religion—the belief in a moral state hereafter, dependent for its nature +on our goodness or our wickedness, the belief in a moral Providence, who +apportions good to good, and evil to evil—does not annihilate the sense +of the inherent nature of good and evil because it is itself the result +of that sense. Our only ground for accepting an ethical and retributive +religion is the inward consciousness that virtue being virtue must +prosper, that vice being vice must fail. From these axioms we infer, +not logically, but practically, that there is a continuous eternity, in +which what we expect will be seen, that there is a Providence who will +apportion what is good, and punish what is evil. Of the mode in which +we do so we will speak presently more at length; but granting that this +description of our religion is true, it undeniably solves our difficulty. +Our religion cannot by possibility swallow up morality because it is +dependent for its origin—for its continuance—on that morality. + +Suppose a person, say in a prison, to have no knowledge by the senses +that there was such a thing as human law; suppose that he never saw +either the judicial or the executive authorities, and that no one ever +told him of their existence; suppose that by a consciousness of the +inherent nature of good and evil, the fact that such an institution +_must_ exist should dawn upon his mind,—of course it would not, but +imagine that it should,—it is absurd to suppose that he would feel his +power of doing what is right _because_ it is right diminished. When +he goes out into the world, when he hears his judge, when he sees the +policeman, when he surveys the intrusive, the incessant, the pervading +moral apparatus of human society,—_then_ he would be able to disregard +and to forget what is due to intrinsic goodness and what is to be feared +from intrinsic evil. No one will or can say that he now abstains from +stealing oranges under a policeman’s eyes from any motive, good or bad, +save fear of the policeman; that motive is so evident, so pressing, so +irresistible, that it becomes the only motive. But if he only thought the +policeman _must_ exist because he believed stealing oranges to be wrong, +he would feel it quite possible to abstain from stealing oranges out of +pure and unselfish considerations. + +Assume that a person only knows a particular fact from a certain +informant, and suppose that on a sudden he doubts that informant, of +course his confidence in the communicated fact ceases, or is diminished. +So, _if_ all our knowledge of the religious part of morality be derived +from the intrinsic impression of morality, as soon as we question the +accuracy of the informant, that instant we must be dubious of the +information. The derivative cannot be stronger than the original; cannot +overpower it; must grow when it grows, and wane when it wanes. + +But is our knowledge of the moral part of religion thus derivative and +dependent? Two classes of disputants will deny it entirely: one class +will say they derive their knowledge from Natural Theology; another +will say they derive it from Revelation; and until the arguments of +both classes are examined, the subject must remain in partial darkness. +Natural theology is the simplest of theologies; it contains only a single +argument, and establishes but one conclusion. Observing persons have +gone to and fro through the earth, and they have accumulated a million +illustrations of a single analogy. They have accumulated indications +of design from all parts of the universe. They have not, indeed, shown +that _matter_ was created; the substance of matter, if there be a +substance, shows no structure, no evidence of design: according to all +common belief, according to the admission of such scientific men as +admit its existence, that matter is unorganised. By its nature it is a +raw material; it is that to which manufacture, manipulation, design—call +it what you like—is to be applied; necessarily therefore it shows no +indication of design itself. The reasoners from the workmanship of man +to that of God must always fail in this: man only adapts what he finds: +God creates what He uses. But within its legitimate limits the argument +from design has been most effectual for two thousand years. On a certain +class of purely intellectual minds, who think more than they live, who +reason more than they imagine, it has produced the strongest and most +vivid conception of God which, with their experience and their mental +limitation, they are capable of receiving. It has shown that _out of the +causes we know_, none is so likely to have worked up the substance of +matter into its present form as a designing and powerful mind. _Subject +to this assumption_, it shows that this mind intended to erect that +mixed, composite, involved human society which we see. These theologians +prove, for example, that man has a structure of body which enables him to +be what he is, which prevents his being in appearance, and in most real +particularities, different from what he is. They show that the physical +world is constructed so as to enable man to be what he is, and to show +what he is, so as to limit his power of being greatly different, or of +seeming so. They show, in fact, that, if the expression be allowed, we +live, as far as _they_ can tell us, in a factory, the builder of which +projected certain results, contrived certain large plans, devised certain +particular machines, foresaw certain functions, which he meant for us, +which he made our interest, which he gave us wages to perform. They show +not, indeed, that an omnipotent Being created the universe, but that an +able being has been (so to say) about it. They do not demonstrate that an +infinite Being created all things, but they _do_ show, and show so that +the mass of ordinary men will comprehend and believe it, that a large +mind has been concerned in manufacturing most things. + +But these results do not constitute the interior essence; scarcely, +indeed, begin the exterior outwork of a substantial religion. They touch +neither that part of it which moves men’s hearts, nor that part which +occasions our primary difficulty. They do not show us an eternal state +of man hereafter, in which the anomalies of this world may be rectified +and recompensed; they do not show us an infinite Perfection, distributing +just reward with an omniscient accuracy, according to a perfect law. +It is not, indeed, to be expected that natural philosophy should prove +the immortality of man, since it does not prove the immortality of God. +It shows that an artful and able designer has been concerned in the +construction of the strange existing world; but may it not have been +the last work of the great artist? There is nothing in contriving skill +to evince immortality; nothing to prove that the ‘great artificer’ has +always been or is always going to be. Of his moral views we collect from +natural theology as much as this. There are certain laws of the physical +universe which cannot be broken without pain, which avenge themselves +on those who overlook, neglect, or violate them. These were presumedly +designed (according to the moral assumption of natural theology) for the +end which they effect; they were doubtless meant to accomplish that which +they conspicuously do. On a disregard of such laws, natural theology +shows that the Providence of which it speaks has imposed a penalty; the +_contriving_ God (so to speak, for it is necessary to speak plainly) is +opposed to recklessness. He does not wish His devices to be impaired +or His plans neglected. Every animal has in natural theology, if not a +mission, at least a function. There are certain results which a polyp +must produce or die; certain others which a horse must effect, or it +will be first in pain and then die too; certain other and more complex +results which man must produce, or he also will suffer and perish. +But recklessness is only a single form of vice: a watchful, heedful +selfishness is another form. For the latter, there is no indication +in natural theology of any divine disapprobation, or of any impending +penalty. A heedful being contriving for himself, living in the framework +of, adjusting himself with nice discernment and careful discretion to, +the laws of the visible world, incurs no censure from the theology +of design. On the contrary, he could justly say he had done what was +required of him. He had studiously observed, he could say, the rules of +the factory in which he lived; he had finished his own work; he had not +hindered any others from accomplishing theirs; he had complied with the +arrangements of the establishment: natural theology seems to require no +more. Self-absorbed foresight and contriving discretion may not be great +virtues according to a high morality, or according to a true religion; +but they are profitable in the visible world. They are the virtues of +men skilful in what they see. Accordingly, they suit a theology which is +exclusively based upon an analysis of the visible world, which computes +physical profits and sensible results, which aims to show that Providence +is prudent, that God is wise in His generation. + +Natural theology, therefore, contains nothing to disturb the explanation +we have given of our original difficulty. The most cursory examination +of it would show as much. We have only to open the well-known volumes +in which the munificence of a former generation has embalmed the most +striking arguments of a theology which that generation valued at more +than it is worth. We find there pictures of a bat’s wing, of the human +hand, of a calf’s eye; and we are told how ingenious, how clever, so to +say,—for it is the true word—these contrivances are. But no one could +learn, or expect to learn, from a calf’s eye, that the Creator is pure, +just, merciful; that He is eternal or omnipotent; that he rewards good, +and punishes evil. Throughout all the physical world He sends rain upon +the just and the unjust; and no refined analysis of that world will +detect in it a preference of the former to the latter. As it is with the +moral holiness of God, so it is with the immortality of man: no one could +expect to discover by a minute inspection of the perishable body, what +was the fate of the imperceptible soul. Physical science may examine the +structure of the brain, but it cannot foresee the fortunes of the mind. + +What, then, of Revelation? Does this informant disturb the solution of +our problem? The change from the world of natural theology to that of +any revelation is most striking. The most impressive characteristic of +natural theology is its bareness. It accumulates facts and proves little; +it has voluminous evidences and a short creed. Accordingly, the reason +why it does not disturb our philosophy is that its communications are +insufficient. It does not impart to us _such_ a knowledge of a divine +rewarder and punisher, of future human punishment and future human +reward, as would render it impossible to be disinterested and hardly +possible not to be foreseeing and selfish, because it communicates _no_ +knowledge on the subject. It does not teach the divine characteristic +which involves the difficulty; it does not tell, either, that part of +man’s future fate which involves it likewise. With revelation it is +far otherwise. That informant is precise, full, and clear. It tells us +plainly what God is; it warns us what may happen, and easily happen, to +ourselves. We learn from it that God is the divine ruler; we learn from +it that we are punishable creatures, whose fate depends on ourselves. The +observations which have been justly made on natural theology are here +entirely inapplicable. We have passed from a _vacuum_ into a _plenum_. + +The real reason why revealed religion does not invalidate our +pre-existing moral nature, is because it is itself dependent on that +nature. When we examine the evidence for revelation we alight at once on +a great and fundamental postulate; we assume that God is veracious; we +are so familiar with this great truth, that we hardly think of it save +as an axiom; both the readers of the treatises on the evidences and the +writers of them pass rapidly and easily over it. But, putting aside for a +moment the evidence of our inner consciousness, and regarding the subject +with the pure intellect and bare eyes, the assumption is an audacious +one. How do we know that it is true? We have proved by natural theology +that a designing Being, of great power, considerable age, ingenious +habits, and benevolent motives, somewhere exists; but how do we know +that Being to be ‘veracious’? We see that among human beings, the class +of intellectual beings of whom we know most, and whom we can observe +best, veracity is a rare virtue. We know that some nations seem wholly +destitute of it, and that one sex in all countries is deficient in it. +We know that a human being may have great power, and not tell the truth; +ingenious habits, and not tell the truth; kind intentions, and not tell +the truth. Why may not a superhuman Being be constituted in the same way, +possess a character similarly mixed, be remarkable not only for morals +similar to man’s, but also for defects analogous to his? Our inner nature +revolts at the supposition; but we are not now concerned with our inner +nature; we have, for the sake of distinctness, abstracted and left it +on one side. We are dealing now not with the evidence of the heart, but +with the evidence of the eyes; we are discussing not what really is, but +what would seem to be—what is all we could know to be, if we had only +five senses and a reasoning understanding. From these informants, how +could we know enough of the ingenious unknown Being, who is so useful +in the world, as to be confident He would tell us the truth in every +case? How could we presume to guess His unexperienced speech, His latent +motives, His imperceptible character? Our knowledge of the moral part of +the Divine character, of His veracity,—as well as of His justice,—comes +from our own moral nature. We feel that God is holy, just as we feel +that holiness _is_ holiness; just as we know by internal consciousness +that goodness is good in itself, and by itself; just as we know that God +in Himself is pure and holy. We feel that God is true, for veracity is +a part of holiness and a condition of purity. But if we did not think +holiness to be excellent in itself, if we did not feel it to be a motive +unaffected by consequences and independent of calculation, our belief in +the Divine holiness would fade away, and with it would fade our belief in +the Divine veracity also. + +Revelation, therefore, cannot undermine the very principle upon which it +is itself dependent. Our notion of the character of God being revealed +to us by our moral nature, cannot impair or weaken the conclusion of +that nature. This is the meaning of the profound saying of Coleridge, +that ‘_all_ religion is revealed.’ He meant that all knowledge of God’s +character which is worth naming or regarding, which excites any portion +of the religious sentiment, which excites our love, our awe, or our fear, +is communicated to us by our internal nature, by that spirit within us +which is open to a higher world, by that spirit which is in some sense +God’s Spirit. True religion of this sort does not impair the moral spirit +which revealed it; it does not dare do so, for it knows that spirit to be +its only evidence. + +But all religion is not true. A superstitious mind permits a certain +aspect of God’s character, say its justice, to obtain an exclusive hold +on it, to tyrannise over it, to absorb it. The soul becomes bound down by +the weight of its own revelation. Conscience is overshadowed, weakened, +and almost destroyed by the very idea which it originally suggested, +and of which it is really the only reliable informant. Such minds are +incapable of true virtue. The essential opposition which is alleged to +exist between morality and _all_ religion does exist between morality and +_their_ religion. They have a selfish fear of the future, which destroys +their disinterestedness, and almost destroys their manhood. + +The same effect is undeniably produced on many minds—not necessarily +produced, but in fact produced—by a belief in revelation. They are +fearful of future punishment, because some being in the air has +threatened it. They have not the true belief in the Divine holiness which +arises from a love of holiness; they have not the true conception of God +which was suggested by conscience, and is kept alive by the activity +of conscience; but they have a vague persuasion that a great Personage +has asserted this, and why they should believe that Personage they do +not ask or know. While revelation remains connected in the mind with +the spirituality on which it is based, it is as consistent with true +morality as religion of any other sort; but if disconnected from that +spirituality, if it has become an isolated terrific tenet, like any other +superstition, it is inconsistent. + +The original difficulty with which we started, and the true answer to +that difficulty, may be summed up thus: The objection is, that the +extrinsic motive to goodness (which religion reveals) must absorb the +intrinsic motives to goodness (which morality reveals). The answer is, +that the second revelation is contingent upon the first; that those only +have a substantial ground for believing the extrinsic motive who retain a +lively confidence in the intrinsic. Perhaps some may think this principle +too plain; perhaps others may think it too unimportant to justify so long +an exposition and such a strenuous inculcation. But if we dwell upon it +and trace it to its attendant results and consequences, we shall find +that it will account for more of the world than almost any other single +principle—at any rate, will explain much which puzzles us, and much which +is important to us. + +First, this principle will explain to us the use and the necessity of +what we may call the _screen_ of the physical world. Every one who +has religious ideas must have been puzzled by what we may call the +irrelevancy of creation to his religion. We find ourselves lodged in +a vast theatre, in which a ceaseless action, a perpetual shifting +of scenes, an unresting life, is going forward; and that life seems +physical, unmoral, having no relation to what our souls tell us to be +great and good, to what religion says is the design of all things. +Especially when we see any new objects, or scenes, or countries, we +feel this. Look at a great tropical plant, with large leaves stretching +everywhere, and great stalks branching out on all sides; with a big +beetle on a leaf, and a humming-bird on a branch, and an ugly lizard +just below. What has such an object to do with _us_—with anything we +can conceive, or hope, or imagine? What _could_ it be created for, +if creation has a moral end and object? Or go into a gravel-pit, or +stone-quarry; you see there a vast accumulation of dull matter, yellow or +grey, and you ask, involuntarily and of necessity, why is all this waste +and irrelevant production, as it would seem, of material? Can anything +seem more stupid than a big stone _as_ a big stone, than gravel for +gravel’s sake? What is the use of such cumbrous, inexpressive objects +in a world where there are minds to be filled, and imaginations to be +aroused, and souls to be saved? A clever sceptic once said on reading +Paley that _he_ thought the universe was a furniture warehouse for +unknown beings; he assented to the indications of design visible in many +places, but what the end of most objects was, why _such_ things were, +what was the ultimate object contemplated by the whole, he could not +understand. He thought ‘divines are right in saying that much of the +universe has an expression, but surely sceptics are right in saying that +as much or more has no expression.’ Some of the world seems designed to +show a little of God; but much more seems also designed to hide Him and +keep Him off. The reply is, that if morality is to be disinterested, +some such irrelevant universe is essential. Life, moral life, the life +of tempted beings capable of virtue and liable to vice, of necessity +involves a theatre of some sort; it could not be carried on in a vast +vacuum; _some_ means of communication between mind and mind, _some_ +external motive to question inward impulses, _some_ outward events as +the result of past action and the stimulus to new action, seem essential +to the life of a voluntary moral being, to a being tempted as a man is, +living as a man lives. The only admissible question is the nature of that +theatre. Is it to be in all its parts and objects expressive of God’s +character and communicative of man’s fate? or is it, as many say, in most +parts to express nothing and tell nothing? The reply is, that _if_ the +universe were to be incessantly expressive and incessantly communicative, +morality would be impossible; we should live under the unceasing pressure +of a supernatural interference, which would give us selfish motives for +doing everything, which would menace us with supernatural punishment if +we left anything undone. We should be living in a _chastising_ machine, +of which the secret would be patent and the penalties apparent. We are +startled to find a universe we did not expect. But if we lived in the +universe we did expect, the life which we lead, and were meant to lead, +would be impossible. We should expect a punitive world sanctioning moral +laws, and the perpetual punishment of those laws would be so glaringly +apparent that true virtue would become impossible. An ‘unfeeling nature,’ +an unmoral universe, a sun that shines and a rain which falls equally on +the evil and on the good, are essential to morality in a being free like +man, and created as man was. A miscellaneous world is a suitable theatre +for a single-minded life, and, so far as we can see, the only one. + +The same sort of reasoning partly elucidates, even if it does not +explain, the brevity of our apparent life. If visible life were eternal, +future punishments must be visible. We should meet in our streets with +old, old men enduring the consequences of offences which happened before +we were born. We should not see, perhaps, old age as we now see it; +decrepitude would be unknown to us. If there was immortal life on earth, +there would probably also be immortal youth; at any rate, immortal +activity. The perpetuity of existence would not be divided from the +perpetuity of what makes life desirable, of what makes effective life +possible. But if children saw their fathers, and their fathers’ fathers, +and their fathers’ ancestors, in an unending chain, suffering penalties +for certain acts, and obtaining rewards for certain deeds, how is it +possible that they could act otherwise than according to those visible +and evident examples? The consecutive tradition of self-interest would +be so strong among a perpetual race of immortal men that disinterested +virtue would be not so much impracticable as unthought-of and unknown. +The exact line of real self-benefit would be chalked out so plainly, so +conspicuously, so glaringly, that no other action would be conceivable, +or possible. The evidence of _all_ consequences would be like the +evidences of legal consequences now, only infinitely more effective +and infinitely more perceptible. In human law, the _detection_ of the +offence by man is a pre-requisite of all punishment by man. An offence +not proved to the ‘satisfaction of the court’ escapes the judgment of the +court. But in a visible immortal life, this pre-requisite would not be +needful. _If_ there be a future punishment, and _if_ man lived for all +futurity upon earth, that future punishment would be on earth, and it +would be inflicted by God. Undetected crime, that general bad character +without specific proved offence, which now mocks all law and laughs +at visible punishment, would then, under our very eyes, receive that +punishment. Job’s friends kindly argued with him, ‘You are suffering, +therefore you are guilty.’ And the argument was bad, because they only +saw an exceptional accident in the life of a good man, not his entire +life through a subsequent eternity; but if that eternal life had been +passed in continuous residence on this globe, if notorious bad fortune +had pursued him through eternity in the nineteenth generation, his +descendants might well have said, ‘Oh, Job, there is something wrong in +you, for you never come out right.’ A great historian has observed,— + + ‘That honesty is the best policy, is a maxim which we firmly + believe to be generally correct, even with respect to the + temporal interest of individuals; but with respect to + societies, the rule is subject to still fewer exceptions, and + that for this reason, that the life of societies is larger than + that of individuals. It is possible to mention men who have + owed great worldly prosperity to breaches of private faith; but + we doubt whether it be possible to mention a state which has, + on the whole, been a gainer by a breach of public faith.’ + +If the visible life of individuals were yet longer than the life of +societies, the rule would be subject to still fewer exceptions; if that +visible life were eternal, the rule would be subject to no exceptions; +the staring evidence of conspicuous results would purge temptation out of +the world. + +The physical world now rewards what we may call the physical virtues, +and punishes what we may call the physical vices. There is a certain +state of the body which is a condition of physical well-being, and (as +life is constituted) very much of all well-being. If by gross excess +any man should impair that condition, physical law will punish him. The +body is our schoolmaster to bring us to the soul; it enforces on us the +preparatory merits, it scourges out of us the preparatory defects. The +law of human government is similar; it enforces on us that adherence +to obvious virtue, and that avoidance of obvious vice, which are the +essential preliminaries of real virtue. There is no true virtue or vice, +so long as physical law and human law are what they are in any such +matters. The dread of the penalties is too powerful not to extinguish +(speaking generally, and peculiar cases excepted) all other motives. But +these teachers strengthen the mental instruments of real virtue. They +strengthen our will; they hurt our vanity; they confirm our manhood. +Physical law and human law train and build up, if the expression may +be permitted, that good pagan, that sound-bodied, moderate, careful +creature, out of which a good Christian may, if he will and by God’s +help, in the end be constructed. If visible life were eternal instead +of temporary, the same intense discipline which so usefully creates +the preparatory prerequisites would likewise efface the possibility of +disinterested virtue. + +Again, the great scene of human life may be explained, or at least +illustrated, in like manner: _we are souls in the disguise of animals_. +We lead a life in great part neither good nor evil, neither wicked nor +excellent. The larger number of men seem to an outside observer to +walk through life in a torpid sort of sleep. They are decent in their +morals, respectable in their manners, stupid in their conversation. +The incentives of their life are outward; its penalties are outward +too. The life of such people seems to some men always—to many men at +times—inexplicable. But if such beings were not permitted in the world, +perhaps a higher life might be impossible for any beings. They act +like a living screen, just as we say matter acts like a dead screen. +It is not desirable that the results of goodness should be distinctly +apparent; and if all human life were intensely and exclusively moral; +if all men were with all their strength pursuing good or pursuing evil, +the isolated consequences of that isolated principle must be apparent; +at least, could scarcely fail to be so. If one set of men were cooped up +in the exclusive pursuit of virtue, and were very ardent and warm about +it, and another set of men were eager in the pursuit of evil, and cared +for nothing but evil, the world would fall asunder into two dissimilar +halves. If goodness in the visible world had _any_, the least, tendency +to produce visible happiness, then incessant goodness would be very +happy. The accumulations of the slight tendency by perpetual renewal +would amount of necessity to a vast sum-total. Incessant badness would +produce awful misery. Those absorbed in vice would be warnings dangerous +to disinterestedness; those absorbed in virtue, attractions and examples +almost more dangerous. The mischief is prevented by those _unabsorbed_, +purposeless, divided characters which seem to puzzle us. They complicate +human life, and they do so the more effectually that they typify and +represent so much of what every man feels and must feel within himself. +In each man there is so much which is unmoral, so much which comes from +an unknown origin, and passes forward to an unknown destination, which is +of the earth, earthy; which has nothing to do with hell or heaven; which +occupies a middle place not recognised in any theology; which is hateful +both to the impetuous ‘friends of God’ and His most eager enemies. This +pervading and potent element involves life as it were in confusion and +hurry. We do not see distinctly whither we are going. Disinterestedness +is possible, for calculation is confused. Doubtless, even on earth virtue +of all kinds eventually must have, on a large average of cases, some +slight tendency to produce happiness. This earth is an extract from the +moral universe—partakes its nature. But that tendency is too slight to +be a considerable motive to high action; it would not be discovered but +for the inward principle which sets us to look for it; and even when +we find it, it is transient, and small, and dubious. It is lost in the +vast results of the unmoral universe, in the vague shows, the multiform +spectacle of human life. + +Again, we may understand why the convictions of what duty is, and what +religion is, vary so much and so often among men. If all our convictions +on these points, on these infinitely important points, were identical +and alike, an accumulated public opinion would oppress us, would destroy +the freedom of our action and the purity of our virtue. If every one +said that certain penalties would be the consequence of certain actions, +we should believe that the consequences would be so and so, not because +we felt those actions to be intrinsically bad, but because we were told +that such would be the consequences. We should believe upon report, and +a vague impression would haunt us, not produced by our own conscience, +or our own sense of right and wrong, and would impair both our manhood +and our virtue. The extraordinary discrepancies of believed religion +and believed morality have weighed on many and will weigh on many; but +they have this use—they enable men to be disinterested. As there is no +sanctioned invincible firm custom, there are no customary penalties, +there is nothing men must shun; as the world has not made up its mind, +there is no executioner of the world ready to enforce that mind upon +every one. + +Lastly, the same essential argument may be applied to a problem yet +more delicate and difficult, to one which it is difficult to treat in +Reviewer’s phraseology. Why is God so far from us? is the agonising +question which has depressed so many hearts, so long as we know there +were hearts, has puzzled so many intellects since intellects began to +puzzle themselves. But the moral part of God’s character could not be +shown to us with sensible conspicuous evidence; it could not be shown +to us as Fleet Street is shown to us, without impairing the first +pre-requisite of disinterestedness, and the primary condition of man’s +virtue. And if the moral aspect of God’s character must of necessity be +somewhat hidden from us, other aspects of it must be equally hidden. +An infinite Being may be viewed under innumerable aspects. God has +many qualities in His essence which the word ‘moral’ does not exhaust, +which it does not even hint at. Perhaps this essay has seemed to read +too sternly; as if the moral side of the Divine character, which is and +must be to imperfect beings in some sense a terrible side,—as if the +moral side of human life, which must be to mankind not always a pleasant +side,—had been forced into an exclusive prominence which of right did +not belong to it. But the _attractive_ aspects of God’s character must +not be made more apparent to such a being as man than His chastening and +severer aspects. We must not be invited to approach the Holy of holies +without being made aware, painfully aware, what Holiness is. We must know +our own unworthiness ere we are fit to approach or imagine an Infinite +Perfection. The most nauseous of false religions is that which affects a +fulsome fondness for a Being not to be thought of without awe, or spoken +of without reluctance. + +On the whole, therefore, the necessary ignorance of man explains to us +much; it shows us that we could not be what we ought to be, if we lived +in the sort of universe we should expect. It shows us that a latent +Providence, a confused life, an odd material world, an existence broken +short in the midst and on a sudden, are not real difficulties, but real +helps; that they, or something like them, are essential conditions of a +moral life to a subordinate being. If we steadily remember that we only +know the ultimate fate, the extrinsic consequences of vice and virtue, +because we know of their inherent nature and intrinsic qualities, and +that any other evidence of the first would destroy the possibility of the +second, _then_ much which used to puzzle us may become clear to us. + +But it may be said, What sort of evidence is this on which you base +the future moral life of man, and the present existence of a moral +Providence? Is it not impalpable? It is so, and necessarily so. If a +consecutive logical deduction, such as has often been sought between an +immutable morality and a true religion, could in fact be found, we should +be again met with our fundamental difficulty, though in a disguised and +secondary form. Morality might fall out of sight because religion was +obtruded upon us. Morality would be the axiom, religion the deduction; +and as a geometer does not keep Euclid’s axioms in his head when he is +employed upon conic sections, as a student of the differential calculus +may half forget the commencement of algebra,—so the great truths of +religion, if rigorously and mathematically deduced from the beginnings of +morality, might overshadow and destroy those ‘beggarly elements.’ No one +who has proved important doctrines by rigorous reasoning always retains +in his mind the primitive principles from which he set out. As the +concrete deductions advance, the primary abstractions recede. Happily, +the connection between morality and religion is of a very different kind. +Religion (in its moral part) is a secondary impression, produced and kept +alive by the first impression of morality. The intensity of the second +feeling depends on the continued intensity of the first feeling. + +The highest part of human belief is based upon certain developable +instincts. Not the most important, but the most obvious of these, +is the instinct of beauty. Since the commencement of speculation, +ingenious thinkers, who delight in difficulties, have rejoiced to draw +out at length the difficulties of the subject. It is said, How can you +be certain that there is such an attribute as beauty, when no one is +sure what it is, or to what it should be applied? A barbarian thinks +one thing charming, the Greek another. Modern nations have a standard +different most materially from the ancient standard—founded upon it in +several important respects, no doubt, but differing from it in others as +important, and almost equally striking. Even within the limits of modern +nations this standard differs. The taste of the vulgar is one thing, the +taste of the refined and cultivated is altogether at variance with it. +The mass of mankind prefer a gaudy modern daub to a faded picture by +Sir Joshua, or to the cartoons of Raphael. What certainty, the sceptic +triumphantly asks, can there be in matters on which people differ so +much, on which it seems so impossible to argue; which seem to depend +on causes and relations simply personal; which are susceptible of no +positive test or ascertained criterion? You talk of impalpability, he +adds; here it is in perfection. But these recondite doubts impose on no +one. Not a single educated person would sleep less soundly if he were +told that his life depended on the correctness of his notion that the +cartoons of Raphael are more sublime and beautiful than a common daub. He +cannot prove it, and he cannot prove that Charles the First was beheaded; +but he is quite as certain of one as of the other. This is an instance of +an obvious, unmistakable instinct, which does produce effectual belief, +though sceptics explain to us that it should not. + +The nature of this instinct differs altogether from that of those +intuitive and universal axioms which are borne in infallibly upon all the +human race, in every age and every place. It is not like the assertion +that ‘two straight lines cannot enclose a space,’ or the truth that two +and two make four. These are believed by every one, and no one can dream +of not believing them. But half of mankind would reject the idea that the +cartoons were in any sense admirable; they would prefer the overgrown +enormities of West, which are side by side with them. The characteristic +peculiarity of this instinct is, not that it is irresistible, but that +it is _developable_. The higher students of the subject, the more +cultivated, meditate upon it, acquire a new sense, which conveys truth to +them, though others are ignorant of it, and though they themselves cannot +impart it to those others. The appeal is not to the many, as with axioms +of Euclid, but to those few,—the exceptional few,—at whom the many scoff. + +The case is similar with the yet higher instincts of morality and of +religion. It is idle to pretend that much of them can be found among +bloody savages, or simple and remote islanders, or a degraded populace. +It is still idler to fancy that because they cannot be discovered there +full-grown, and complete, and paramount, there is no evidence for them, +and no basis for relying upon them. They resemble the instinct of beauty +precisely. The evidence of the few—of the small, high-minded minority, +who are the exception of ages, and the salt of the earth—outweighs the +evidence of countless myriads who live as their fathers lived, think as +they thought, die as they died; who would have lived and died in the very +contrary impressions, if by chance they had inherited these instead of +the others. The criterion of true beauty is with those (and they are not +many) who have a sense of true beauty; the criterion of true morality +is with those who have a sense of true morality; the criterion of true +religion is with those who have a sense of true religion. + +Nor can this defect of an absolute criterion throw the world into +confusion. We see it does not, and there was no reason to expect it +would. We all of us feel an analogous fluctuation and variation in +ourselves. We all of us feel that there are times in which first +principles seem borne in upon us by evidence as bright as noonday, and +that there are also times in which that evidence is much less, in which +it seems to fade away, in which we reckon up the number of persons who +differ from us, who reject our principles; times at which we ask, Who +are _we_, that we should be right and other men wrong? The unbelieving +moods of each mind are as certain as the unbelieving state of much of +the world. But no sound mind permits itself to be permanently disturbed, +though it may be transiently distracted, by these variations in its own +state. We have a _criterion_ faculty within us, which tells us which are +lower moods and which are higher. This faculty is a phase of conscience, +and if at its bidding we struggle _with_ the good moods, and _against_ +the bad moods, we shall find that great beliefs remain, and that mean +beliefs pass away. + +There is an analogous phenomenon in the history of the world. Beliefs +altogether differ at the base of society, but they agree, or tend to +agree, at its summit. As society goes on, the standard of beauty, and of +morality, and of religion also, tends to become fixed. The creeds of the +higher classes throughout the world, though far from identical in these +respects, are not entirely unlike, approach to similarity, approach to it +more and more as cultivation augments, goodness improves, and disturbing +agencies fall aside. + + ‘The Ethiop gods have Ethiop lips, + Bronze cheeks, and woolly hair; + The Grecian gods are like the Greeks, + As keen-eyed, cold, and fair.’ + +Such is the various and miscellaneous religion of barbarism; but the +religion and the morality of all the best among all nations tend more +and more to be the same with ‘the progress of the suns,’ and as society +itself improves. + +The instincts of morality and religion, though we have called them two +for facility of speech, run into one another, and in practical human +nature are not easily separated. The distinction, like so many others +in mental philosophy, is not drawn where accurate science would have +directed, but where the first notions of mankind, and the necessity of +easy speaking, in a language shaped according to those notions, have +suggested. In a refined analysis, the instinct of religion, as we have +called it, is a complex aggregate of various instincts, not a single and +homogeneous one. But to analyse these, or even to name them, would be +far from our purpose now. Our business is with the relation between the +instinct of morality and that of religion, and with no other perplexities +or difficulties. The instinct of morality is the basis, and the instinct +of moral religion is based upon it, and arises out of it. We feel first +the intrinsic qualities of good actions and bad actions; then, as the +Greek proverb expressed it, ‘Where there is shame there is fear;’ we +expect consequences apportioned to our actions, good and evil; lastly, +for within the limits of purely moral ideas there is no higher stage, we +rise to the conception of Him who in His wisdom adjusts and allots those +far-off consequences to those conspicuous actions. The higher instinct +is based on the lower; would fade in the mind should the lower fade. +The coalescence of instinct effects what no other contrivance known to +us could effect; it enables us to be disinterested, although we know +the consequences of evil actions, because conscience is the revealing +sensation, and we only know those consequences so long as we are +disinterested. + +These fundamental difficulties of life and morals are little discussed. +Few think of them clearly, and still fewer speak of them much. But they +cloud the brain and confuse the hopes of many who never stated them +explicitly to themselves, and never heard them stated explicitly by +others. Meanwhile superficial difficulties are in every one’s mouth; we +are deafened with controversies on remote matters which do not concern +us; we are confused with ‘Aids to Faith’ which neither harm nor help +us. A tumult of irrelevant theology is in the air which oppresses men’s +heads, and darkens their future, and scatters their hopes. For such a +calamity there is no thorough cure; it belongs to the confused epoch of +an age of transition, and is inseparable from it. But the best palliative +is a steady attention to primary difficulties—if possible, a clear +mastery over them; if not, a distinct knowledge how we stand respecting +them. The shrewdest man of the world who ever lived tells us, ‘That he +who begins in certainties shall end in doubts; but he who begins in +doubts shall end in certainties;’ and the maxim is even more applicable +to matters which are not of this world than to those which are. + + + + +_ON THE EMOTION OF CONVICTION._[23] + +(1871.) + + +What we commonly term Belief includes, I apprehend, both an Intellectual +and an Emotional element; the first we more properly call ‘assent,’ and +the second ‘conviction.’ The laws of the Intellectual element in belief +are ‘the laws of evidence,’ and have been elaborately discussed; but +those of the Emotional part have hardly been discussed at all—indeed, its +existence has been scarcely perceived. + +In the mind of a rigorously trained inquirer, the process of believing +is, I apprehend, this:—First comes the investigation, a set of facts are +sifted, and a set of arguments weighed; then the intellect perceives the +result of those arguments, and, we say, assents to it. Then an emotion +more or less strong sets in, which completes the whole. In calm and quiet +minds, the intellectual part of this process is so much the strongest +that they are hardly conscious of anything else; and as these quiet, +careful people have written our treatises, we do not find it explained in +them how important the emotional part is. + +But take the case of the Caliph Omar, according to Gibbon’s description +of him. He burnt the Alexandrine Library, saying, ‘All books which +contain what is not in the Koran are dangerous; all those which contain +what is in the Koran are useless.’ Probably no one ever had an intenser +belief in anything than Omar had in this. Yet it is impossible to imagine +it preceded by an argument. His belief in Mahomet, in the Koran, and in +the sufficiency of the Koran, came to him probably in spontaneous rushes +of emotion; there may have been little vestiges of argument floating here +and there, but they did not justify the strength of the emotion, still +less did they create it, and they hardly even excused it. + +There is so commonly some considerable argument for our modern beliefs, +that it is difficult now-a-days to isolate the emotional element, +and therefore, on the principle that in Metaphysics ‘egotism is the +truest modesty,’ I may give myself as an example of utterly irrational +conviction. Some years ago I stood for a borough in the West of England, +and after a keen contest was defeated by seven. Almost directly +afterwards there was accidentally another election, and as I would not +stand, another candidate of my own side was elected, and I of course +ceased to have any hold upon the place, or chance of being elected there. +But for years I had the deepest conviction that I should be Member for +‘Bridgwater’; and no amount of reasoning would get it out of my head. The +borough is now disfranchised; but even still, if I allow my mind to dwell +on the contest,—if I think of the hours I was ahead in the morning, and +the rush of votes at two o’clock by which I was defeated,—and even more, +if I call up the image of the nomination day, with all the people’s hands +outstretched, and all their excited faces looking the more different on +account of their identity in posture, the old feeling almost comes back +upon me, and for a moment I believe that I shall be Member for Bridgwater. + +I should not mention such nonsense, except on an occasion when I may +serve as an intellectual ‘specimen,’[24] but I know I wish that I could +feel the same hearty, vivid faith in many conclusions of which my +understanding says it is satisfied, that I did in this absurdity. And +if it should be replied that such folly could be no real belief, for it +could not influence any man’s action, I am afraid I must say that it +did influence my actions. For a long time the ineradicable fatalistic +feeling, that I should some time have this constituency, of which I +had no chance, hung about my mind, and diminished my interest in other +constituencies, where my chances of election would have been rational, at +any rate. + +This case probably exhibits the _maximum_ of conviction with the +_minimum_ of argument, but there are many approximations to it. Persons +of untrained minds cannot long live without some belief in any topic +which comes much before them. It has been said that if you can only get a +middle-class Englishman to think whether there are ‘snails in Sirius,’ he +will soon have an opinion on it. It will be difficult to make him think, +but if he does think, he cannot rest in a negative, he will come to some +decision. And on any ordinary topic, of course, it is so. A grocer has a +full creed as to foreign policy, a young lady a complete theory of the +sacraments, as to which neither has any doubt whatever. But in talking to +such persons, I cannot but remember my Bridgwater experience, and ask +whether causes like those which begat my folly may not be at the bottom +of their ‘invincible knowledge.’ + +Most persons who observe their own thoughts must have been conscious of +the exactly opposite state. There are cases where our intellect has gone +through the arguments, and we give a clear assent to the conclusions. But +our minds seem dry and unsatisfied. In that case we have the intellectual +part of Belief, but want the emotional part. + +That belief is not a purely intellectual matter is evident from dreams, +where we are always believing, but scarcely ever arguing; and from +certain forms of insanity, where fixed delusions seize upon the mind +and generate a firmer belief than any sane person is capable of. These +are, of course, ‘unorthodox’ states of mind; but a good psychology must +explain them, nevertheless, and perhaps it would have progressed faster +if it had been more ready to compare them with the waking states of sane +people. + +Probably, when the subject is thoroughly examined, ‘conviction’ will be +proved to be one of the intensest of human emotions, and one most closely +connected with the bodily state. In cases like the Caliph Omar’s, it +governs all other desires, absorbs the whole nature, and rules the whole +life. And in such cases it is accompanied or preceded by the sensation +that Scott makes his seer describe as the prelude to a prophecy:— + + ‘At length the fatal answer came, + In characters of living flame— + Not spoke in word, nor blazed in scroll, + But borne and branded on my soul.’ + +A hot flash seems to burn across the brain. Men in these intense states +of mind have altered all history, changed for better or worse the creed +of myriads, and desolated or redeemed provinces and ages. Nor is this +intensity a sign of truth, for it is precisely strongest in those points +in which men differ most from each other. John Knox felt it in his +anti-Catholicism; Ignatius Loyola in his anti-Protestantism; and both, I +suppose, felt it as much as it is possible to feel it. + +Once acutely felt, I believe it is indelible; at least, it does something +to the mind which it is hard for anything else to undo. It has been often +said that a man who has once really loved a woman, never can be without +feeling towards that woman again. He may go on loving her, or he may +change and hate her. In the same way, I think, experience proves that +no one who has had real passionate conviction of a creed, the sort of +emotion that burns hot upon the brain, can ever be indifferent to that +creed again. He may continue to believe it, and to love it; or he may +change to the opposite, vehemently argue against it, and persecute it. +But he cannot forget it. Years afterwards, perhaps, when life changes, +when external interests cease to excite, when the apathy to surroundings +which belongs to the old, begins all at once, to the wonder of later +friends, who cannot imagine what is come to him, the grey-headed man +returns to the creed of his youth. + +The explanation of these facts in metaphysical books is very imperfect. +Indeed, I only know one school which professes to explain the emotion, +as distinguished from the intellectual element in belief. Mr. Mill +(after Mr. Bain) speaks very instructively of the ‘animal nature of +belief,’ but when he comes to trace its cause, his analysis seems, to me +at least, utterly unsatisfactory. He says that ‘the state of belief is +identical with the activity or active disposition of the system at the +moment with reference to the thing believed.’ But in many cases there +is firm belief where there is no possibility of action or tendency to +it. A girl in a country parsonage will be sure ‘that Paris never can +be taken,’ or that ‘Bismarck is a wretch,’ without being able to act +on these ideas or wanting to act on them. Many beliefs, in Coleridge’s +happy phrase, slumber in the ‘dormitory of the soul’; they are present to +the consciousness, but they incite to no action. And perhaps Coleridge +is an example of misformed mind in which not only may ‘Faith’ not +produce ‘works,’ but in which it had a tendency to prevent works. Strong +convictions gave him a kind of cramp in the will, and he could not act +on them. And in very many persons much-indulged conviction exhausts the +mind with the attached ideas; teases it, and so, when the time of action +comes, makes it apt to turn to different, perhaps opposite ideas, and to +act on them in preference. + +As far as I can perceive, the power of an idea to cause conviction, +independently of any intellectual process, depends on four properties. + +1st. _Clearness._ The more unmistakable an idea is to a particular mind, +the more is that mind predisposed to believe it. In common life we may +constantly see this. If you once make a thing quite clear to a person, +the chances are that you will almost have persuaded him of it. Half the +world only understand what they believe, and always believe what they +understand. + +2nd. _Intensity._ This is the main cause why the ideas that flash on +the minds of seers, as in Scott’s description, are believed; they come +mostly when the nerves are exhausted by fasting, watching, and longing; +they have a peculiar brilliancy, and therefore they are believed. To this +cause I trace too my fixed folly as to Bridgwater. The idea of being +member for the town had been so intensely brought home to me by the +excitement of a contest, that I could not eradicate it, and that as soon +as I recalled any circumstances of the contest it always came back in all +its vividness. + +3rd. _Constancy._ As a rule, almost everyone does accept the creed of the +place in which he lives, and everyone without exception has a tendency +to do so. There are, it is true, some minds which a mathematician might +describe as minds of ‘contrary flexure,’ whose particular bent it is to +contradict what those around them say. And the reason is that in their +minds the opposite aspect of every subject is always vividly presented. +But even such minds usually accept the _axioms_ of their district, the +tenets which everybody always believes. They only object to the variable +elements; to the inferences and deductions drawn by some, but not by all. + +4th. On the _Interestingness_ of the idea, by which I mean the power of +the idea to gratify some wish or want of the mind. The most obvious is +curiosity about something which is important to me. Rumours that gratify +this excite a sort of half-conviction without the least evidence, and +with a very little evidence a full, eager, not to say a bigoted one. If a +person go into a mixed company, and say authoritatively ‘that the Cabinet +is nearly divided on the Russian question, and that it was only decided +by one vote to send Lord Granville’s despatch,’ most of the company will +attach some weight more or less to the story, without asking how the +secret was known. And if the narrator casually add that he has just seen +a subordinate member of the Government, most of the hearers will go away +and repeat the anecdote with grave attention, though it does not in the +least appear that the lesser functionary told the anecdote about the +Cabinet, or that he knew what passed at it. + +And the interest is greater when the news falls in with the bent of the +hearer. A sanguine man will believe with scarcely any evidence that good +luck is coming, and a dismal man that bad luck is coming. As far as I can +make out, the professional ‘Bulls’ and ‘Bears’ of the City _do_ believe a +great deal of what they say, though, of course, there are exceptions, and +though neither the most sanguine ‘bull’ nor the most dismal ‘bear’ can +believe _all_ he says. + +Of course, I need not say that this ‘quality’ peculiarly attaches to +the greatest problems of human life. The firmest convictions of the +most inconsistent answers to the everlasting questions ‘whence?’ and +‘whither?’ have been generated by this ‘interestingness’ without evidence +on which one would invest a penny. + +In one case, these causes of irrational conviction seem contradictory. +Clearness, as we have seen, is one of them; but obscurity, when obscure +things are interesting, is a cause too. But there is no real difficulty +here. Human nature at different times exhibits contrasted impulses. There +is a passion for sensualism, that is, to eat and drink; and a passion for +asceticism, that is, not to eat and drink; so it is quite likely that the +clearness of an idea may sometimes cause a movement of conviction, and +that the obscurity of another idea may at other times cause one too. + +These laws, however, are complex—can they be reduced to any simpler +law of human nature? I confess I think that they can, but at the same +time I do not presume to speak with the same confidence about it that +I have upon other points. Hitherto I have been dealing with the common +facts of the adult human mind, as we may see it in others and feel it +in ourselves. But I am now going to deal with the ‘prehistoric’ period +of the mind in early childhood, as to which there is necessarily much +obscurity. + +My theory is, that in the first instance a child believes everything. +Some of its states of consciousness are perceptive or presentative,—that +is, they tell it of some heat or cold, some resistance or +non-resistance, then and there present. Other states of consciousness +are representative,—that is, they say that certain sensations could be +felt or certain facts perceived, in time past or in time to come, or at +some place, no matter at what time, then and there out of the reach of +perception and sensation. In mature life, too, we have these presentative +and representative states in every sort of mixture, but we make a +distinction between them. Without remark and without doubt, we believe +the ‘evidence of our senses,’ that is, the facts of present sensation +and perception; but we do not believe at once and instantaneously the +representative states as to what is non-present, whether in time or +space. But I apprehend that this is an acquired distinction, and that in +early childhood every state of consciousness is believed, whether it be +presentative or representative. + +Certainly at the beginning of the ‘historic’ period we catch the mind +at a period of extreme credulity. When memory begins, and when speech +and signs suffice to make a child intelligible, belief is almost +omnipresent, and doubt almost never to be found. Childlike credulity is a +phrase of the highest antiquity, and of the greatest present aptness. + +So striking, indeed, on certain points, is this impulse to believe, +that philosophers have invented various theories to explain in detail +some of its marked instances. Thus it has been said that children have +an intuitive disposition to believe in ‘testimony’—that is, in the +correctness of statements orally made to them. And that they do so is +certain. Every child believes what the footman tells it, what its nurse +tells it, and what its mother tells it, and probably every one’s memory +will carry him back to the horrid mass of miscellaneous confusion which +he acquired by believing all he heard. But though it is certain that a +child believes all assertions made to it, it is not certain that the +child so believes in consequence of a special intuitive predisposition +restricted to such assertions. It may be that this indiscriminate belief +in all sayings is but a relic of an omnivorous acquiescence in all states +of consciousness, which is only just extinct when childhood is plain +enough to be understood, or old enough to be remembered. + +Again, it has been said much more plausibly that we want an intuitive +tendency to account for our belief in memory. But I question whether +it can be shown that a little child _does_ believe in its memories +more confidently than in its imaginations. A child of my acquaintance +corrected its mother, who said that ‘they should never see’ two of +its dead brothers again, and maintained, ‘Oh yes, mamma, we shall; we +shall see them in heaven, and they will be so glad to see us.’ And then +the child cried with disappointment because its mother, though a most +religious lady, did not seem exactly to feel that seeing her children +in that manner was as good as seeing them on earth. Now I doubt if +that child did not believe this expectation quite as confidently as it +believed any past fact, or as it could believe anything at all, and +though the conclusion may be true, plainly the child believed, not +from the efficacy of the external evidence, but from a strong rush of +inward confidence. Why, then, should we want a special intuition to make +children believe past facts when, in truth, they go farther and believe +with no kind of difficulty future facts as well as past? + +If on so abstruse a matter I might be allowed a graphic illustration, +I should define doubt as ‘a hesitation produced by collision.’ A child +possessed with the notion that all its fancies are true, finds that +acting on one of them brings its head against the table. This gives it +pain, and makes it hesitate as to the expediency of doing it again. Early +childhood is an incessant education in scepticism, and early youth is +so too. All boys are always knocking their heads against the physical +world, and all young men are constantly knocking their heads against the +social world. And both of them from the same cause—that they are subject +to an eruption of emotion which engenders a strong belief, but which is +as likely to cause a belief in falsehood as in truth. Gradually, under +the tuition of a painful experience, we come to learn that our strongest +convictions may be quite false, that many of our most cherished ones are +and have been false; and this causes us to seek a ‘criterion’ as to which +beliefs are to be trusted and which are not; and so we are beaten back to +the laws of evidence for our guide, though, as Bishop Butler said, in a +similar case, we object to be bound by anything so ‘poor.’ + +That it is really this contention with the world which destroys +conviction and which causes doubt, is shown by examining the cases where +the mind is secluded from the world. In ‘dreams,’ where we are out of +collision with fact, we accept everything as it comes, believe everything +and doubt nothing. And in violent cases of mania, where the mind is shut +up within itself, and cannot, from impotence, perceive what is without, +it is as sure of the most chance fancy, as in health it would be of the +best proved truths. + +And upon this theory we perceive why the four tendencies to irrational +conviction which I have set down, survive, and remain in our adult +hesitating state as vestiges of our primitive all-believing state. They +are all from various causes ‘adhesive’ states—states which it is very +difficult to get rid of, and which, in consequence, have retained their +power of creating belief in the mind, when other states, which once +possessed it too, have quite lost it. _Clear_ ideas are certainly more +difficult to get rid of than obscure ones. Indeed, some obscure ones we +cannot recover, if we once lose them. Everybody, perhaps, has felt all +manner of doubts and difficulties in mastering a mathematical problem. At +the time, the difficulties seemed as real as the problem, but a day or +two after a man has mastered it, he will be wholly unable to imagine or +remember where the difficulties were. The demonstration will be perfectly +clear to him, and he will be unable to comprehend how anyone should fail +to perceive it. For life he will recall the clear ideas, but the obscure +ones he will never recall, though for some hours, perhaps, they were +painful, confused, and oppressive obstructions. _Intense_ ideas are, as +every one will admit, recalled more easily than slight and weak ideas. +_Constantly_ impressed ideas are brought back by the world around us, +and if they are so often, get so tied to our other ideas that we can +hardly wrench them away. _Interesting_ ideas stick in the mind by the +associations which give them interest. All the minor laws of conviction +resolve themselves into this great one: ‘That at first we believe all +which occurs to us—that afterwards we have a tendency to believe that +which we cannot help often occurring to us, and that this tendency is +stronger or weaker in some sort of proportion to our inability to prevent +their recurrence.’ When the inability to prevent the recurrence of the +idea is very great, so that the reason is powerless on the mind, the +consequent ‘conviction’ is an eager, irritable, and ungovernable passion. + +If these principles are true, they suggest some lessons which are not now +accepted. They prove: + +1. That we should be very careful how we let ourselves believe that +which may turn out to be error. Milton says that ‘error is but opinion,’ +meaning true opinion, ‘in the making.’ But when the conviction of +any error is a strong passion, it leaves, like all other passions, a +permanent mark on the mind. We can never be as if we had never felt +it. ‘Once a heretic, always a heretic,’ is thus far true, that a mind +once given over to a passionate conviction is never as fit as it would +otherwise have been to receive the truth on the same subject. Years after +the passion may return upon him, and inevitably small recurrences of it +will irritate his intelligence and disturb its calm. We cannot at once +expel a familiar idea, and so long as the idea remains, its effect will +remain too. + +2. That we must always keep an account in our minds of the degree of +evidence on which we hold our convictions, and be most careful that we +do not permanently permit ourselves to feel a stronger conviction than +the evidence justifies. If we do, since evidence is the only criterion of +truth, we may easily get a taint of error that may be hard to clear away. +This may seem obvious, yet, if I do not mistake, Father Newman’s _Grammar +of Assent_ is little else than a systematic treatise designed to deny and +confute it. + +3. That if we do, as in life we must sometimes, indulge a ‘provisional +enthusiasm,’ as it may be called, for an idea—for example, if an orator +in the excitement of speaking does not keep his phrases to probability, +and if in the hurry of emotion he quite believes all he says, his plain +duty is on other occasions to watch himself carefully, and to be sure +that he does not as a permanent creed believe what in a peculiar and +temporary state he was led to say he felt and to feel. + +Similarly, we are all in our various departments of life in the habit of +assuming various probabilities as if they were certainties. In Lombard +Street the dealers assume that ‘Messrs. Baring’s acceptance at three +months’ date is sure to be paid,’ and that ‘Peel’s Act will always be +suspended in a panic.’ And the familiarity of such ideas makes it nearly +impossible for anyone who spends his day in Lombard Street to doubt of +them. But, nevertheless, a person who takes care of his mind will keep up +the perception that they are not certainties. + +Lastly, we should utilise this intense emotion of conviction as far as +we can. Dry minds, which give an intellectual ‘assent’ to conclusions +which feel no strong glow of faith in them, often do not know what their +opinions are. They have every day to go over the arguments again, or to +refer to a note-book to know what they believe. But intense convictions +make a memory for themselves, and if they can be kept to the truths of +which there is good evidence, they give a readiness of intellect, a +confidence in action, a consistency in character, which are not to be +had without them. For a time, indeed, they give these benefits when the +propositions believed are false, but then they spoil the mind for seeing +the truth, and they are very dangerous, because the believer may discover +his error, and a perplexity of intellect, a hesitation in action, and +an inconsistency in character are the sure consequences of an entire +collapse in pervading and passionate conviction. + + + + +_THE METAPHYSICAL BASIS OF TOLERATION._[25] + +(1874.) + + +One of the most marked peculiarities of recent times in England is the +increased liberty in the expression of opinion. Things are now said +constantly and without remark, which even ten years ago would have +caused a hubbub, and have drawn upon those who said them much obloquy. +But already I think there are signs of a reaction. In many quarters of +orthodox opinion I observe a disposition to say, ‘Surely this is going +too far; really we cannot allow such things to be said.’ And what is more +curious, some writers, whose pens are just set at liberty, and who would, +not at all long ago, have been turned out of society for the things that +they say, are setting themselves to explain the ‘weakness’ of liberty, +and to extol the advantages of persecution. As it appears to me that the +new practice of this country is a great improvement on its old one, and +as I conceive that the doctrine of Toleration rests on what may be called +a metaphysical basis, I wish shortly to describe what that basis is. + +I should say that, except where it is explained to the contrary, I use +the word ‘Toleration’ to mean toleration by law. Toleration by Society of +matters not subject to legal penalty is a kindred subject on which, if +I have room, I will add a few words, but in the main I propose to deal +with the simpler subject,—toleration by law. And by toleration, too, I +mean, when it is not otherwise said, toleration in the public expression +of opinions. Toleration of acts and practices is another allied subject +on which I can, in a paper like this, but barely hope to indicate what +seems to me to be the truth. And I should add, that I deal only with the +discussion of impersonal doctrines. The law of libel, which deals with +accusations of living persons, is a topic requiring consideration by +itself. + +Meaning this by ‘toleration,’ I do not think we ought to be surprised +at a reaction against it. What was said long ago of slavery seems to be +equally true of persecution,—it ‘exists by the law of nature.’ It is so +congenial to human nature, that it has arisen everywhere in past times, +as history shows; that the cessation of it is a matter of recent times +in England; that even now, taking the world as a whole, the practice and +the theory of it are in a triumphant majority. Most men have always much +preferred persecution, and do so still; and it is therefore only natural +that it should continually reappear in discussion and argument. + +One mode in which it tempts human nature is very obvious. Persons of +strong opinions wish, above all things, to propagate those opinions. They +find close at hand what seems an immense engine for that propagation; +they find the _State_, which has often in history interfered for and +against opinions,—which has had a great and undeniable influence in +helping some and hindering others,—and in their eagerness they can hardly +understand why they should not make use of this great engine to crush +the errors which they hate, and to replace them with the tenets they +approve. So long as there are earnest believers in the world, they will +always wish to punish opinions, even if their judgment tells them it is +unwise, and their conscience that it is wrong. They may not gratify their +inclination, but the inclination will not be the less real. + +Since the time of Carlyle, ‘earnestness’ has been a favourite virtue +in literature, and it is customary to treat this wish to twist other +people’s belief into ours as if it were a part of the love of truth. +And in the highest minds so it may be. But the mass of mankind have, as +I hold, no such fine motive. Independently of truth or falsehood, the +spectacle of a different belief from ours is disagreeable to us, in the +same way that the spectacle of a different form of dress and manners is +disagreeable. A set of schoolboys will persecute a new boy with a new +sort of jacket; they will hardly let him have a new-shaped penknife. +Grown-up people are just as bad, except when culture has softened them. A +mob will hoot a foreigner who looks very unlike themselves. Much of the +feeling of ‘earnest believers’ is, I believe, altogether the same. They +wish others to think as they do, not only because they wish to diffuse +doctrinal truth, but also and much more because they cannot bear to hear +the words of a creed different from their own. At any rate, without +further analysing the origin of the persecuting impulse, its deep root in +human nature, and its great power over most men, are evident. + +But this natural impulse was not the only motive—perhaps was not the +principal one—of historical persecutions. The main one, or a main one, +was a most ancient political idea which once ruled the world, and of +which deep vestiges are still to be traced on many sides. The most +ancient conception of a State is that of a ‘religious partnership,’ in +which any member may by his acts bring down the wrath of the gods on +the other members, and, so to speak, on the whole company. This danger +was, in the conception of the time, at once unlimited and inherited; +in any generation, partners A, C, D, &c., might suffer loss of life, +or health, or goods—the whole association even might perish, because +in a past generation the ancestors of Z had somehow offended the gods. +Thus the historian of Athens tells us that after a particular act of +sacrilege—a breach of the local privileges of sanctuary—the perpetrators +were compelled ‘to retire into banishment;’ and that those who had died +before the date he is speaking of were ‘disinterred and cast beyond the +borders.’ ‘Yet,’ he adds, ‘their exile continuing, as it did, only for +a time, was not held sufficient to expiate the impiety for which they +had been condemned. The Alkmoônids, one of the most powerful families +in Attica, long continued to be looked upon as a tainted race, and in +cases of public calamity were liable to be singled out as having by their +sacrilege drawn down the judgment of the gods upon their countrymen.’ +And as false opinions about the gods have almost always been thought +to be peculiarly odious to them, the misbeliever, the ‘miscreant,’ has +been almost always thought to be likely not only to impair hereafter the +salvation of himself and others in a future world, but also to bring on +his neighbours and his nation grievous calamities immediately in this. +He has been persecuted to stop political danger more than to arrest +intellectual error. + +But it will be said,—Put history aside, and come to things now. Why +should not those who are convinced that certain doctrines are errors, +that they are most dangerous, that they may ruin man’s welfare here +and his salvation hereafter, use the power of the State to extirpate +those errors? Experience seems to show that the power of the State can +be put forth in that way effectually. Why, then, should it not be put +forth? If I had room, I should like for a moment to criticise the word +‘effectually.’ I should say that the State, in the cases where it is most +wanted, is not of the use which is thought. I admit that it extirpates +error, but I doubt if it creates belief—at least, if it does so in cases +where the persecuted error is suitable to the place and time. In such +cases, I think the effect has often been to eradicate a heresy among +the few, at the cost of creating a scepticism among the many; to kill +the error, no doubt, but also to ruin the general belief. And this is +the cardinal point, for the propagation of the ‘truth’ is the end of +persecution; all else is only a means. But I have not space to discuss +this, and will come to the main point. + +I say that the State power should not be used to arrest discussion, +because the State power may be used equally for truth or error, for +Mohammedanism or Christianity, for belief or no-belief, but in discussion +truth has an advantage. Arguments always tell for truth, as such, +and against error as such; if you let the human mind alone, it has a +preference for good argument over bad; it oftener takes truth than not. +But if you do not let it alone, you give truth no advantage at all; you +substitute a game of force, where all doctrines are equal, for a game of +logic, where the truer have the better chance. + +The process by which truth wins in discussion is this,—certain strong +and eager minds embrace original opinions, seldom all wrong, never quite +true, but of a mixed sort, part truth, part error. These they inculcate +on all occasions, and on every side, and gradually bring the cooler sort +of men to a hearing of them. These cooler people serve as quasi-judges, +while the more eager ones are a sort of advocates; a Court of Inquisition +is sitting perpetually, investigating, informally and silently, but not +ineffectually, what, on all great subjects of human interest, is truth +and error. There is no sort of infallibility about the Court; often it +makes great mistakes, most of its decisions are incomplete in thought +and imperfect in expression. Still, on the whole, the force of evidence +keeps it right. The truth has the best of the proof, and therefore wins +most of the judgments. The process is slow, far more tedious than the +worst Chancery suit. Time in it is reckoned not by days, but by years, or +rather by centuries. Yet, on the whole, it creeps along, if you do not +stop it. But all is arrested, if persecution begins—if you have a _coup +d’état_, and let loose soldiers on the Court; for it is perfect chance +which litigant turns them in, or what creed they are used to compel men +to believe. + +This argument, however, assumes two things. In the first place, it +presupposes that we are speaking of a state of society in which +discussion is possible. And such societies are not very common. +Uncivilised man is not capable of discussion: savages have been justly +described as having ‘the intellect of children with the passions and +strength of men.’ Before anything like speculative argument can be used +with them, their intellect must be strengthened and their passions +restrained. There was, as it seems to me, a long preliminary period +before human nature, as we now see it, existed, and while it was being +formed. During that preliminary period, persecution, like slavery, played +a most considerable part. Nations mostly became nations by having a +common religion. It was a necessary condition of the passage from a loose +aggregate of savages to a united polity, that they should believe in the +same gods and worship these gods in the same way. What was necessary +was, that they should for a long period—for centuries, perhaps—lead the +same life and conform to the same usages. They believed that the ‘gods +of their fathers’ had commanded these usages. Early law is hardly to +be separated from religious ritual; it is more like the tradition of a +Church than the enactments of a statute-book. It is a thing essentially +immemorial and sacred. It is not conceived of as capable either of +addition or diminution; it is a body of holy customs which no one is +allowed either to break or to impugn. The use of these is to aid in +creating a common national character, which in after-times may be tame +enough to bear discussion, and which may suggest common axioms upon which +discussion can be founded. Till that common character has been formed, +discussion is impossible; it cannot be used to find out truth, for it +cannot exist; it is not that we have to forego its efficacy on purpose, +we have not the choice of it, for its prerequisites cannot be found. +The case of civil liberty is, as I conceive, much the same. Early ages +need a coercive despotism more than they need anything else. The age of +debate comes later. An omnipotent power to enforce the sacred law is +that which is then most required. A constitutional opposition would be +born before its time. It would be dragging the wheel before the horses +were harnessed. The strongest advocates both of Liberty and Toleration +may consistently hold that there were unhappy ages before either became +possible, and when attempts at either would have been pernicious. + +The case is analogous to that of education. Every parent wisely teaches +his child his own creed, and till the child has attained a certain age, +it is better that he should not hear too much of any other. His mind will +in the end be better able to weigh arguments, because it does not begin +to weigh them so early. He will hardly comprehend any creed unless he +has been taught some creed. But the restrictions of childhood must be +relaxed in youth, and abandoned in manhood. One object of education is +to train us for discussion, and as that training gradually approaches to +completeness, we should gradually begin to enter into and to take part +in discussion. The restrictions that are useful at nine years old are +pernicious at nineteen. + +This analogy would have seemed to me obvious, but there are many most +able persons who turn the matter just the other way. They regard the +discipline of education as a precedent for persecution. They say, ‘I +would no sooner let the nation at large read that bad book than I would +let my children read it.’ They refuse to admit that the age of the +children makes any difference. At heart they think that they are wiser +than the mass of mankind, just as they are wiser than their children, and +would regulate the studies of both unhesitatingly. But experience shows +that no man is on all points so wise as the mass of men are after a good +discussion, and that if the ideas of the very wisest were by miracle to +be fixed on the race, the certain result would be to stereotype monstrous +error. If we fixed the belief of Bacon, we should believe that the earth +went round the sun: if we fixed that of Newton, we should believe ‘that +the Argonautic expedition was a real event, and occurred B.C. 937; that +Hercules was a real person, and delivered Theseus, another real person, +B.C. 936; that in the year 1036 Ceres, a woman of Sicily, in seeking her +daughter who was stolen, came into Attica, and there taught the Greeks to +sow corn.’ And the worst is, that the minds of most would-be persecutors +are themselves unfixed; their opinions are in a perpetual flux; they +would persecute all others for tenets which yesterday they had not heard +of and which they will not believe to-morrow. + +But it will be said, the theory of Toleration is not so easy as that +of education. We know by a certain fact when a young man is grown up +and can bear discussion. We judge by his age, as to which every one is +agreed. But we cannot tell by any similar patent fact when a state is +mature enough to bear discussion. There may be two opinions about it. +And I quite agree that the matter of fact is more difficult to discover +in one case than in the other; still it is a matter of fact which the +rulers of the State must decide upon their responsibility, and as best +they can. And the highest sort of rulers will decide it like the English +in India—with no reference to their own belief. For years the English +prohibited the preaching of Christianity in India, though it was their +own religion, because they thought that it could not be tranquilly +listened to. They now permit it, because they find that the population +can bear the discussion. Of course, most Governments are wholly unequal +to so high a morality and so severe a self-command. The Governments of +most countries are composed of persons who wish everybody to believe +as they do, merely because they do. Some here and there, from a higher +motive, so eagerly wish to propagate their opinions, that they are +unequal to consider the problem of toleration impartially. They persecute +till the persecuted become strong enough to make them desist. But the +delicacy of a rule and the unwillingness of Governments to adopt it, do +not prove that it is not the best and the right one. There are already in +inevitable jurisprudence many lines of vital importance just as difficult +to draw. The line between sanity and insanity has necessarily to be +drawn, and it is as nice as anything can be. The competency of people to +bear discussion is not intrinsically more difficult than their competency +to manage their own affairs, though perhaps a Government is less likely +to be impartial and more likely to be biassed in questions of discussion +than in pecuniary ones. + +Secondly, the doctrine that rulers are to permit discussion assumes +not only, as we have seen, that discussion is possible, but also that +discussion will not destroy the Government. No Government is bound to +permit a controversy which will annihilate itself. It is a trustee +for many duties, and if possible, it must retain the power to perform +those duties. The controversies which may ruin it are very different in +different countries. The Government of the day must determine in each +case what those questions are. If the Roman Emperors who persecuted +Christianity really did so because they imagined that Christianity would +destroy the Roman Empire, I think they are to be blamed not for their +misconception of duty, but for their mistake of fact. The existence of +Christianity was not really more inconsistent with the existence of the +Empire in the time of Diocletian than in that of Constantine; but if +Diocletian thought that it was inconsistent, it was his duty to preserve +the Empire. + +It will be asked, ‘What do you mean by preserving a society? All +societies are in a state of incipient change; the best of them are often +the most changing; what is meant, then, by saying you will “preserve” +any? You admit that you cannot keep them unaltered, what then do you +propose to do?’ I answer that, in this respect, the life of societies is +like the life of the individuals composing them. You cannot interfere +so as to keep a man’s body unaltered; you can interfere so as to keep +him alive. What changes in such cases will be fatal, is a question of +fact. The Government must determine what will, so to say, ‘break up +the whole thing’ and what will not. No doubt it may decide wrong. In +France, the country of experiments, General Cavaignac said, ‘A Government +which allows its principle to be discussed, is a lost Government,’ and +therefore he persecuted on behalf of the Republic, thinking it was +essential to society. Louis Napoleon similarly persecuted on behalf of +the Second Empire; M. Thiers on behalf of the Republic again; the Duc de +Broglie now persecutes on behalf of the existing nondescript. All these +may be mistakes or some of them, or none. Here, as before, the practical +difficulties in the application of a rule do not disprove its being the +true and the only one. + +It will be objected that this principle is applicable only to truths +which are gained by discussion. ‘We admit,’ such objectors say, ‘that +where discussion is the best or the only means of proving truth, it +is unadvisable to prohibit that discussion, but there are other means +besides discussion of arriving at truth, which are sometimes better than +discussion even where discussion is applicable, and sometimes go beyond +it and attain regions in which it is inapplicable; and where those more +efficient means are applicable it may be wise to prohibit discussion, for +in these instances discussion may confuse the human mind and impede it +in the use of those higher means. The case is analogous to that of the +eyes. For the most part it is a sound rule to tell persons who want to +see things, that they must necessarily use _both_ their eyes, and rely on +them. But there are cases in which that rule is wrong. If a man wants to +see things too distant for the eyes, as the satellites of Jupiter and the +ring of Saturn, you must tell him, on the contrary, to shut one eye and +look through a telescope with the other. The ordinary mode of using the +common instruments may, in exceptional cases, interfere with the right +use of the supplementary instruments.’ And I quite admit that there are +such exceptional cases and such additional means; but I say that their +existence introduces no new difficulty into the subject, and that it is +no reason for prohibiting discussion except in the cases in which we have +seen already that it was advisable to prohibit it. + +Putting the matter in the most favourable way for these objectors, and +making all possible concessions to them, I believe the exceptions which +they contend for must come at last to three. + +First, There are certain necessary propositions which the human mind +_will_ think, must think, and cannot help thinking. For example, we +must believe that things which are equal to the same thing are equal +to each other,—that a thing cannot _both_ be and not be,—that it must +_either_ be or not be. These truths are not gained by discussion; on the +contrary, discussion presupposes at least some of them, for you cannot +argue without first principles any more than you can use a lever without +a fulcrum. The prerequisites of reasoning must somehow be recognised by +the human mind before we begin to reason. So much is obvious, but then +it is obvious also that in such cases attempts at discussion cannot do +any harm. If the human mind has in it certain first principles which it +cannot help seeing, and which it accepts of itself, there is no harm in +arguing against those first principles. You may contend as long as you +like, that things which are equal to the same thing are _not_ equal to +each other, or that a thing _can_ both exist and not exist at the same +time, but you will not convince anyone. If you could convince anyone you +would do him irreparable harm, for you would hurt the basis of his mind +and destroy the use of his reason. But happily you cannot convince him. +That which the human mind cannot help thinking it cannot help thinking, +and discussion can no more remove the primary perceptions than it can +produce them. The multiplication table will remain the multiplication +table, neither more nor less, however much we may argue either for it or +against it. + +But, though the denial of the real necessary perceptions of the human +mind cannot possibly do any harm, the denial of alleged necessary +perceptions is often essential to the discovery of truth. The human mind, +as experience shows, is apt to manufacture sham self-evidences. The most +obvious case is, that men perpetually ‘do sums’ wrong. If we dwell long +enough and intently enough on the truths of arithmetic they are in each +case self-evident; but, if we are too quick, or let our minds get dull, +we may make any number of mistakes. A certain deliberation and a certain +intensity are both essential to correctness in the matter. Fictitious +necessities of thought will be imposed on us without end unless we are +careful. The greatest minds are not exempt from the risk of such mistakes +even in matters most familiar to them. On the contrary, the history of +science is full of cases in which the ablest men and the most experienced +assumed that it was impossible to think things which are in matter of +fact true, and which it has since been found possible to think quite +easily. The mode in which these sham self-evidences are distinguished +from the real ones is by setting as many minds as possible to try as +often as possible whether they can help thinking the thing or not. But +such trials will never exist without discussion. So far, therefore, +the existence of self-evidences in the human mind is not a reason for +discouraging discussion, but a reason for encouraging it. + +Next, it is certainly true that many conclusions which are by no means +self-evident and which are gradually obtained, nevertheless, are not +the result of discussion. For example, the opinion of a man as to the +characters of his friends and acquaintances is not the result of distinct +argument, but the aggregate of distinct impressions: it is not the result +of an investigation consciously pursued, but the effect of a multiplicity +of facts involuntarily presented; it is a definite thing and has a most +definite influence on the mind, but its origin is indefinite and not to +be traced; it is like a great fund raised in very small subscriptions and +of which the subscribers’ names are lost. But here again, though these +opinions too were not gained by discussion, their existence is a reason +for promoting discussion, not for preventing it. Every-day experience +shows that these opinions as to character are often mistaken in the last +degree. Human character is a most complex thing, and the impressions +which different people form of it are as various as the impressions +which the inhabitants of an impassable mountain have of its shape and +size. Each observer has an aggregate idea derived from certain actions +and certain sayings, but the real man has always or almost always said +a thousand sayings of a kind quite different and in a connection quite +different; he has done a vast variety of actions among ‘other men’ and +‘other minds;’ a mobile person will often seem hardly the same if you +meet him in very different societies. And how, except by discussion, is +the true character of such a person to be decided? Each observer must +bring his contingent to the list of _data_; those data must be arranged +and made use of. The certain and positive facts as to which everyone is +agreed must have their due weight: they must be combined and compared +with the various impressions as to which no two people exactly coincide. +A rough summary must be made of the whole. In no other way is it possible +to arrive at the truth of the matter. Without discussion each mind is +dependent on its own partial observation. A great man is one image—one +thing, so to speak—to his valet, another to his son, another to his wife, +another to his greatest friend. None of these must be stereotyped; all +must be compared. To prohibit discussion is to prohibit the corrective +process. + +Lastly, I hold that there are first principles or first perceptions which +are neither the result of constant, though forgotten trials like those +last spoken of, nor common to all the race like the first. The most +obvious seem to me to be the principles of taste. The primary perceptions +of beauty vary much in different persons, and for different persons at +the same time, but no one can say that they are not most real and most +influential parts of human nature. There is hardly a thing made by human +hands which is not affected more or less by the conception of beauty felt +by the maker; and there is hardly a human life which would not have been +different if the idea of beauty in the mind of the man who lived it had +been different. + +But certainly it would not answer to exclude subjects of taste from +discussion, and to allow one school of taste-teachers to reign alone, +and to prohibit the teaching of all rival schools. The effect would be +to fix on all ages the particular ideas of one age on a matter which is +beyond most others obscure and difficult to reduce to a satisfactory +theory. The human mind evidently differs at various times immensely in +its conclusions upon it, and there is nothing to show that the era of the +persecutor is wiser than any other era, or that his opinion is better +than anyone else’s. + +The case of these variable first principles is much like that of the +‘personal equation,’ as it is called in the theory of observations. Some +observers, it is found, habitually see a given phenomenon, say the star +coming to the meridian, a little sooner than most others; some later; no +two persons exactly coincide. The first thing done when a new man comes +into an observatory for practical work is to determine whether he sees +quick or slow; and this is called the ‘personal equation.’ But, according +to the theory of persecution, the national astronomer in each country +would set up his own mind as the standard; in one country he would be a +quick man, and would not let the slow people contest what he said; in +another he would be a slow man, and would not tolerate the quick people, +or let men speak their minds; and so the astronomical observations—the +astronomical _creeds_ if I may say so—of different countries would +radically differ. But as toleration and discussion are allowed, no such +absurd result follows. The observations of different minds are compared +with those of others, and truth is assumed to lie in the mean between the +errors of the quick people and the errors of the slow ones. + +No such accurate result can be expected in more complex matters. The +phenomena of astronomical observation relate only to very simple events, +and to a very simple fact about these events. But perceptions of beauty +have an infinite complexity: they are all subtle aggregates of countless +details, and about each of these details probably every mind in some +degree differs from every other one. But in a rough way the same sort of +agreement is possible. Discussion is only an organised mode, by which +various minds compare their conclusions with those of various others. +Bold and strong minds describe graphic and definite impressions: at +first sight these impressions seem wholly different. Writers of the +last century thought classical architecture altogether inferior to +Gothic; many writers now put it just the other way, and maintain a +mediæval cathedral to be a thing altogether superior in kind and nature +to anything classical. For years the world thought Claude’s landscapes +perfect. Then came Mr. Ruskin, and by his ability and eloquence he has +made a whole generation depredate them, and think Turner’s altogether +superior. The extrication of truth by such discussions is very slow; it +is often retarded; it is often thrown back; it often seems to pause for +ages. But upon the whole it makes progress, and the principle of that +progress is this:—Each mind which is true to itself, and which draws its +own impressions carefully, and which compares those impressions with the +impressions of others, arrives at certain conclusions, which as far as +that mind is concerned are ultimate, and are its highest conclusions. +These it sets down as expressively as it can on paper, or communicates by +word of mouth, and these again form data which other minds can contrast +with their own. In this incessant comparison eccentric minds fall off +on every side; some like Milton, some Wordsworth, some can see nothing +in Dryden, some find Racine intolerably dull, some think Shakespeare +barbarous, others consider the contents of the Iliad ‘battles and +schoolboy stuff.’ With history it is the same; some despise one great +epoch, some another. Each epoch has its violent partisans, who will +listen to nothing else, and who think every other epoch in comparison +mean and wretched. These violent minds are always faulty and sometimes +absurd, but they are almost always useful to mankind. They compel men +to hear neglected truth. They uniformly exaggerate their gospel; but +it generally _is_ a gospel. Carlyle said many years since of the old +Poor Law in England:—‘It being admitted then that outdoor relief should +at once cease, what means did great Nature take to make it cease? She +created various men who thought the cessation of outdoor relief the one +thing needful.’ In the same way, it being desirable that the taste of men +should be improved on some point, Nature’s instrument on that point is +some man of genius, of attractive voice and limited mind, who declaims +and insists, not only that the special improvement is a good thing in +itself, but the best of all things, and the root of all other good +things. Most useful, too, are others less apparent; shrinking, sensitive, +testing minds, of whom often the world knows nothing, but each of whom +is in the circle just near him an authority on taste, and communicates +by personal influence the opinions he has formed. The human mind of a +certain maturity, if left alone, prefers real beauty to sham beauty, and +prefers it the sooner if original men suggest new charms, and quiet men +criticise and judge of them. + +But an æsthetical persecution would derange all this, for generally +the compulsive power would be in the hands of the believers in some +tradition. The State represents ‘the rough force of society,’ and is +little likely to be amenable to new charms or new ideas; and therefore +the first victim of the persecution would be the original man who was +proposing that which in the end would most improve mankind; and the next +would be the testing and discerning critic who was examining these ideas +and separating the chaff from the wheat in them. Neither would conform +to the old tradition. The inventor would be too eager; the critic too +scrupulous; and so a heavy code of ancient errors would be chained upon +mankind. Nor would the case be at all the better if by some freak of +events the propounder of the new doctrine were to gain full control, +and to prohibit all he did not like. He would try, and try in vain, to +make the inert mass of men accept or care for his new theory, and his +particular enemy would be the careful critic who went with him a little +way and then refused to go any further. If you allow persecution, the +partisans of the new sort of beauty will, if they can, attack those of +the old sort; and the partisans of the old sort will attack those of the +new sort; while both will turn on the quiet and discriminating person who +is trying to select what is good from each. Some chance taste will be +fixed for ages. + +But it will be said, ‘Whoever heard of such nonsense as an æsthetical +persecution? Everybody knows such matters of taste must be left to +take care of themselves; as far as they are concerned, nobody wants to +persecute or prohibit.’ But I have spoken of matters of taste because it +is sometimes best to speak in parables. The case of morals and religion, +in which people have always persecuted and still wish to persecute, is +the very same. If there are (as I myself think there are) ultimate truths +of morals and religion which more or less vary for each mind, some sort +of standard and some kind of agreement can only be arrived at about it +in the very same way. The same comparison of one mind with another is +necessary; the same discussion; the same use of criticising minds; the +same use of original ones. The mode of arriving at truth is the same, and +also the mode of stopping it. + +We now see the reason why, as I said before, religious persecution often +extirpates new doctrines, but commonly fails to maintain the belief in +old tenets. You can prevent whole classes of men from hearing of the +religion which is congenial to them, but you cannot make men believe a +religion which is uncongenial. You can prevent the natural admirers of +Gothic architecture from hearing anything of it, or from seeing it; but +you cannot make them admire classical architecture. You may prevent the +admirers of Claude from seeing his pictures, or from praising them; but +you cannot make them admirers of Turner. Just so, you may by persecution +prevent minds prone to be Protestant from being Protestant; but you will +not make men real Catholics: you may prevent naturally Catholic minds +from being Catholic; but you will not make them genuine Protestants. +You will not make those believe your religion who are predisposed by +nature in favour of a different kind of religion; you will make of +them, instead, more or less conscious sceptics. Being denied the sort +of religion of which the roots are in their minds and which they could +believe, they will for ever be conscious of an indefinite want. They will +constantly feel after something which they are never able to attain; they +will never be able to settle upon anything; they will feel an instinctive +repulsion from everything; they will be sceptics at heart, because they +were denied the creed for which their heart craves; they will live as +indifferentists, because they were withheld by force from the only creed +to which they would not be indifferent. Persecution in intellectual +countries produces a superficial conformity, but also underneath an +intense, incessant, implacable doubt. + +Upon examination, therefore, the admission that certain truths are not +gained by discussion introduces no new element into the subject. The +discussion of such truths is as necessary as of all other truths. The +only limitations are that men’s minds shall in the particular society be +mature enough to bear the discussion, and that the discussion shall not +destroy the society. + +I acknowledge these two limitations to the doctrine that discussion +should be free, but I do not admit another which is often urged. It is +said that those who write against toleration should not be tolerated; +that discussion should not aid the enemies of discussion. But why not? +If there is a strong Government and a people fit for discussion, why +should not the cause be heard? We must not assume that the liberty of +discussion has no case of exception. We have just seen that there are, +in fact, several such. In each instance, let the people decide whether +the particular discussion shall go on or not. Very likely, in some cases, +they may decide wrong; but it is better that they should so decide, than +that we should venture to anticipate all experience, and to make sure +that they cannot possibly be right. + +It is plain, too, that the argument, here applied to the toleration of +opinion has no application to that of actions. The human mind, in the +cases supposed, learns by freely hearing all arguments, but in no case +does it learn by trying freely all practices. Society, as we now have +it, cannot exist at all unless certain acts are prohibited. It goes on +much better because many other acts are prohibited also. The Government +must take the responsibility of saying what actions it will allow; +that is its first business, and the allowance of all would be the end +of civilisation. But it must, under the conditions specified, hear all +opinions, for the tranquil discussion of all more than anything else +promotes the progressive knowledge of truth, which is the mainspring of +civilisation. + +Nor does the argument that the law should not impose a penalty on the +expression of any opinion equally prove that society should not in +many cases apply a penalty to that expression. Society can deal much +more severely than the law with many kinds of acts, because it need be +far less strict in the evidence it requires. It can take cognisance of +matters of common repute and of things of which everyone is sure, but +which nobody can prove. Particularly, it can fairly well compare the +character of the doctrine with the character of the agent, which law +can do but imperfectly, if at all. And it is certain that opinions are +evidence of the character of those who hold them—not conclusive evidence, +but still presumptive. Experience shows that every opinion is compatible +with what every one would admit to be a life fairly approvable, a +life far higher than that of the mass of men. Great scepticism and +great belief have both been found in characters whom both sceptics and +believers must admire. Still, on the whole, there is a certain kinship +between belief and character; those who disagree with a man’s fundamental +creed will generally disapprove of his habitual character. If, therefore, +society sees a man maintaining opinions which by experience it has been +led to connect with actions such as it discountenances, it is justified +in provisionally discountenancing the man who holds those opinions. Such +a man should be put to the proof to show by his life that the opinions +which he holds are not connected with really pernicious actions, as +society thinks they are. If he is visibly leading a high life, society +should discountenance him no longer; it is then clear that he did not +lead a bad life, and the idea that he did or might lead such a life was +the only reason for so doing. A doubt was suggested, but it also has +been removed. This habit of suspicion does not, on the whole, impair +free discussion; perhaps even it improves it. It keeps out the worst +disputants, men of really bad character, whose opinions are the results +of that character, and who refrain from publishing them, because they +fear what society may say. If the law could similarly distinguish between +good disputants and bad, it might usefully impose penalties on the bad. +But, of course, this is impossible. Law cannot distinguish between the +niceties of character; it must punish the publication of an opinion, if +it punishes at all, no matter whether the publisher is a good man or +whether he is a bad one. In such a matter, society is a discriminating +agent: the law is but a blind one. + +To most people I may seem to be slaying the slain, and proving what no +one doubts. People, it will be said, no longer wish to persecute. But +I say, they _do_ wish to persecute. In fact, from their writings, and +still better from their conversation, it is easy to see that very many +believers would persecute sceptics, and that very many sceptics would +persecute believers. Society may be wiser; but most earnest believers and +most earnest unbelievers are not at all wiser. + + + + +_THE PUBLIC WORSHIP REGULATION BILL._[26] + +(1874.) + + +If the ‘Public Worship Regulation Bill’ dealt only with subjects +theological or religious, we should not interfere in the discussion; but +it deals also with political questions, on which we do not think it right +to be silent, especially as many whom we much respect have, we think, +selected a policy of which the effect will be the reverse of what they +expect, and the success of which they may hereafter much regret. + +All changes in England should be made slowly and after long discussion. +Public opinion should be permitted to ripen upon them. And the reason +is, that all the important English institutions are the relics of a +long past; that they have undergone many transformations; that, like +old houses which have been altered many times, they are full both of +conveniences and inconveniences which at first sight would not be +imagined. Very often a rash alterer would pull down the very part which +makes them habitable, to cure a minor evil or improve a defective outline. + +The English Church is one of those among our institutions which, if it is +to be preserved at all, should be touched most anxiously. It is one of +our oldest institutions. Every part of it has a history, which few of us +thoroughly understand, but which we all know to be long and important. +In its political relations it has been altered many times, and each time +under circumstances of considerable complexity. The last settlement was +made more than two hundred years ago, when men’s minds were in a very +different state from what they are now: when Newton had not written, when +Locke had not thought, when physical science, as we now have it, did +not exist, when modern philosophy, for England at least, had not begun. +The railways, the telegraphs, the very common sense of these times, +would have been unintelligible in the year 1660; they would have been +still more unintelligible in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. To attempt to +enforce on us now a settlement made in times so different, is a grave +undertaking; it ought only to be made after the most ample discussion, +and when every competent person has had time to consider the effect. + +We have as yet felt little inconvenience from our old law, because we +have dealt with it in a truly English manner. Always refusing to change +it explicitly, always saying that we would never so change it, we were +changing it silently all the while. Year by year this practice was +omitted, or this habit insensibly changed. Each generation differed from +its fathers; and though they might in part utter the same words, they +did not mean the same things; their intellectual life was different. +Incessant changes in science, in literature, in art, and in politics—in +all that forms thinking minds—have made it impossible that really and in +fact we should think the same things in 1874 as our ancestors in 1674 or +1774. Just as in legal theory Queen Victoria has pretty much the same +prerogative as Queen Elizabeth, so too in legal theory the English Church +may be identical with that of two hundred years ago; but the Church is +not a legal theory, it is ‘a congregation of faithful men;’ and no one of +these is in a state of mind identical, or nearly identical, with those of +two hundred years ago. + +Many Continental statesmen would be much puzzled at this insensible +alteration; they would have a difficulty in imagining a law which was a +law in theory but not a law in practice, which no one would alter in word +and no one enforce in reality. But the English are very practised in this +sort of arrangement—they have a kind of genius for the compensation of +errors. For many years we had probably the worst and most bloody penal +law in Europe; it is awful to read the old statutes which fix death +as the penalty for minor acts altogether undeserving of it. But these +statutes did not work nearly so much evil as might have been expected. +There was besides a complex system of indictments which let off very +many culprits upon trifling flaws, and there was also an absurd system +of incessant remissions and pardons; the worst evils of an excessively +bad law were exceedingly mitigated by a very bad mode of applying it. +Speaking roughly, and subject to minor criticism, the history has been +the same in the Church; in it, too, an imperfect law has been remedied by +an imperfect mode of procedure. The Church has been allowed to change +in this and that because it has been exceedingly difficult to interfere +with it. The legal penalty against change has been distant, costly, +and uncertain; and therefore it has not been applied. Change has been +possible because the punishment of change was difficult. But the essence +of the ‘Public Worship Regulation Bill’ is to make that punishment easy. +‘If the Rubric says so,’ say its supporters, ‘the Rubric ought to be +enforced.’ This is as if Sir Samuel Romilly had attacked, not our bad +penal code, but our bad penal procedure. If, by the historical growth of +approximate equivalents, _A_ mitigates _B_, you will deteriorate, not +improve the world, if you change _A_ without changing _B_, though both +may be evils. + +The analogy, indeed, very imperfectly expresses the truth. In the recent +history of the Church, the English have conspicuously shown another of +their predominant peculiarities—indifference to abstract truth. When a +quarter of a century ago English lawyers in the Court of Privy Council +were first required to decide theological questions, they did so in a +way which astonished theologians. They declined to supply any abstract +proposition. If the enacted formularies contained such and such words, +no clergyman of the Church could, according to them, contradict those +words, but they allowed the clergy to say anything else. We cannot +use theological terms here; but suppose, by an economical analogy, +the formulary had said that ‘Free trade was beneficial to mankind,’ +the lawyers would have decided that no clergyman could say that free +trade was not beneficial; but they would have allowed him to say that +‘Commercial liberty was inexpressibly disastrous to mankind,’ because as +lawyers they would not undertake to say that ‘free trade’ and ‘commercial +liberty’ meant the same thing, or that in an abstract subject the two +phrases might not in some way and to some minds seem consistent. In mere +description this kind of decision may not seem very sensible, and it is +utterly contrary to any which a theologian would ever have adopted; but +in practice it preserved the Church Establishment. It was first applied +in the Gorham case, and retained the Evangelical clergy in the Church; +then, in the _Essays and Reviews_ case, it retained the Broad Church; +and lastly, in Mr. Bennett’s case, it retained the High Church. If the +Establishment was to be maintained, it was necessary that all these +parties should be kept side by side within it, and by this system of +interpretation they were thus kept. + +Unfortunately, the courts of law have not been able to apply the same +sort of judicial decision to the practical directions for the public +worship of the Church which they applied to her theoretical teachings. +There is inevitably something more distinct and clear about acts which +are required to be done at a given time and place, than in statements of +abstract doctrine. When the courts have been appealed to, it has not been +possible to apply to ritual the same comprehensiveness which has had such +excellent political effects in the case of doctrine. But, nevertheless, +there is exactly the same necessity for it. Almost every party in the +Church is harassed by some of her rules, just as it is hampered by +some of her words. The Broad Church dislikes the Athanasian creed, and +avoids the use of it. The Low Church and the High Church are in vital +and necessary opposition as to the mode of conducting the Sacramental +services. In every characteristic Church every party thinks probably +something is done which the strict Rubric would forbid, or something +omitted which it would prescribe. Until now this difficulty has not been +very acutely felt. As we have explained, the imperfection of the law was +cured by the imperfection of the procedure. No doubt the rubrics were +framed in other days; no doubt they took no notice of the wants of the +present day; no doubt a strict adherence to them would expel from the +Church very many whose doctrines had been decided to be consistent with +hers. But then, to enforce the observance of the Rubric was difficult, +costly, and dubious, and so the natural evil did not happen. The wants +of various minds were variously met by various deviations from the law, +which in theory were liable to penalties, but which in practice were +unpunished. + +The scope of the ‘Public Worship Regulation Bill’ is to destroy this +variety. It is a new Act of Uniformity as far as ‘public worship’ is +concerned. A short and simple process—which has been so often stated that +we need not here describe it—is prescribed which will enable objectors to +enforce any rubric, and which no doubt will cause them to be so enforced. +The proposers of the Bill have not enough considered the applicability of +this primary assumption: no Church can have only a single form of public +worship unless it has also a single creed. An apparent uniformity may +be maintained in specified details; but in spirit, in feeling, in its +deepest consequences on those who habitually hear and see, the effect +will be different. A service conducted by a Broad Churchman, explained in +his sermon, and commented upon in his manner, will be very unlike what it +would be if that service is conducted by a _bonâ fide_ dogmatic believer. +No mere Act of Uniformity can prevent this. Still less can it efface the +inevitable difference between a Sacramental service in the hands of a +High Church clergyman and in those of a Low Church. The two belong to +separate and unlike species. The one believes that the service contains a +supernatural act, the other that it is an edifying rite; the one regards +it as an invisible miracle, the other as a conspicuous exhortation. +Make what laws you like, how can the two perform these services with +the same tone of mind, the same kind of thought, the same effect on the +congregation? You may dress two men up in the same clothes, but they +will be two men for all that. If once you permit two or more faiths in a +Church, you in truth permit two or more Rituals. The various feelings and +the various creeds will somehow find a means of bringing themselves into +contact with the minds with which they wish to be in contact. You have +‘swallowed the camel’ when you permitted the creed, and it is useless to +strain at the gnat and forbid the expression of it. + +This is to be especially borne in mind by those who think that there +is a party in the Church that desires to introduce Romanism, and who +approve of this Bill because they think it will counteract that party. +The essence of Romanism is not in its ceremonies, but in its doctrines. +As was explained to the House of Commons on Wednesday, nothing could be +simpler than the mode in which Mr. Newman used to conduct his services +at Oxford; and yet he then held ‘Roman’ doctrine, and penetrated half +the young men about him with a deep faith in the highest sacramental +principle. Unless you reverse the decision in the Bennett case, a +doctrine which no common person will distinguish from Romanism will +continue to be, and must be, taught in the Church of England. We do not +believe it will lose in strength by being denied this or that form of +Ritual. It will attract in any case the minds to whom it is congenial, +and it will rather gain than lose in _éclat_ by seeming to be persecuted. + +We shall be told that this argument proves too much; for that it proves +that this Bill will do nothing at all, and that therefore at least it +will do no harm. But it will, we think, do great harm—at least, if it be +good to keep the Establishment, and if it does harm to weaken it. The +real danger of the Establishment is from within, not from without. The +manner in which its sections have been retained within its limits has in +part developed, and as time goes on is still developing more largely, +a great evil. Specially the Low Church, specially the Broad Church, +and specially the High Church, have all been kept in her communion +because the judges refused to draw certain logical inferences from her +formularies; as lawyers they declined to draw them. But intellectual +young men, who are thinking of becoming clergymen, do not like this +reasoning. They say: ‘The courts of law may not like to draw these +inferences, but I must. I have spent my youth in a mental training which +has prepared me to draw them, and which compels me to do so. Educated as +I have been, I cannot take half an argument and leave it; I must work +it out to the end. That end seems to me inconsistent with this or that +of the formularies of the Church. Others say it is not, but I am not +sure that it is not; at any rate, I do not like to risk the happiness of +my life upon its being consistent. If in after years my investigation +should run counter to a vast collection of assertions framed by various +men, in various ages, of various minds, what will be my fate? I must +either sacrifice the profession by which I live, or the creed in which +I believe. The lawyers probably might not turn me out indeed; but my +conscience was not made by lawyers—I shall have to turn myself out.’ +This is the sort of thought which more and more prevents intellectual +young men from taking orders, and we are beginning to see the effect. +The moral excellence and the practical piety of the clergy are as good +as ever; but they want individuality of thought and originality of mind. +They have too universal a conformity to commonplace opinion. They are +not only conscientious, but indecisive; more and more they belong to +the most puzzling class to argue with, for more and more they ‘candidly +confess’ that they must admit your premises, but, on ‘account of the +obscurity of the subject,’ must decline to draw the inevitable inference. +Already this intellectual poorness is beginning to be felt; and if it +should augment, it will destroy the Establishment. She will not have in +her ranks arguers who can maintain her position either against those +who believe more or against those who believe less. Scepticism sends +trained and logical minds to the intellectual conflict; Romanism does +so also; but the Established Church refuses them—refuses them silently +and indirectly, but still effectually. The Public Worship Bill will, we +conceive, augment this difficulty almost at the very point at which its +being augmented will be most calamitous. Many young men who are acutely +conscious of the restraints of the Establishment in speculation, are +attracted by its freedom in practice. ‘I may be cramped in metaphysics,’ +they think at heart, ‘but I shall be free in action.’ But this Bill will +be a measure—for aught young men can tell, the first of a series—which +will limit the freedom of their lives, and cramp them on the side of +practice as they already are on the side of thought. The most malevolent +enemy of the Established Church could deal her no acuter wound. + +Upon the whole, we can conceive nothing clearer than that this Bill +should not pass this year. We are certain that members of Parliament have +not considered the necessary arguments, and that the nation has not done +so either. + + THE END. + + PRINTED BY + SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE + LONDON + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +[1] _The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire._ By Edward +Gibbon, Esq. With Notes by Dean Milman and M. Guizot. Edited, with +additional Notes, by William Smith, LL.D. In Eight Volumes. London, 1855. +Murray. + +[2] _Some Remains (hitherto unpublished) of Joseph Butler, LL.D., some +time Lord Bishop of Durham._ + +_Encyclopædia Britannica, Vol. VI. Part II. Article, Joseph Butler._ By +Henry Rogers, Author of the ‘Eclipse of Faith.’ Eighth edition. + +[3] Trench, _On the Synonyms of the New Testament_ (p. 191). + +[4] Trench, _ubi supra_. + +[5] _The Prospective Review._ + +[6] Professor Rogers’s _Defence of the ‘Eclipse of Faith’_, p. 43. It +is to be observed, we are not at all speaking of the facts of the Old +Testament; we are but limiting the considerations on which the above +writer has rested its defence. These refined reasonings but weaken the +case they are brought to support. ‘I did not know,’ said George the +Third, ‘that the Bible needed an apology.’ + +[7] We doubt, however, if Butler would at all have accepted Mr. +Rogers’s statement of his view, though it is perhaps the most common +interpretation of him. Probably, he really meant no more than what we +contend for, though his language is not always so limited in terms. + +[8] _The Life of Laurence Sterne._ By Percy Fitzgerald, M.A., M.R.I.A. In +two volumes. Chapman and Hall. + +_Thackeray the Humourist and the Man of Letters._ By Theodore Taylor, +Esq. London: John Camden Hotten. + +[9] _Library Edition._ Illustrated by upwards of Two Hundred Engravings +on Steel, after Drawings by Turner, Landseer, Wilkie, Stanfield, Roberts, +&c. including Portraits of the Historical Personages described in the +Novels. 25 vols. demy 8vo. + +_Abbotsford Edition._ With One Hundred and Twenty Engravings on Steel, +and nearly Two Thousand on Wood. 12 vols. super-royal 8vo. + +_Author’s favourite Edition._ 48 vols. post 8vo. + +_Cabinet Edition._ 25 vols. foolscap 8vo. + +_Railway Edition._ Now publishing, and to be completed in 25 portable +volumes, large type. + +_People’s Edition._ 5 large volumes royal 8vo. + +[10] _Cheap Edition of the Works of Mr. Charles Dickens. The Pickwick +Papers, Nicholas Nickleby, &c._ London, 1857-8. Chapman and Hall. + +[11] _The History of England from the Accession of James the Second._ By +Thomas Babington Macaulay. Longmans. + +[12] _Œuvres complètes de_ C.-J. de Béranger. _Nouvelle édition revue par +l’Auteur, contenant les Dix Chansons nouvelles, le facsimile d’une Lettre +de_ Béranger; _illustrée de cinquante-deux gravures sur acier, d’après_ +Charlet, D’Aubigny, Johannot Grenier, De Lemud, Pauquet, Penguilly, +Raffet, Sandoz, _exécutées par les artistes les plus distingués, et d’un +beau portrait d’après nature par_ Sandoz. 2 vols. 8vo. 1855. + +[13] We have been obliged to abridge the above extract, and in so doing +have left out the humour of it. + +[14] _Poems._ By Arthur Hugh Clough, sometime Fellow of Oriel College, +Oxford. With a Memoir. Macmillan. + +[15] + + ‘——domus Albuneæ resonantis, + Et præceps Anio, et Tiburni lucus, et uda + Mobilibus pomaria rivis.’ + +[16] _Diary, Reminiscences, and Correspondence of Henry Crabb Robinson, +Barrister-at-Law, F.S.A._ Selected and Edited by Thomas Sadler, Ph.D. In +Three Volumes. London, 1869. + +[17] ‘Since writing the above, Baron Rolfe has verified my prediction +more strikingly by being created a peer, by the title of Lord Cranworth, +and appointed a Vice-Chancellor. Soon after his appointment, he called +on me, and I dined with him. I related to Lady Cranworth the anecdote +given above, of my conversation with my brother, with which she was +evidently pleased. Lady Cranworth was the daughter of Mr. Carr, Solicitor +to the Excise, whom I formerly used to visit, and ought soon to find some +mention of in my journals. Lord Cranworth continues to enjoy universal +respect.—H. C. R. 1851.’ + +[18] _Enoch Arden, &c._ By Alfred Tennyson, D.C.L., Poet Laureate. +_Dramatis Personæ._ By Robert Browning. + +[19] The first words in Lord Jeffrey’s celebrated review of the +_Excursion_ were, ‘This will never do.’ + +[20] ‘A curious physiologico-botanical theory by Goethe, which appears to +be entirely unknown in this country: though several eminent continental +botanists have noticed it with commendation. It is explained at +considerable length, in this same _Morphologie_.’ + +[21] _The Poems and Prose Remains of Arthur Hugh Clough_, vol. ii. p. 472. + +[22] _Science in Theology._ Sermons preached before the University of +Oxford. By the Rev. Adam S. Farrar. Longmans. + +[23] _Contemporary Review_ for April 1871. + +[24] It should be stated that this essay was originally read as a paper +before a society which discusses subjects of a metaphysical nature. + +[25] _Contemporary Review_ for April 1874. + +[26] [This paper originally appeared in the _Economist_ on the occasion +of the adoption by the Government of the late Mr. Russell Gurney’s Public +Worship Regulation Bill. It is here included as a telling practical +illustration of the teaching of the previous essay.—EDITOR.] + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78450 *** |