CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS
ESSAYS:
COLLECTED AND REPUBLISHED
(FIBST TIME, 1839 ; MNAL, 1869),
IN SIX VOLUMES.
YOL. [V.
THOMAS CARLYLE'S
COLLECTED WORKS.
LIBRAEY EDITION:
THIRTY VOLUMES.
7OL. IX.
CEITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS
VCMU-1V.
LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL (LIMITED),
11 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS
ESSAYS:
COLLECTED AKD EEPUBLISH1D
(FEES! TSM& f 1839 J FINAL, 1869).
THOMAS CARLYLE.
IN SIX VOLUMES.
CHAPMAN AND HALL, ; l^iMirafi,
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON & BUNGAY.
Reprinted from Stereotype Plates,
November, 1890.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME IV
PAGE
BIOGRAPHY . . . *. 8
BQSWELI/S LIFE OF JOHNSON .25
GOETHE'S WORKS 109
CORN-LAW BHYMES . . , . , . ,177
ON HlSTOEY AGAIN . , .215
DIDEROT , ..... 229
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO 311
DEATH OF EDWARD IBVING . . , . . .303
APPENDIX.
No. I. THE TALB ....,>.. 401
2. E~OVELLE .....,,,. 484
BIOGRAPHY.
TOL. IX. (Misc. voL 4)
BIOGRAPHY/
[1832.]
MAN'S sociality of nature evinces itself, in spite of all that
can be said, with abundant evidence by this one fact, were
there no other: the unspeakable delight he takes in Bio-
graphy. It is written, 'The proper study of mankind is
man ;' to which study, let us candidly admit, he, by true or
by false methods, applies himself, nothing loath. *Man is
t perennially interesting to man ; nay, if we look strictly to
* it, there is nothing else interesting/ How inexpressibly
comfortable to know our fellow-creature; to see into him,
understand his goings-forth, decipher the whole heart of
his mystery : nay, not only to see into him, but even to see
out of him, to view the world altogether as he views it ; so
that we can theoretically construe him, and could almost
practically personate him ; and do now thoroughly discern
both what manner of man he is, and what manner of thing
he has got to work on and live on I
A scientific interest and a poetic one alike inspire us in
this matter. A scientific : because every mortal has a Pro-
blem of Existence set before him, which, were it only, what
for the most it is, the Problem of keeping soul and body
together, must be to a certain extent original, unlike every
1 FBASBB'S MAGAZINE, No. 27 (for April). 2%e.Z#/k of Samuel Johnson,
including a Tour to the Hebrides, By James Boswell, Esq.- A new Edition,
numerous Additions and Notes, by John Wilson Croker, LL,B. t F.B.S. 5 vols,
London, 1831,
MISCELLANIES.
other ; and yet, at the same time, so like every other ; like
our own, therefore ; instructive, moreover, since we also are
indentured to live. A poetic interest still more : for precisely
this same struggle of human Freewill against material Ne-
cessity, which every man's Life, by the mere circumstance
that the man continues alive, will more or less victoriously
exhibit, is that which above all else, or rather inclusive of
all else, calls the Sympathy of mortal hearts into action ;
and whether as acted, or as represented and written of,
not only is Poetry, but is the sole Poetry possible. Borne
onwards by which two all-embracing interests, may the
earnest Lover of Biography expand himself on all sides,
and indefinitely enrich himself. Looking with the eyes of
every new neighbour, he can discern a new world different
for each: feeling with the heart of every neighbour, he
lives with every neighbour's life, even as with his own.
Of these millions of living men, each individual is a mirror
to us ; a mirror both scientific and poetic ; or, if you will,
both natural and magical ; from which one would so gladly
draw aside the gauze veil; and, peering therein, discern
the image of his own natural face, and the supernatural
secrets that prophetically lie under the same !
Observe, accordingly, to what extent, in the actual course
of things, this business of Biography is practised and relished.
Define to thyself, judicious Reader, the real significance of
these phenomena, named Gossip, Egoism, Personal Narrative
(miraculous or not), Scandal, Raillery, Slander, and suchlike;
the sum-total of which (with some fractional addition of a
better ingredient, generally too small to be noticeable) con-
stitutes that other grand phenomenon still called * Conver-
sation.* Do they not mean wholly : Biography and Autobio-
graphy ? Not only in the common Speech of men ; but in
all Art too, which is or should be the concentrated and con-
BIOGRAPHY. 5
served essence of wliat men can speak and snow, Biography
is almost the one thing needful.
Even in the highest works of Art, our interest, as the
critics complain, is too apt to be strongly or even mainly of
a Biographic sort. In the Art we can nowise forget the Ar-
tist : while looking on the Transfiguration, while studying the
Iliad, we ever strive to figure to ourselves what spirit dwelt
in Raphael; what a head was that of Homer, wherein, woven
of Elysian light and Tartarean gloom, that old world fash
ioned itself together, of which these written Greek charac-
ters are but a feeble though perennial copy. The Painter
and the Singer are present to us ; we partially and for the
time become the very Painter and the very Singer, while we
enjoy the Picture and the Song. Perhaps too, let the critic
say what he will, this is the highest enjoyment, the clearest
recognition, we can have of these. Art indeed is Art; yet
Man also is Man. Had the Transfiguration been painted
without human hand ; had it grown merely on the canvas,
say by atmospheric influences, as lichen-pictures do on rocks,
it were a grand Picture doubtless; yet nothing like so
grand as the Picture, which, on opening our eyes, we every-
where in Heaven and in Earth see painted ; and everywhere
pass over with indifference, because the Painter was not
a Man. Think of this; much lies in it. The Vatican is
great ; yet poor to Chimborazo or the Peak of Teneriife :
its dome is but a foolish Big-endian or Little-endian chip of
an egg-shell, compared with that star-fretted Dome where
Arcturus and Orion glance forever; which latter, notwith-
standing, who looks at, save perhaps some necessitous star-
gazer bent to make Almanacs; some thick-quilted watch-
man, to see what weather it will prove? The Biographic
interest is wanting: no Michael Angelo was He who built
that 4 Temple of Immensity ;' therefore do we, pitiful
6 MSCELLANlfiS.
nesses as we are, turn rather to wonder and to worship in
the little toybox of a Temple built by our like.
Still more decisively, still more exclusively does the Bio-
graphic interest manifest itself, as we descend into lower
regions of spiritual communication; through the whole
range of what is called Literature. Of History, for example,
the most honoured, if not honourable species of composition,
is not the whole purport Biographic ? c History,' it has been
said, * is the essence of innumerable Biographies.' Such, at
least, it should be : whether it is, might admit of question.
But, in any case, what hope have we in turning over those
old interminable Chronicles, with their garrulities and insi-
pidities ; or still worse, in patiently examining those modern
Narrations, of the Philosophic kind, where 4 Philosophy,
teaching by Experience/ has to sit like owl on housetop,
seeing nothing, understanding nothing, uttering only, with
such solemnity, her perpetual most wearisome hoo-lioo:
what hope have we, except the for most part fallacious one
of gaining some acquaintance with our fellow -creatures,
though dead and vanished, yet dear to us; how they got
along in those old days, suffering and doing; to what extent,
and under what circumstances, they resisted the Devil and
triumphed over him, or struck their colours to him, and
were trodden under foot by him ; how, in short, the peren-
. nial Battle went, which men name Life, which we also in
these new days, with indifferent fortune, have to fight, and
must bequeath to our sons and grandsons to go on fighting,
till the Enemy one day be quite vanquished and abolished,
or else the great Night sink and part the combatants ; and
thus, either by some Millennium or some new Noah's Deluge,
the Volume of Universal History wind itself up ! Other
hope, in studying such Books, we have none : and that it is
a deceitful hope, who that has tried knows not? A feast
BIOGRAPHY. 7
of widest Biographic insight is spread for us ; we enter full
of hungry anticipations : alas, like so many other feasts,
which Life invites us to, a mere Ossiaii's * feast of shells?
the food and liquor being all emptied out and clean gone,
and only the vacant dishes and deceitful emblems thereof
left ! Your modern Historical Restaurateurs are indeed little
better than high-priests of Famine; that keep choicest china
dinner-sets, only no dinner to serve therein. Yet such is our
Biographic appetite, we run trying from shop to shop,
with ever new hope; and, unless we could eat the wind,
with ever new disappointment.
Again, consider the whole class of Fictitious Narratives;
from the highest category of epic or dramatic Poetry, in
Shakspeare and Homer, down to the lowest of froth Prose
in the Fashionable Novel. What are all these but so many
mimic Biographies ? Attempts, here by an inspired Speaker,
there by an uninspired Babbler, to deliver himself, more or
less ineffectually, of the grand secret wherewith all hearts
labour oppressed: The significance of Man's Life; which
deliverance, even as traced in the unfurnished head, and
printed at the Minerva Press, finds readers. For, observe,
though there is a greatest Fool, as a superlative in every
kind ; and the most Foolish man in the Earth is now indubit-
ably living and breathing, and did this morning or lately
eat breakfast, and is even now digesting the same; and
looks out on the world with his dim horn-eyes, and inwardly
forms some unspeakable theory thereof: yet where shall the
authentically Existing be personally met with ! Can one of
us, otherwise than by guess, know that we have got sight
of him, have orally communed with him 1 To take even the
narrower sphere of this our English Metropolis, can any one
confidently say to himself, that he has converged with, the
identical, individual Stupidest man now extant in London?
8 MISCELLANIES.
No one. Deep as we dive in the Profound, there is ever
a new depth opens : where the ultimate bottom may lie,
through what new scenes of being we must pass before
reaching it (except that we know it does lie somewhere,
and might by human faculty and opportunity be reached),
is altogether a mystery to us. Strange, tantalising pursuit !
We have the fullest assurance, not only that there is a Stu-
pidest of London men actually resident, with bed and board
of some kind, in London; but that several persons have
been or perhaps are now speaking face to face with him :
while for us, chase it as we may, such scientific blessedness
will too probably be forever denied! But the thing we
meant to enforce was this comfortable fact, that no known
Head was so wooden, but there might be other heads to
which it were a genius and Friar Bacon's Oracle. Of no
given Book, not even of a Fashionable Novel, can you predi-
cate with certainty that its vacuity is absolute ; that there
are not other vacuities which shall partially replenish them-
selves therefrom, and esteem it a plenum. How knowest
thou, may the distressed Novelwright exclaim, that I, here
where I sit, am the Foolishest of existing mortals ; that this
my Long-ear of a Fictitious Biography shall not find one
and the other, into whose still longer ears it may be the
means, under Providence, of instilling somewhat ? We ans-
wer, None knows, none can certainly know : therefore, write
on, worthy Brother, even as thou canst, even as it has been
given thee. J
Here, however, in regard to * Fictitious Biographies,' and
much other matter of like sort, which the greener mind in
these days incliteth, we may as well insert some singular
sentences on the importance and significance of Reality, as
they stand written for us in Professor Gottfried Sauerteig's
JEsthetisehe Springwurzeln ; a Work, perhaps, as yet new to
BIOGRAMK". 9
most English readers. The Professor and Doctor is not a
man whom we can praise without reservation ; neither shall
we say that his Springwurzeln (a sort of magical picklocks,
as he affectedly names them) are adequate to ' start' every
bolt that locks-up an esthetic mystery : nevertheless, in his
crabbed, one-sided way, he sometimes hits masses of the
truth. We endeavour to translate faithfully, and trust the
reader will find it worth serious perusal :
4 The significance, even for poetic purposes/ says Sauer-
teig, * that lies in REALITY is too apt to escape us ; is per-
haps only now beginning to be discerned. When we
* named Rousseau's Confessions an elegiaco-didactic Poem, we
6 meant more than an empty figure of speech ; we meant a
6 historical scientific fact.
* Fiction, while the feigner of it knows that he is feign-
' ing, partakes, more than we suspect, of the nature of lying;
6 and has ever an, in some degree, unsatisfactory character.
All Mythologies were once Philosophies ; were believed :
6 the Epic Poems of old time, so long as they continued epic,
< and had any complete impressiveness, were Histories, and
6 understood to be narratives of facts. In so far as Homer
* employed his gods as mere ornamental fringes, and had
6 not himself, or at least did not expect his hearers to have,
* a belief that they were real agents in those antique doings;
c so far did he fail to be genuine; so far was h$ a partially
* hollow and false singer ; and sang to please only a portion
* of man's mind, not the whole thereof.
* Imagination is, after all, but a poor matter when it has
* to part company with Understanding, and even 'front it
' hostilely in flat contradiction. Our mind is divided in
* twain : there is contest ; wherein that which is weaker
* must needs come to the worse. Now of all feelings, states,
* principles, call it what you will, in man's mind, is not Be-
10 MISCELLANIES.
' lief tlie clearest, strongest; against which all others con-
6 tend in vain ! Belief is, indeed, the beginning and first
< condition of all spiritual Force whatsoever : only in so far
* as Imagination, were it but momentarily, is believed, can
' there be any use or meaning in it, any enjoyment of it.
* And what is momentary Belief? The enjoyment of a
* moment. Whereas a perennial Belief were enjoyment
6 perennially, and with the whole united soul.
' It is thus that I judge of the Supernatural in an Epic
* Poem ; and would say, the instant it has ceased to be
* authentically supernatural, and become what you call " Ma-
* chinery :" sweep it out of sight (schaf es mir vom Hake) I
< Of a truth, that same " Machinery," about which the critics
6 make such hubbub, was well named Machinery ; for it is in
( ver y ^ ee( j mec ] lan i ca i j nowise inspired or poetical. Neither
* for us is there the smallest aesthetic enjoyment in it ; save
6 only in this way ; that we believe it to have been believed,
* by the Singer or his Hearers ; into whose case we now
* laboriously straggle to transport 'ourselves; and so, with
* stinted enough result, catch some reflex of the Reality,
4 which for them was wholly real, and visible face to face.
4 Whenever it has come so far that your "Machinery" is
< avowedly mechanical and unbelieved, what is it else, if
* we dare tell ourselves the truth, but a miserable, meaning-
< less Deception, kept-up by old use and wont alone 1 If
* the gods of an Iliad are to us no longer authentic Shapes
* of Terror, heart-stirring, heart-appalling, but only vague-
4 glittering Shadows, what must the dead Pagan gods of
6 an Epigoniad be, the dead-living Pagan-Christian gods of
*a Lusiad, the concrete-abstract, evangelical-metaphysical
< gods of a Paradise Lost ? Superannuated lumber 1 Cast
* raiment, at best ; in which some poor mime, strutting
< and swaggering, may or may not set forth new noble
BIOGKAPHt. 11
* Human Feelings (again a Reality), and so secure, or not
* secure, our pardon of such hoydenish masking ; for which,
* in any case, lie lias a pardon to a$L
< True enough, none but the earliest Epic Poems can
* claim this distinction of entire credibility, of Reality : after
6 an Iliad, a Shaster, a Koran, and other the lite primitive
* performances, the rest seem, by this rule of mine, to be
rf altogether excluded from the list. Accordingly, what are
all the rest, from Virgil's JEneid downwards, in compari-
6 son ? Frosty, artificial, heterogeneous things ; more of
* gumflowers than of roses ; at the best, of the two mixed
* incoherently together : to some of which, indeed, it were
* hard to deny the title of Poems ; yet to no one of which
* can that title belong in any sense even resembling the old
* high one it, in those old days, conveyed, when the epithet
* " divine" or " sacred" as applied to the uttered Word of
* man, was not a vain metaphor, a vain sound, but a real
* name with meaning. Thus, too, the farther we recede
6 from, those early days, when Poetry, as true Poetry is
* always, was still sacred or divine, and inspired (what ours,
6 in great part, only pretends to be), the more impossible
* becomes It to produce any, we say not true Poetry, but
* tolerable semblance of such ; the hollower, in particular,
< grow all manner of Epics ; till at length, as in this genera-
* tion, the very name of Epic sets men a-yawiiing, the an-
* nouncement of a new Epic is received as a public calamity.
6 But what if the impossible being once for all quite dis-
* carded, the probable be well adhered to : how stands it with
* fiction then ? Why, then, I would say, the evil is much
* mended, but nowise completely cured. We have then,
* in place of the wholly dead modern Epic, the partially
* living modern Novel ; to which latter it is much easier ,
* to lend that above mentioned, so essential u momentary
12 MISOMLLANUBS.
c credence" tlian to the former : indeed, infinitely easier ;
* for the former "being flatly incredible, no mortal can for a
< moment credit it, for a moment enjoy it. Thus, here and
* there, a Tom Jones, a Meister, a Crusoe, will yield no little
< solacement to the minds of men ; though still immeasur-
i ably less than a Reality would, were the significance thereof
* as impressively unfolded, were the genius that could so
* unfold it once given us by the kind Heavens. Neither
6 say thou that proper Realities are wanting : for Man's
' Life, now, as of old, is the genuine work of God ; wherever
< there is a Man, a God also is revealed, and all that is God-
* like : a whole epitome of the Infinite, with its meanings,
c lies enfolded in the Life of every Man. Only, alas, that
* the Seer to discern this same Godlike, and with fit utter-
4 ance unfold, it for us, is wanting, and may long be wanting !
' Nay, a question arises on us here, wherein the whole
* German reading-world will eagerly join : Whether man
* can any longer be so interested by the spoken Word, as
* he often was in those primeval days, when rapt away by
* its inscrutable power, he pronounced it, in such dialect as
* he had, to be transcendental (to transcend all measure), to be
* sacred, prophetic and the inspiration of a god? For my-
* self, I (ich meines Ortes), by faith or by insight, do heartily
* understand that the answer to such question will be, Yea !
* For never that I could in searching find out, has Man been,
* by Time which devours so much, deprivated of any faculty
* whatsoever that he in any era was possessed of. To my
* seeming, the babe born yesterday has all the organs of
4 Body, Soul and Spirit, and in exactly the same combina-
* tion and entireness, that the oldest Pelasgic Greek, or Me-
1 sopotamian Patriarch, or Father Adam himself could boast
* of. Ten fingers, one heart with venous and arterial blood
s therein, still belong to man that is born of woman : when
BIOGRAPHY. 13
* did he lose any of his spiritual Endowments either ; above
6 all, his highest spiritual Endowment, that of revealing
' Poetic Beauty, and of adequately receiving the same 1 Not
6 the material, not the susceptibility is wanting ; only the
4 Poet, or long series of Poets, to work on these. True,
6 alas too true, the Poet is still utterly wanting, or all but
{ utterly : nevertheless have we not centuries enough before
'us to produce him in? Him and much else! I, for the
6 present, will but predict that chiefly by working more and
* more on REALITY, and evolving more and more wisely its
4 inexhaustible meanings ; and, in brief, speaking forth in
6 fit utterance whatsoever our whole soul believes, and ceas-
* ing to speak forth what thing soever our whole soul does
* not believe, will this high emprise be accomplished, or
6 approximated to.'
These notable, and not unfounded, though partial and
(fep-seeing rather than ivide-Beemg observations on the great
import of REALITY, considered even as a poetic material, we
have inserted the more willingly, because a transient feel-
ing to the same purpose may often have suggested itself
to many readers; and, on the whole, it is good that every
reader and every writer understand, with all intensity of
conviction, what quite infinite worth lies in Truth ; how all-
pervading, omnipotent, in man's mind, is the thing we name
Belief, For the rest, Herr Sauerteig, though one-sided, on
this matter of Reality, seems heartily persuaded, and is not
perhaps so ignorant as he looks. It cannot be unknown to
him, for example, what noise is made about 'Invention;*
what a supreme rank this faculty is reckoned to hold in the
poetic endowment. Great truly is Invention ; nevertheless,
that is but a poor exercise of it with which Belief is not
concerned. * An Irishman with whisky in his head/ as poor
Byron said, will invent you, in this kind, till there is enough
14 MISCELLANIES.
and to spare. Nay, perhaps, if we consider well, the highest
exercise of Invention has, in very deed, nothing to do with
Fiction ; but is an invention of new Truth, what we can
call a Revelation; which last does undoubtedly transcend
all other poetic efforts, nor can Herr Sauerteig be too loud
in its praises. But, on the other hand, whether such effort
is still possible for man, Herr Sauerteig and the bulk of the
world are probably at issue; and will probably continue
so till that same ' Revelation,' or new i Invention of Reality,'
of the sort he desiderates, shall itself make its appearance.
Meanwhile, quitting these airy regions, let any one be-
think him how impressive the smallest historical fact may
become, as contrasted with the grandest fictitious event; what
an incalculable force lies for us in this consideration : The
Thing which I here hold imaged in my mind did actually
occur ; was, in very truth, an element in the system of the
All. whereof I too form part; had therefore, and has, through
all time, an authentic being; is not a dream, but a reality !
We ourselves can remember reading, in Lord Clarendon*
with feelings perhaps somehow accidentally opened to it,
certainly with a depth of impression strange to us then and
now, that insignificant-looking passage, where Charles,
after the battle of Worcester, glides down, with Squire
Careless, from the Royal Oak, at nightfall, being hungry :
how, ' making a shift to get over hedges and ditches, after
* walking at least eight or nine miles, which were the more
* grievous to the King by the weight of his boots (for he
< could not put them off when he cut off his hair, for want
6 of shoes), before morning they came to a poor cottage, the
6 owner whereof, being a Roman Catholic, was known to Careless. 9
How this poor drudge, being knocked-up from his snoring,
6 carried them into a little barn full of hay, which was a
8 Mistory of tke M$dlion, iii 62$,
BIOGRAPHY. 15
* better lodging than lie had for himself;' and by and by,
not without difficulty, brought his Majesty 'a piece of bread
and a great pot of buttermilk,' saying candidly that "he
himself lived by his daily labour, and that what he had
brought him was the fare he and his wife had :" on which
nourishing diet his Majesty, * staying upon the haymow/
feeds thankfully for two days ; and then departs, under new
guidance, having first changed clothes, down to the very
shirt and c old pair of shoes/ with his landlord ; and so, as
worthy Bunyan has it, 'goes on his way, and sees him no
more/ Singular enough, if we will think of it ! This, then,
was a genuine flesh-and-blood Eustic of the year 1651: he
did actually swallow bread and buttermilk (not having ale
and bacon), and do field-labour: with these hobnailed < shoes'
has sprawled through mud-roads in winter, and, jocund or
not, driven his team a-field in summer : he made bargains ;
had chafferings and Mgglings, now a sore heart, now a glad
one; was born; was a son, was a father; toiled in many
ways, being forced to it, till the strength was all worn out
of him ; and then lay down * to rest his galled back/ and
sleep there till the long-distant morning! How comes it,
that he alone of all the British rustics who tilled and lived
along with him, on whom the blessed sun on that same
* fifth day of September' was shining, should have chanced
to rise on us; that this poor pair of clouted Shoes, out of
the million million hides that have been tanned, and cut,
and worn, should still subsist, and hang visibly together?
We see him but for a moment ; for one moment, the blanket
of the Night is rent asunder, so that we behold and see, and
then closes over him forever.
So too, in some Bo&wellfs Life of Johnson, how indelible
and magically bright does many a little Reality dwell in our
remembrance I There is no need that the personages on
16 MISCELLANIES.
the scene be a King and Clown ; that the scene be the Forest
of the Koyal Oak, * on the borders of Staffordshire :' need
only that the scene lie on this old firm Earth of ours, where
we also have so surprisingly arrived; that the personages
be men, and seen with the eyes of a man. Foolish enough,
how some slight, perhaps mean and even ugly incident, if
real and well presented, will fix itself in a susceptive me-
mory, and lie ennobled there ; silvered over with the pale
cast of thought, with the pathos which belongs only to the
Dead, For the Past is all holy to us; the Dead are all
holy, even they that were base and wicked while alive.
Their baseness and wickedness was not They, was but the
heavy and unmanageable Environment that lay round them,
with which they fought unprevailing : they (the ethereal
god-given Force that dwelt in them, and was their Self)
have now shuffled-off that heavy Environment, and are
free and pure : their life-long Battle, go how it might, is all
ended, with many wounds or with fewer; they have been
recalled from it, and the once harsh-jarring battle-field has
become a silent awe-inspiring Grolgotha, and Gottesachr
(Field of God) ! Boswell relates this in itself smallest and
poorest of occurrences : * As we walked along the Strand
* tonight, arm in arm, a woman of the town accosted us in
* the usual enticing manner. "No, no, my girl/' said John-
* son ; " it won't do. w He, however, did not treat her with
' harshness; and we talked of the wretched life of such
* women,' Strange power of Reality ! Not even this poorest
of occurrences, but now, after seventy years are come and
gone, has a meaning for us. Do but consider that it is true;
that it did in very deed occur! That unhappy Outcast,
with all her sins and woes, her lawless desires, too complex
mischances, her wailings and her riotings, has departed
utterly; alas! her siren finery has got all besmutched*
BIOGBAPEY. 17
ground, generations since, into dust and smoke; of her de
graded body, and whole miserable earthly existence, all is
away : she is no longer here, but far from us, in the bosom of
Eternity, whence we too came, whither we too are bound !
Johnson said, "No, no, my girl; it won't do;" and then
* we talked ;' and herewith the wretched one, seen but for
the twinkling of an eye, passes on into the utter Darkness.
No high Calista, that ever issued from Story-teller's brain,
will impress us more deeply than this meanest of the mean 5
and for a good reason : That she issued from the Maker of
Men.
It is well worth the Artist's while to examine for himself
what it is that gives such pitiful incidents their memorable-
ness ; his aim likewise is, above all things, to be memorable.
Half the effect, we already perceive, depends on the object;
on its being real, on its being really seen. The other half
will depend on the observer ; and the question now is : How
are real objects to be so seen; on what quality of observ-
ing, or of style in describing, does this so intense pictorial
power depend? Often a slight circumstance contributes
curiously to the result : some little, and perhaps to appear-
ance accidental, feature is presented; a light-gleam, which
instantaneously excites the mind, and urges it to complete
the picture, and evolve the meaning thereof for itself, By
critics, such light-gleams and their almost magical influence
have frequently been noted : but the power to produce such,
to select such features as will produce them, is generally
treated as a knack, or trick of the trade, a secret for being
6 graphic ;' whereas these magical feats are, in truth, rather
inspirations; and the gift of performing them, which acts
unconsciously, without forethought, and as if by nature
alone, is properly a genius for description.
One grand, invaluable secret there is, however, which
VOL. IX. (Misc. vol. 4.)
18 MISCELLANIES.
includes all the rest, and, what is comfortable, lies clearly
In every man's power : To have an open loving heart, and what
follows from the possession of such. Truly it has been said,
emphatically in these days ought it to be repeated : A loving
Heart Is the beginning of all Knowledge. This it Is that
opens the whole mind, quickens every faculty of the intellect
to do Its fit work, that of knowing ; and therefrom, by sure
consequence, of vividly uttenng-forth. Other secret for being
'graphic' Is there none, worth having: but this is an all-
sufficient one. See, for example, what a small Boswell can
do ! Hereby, indeed, Is the whole man made a living mirror,
wherein the wonders of this ever-wonderful Universe are,
In their true light (which is ever a magical, miraculous one)
represented, and reflected back on us. It has been said,
< the heart sees farther than the head :' but, indeed, without
the seeing heart, there is no true seeing for the head so
much as possible; all is mere oversight, hallucination and
vain superficial phantasmagoria, which can permanently pro-
fit no one.
Here, too, may we not pause for an instant, and make a
practical reflection ? Considering the multitude of mortals
that handle the Pen in these days, and can mostly spell,
and write without glaring violations of grammar, the ques-
tion naturally arises : How is It, then, thftt no Work proceeds
from them, bearing any stamp of authenticity and perma-
nence; of worth for more than one day? Ship-loads of
Fashionable Novels, Sentimental Ehymes, Tragedies, Farces,
Diaries of Travel, Tales by flood and field, are swallowed
monthly into the bottomless Pool : still does the Press toil ;
imiuraerable Paper-makers, Compositors, Printers' Devils,
Book-binders, and Hawkers grown hoarse with loud pro-
claiming, rest not from their labour; and still, in torrents,
rushes on the great array of Publications, unpausing, to their
BIOGRAPHY, 19
final borne ; and still Oblivion, like the Grave, cries, Give !
Give ! How is it that of all these countless multitudes, no
one can attain to the smallest mark of excellence, or produce
aught that shall endure longer than ' snow-flake on the
river,' or the foam of penny-beer ? We answer : Because
they are foam ; because there is no Reality in them. These
Three Thousand men, women and children, that make up
the army of British Authors, do not, if we will well consider
it, see anything whatever; consequently have nothing that
they can record and utter, only more or fewer things that
they can plausibly pretend to record. The Universe, of Man
and Nature, is still quite shut-up from them; the 'open
secret' still utterly a secret ; because no sympathy with Man
or Nature, no love and free simplicity of heart has yet un-
folded the same. Nothing but a pitiful Image of their own
pitiful Self, with its vanities, and grudgings, and ravenous
hunger of all kinds, hangs forever painted in the retina of
these unfortunate persons; so that the starry ALL, with
whatsoever it embraces, does but appear as some expanded
magic-lantern shadow of that same Image, and naturally
looks pitiful enough.
It is vain for these persons to allege that they are na-
turally without gift, naturally stupid and sightless, and so
can attain to no knowledge of anything; therefore, in writing
of anything, must needs write falsehoods of it, there being
in it no truth for them. Not so, good Friends. The stupid-
est of you has a certain faculty ; were it but that of articulate
speech (say, in the Scottish, the Irish, the Cockney dialect,
or even in ' Governess-English'), and of physically discerning
what lies under your nose. The stupidest of you would
perhaps grudge to be compared in' faculty with James Bos-
well ; yet see what he has produced ! You do not use your
faculty honestly ; your heart is shut up ; full of greediness,
20 MISCELLANIES.
malice, discontent; so your intellectual sense cannot be open.
It is vain also to urge that James Boswell had opportunities ;
saw great men and great things, such as yon can never hope
to look on. What make ye of Parson White in Selboriie?
He had not only no great men to look on, but not even men ;
merely sparrows and cock-chafers : yet has he left us a Bio-
graphy of these ; which., under its title Natural History of Sel-
lorne, fitill remains valuable to us ; which has copied a little
sentence or two faithfully from the Inspired Volume of Na-
ture, and so is itself not without inspiration. Go ye and
do likewise. Sweep away utterly all frothiness and false-
hood from your heart ; struggle unweariedly to acquire, what
is possible for every god-cre"ated Man, a free, open, humble
soul : speak not at all, in any wise, till you have somewhat to
sjwak; care not for the reward of your speaking, but simply
and with undivided mind for the truth of your speaking:
then be placed in what section of Space and of Time soever,
do but open your eyes, and they shall actually see, and bring
you real knowledge, wondrous, worthy of belief; and instead
of one Boswell and one White, the world will rejoice in a
thousand, stationed on their thousand several watch-towers,
to instruct us by indubitable documents, of whatsoever in
our so stupendous World comes to light and is! 0, had
the Editor of this Magazine but a magic rod to turn all that
not inconsiderable Intellect, which now deluges us with
artificial fictitious soap-lather, and mere Lying, into the
faithful study of Eeality, what knowledge of great, ever-
lasting Nature, and of Man's ways and doings therein, would
not every year bring us in ! Can we but change one single
soap-latherer and mountebank Juggler, into a true Thinker
and Doer, who even tries honestly to think and do, great
will be our reward.
But to return; or rather from this point to begin our
BIOG-RAPHY. 21
journey! If now, what with Herr Sauerleig's Springwurzeln,
what with so ranch Incnbration of our own, it have become
apparent how deep, immeasurable is the < worth that lies in
Reality? and farther, how exclusive the interest which man
takes in Histories of Man, may it not seem lamentable, that
so few genuinely good Biographies have yet been accumu-
lated in Literature ; that in the whole world, one cannot find,
going strictly to work, above some dozen, or baker's dozen,
and those chiefly of very ancient date ? Lamentable ; yet,
after what we have just seen, accountable. Another ques-
tion might be asked : How comes it that in England we have
simply one good Biography, this Boswelts Johnson; and of
good, indifferent, or even bad attempts at Biography fewer
than any civilised people ? Consider the French and Ger-
mans, with their Moreris, Bayles, Jordenses, Jochers, their
innumerable Mdmoires, and Schilderungen, and Biographies Uni-
verselles; not to speak of Kousseaus, Goethes, Schubarts,
Jung-Stillings : and then contrast with these our poor
Birches and Kippises and Pecks ; the whole breed of whom,
moreover, is now extinct 1
With this question, as the answer might lead us far, and
come out unflattering to patriotic sentiment, we shall not
intermeddle; but turn rather, with great pleasure, to the
fact, that one excellent Biography is actually English ; and
even now lies, in Five new Volumes, at our hand, soliciting
a new consideration from us; such as, age after age (the
Perennial showing ever new phases as our position alters),
it may long be profitable to bestow on it; to which task
we here, in this position, in this age, gladly address our-
selves.
First, however, let the foolish April-fool Day pass by 3
and our Header, during these twenty-nine days of uncertain
weather that will follow, keep pondering, according to con-
22
venience, the purport of BIOGEAPHY in general: then, with
the blessed dew of May-day, and in unlimited convenience
of space, shall all that we have written on Johnson and Bos-
welt 8 Johnson and Crofars BoswelFs Johnson be faithfully laid
before him.
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON.
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 1
[1832.]
Fly, sitting on the axle of the chariot, has been
much laughed at for exclaiming : What a dust I do raise !
Yet which of us, in his way, has not sometimes been guilty
of the like ? Nay, so foolish are men, they often, standing
at ease and as spectators on the highway, will volunteer to
exclaim of the Fly (not being tempted to it, as he was)
exactly to the same purport : What a dust thou dost raise !
Smallest of mortals, when mounted aloft by circumstances,
come to seem great ; smallest of phenomena connected
with them are treated as important, and must be sedulously
scanned, and commented upon with loud emphasis.
That Mr. Croker should undertake to edit BosweWs Life
of Johnson, was a praiseworthy but no miraculous procedure :
neither could the accomplishment of such undertaking be,
in an epoch like ours, anywise regarded as an event in
Universal History ; the right or the wrong accomplishment
thereof was, in very truth, one of the most insignificant of
things. However, it sat in a great environment, on the
axle of a high, fast-rolling, parliamentary chariot ; and all
the world has exclaimed over it, and the author of it : What
a dust thou dost raise ! List to the Keviews, and ' Organs
* FEASBE'S MA&AECHE, No. 28. The Life ofSamwl Johnson, LL,D,;
a Tour to the If&brides. By James BosweE, Esq. A new Edition, with numerous
AdditlonJLand Notes, by John. "Wilson Croker, LL.D. E.B.S. vols. London, 1831*
26 MISCELLANIES.
of Public Opinion/ from the National Omnibus upwards : cri-
ticisms, vituperative and laudatory, stream from their thou-
sand throats of brass and of leather ; here chanting lo-paj-
ans; there grating harsh thunder or vehement shrewmouse
squeaklets ; till the general ear is filled, and nigh deafened.
Boswell's Book had a noiseless birth, compared with this
Edition of Boswell's Book. On the other hand, consider
with what degree of tumult Paradise Lost and the Iliad
were ushered in !
To swell such clamour, or prolong it beyond the time,
seems nowise OUT vocation here. At most, perhaps, we are
bound to inform simple readers, with all possible brevity,
what manner of performance and Edition this is ; especially,
whether, in our poor judgment, it is worth laying out three
pounds sterling upon, yea or not. The whole business be-
longs distinctly to the lower ranks of the trivial class.
Let us admit, then, with great readiness, that as John-
sou once said, and the Editor repeats, 'all works which
* describe manners require notes in sixty or seventy yean&,
f or less;' that, accordingly, a new Edition of Boswell was
desirable; and that Mr. Croker has given one. For this
task he had- various quaKfications : his own voluntary re-
solution to do it; his high place in society, unlocking all
manner of archives to him; not less, perhaps, a certain aneo
dotico-biographic turn of mind, natural or acquired; we
mean, a love for the minuter events of History, and talent
for investigating these. Let us admit too, that he has been
very diligent; seems to have made inquiries perseveringly
far and near; as well as drawn freely from his own ample
stores ; and so tells us, to appearance quite accurately, much
that he has not found lying on the highways, but has had
to seek and dig for. Numerous persons, chiefly of quality,
rise to view in these Notes ; when and also where they came
SOSWELI/S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 27
into tlais world, received office or promotion, died and were
buried (only what they did, except digest, remaining often
too mysterious), is faithfully enough set down. Whereby
all that their various and doubtless widely-scattered Tomb-
stones could have taught us, is here presented, at once, in
a bound Book. Thus is an indubitable conquest, though a
small one, gained over our great enemy, the all-destroyer
Time ; and as such shall have welcome.
Nay, let us say that the spirit of Diligence, exhibited
in this department, seems to attend the Editor honestly
throughout: he keeps everywhere a watchful outlook on
Ms Text; reconciling the distant with the present, or at
least indicating and regretting their irreconcilability ; eluci-
dating, smoothing down ; in all ways exercising, according
to ability, a strict editorial superintendence. Any little
Latin or even Greek phrase is rendered into English, in
general with perfect accuracy ; citations are verified, or else
corrected. On all hands, moreover, there is a certain spirit
of Decency maintained and insisted on : if not good morals,
yet good manners, are rigidly inculcated; if not Eeligion,
and a devout Christian heart, yet Orthodoxy, and a cleanly
Shovel-hatted look, which, as compared with flat Nothing,
is something very considerable. Grant too, as no contemp-
tible triumph of this latter spirit, that though the Editor is
known as a decided Politician and Party-man, he has care-
fully subdued all temptations to transgress in that way:
except by quite involuntary indications, and rather as it
were the pervading temper of the whole, you coijld piot
discover on which side of the Political Warfare ie is en-
listed and fights. This, as we said, is a great triumph of
the Decency-principle : for tbjs, and for these other graces
and performances, let the Editor have all pradge.
Herewith, however^ miust the praise imfol^uiiately ter**
28
mlnate. Diligence, Fidelity, Decency, are good and indis-
pensable: yet, without Faculty, without Light, they will
not do the work. Along with that Tombstone-information,
perhaps even without much of it, we could have liked to
gain some answer, in one way or other, to this wide ques-
tion : What and how was English Life in Johnson's time ;
wherein has ours grown to differ therefrom? In other
words : What things have w r e to forget, what to fancy and
remember, before we, from such distance, can put ourselves
in Johnson's place; and so. in the Ml sense of the term,
understand him, his sayings and his doings 1 This was in-
deed specially the problem which a Commentator and Editor
had to solve: a complete solution of it should have lain in
him, his whole mind should have been filled and prepared
with perfect insight into it; then, whether in the way of
express Dissertation, of incidental Exposition and Indica-
tion, opportunities enough would have occurred of bringing
out the same : what was dark in the figure of the Past had
thereby been enlightened; Boswell had, not in show and
word only, but in very fact, been made new again, readable
to us who are divided from him, even as he was to those
close at hand. Of all which very little has been attempted
here ; accomplished, we should say, next to nothing, or al-
together nothing.
Excuse, no doubt, is in readiness for such omission ; and,
indeed, for innumerable other failings ; as where, for ex-
ample, the Editor will punctually explain what is already
sun-clear; and then anon, not without frankness, declare
frequently enough that *the Editor does not understand/
that 'the Editor cannot guess/ while, for most part, the
Header cannot help both guessing and seeing. Thus, if
Johnson say, in one sentence, that 'English names should
not be used in Latin verses ;' and then, in the next sentence,
BOSWELI/S LIFE OF JOHNSON, 29
speak blamingly of < Carteret being used as a dactyl/ will
tlie generality of mortals detect any puzzle there? Or
again, where poor Boswell writes : ' I always remember a
c remark made to me by a Turkish lady, educated in France :
* " Ma foi, monsieur, notre bonheur depend de la fagon que notre
< sang circule;"' though the Turkish lady here speaks Eng-
lish-French> where is the call for a Note like this : 6 Mr.
6 Boswell no doubt fancied these words had some meaning,
* or he would hardly have quoted them : but what that
6 meaning is, the Editor cannot guess' ? The Editor is
clearly no witch at a riddle. For these and all kindred de-
ficiencies the excuse, as we said, is at hand; but the fact
of their existence is not the less certain and regrettable.
Indeed it, from a very early stage of the business, be-
comes afflictively apparent, how much the Editor, so well
furnished with all external appliances and means, is from
within unfurnished with means for forming to himself any
just notion of Johnson, or of Johnson's Life ; and therefore
of speaking on that subject with much hope of edifying.
Too lightly is it from the first taken for granted that Hunger,
the great basis of our life, is also its apex and ultimate per-
fection ; that as * Neediness and Greediness and Vainglory'
are the chief qualities of most men, so no man, not even
a Johnson, acts or can think of acting on any other prin-
ciple. Whatsoever, therefore, cannot be referred to the two
former categories (Need and Greed), is without scruple
ranged under the latter. It is here properly that our Editor
becomes burdensome ; and, to the weaker sort, even a nuis-
ance. " What good is it," will such cry, " when we had
still some faint shadow of belief that man was better than
a selfish Digesting-machine, what good is it to poke in, at
every turn, and explain how this and that which we thought
noble in old Samuel, was vulgar, base; -that for him too
30 MISCELLANIES,
there was no reality but in the Stomach ; and except Pud*
ding, and the finer species of pudding which is named Praise,
life had no pabulum? Why, for instance, when we know
that Johnson loved his good Wife, and says expressly that
their marriage was s a love-match on both sides/ should
two closed lips open to tell us only this : c Is it not possible
* that the obvious advantage of having a woman of experi-
* ence to superintend an establishment of this kind (the
1 Edial School) may have contributed to a match so dispro-
6 portionate in point of age ? ED.' ? Or again when, in the
Text, the honest cynic speaks freely of his former poverty,
and it is known that he once lived on fourpence-halfpenny
a-day, need a Commentator advance, and comment thus :
* When we find Dr. Johnson tell unpleasant truths to, or of,
* other men, let us recollect that he does not appear to have
* spared himself, on occasions in which he might be forgiven
* for doing so' ? Why in short," continues the exasperated
Header, "should Notes of this species stand affronting me,
when there might have been no Note at all?" Gentle
Reader, we answer, Be not wroth. What other could an
honest Commentator do, than give thee the best he had?
Such was the picture and theorem he had fashioned for him-
self of the world and of man's doings therein : take it, and
draw wise inferences from it. If there did exist a Leader
of Public Opinion, and Champion of Orthodoxy in the Church
of Jesus of Nazareth, who reckoned that man's glory con-"
sisted in not being poor; and that a Sage, and Prophet bf
his time, must needs blush because the world had paid him
at that easy rate of fourpence-halfpenny per diem, was not
the fact of such existence worth knowing, worth considering?
Of a much milder hiie, yet to us practically of an all-
defacing, and for the present enterprise quite ruinous cha-
racter, is another grand fundamental failing; the last w
BOSWLI/S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 31
shall feel ourselves obliged to take the pain of specifying
here. It is, that our Editor has fatally, and almost sur-
prisingly, mistaken the limits of an Editor's function ; and
so, instead of working on the margin with his Pen, to elu-
cidate as best might Tbe, strikes boldly into the body of
the page with his Scissors, and there clips at discretion !
Four Books Mr. 0. had by him, wherefrom to gather light
for the fifth, which was BoswelFs. What does he do but
now, in the placidest manner, slit the whole five into
slips, and sew these together into a septum quid, exactly at
his own convenience; giving Boswell the credit of the
whole ! By what art - magic, our readers ask, has he
united them? By the simplest of all : by Brackets. Never
before was the full virtue of the Bracket made manifest.
You begin a sentence under BoswelPs guidance, thinking
to be carried happily through it by the same : but no ; in
the middle, perhaps after your semicolon, and some conse-
quent * for/ starts up one of these Bracket-ligatures, and
stitches you in from half a page to twenty or thirty pages
of a Hawkins, Tyers, Murphy, Piozzi ; so that often one
must make the old sad reflection, Where we are, we know ;
whither we are going, no man knoweth ! It is truly said
also, There is much between the cup and the lip ; but here
the case is still sadder: for not till after consideration can
you ascertain, now when the cup is at the lip, what liquor
it is you are imbibing; whether BoswelTs French wine
which you began with, or some Piozzfs ginger-beer, or
Hawkins's entire, or perhaps some other great Brewer's
penny-swipes or even alegar, which has been surreptiti-
ously substituted instead thereof. A situation almost ori-
ginal ; not to be tried a second time ! But, in fine, what
ideas Mr. Croker entertains of a literary whole and the
thing called Book and how the Very Printer's Devila did
32 MISCELLANIES*
not rise In mutiny against such, a conglomeration as this,
and refuse to print it, may remain a problem.
And now happily our say is said. All faults, the Moral-
ists tell us, are properly shortcomings; crimes themselves
are nothing other than a not doing enough; a fighting, but
with defective vigour. How much more a mere insuffici-
ency, and this after good efforts, in handicraft practice!
Mr. Crokcr says : The worst that can happen is that all
* the present Editor has contributed may, if the reader so
6 pleases, be rejected as surplusage. 9 It is our pleasant duty
to take with hearty welcome what he has given ; and ren-
der thanks even for what he meant to give. Next and
finally, it is our painful duty to declare, aloud if that be
necessary, that his gift, as weighed against the hard money
which the Booksellers demand for giving it you, is (in our
judgment) very greatly the lighter. No portion, accord-
ingly, of our small floating capital has been embarked in
the business, or shall ever be ; indeed, were we in the
market for such a thing, there is simply no Edition of J3os-
wett to which this last would seem preferable. And now
enough, and more than enough I
We have next a word to say of James Boswell. Bos-
well has already been much commented upon; but rather
in the way of censure and vituperation than of true re-
cognition. He was a man that brought himself much
before the world ; confessed that he eagerly coveted fame,
or if that were not possible, notoriety ; of which latter as
he gained far more than seemed his due, the public were
incited, not only by their natural love of scandal, but by a
special ground of envy, to say whatever ill of him could be
said. Out of the fifteen millions that then lived, and had
bed and board, in the British Islands, this man has pro-
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 33
vided ns a greater pleasure than any other individual, at
whose cost we now enjoy ourselves ; perliaps lias done us
a greater service than, can be specially attributed to more
than two or three : yet, ungrateful that we are, no written
or spoken eulogy of James JBoswell anywhere exists ; his
recompense in solid pudding (so far as copyright went)
was not excessive ; and as for the empty praise, it has alto-
gether been denied him. Men are un wiser than children;
they do not know the hand that feeds them.
Boswell was a person whose mean or bad qualities lay
open to the general eye; visible, palpable to the dullest.
His good qualities, again, belonged not to the Time he
lived in; were far from, common then; indeed, in such a
degree, were almost unexampled; not recognisable there-
fore by every one; nay, apt even (so strange had they
grown) to be confounded with the very vices they lay con-
tiguous to, and had sprung out of. That he was a wine-
bibber and gross liver; gluttonously fond of whatever would
yield him a little solacement, were it only of a stomachic
character, is undeniable enough. That he was vain, heed-
less, a babbler; had much of the sycophant, alternating
with the braggadocio, curiously spiced too with an all-per-
vading dash of the coxcomb ; that he gloried much when
the Tailor, by a court-suit, had made a new man of him;
that he appeared at the Shakspeare Jubilee with a riband,
imprinted < CORSICA BOSWELL,' round his hat; and in short,
if you will, lived no day of his life without doing and
saying more than one pretentious ineptitude : all this "un-
happily is evident as the sun at noon. The very look of
Boswell seems to have signified so much. In that cocked
nose, cocked partly in triumph over his weaker fellow-
creatures, partly to snuff-up the smell of coming pleasure,
and scent it from afar; in those bag-cheeks, hanging like
VO&. IX, (Miso. vol. 4.) 3>
34 MISCELLAMES.
half-filled wine-skins, still able to contain more; in that
coarsely-protruded shelf-mouth, that fat dewlapped chin;
in all this, who sees not sensuality, pretension, boisterous
imbecility enough; much that could not have been orna-
mental in the temper of a great man's overfed great man
(what the Scotch name flunky)^ though it had been more
natural there? The under part of BoswelFs face is of a
low, almost brutish character.
Unfortunately, 011 the other hand, what great and genu-
ine good lay in him was nowise so self-evident That
Boswell was a hunter after spiritual Notabilities, that he
loved such, and longed, and even crept and crawled to be
near them ; that he first (in old Touchwood Atichinleck's
phraseology) " took on with Paoli ;" and then being off with
"the Corsicaii landlouper," took on with a schoolmaster,
" ane that keepecl a schule, and ca'd it an academy :" that
he did all this, and could not help doing it, we account a
very singular merit. The man, once for all, had an * open
sense/ an open loving heart, which so few have : where Ex-
cellence existed, he was compelled to acknowledge it ; was
drawn towards it, and (let the old sulphur-brand of a Laird
say what he liked) could net but walk with it, if not as
superior, if not as equal, then as inferior and lackey, better
so than not at all If we reflect now that this love of Ex-
cellence had not only such an evil nature to triumph over;
but also what an education and social position withstood it
and weighed it down, its innate strength, victorious over
all these things, may astonish us. Consider what an inward
impulse there must have been, how many mountains of im-
pediment hurled aside, before the Scottish Laird could, as
humble servant, embrace the knees (the bosom was not per-
mitted him) of the English Dominie ! Your Scottish Laird,
says an English naturalist of these days, may be defined as
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHHSON. 35
tlie hungriest and vainest of all bipeds yet known. Boswell
too was a Tory; of quite peculiarly feudal, genealogical,
pragmatical temper; Lad been nurtured in an atmosphere
of Heraldry, at the feet of a very Gamaliel in that kind;
within bare walls, adorned only with pedigrees, amid serv-
ing-men in threadbare livery ; all things teaching him, from
birth upwards, to remember that a Laird was a Laird. Per-
haps there was a special vanity in his very blood : old Au-
chinleck had, if not the gay, tail-spreading, peacock vanity
of his son, no little of the slow-stalking, contentious, hissing
vanity of the gander; a still more fatal species. Scottish
Advocates will yet tell you how the ancient man, having
chanced to be the first sheriff appointed (after the abolition
of e hereditary jurisdictions') by royal authority, was wont,
in dull-snuffling pompous tone, to preface many a deliver-
ance from the bench with these words : " I, the first King's
Sheriff in Scotland."
And now behold the worthy Bozzy, so prepossessed and
held back by nature and by art, fly nevertheless like iron to
its magnet, whither his better genius called ! You may sur-
round the iron and the magnet with what enclosures and
encumbrances you please, with wood, with rubbish, with
brass : it matters not, the two feel each other, they struggle
restlessly towards each other, they will be together. The
iron may be a Scottish squirelet, full of gulosity and < gig-
manity ;' 2 the magnet an English plebeian, and moving rag-
and-dust mountain, coarse, proud, irascible, imperious : never-
theless, behold how they embrace, and inseparably cleave to
one another ! It is one of the strangest phenomena of the
past century, that at a time when the old reverent feeling
2 *$. Wfctat do you mean by "respectable"? A. He always kept a gig*'
fell's T'i'ial.) *Thus,' it has been said, *does society naturally divide itself into
four classes : NoWemen, Gentlemen, G%men and Men/
36 MISCELLANIES.
of Diseipleship (such as brought men from far countries, with
rich gifts, and prostrate soul, to the feet of the Prophets)
had passed utterly away from men's practical experience,
and was no longer surmised to exist (as it does), perennial,
indestructible, in man's inmost heart, James Boswell should
have been the individual, of all others, predestined to recall
it, in such singular guise, to the wondering, and, for a long
while, laughing and unrecognising world. It has been com-
monly said, The man's vulgar vanity was all that attached
him to Johnson; he delighted to be seen near him, to be
thought connected with him. Now let it be at once granted
that no consideration springing out of vulgar vanity could
well be absent from the mind of James Boswell, in this his
intercourse with Johnson, or in any considerable transaction
of his life. At the same time, ask yourself: Whether such
vanity, and nothing else, actuated him therein; whether this
was the true essence and moving principle of the pheno-
menon, or not rather its outward vesture, and the accidental
environment (and defacement) in which it came to light?
The man was, by nature and habit, vain ; a sycophant-cox-
comb, be it granted : but had there been nothing more than
vanity in him, was Samuel Johnson the man of men to whom
he must attach himself ? At the date when Johnson was
a poor rusty-coated < scholar,' dwelling in Temple-lane, and
indeed throughout their whole intercourse afterwards, were
there not chancellors and prime ministers enough ; graceful
gentlemen, the glass of fashion ; honour-giving noblemen ;
dinner-giving rich men; renowned fire-eaters, swordsmen,
gownsmen ; Quacks and Eealities of all hues, any one of
whom bulked much larger in the world's eye th^n Johnson
ever did? To any one of whom, by half that submi^sive-
ness and assiduity, our Bozzy might have recommended
liimself 3 and sat there, the envy of surrounding lickspittles ;
BOSWELI/S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 37
pocketing now solid emolument, swallowing now well-cooked
viands and wines of rich vintage ; in each case, also, shone-
on by some glittering reflex of Renown or Notoriety, so as
to be the observed of innumerable observers. To no one of
whom, however, though otherwise a most diligent solicitor
and purveyor, did he so attach himself: such vulgar cour-
tierships were his paid drudgery, or leisure amusement ; the
worship of Johnson was his grand, ideal, voluntary busi-
ness. Does not the frothy-hearted yet enthusiastic man,
doffing his AdvocateVwig, regularly take post, and hurry
up to London, for the sake of his Sage chiefly; as to a
Feast of Tabernacles, the Sabbath of his whole year ? The
plate-lieker and wine-bibber dives into Bolt Court, to sip
muddy coffee with a cynical old man, and a sour-tempered
blind old woman (feeling the cups, whether they are full,
with her finger) ; and patiently endures contradictions with-
out end ; too happy so he may but be allowed to listen and
live. Nay, it does not appear that vulgar vanity could ever
have been much flattered by Boswell's relation to Johnson.
Mr. Croker says, Johnson was, to the last, little regarded
by the great world; from which, for a vulgar vanity, all
honour, as from its fountain, descends. Bozzy, even, among
Johnson's friends and special admirers, seems rather to
have been laughed at than envied: his officious, whisk-
ing, consequential ways, the daily reproofs and rebuffs he
underwent, could gain from the world no golden but only
leaden opinions. His devout Discipleship seemed nothing
more than a mean Spanielship, in the general eye. His
mighty ' constellation,' or sun, round whom he, as satellite,
observantly gyrated, was, for the mass of men, but a huge
ill-snuffed tallow-light, and he a weak night-moth, circling
foolishly, dangerously about it, not knowing what he wanted.
If he enjoyed Highland dinners and toasts, as henchman to
SS MSCELLANiES.
a now sort of chieftain, Henry Erskine, in the domestic
* Outer-House,' could hand him a shilling " for the sight of
his Bear." Doubtless the man was laughed at, and often
heard himself laughed at for his Johnsonism. To be envied
is the grand and sole aim of vulgar vanity; to be filled with
good things is that of sensuality : for Johnson perhaps no
man living envied poor Bozzy; and of good things (except
himself paid for them) there was 110 vestige in that acquaint-
anceship. Had nothing other or better than vanity and
sensuality been there, Johnson and Boswell had never come
together, or had soon and finally separated again.
In fact, the so copious terrestrial dross that welters cha-
otically, as the outer sphere of this man's character, does but
render for us more remarkable, more touching, the celes-
tial spark of goodness, of light, and Keverence for Wisdom,
which dwelt in the interior, and could struggle through such
encumbrances, and in some degree illuminate and beautify
them. There is much lying yet undeveloped in the love
of Boswell for Johnson. A cheering proof, in a time which
else utterly wanted and still wants such, that living Wisdom.
is quite infinitely precious to man, is the symbol of the God-
like to him, which even weak eyes may discern ; that Loy-
alty, Discipleship, all that was ever meant by Hero-worship,
lives perennially in the human bosom, and waits, even in
these dead days, only for occasions to unfold it, and inspire
all men with ifc, and again make the world alive ! James
Boswell we can regard as a practical witness, or real martyr,
to this high everlasting truth. A wonderful martyr, if you
will; and in a time which made such martyrdom doubly
wonderful ; yet the time and its martyr perhaps suited each
other. For a decrepit, death-sick Era, when CANT had first
decisively opened her poison-breathing lips to proclaim that .
God-worship and Mammon-worship were one and the same,
feOSWELL*S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 39
that Life was a Lie, and the Earth Beelzebub's, which the
Supreme Quack should inherit ; and so all things were fallen
into the yellow leaf, and fast hastening to noisome corrup-
tion: for such an Era, perhaps no better Prophet than a
parti-coloured Zany-Prophet, concealing, from himself and
others, his prophetic significance in such unexpected ves-
tures, was deserved, or would have been in place. A
precious medicine lay hidden in floods of coarsest, most
composite treacle : the world swallowed the treacle, for it
suited the world's palate; and now, after half a century,
may the medicine also begin to show itself! James Bos-
well belonged, in his corruptible part, to the lowest classes
of mankind; a foolish, inflated creature, swimming in an
element of self-conceit : but in his corruptible there dwelt
an incorruptible, all the more impressive and indubitable for
the strange lodging it had taken.
Consider too, with what force, diligence and vivacity he
has rendered back all this which, in Johnson's neighbour-
hood, his ( open sense' had so eagerly and freely taken in.
That loose-flowing, careless-looking Work of his is as a
picture by one of Nature's own Artists; the best possible
resemblance of a Eeality ; like the very image thereof in a
clear mirror. Which indeed it was: let but the mirror be
clear* this is the great point; the picture must and will be
genuine. How the babbling Bozzy, inspired only by love,
and the recognition and vision which love can lend, epito-
mises nightly the words of Wisdom, the deeds and aspects
of Wisdom, and so, by little and little, unconsciously works
together for us a whole Johnsoniad; a more free, perfect,
sunlit and spirit-speaking likeness than for many centuries
had been drawn by man of man 1 Scarcely since the days
of Homer has the feat been equalled; indeed, in many senses,
this also is a kind of Heroic Poem. The fit Odyssey of OIB?
40 MISCELLANIES.
nnheroic age was to "be written, not sung ; of a Thinker,
not of a Fighter; and (for want of a Homer) by the first
open soul that might offer, looked such even through the
organs of a Boswel! We do the man's intellectual endow-
ment great wrong, if we measure it by its mere logical
outcome ; though here too, there is not wanting a light in-
genuity, a figurativeness and fanciful sport, with glimpses
of insight far deeper than the common. But Boswell's
grand intellectual talent was, as such ever is, an unconscious
one 5 of far higher reach and significance than Logic; and
showed itself in the whole, not in parts. Here again we
have that old saying verified, i The heart sees farther than
the head, 3
Thus does poor Bozzy stand out to us as an ill-assorted,
glaring mixture of the highest and the lowest. What, in-
deed, is man's life generally but a kind of beast-godhood;
the god in us triumphing more and more over the beast;
striving more and more to subdue it under his feet ? Did
not the Ancients, in their wise, perennially-significant way,
figure Nature itself, their sacred ALL, or PAN, as a portentous
commingling of these two discords ; as musical, humane,
oracular in its upper part, yet ending below in the cloven
hairy feet of a goat ? The union of melodious, celestial Free-
will and Eeason with foul Irrationality and Lust ; in which,
nevertheless, dwelt a mysterious unspeakable Fear and half-
mad panic Awe ; as for mortals there well might ! And is
not man a microcosm, or epitomised mirror of that same
Universe ; or rather, is not that Universe even Himself, the
reflex of his own fearful and wonderful being, * the waste
fantasy of his own dream 9 ! No wonder that man, that each
man, and James Boswell like the others, should resemble
it ! The peculiarity in his case was the unusual defect of
amalgamation and subordination: the highest lay side by
BOSWELI/S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 41
side with the lowest; not morally combined with it and
spiritually transfiguring it, but tumbling in half-mechanical
juxtaposition with it, and from time to time, as the mad
alternation chanced, irradiating it, or eclipsed by it.
The world, as we said, has been but unjust to him ; dis-
cerning only the outer terrestrial and often sordid mass;
without eye, as it generally is, for his inner divine secret;
and thus figuring him nowise as a god Pan, but simply of
the bestial species, like the cattle on a thousand hills. Nay,
sometimes a strange enough hypothesis has been started of
him ; as if it were in virtue even of these same bad qualities
that he did his good wort ; as if it were the very fact of his
being among the worst men in this world that had enabled
him, to write one of the best books therein ! Falser hypo-
thesis, we may venture to say, never rose in human soul.
Bad is by its nature negative, and can do nothing ; whatso-
ever enables us to do anything is by its very nature good.
Alas, that there should be teachers in Israel, or even learn-
ers, to whom this world-ancient fact is still problematical,
or even deniable ! Boswell wrote a good Book because he
had a heart and an eye to discern Wisdom, and an utterance
to render it forth ; because of his free insight, his lively
talent, above all, of his Love and childlike Open-mindedness.
His sneaking sycophancies, Ms greediness and forwardness,
whatever was bestial and earthy in him, are so many blem-
ishes in his Book, which still disturb us in its clearness;
wholly hindrances, not helps. Towards Johnson, however,
his feeling was not Sycophancy, which is the lowest, but
Reverence, which is the highest of human feelings. None
but a reverent man (which so unspeakably few are) could have
found his way from BoswelTs environment to Johnson's:
if such worship for real God-made superiors showed itself
also as worship for apparent Tailor-made superiors, even as
42 MlSOBLLANIESo
hollow interested month-worship for such, the case, in this
composite human nature of ours, was not miraculous, the
more was the pity! But for ourselves, let every one of us
cling to this last article of Faith, and know it as the begin-
ning of all knowledge worth the name : That neither James
BoswelTs good Book, nor any other good thing, in any time
or in any place, was, is or can Tbe performed by any man in
virtue of Ms badness, but always and solely in spite thereof.
As for the Book itself, questionless the universal favour
entertained for it is well merited. In worth as a Book we
have rated it beyond any other product of the eighteenth
century : all Johnson's own Writings, laborious and in their
kind genuine above most, stand on a quite inferior level to
it; already, indeed, they are becoming obsolete for this
generation ; and for some future generation may be valuable
chiefly as Prolegomena and expository Scholia to this John-
soniad of BoswelL Which of us but remembers, as one of
the sunny spots in his existence, the day when he opened
these airy volumes, fascinating him by a true natural magic !
It was as if the curtains of the Past were drawn aside, and
we looked mysteriously into a kindred country, where dwelt
our Fathers ; inexpressibly dear to us, but which had seemed
forever hidden from our eyes. For the dead Night had en-
gulfed it 5 all was gone, vanished as if it had not been.
Nevertheless, wondrously given back to us, there once more
it lay ; all bright, lucid, blooming ; a little island of Creation
amid the circumambient Void. There it still lies; like a
thing stationary, imperishable, over which changeful Time
were now accumulating itself in vain, and could not, any
longer, harm it, or hide it.
If we examine by what charm it is that men are still
held to this Life of Johnson, now when so much else has
been forgotten, the main part of the answer will perhaps be
BOSWELI/S LIFE OF JOHNSOH. 4$
found In that speculation ' on tlie import of Reality? com-
municated to tlie world, last month, in this Magazine. The
Johnsoniad of Boswell turns on objects that in very deed
existed; it is all true. So far other in melodiousness of
tone, it vies with the Odyssey, or surpasses it, in this one
point: to us these read pages, as those chanted hexa-
meters were to the first Greek hearers, are, in the fullest
deepest sense, wholly credible. All the wit and wisdom lying
embalmed in Boswell's Boob, plenteous as these are, could
not have saved it. Far more scientific instruction (mere
excitement and enlightenment of the thinking power) can
be found in twenty other works of that time, which make
but a quite secondary impression on us. The other works
of that time, however, fall under one of two classes : Either
they are professedly Didactic ; and, in that way, mere Ab-
stractions, Philosophic Diagrams, incapable of interesting us
much otherwise than as Euclid's Elements may do : Or else,
with all their vivacity, and pictorial richness of colour, they
are Fictions and not Realities. Deep truly, as Herr Sauerteig
urges, is the force of this consideration : The thing here
stated is a fact ; those figures, that local habitation, are not
shadow but substance. In virtue of such advantages, see
how a very Bos well may become Poetical !
Gritics insist much on the Poet that he should commu-
nicate an < Infinitude* to his delineation; that by intensity
of conception, by that gift of < transcendental Thought,'
which is fitly named genius, and inspiration, he should in-
form the Finite with a certain Infinitude of significance ; or
as they sometimes say, ennoble the Actual into Idealness.
They are right in their precept; they mean rightly. But
in cases like this of the Johnsoniad, such is the dark gran-
deur of that * Time-element,' wherein man's soul here below
lives imprisoned, the Poet's task is, as it were, done to hfe
44 MISCELLANIES.
hand: Time itself, -which is the outer veil of Eternity, in-
vests, of its own accord, "with an authentic, felt * infinitude'
whatsoever it has once embraced in its mysterious folds.
Consider all that lies in that one word Past ! What a pa-
thetic, sacred, in every sense poetic, meaning is implied in it ;
a meaning growing ever the clearer, the farther we recede
in Time, the more of that same Past we have to look
through! On which ground indeed must Sauertcig have
built, and not without plausibility, in that strange thesis of
his: 4 Tliat History, after all, is tlie true Poetry; that Ke~
< ality, if rightly interpreted, is grander than Fiction ; nay
' that even in the right interpretation of Reality and His-
< tory does genuine Poetry consist.'
Thus for Boswel?s Life of Johnson has Time done, is Time
still doing, what no ornament of Art or Artifice could have
done for it. Bough Samuel and sleek wheedling James were,
and are not Their Life and whole personal Environment
has melted into air. The Mitre Tavern still stands in
Fleet Street: but where now is its scot-and-lot paying,
beef-and-ale loving, cocked-hatted, pot-bellied Landlord ; its
rosy-faced assiduous Landlady, with all her shining brass-
pans, waxed tables, well-filled larder-shelves; her cooks, and
bootjacks, and errand-boys, and watery-mouthed hangers-
on ? Gone 1 Gone ! The becking Waiter who, with wreathed
smiles, was wont to spread for Samuel and Bozzy their
supper of the gods, has long since pocketed his last six-
pence; and vanished, sixpences and all, like a ghost at cock-
crowing. The Bottles they drank out of are all broken, the
Chairs they sat on all rotted and burnt ; the very Knives
and Forks they ate with have rusted to the heart, and
become brown oxide of iron, and mingled with the indiscri-
minate clay. All, all has vanished; in every deed and truth,
like that baseless fabric of Prospero's air-vision. Of the
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON, 45
Mitre Tavern nothing "but the bare walls remain there ; of
London, of England, of the World, nothing but the bare
walls remain ; and these also decaying (were they of ada-
mant), only slower. The mysterious River of Existence
rushes on : a new Billow thereof has arrived, and lashes
wildly as ever round the old embankments ; but the former
Billow with its loud, mad eddyings, where is it ? Where !
Now this Book of Boswell's, this is precisely a revocation
of the edict of Destiny ; so that Time shall not utterly, not
so soon by several centuries, have dominion over us. A
little row of Naphtha-lamps, with its line of Naphtha-light,
burns clear and holy through the dead Night of the Past :
they who are gone are still here ; though hidden they are
revealed, though dead they yet speak. There it shines, that
little miraculously lamplit Pathway; shedding its feebler
and feebler twilight into the boundless dark Oblivion, for
all that our Johnson touched has become illuminated for us :
on which miraculous little Pathway we can still travel, and
see wonders.
It is not speaking with exaggeration, but with strict
measured sobriety, to say that this Book of Boswell's will
give us more real insight into the History of England during
those days than twenty other Books, falsely entitled 'His-
tories,' which take to themselves that special aim. What
good is it to me though innumerable Smolletts and Bels-
hams keep dinning in my ears that a man named George
the Third was born and bred xip, and a man named George
the Second died ; that Walpole, and the Pelhams, and Chat-
ham, and Rockingham, and Shelburne, and North, with their
Coalition or their Separation Ministries, all ousted one an-
other ; and vehemently scrambled for * the thing they called
* the Rudder of Government, but which was in reality the
' Spigot of Taxation' ? That debates wer held? and mtfa
46 MISCELLANIES,
liite jarring and jargoning took place ; and road-bills and
enclosure-bills, and game -bills and India -bills, and Laws
which no man can number, which happily few men needed
to trouble their heads with beyond the passing moment,
were enacted, and printed by the King's Stationer? That
he who sat in Chancery, and rayed-out speculation from the
Woolsack, was now a man that squinted, now a man that
did not squint 1 To the hungry and thirsty mind all this
avails next to nothing. These men and these things, we
indeed know, did swim, by strength or by specific levity,
as apples or as horse-dung, on the top of the current : but
is it by painfully noting the courses, eddyings and bobbings
hither and thither of such chift-articles, that you will un-
fold to me the nature of the current itself; of that mighty-
rolling, loud-roaring Life-current, bottomless as the foun-
dations of the Universe, mysterious as its Author? The
thing I want to see is not Redbook Lists, and Court Calen-
dars, and Parliamentary Registers, but the LIFE OF MAN in
England: what men did, thought, suffered, enjoyed; the
form, especially the spirit, of their terrestrial existence, its
outward environment, its inward principle how and what it
was ; whence it proceeded, whither it was tending.
Mournful, in truth, is it to behold what the business
called 'History/ in these so enlightened and illuminated
times, still continues to be. Can you gather from it, read
till your eyes go out, any dimmest shadow of an answer to
that great question : How men lived and had their being ;
were it but economically, as, what wages they got, and
what they bought with these? Unhappily you cannot.
History will throw no light on any such matter. At the
point where living memory fails, it is all darkness; Mr.
Senior and Mr. Sadler must still debate this simplest of all
elements in the condition of the Past ; Whether men were
BOSWELI/S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 47
better off, la their mere larders and pantries, or were worse
off than now ! History, as it stands all bound up in gilt
volumes, is but a shade more instructive than the wooden
volumes of a Backgammon-board. How my Prime Minister
was appointed is of less moment to me than How my House
Servant was hired. In. these days, ten ordinary Histories
of Kings and Courtiers were well exchanged against the
tenth part of one good History of Booksellers.
For example, I would fain know the History of Scotland:
who can tell it me? " Robertson," say innumerable voices;
" Robertson against the world," I open Robertson ; and
find there, through long ages too confused for narrative,
and fit only to be presented in the way of epitome and
distilled essence, a cunning answer and hypothesis, not to
this question: By whom, and by what means, when and
how, was this fair broad Scotland, with its Arts and Manu-
factures, Temples, Schools, Institutions, Poetry, Spirit, Na-
tional Character, created, and made arable, verdant, pecu-
liar, great, here as I can see some fair section of it lying,
kind and strong (like some Bacchus-tamed Lion), from the
Castle-hill of Edinburgh? but to this other question : How
did the King keep himself alive in those old days; and
restrain so many Butcher-Barons and ravenous Henchmen
from utterly extirpating one another, so that killing went
on in some sort of moderation ? In the one little Letter of
JSneas Sylvius, from old Scotland, there is more of History
than in all this. At length, however, we come to a lumin-
ous age, interesting enough ; to the age of the Reformation.
All Scotland is awakened to a second higher life : the Spirit
of the Highest stirs in every bosom, agitates every bosom ;
Scotland is convulsed, fermenting, struggling to body itself
forth anew. To the herdsman, among Ms cattle in remote
woods ; to the craftsman, in his rude, heath-thatched work*
48 MISCELLANIES.
shop, among Ms rude guild-brethren ; to the great and to
the little, a new light has arisen: in town and hamlet
groups are gathered, with eloquent looks, and governed or
ungovernable tongues ; the great and the little go forth to-
gether to do battle for the Lord against the mighty. We
ask, with breathless eagerness: How was it; how went it
on? Let us understand it, let us see it, and know it ! In
reply, is handed us a really graceful and most dainty little
Scandalous Chronicle (as for some Journal of Fashion) of
two persons : Mary Stuart, a Beauty, but over lightheaded;
and Henry Damley, a Booby who had fine legs. How these
first courted, billed and cooed, according to nature ; then
pouted, fretted, grew utterly enraged, and blew one another
up with gunpowder : this, and not the History of Scotland,
is what we goodnaturedly read. Nay, by other hands,
something like a liorse-load of other Books have been
written to prove that it was the Beauty who blew up the
Booby, and that it was not she. Who or what it was, the
thing once for all being so effectually done, concerns us
little. To know Scotland, at that great epoch, were a valu-
able increase of knowledge : to know poor Darnley, and see
Mm with burning candle, from centre to skin, were no in-
crease of knowledge at all. Thus is History written.
Hence, indeed, comes it that History, which should be
* the essence of innumerable Biographies/ will tell us, ques-
tion it as we like, less than one genuine Biography may do,
pleasantly and of its own accord ! The time is approaching
when History will be attempted on quite other principles ;
when the Court, the Senate and the Battlefield, receding
more and more into the background, the Temple, the Work-
shop and Social Hearth will advance more and more into
the foreground; and History will not content itself with
shaping some answer to that question; How were men
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON, 49
taxed and kept quiet then? but will seek to answer this other
infinitely wider and higher question : How and what were men
then? Not our Government only, or the 'House wherein our
life was led/ but the Life itself we led there, will be inquired
into. Of which latter it may be found that Government, in
any modern sense of the word, is after all but a secondary
condition : in the mere sense of Taxation and Keeping quiet,
a small, almost a pitiful one. Meanwhile let us welcome
such Boswells, each in his degree, as bring us any genuine
contribution, were it never so inadequate, so inconsiderable.
An exception was early taken against this Life of John-
son, and all similar enterprises, which we here recommend ;
and has been transmitted from critic to critic, and repeated
in their several dialects, uninterruptedly, ever since : That
such jottings-down of careless conversation are an infringe-
ment of social privacy ; a crime against our highest Free-
dom, the Freedom of man's intercourse with man. To this
accusation, which we have read and heard oftener than,
enough, might it not be well for once to offer the flattest
contradiction, and plea of Not at all guilty^ Not that con-
versation is noted down, but that conversation should not
deserve noting down, is the evil. Doubtless, if conversation
be falsely recorded, then is it simply a Lie : arid worthy of
being swept, with all despatch, to the Father of Lies. But
if, on the other hand, conversation can be authentically re-
corded, and any one is ready for the task, let him by all
means proceed with it ; let conversation be kept in remem-
brance to the latest date possible. Nay, should the con-
sciousness that a man may be among us i taking notes'
tend, in any measure, to restrict those floods of idle insin-
cere speech, with which the thought of mankind is wellnigh
drowned, were it other than the most indubitable benefit ?
He who speaks honestly cares not, needs not care, thot^gh
VOL. IX. (Misc. vol. 4.) E
50 MISCELLANIES.
Ms words be preserved to remotest time : for Mm who
speaks dishonestly, the fittest of all punishments seems to
be this same, which the nature of the case provides. The
dishonest speaker, not he only who purposely utters false-
hoods, but he who does not purposely, and with sincere
heart, utter Truth, and Truth alone ; who babbles he knows
not what, and has clapped no bridle on his tongue, but lets
it run racket, ejecting chatter and futility, is among the
most indisputable malefactors omitted, or inserted, in the
Criminal Calendar. To him that will well consider it, idle
speaking is precisely the beginning of all Hollowness, Half-
ness, Infidelity (want of Faithfulness); the genial atmosphere
in which rank weeds of every kind attain the mastery over
noble fruits in man's life, and utterly choke them out: one
of the most crying maladies of these days, and to be testi-
fied against, and in all ways to the uttermost withstood.
Wise, of a wisdom far beyond our shallow depth, was that
old precept: Watch thy tongue; out of it are the issues of
Life ! * Man is properly an incarnated word ;' the WOT d that
he speaks is the man himself. Were eyes put into our
head, that we might see ; or only that we might fancy, and
plausibly pretend, we had seen ? Was the tongue suspended
there, that it might tell truly what we had seen, and make
man the souPs-brother of man ; or only that it might utter
vain sounds, jargon, soul-confusing, and so divide man, as
by enchanted walls of Darkness, from union with man!
Thou who wearest that cunning, heaven-made organ, a
Tongue, think well of this. Speak not, I passionately en-
treat thee, till thy thought have silently matured itself, till-
thou have other than mad and mad-making noises to emit :
hold thy tongue (thou hast it a-holding) till some meaning lie
behind, to set it wagging. Consider the significance of
SILENCE: it is boundless, never by meditating to be ex-
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 51
hausted ; unspeakably profitable to tliee ! Cease that chao-
tic hubbub, wherein thy own soul rims to waste, to confused
suicidal dislocation and stupor: out of Silence conies thy
strength. tf Speech is silvern, Silence is golden ; Speech is
human, Silence is divine/ Fool ! thinkest thou that be-
cause no Bos well is there with ass-skin and blacklead to
note thy jargon, it therefore dies and is harmless ? Nothing
dies, nothing can die. No idlest word thou speakest but is
a seed cast into Time, and grows through all Eternity 1 The
Recording Angel, consider it well, is no fable, but the truest
of truths : the paper tablets thou canst burn ; of the * iron
leaf there is no burning. Truly, if we can permit God Al-
mighty to note down our conversation, thinking it good
enough for Him, any poor Boswell need not scruple to
work his will of it.
Leaving now this our English Odyssey, -with its Singer
and Scholiast, let us come to the Ulysses; that great Samuel
Johnson himself, the far-experienced, ' much-enduring man/
whose labours and pilgrimage are here sung. A full-length
image of his Existence has been preserved for us : and he,
perhaps of all living Englishmen, was the one who best
deserved that honour* For if it is true, and now almost
proverbial, that c the Life of the lowest mortal, if faithfully
recorded, would be interesting to the highest;' how much
more when the mortal in question was already distinguished
in fortune and natural quality, so that his thinkings and
doings were not significant of himself only, but of large
masses of mankind ! * There is not a man whom I meet oa
6 the streets,' says one, c but I could like, were it otherwise
* convenient, to know his Biography :' nevertheless, could an
enlightened curiosity be so far gratified, it must be owned
the Biography of most ought to be, in an extreme degree.
52 MISCELLANIES
summary. In this world, there is so wonderfully little salt
subsistence among men ; next to no originality (though
never absolutely none) : one Life is too servilely the copy
of another; and so in whole thousands of them you find
little that is properly new ; nothing but the old song sung
by a new voice, with better or worse execution, here and
there an ornamental quaver, and fake notes enough: but
the fundamental tune is ever the same ; and for the words,
these, all that they meant stands written generally on the
Churchyard-stone : Natus sum ; esurielam, qucerebam ; nunc
repletus requiesco. Mankind sail their Life-voyage in huge-
fleets, following some single whale-fishing or herring-fishing
Commodore: the logbook of each differs not, in essential
purport, from that of any other: nay the most have no
legible logbook (reflection, observation not being among
their talents) ; keep no reckoning, only keep in sight of the
flagship, and fish. Read the Commodore's Papers (know
Ms Life) ; and even your lover of that street Biography will
have learned the most of what he sought after.
Or, the servile imitancy> and yet also a nobler relation-
ship and mysterious union to one another which lies in such
Iinitancy, of Mankind might be illustrated under the different
figure, itself nowise original, of a Flock of Sheep. Sheep go
in flocks for three reasons : First, because they are of a
gregarious temper, and love to be together: Secondly, be-
cause of their cowardice ; they are afraid to be left alone :
Thirdly, because the common run of them are dull of sight,
to a proverb, and can have no choice in roads ; sheep can
in fact see nothing ; in a celestial Luminary, and a scoured
pewter Tankard, would discern only that both dazzled them,
and were of unspeakable glory. How like their fellow-crea-
tures of the human species! Men too, as was from th^ feet
maintained here ? are gregarious; then surely
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 53
enough, trembling to be left by themselves; above all, dull-
sighted, down to the verge of utter blindness. Thus are
we seen ever running in torrents, and mobs, if we run at
all; and after what foolish scoured Tankards, mistaking
them for Suns ! Foolish Turnip-lanterns likewise, to all
appearance supernatural, keep whole nations quaking, their
hair on end. Neither know we, except by blind habit, where
the good pastures lie : solely when the sweet grass is be-
tween our teeth, we know it, and chew it ; also when grass
is bitter and scant, we know it, and bleat and butt : these
last two facts we know of a truth and in very deed. Thus
do Men and Sheep play their parts on this Nether Earth ;
wandering restlessly in large masses, they know not whi-
ther; for most part, each following his neighbour, and his
own nose.
Nevertheless, not always; look better, you shall find
certain that do, in some small degree, know whither. Sheep
have their Bell-wether ; some ram of the folds, endued with
more valour, with clearer vision than other sheep ; he leads
them through the wolds, by height and hollow, to the woods
and water-courses, for covert or for pleasant provender;
courageously marching, and if need be leaping, and with
hoof and horn doing battle, in the van : Mm they courage-
ously and with assured heart follow. Touching it is, as
every herdsman will inform you, with what chivalrous de-
votedness these woolly Hosts adhere to their Wether; and
rush, after him, through good report and through bad report,
were it into safe shelters and green thynry nooks, or into
asphaltic lakes and the jaws of devouring lions. Ever also
must we recall that fact which we owe Jean Paul's quick
eye : * If you hold a stick before the Wether, so that he, by
* necessity, leaps in passing you, and then withdraw your
* stick, the Flock will nevertheless all leap as he did ; and
'54 ^
* the thousandth sheep shall be found impetuously vaulting
* over air, as tlie first did over an otherwise impassable bar-
* rier. 5 Reader, wouldst thou understand Society, ponder
well those ovine proceedings ; thou wilt find them all curi-
ously significant.
Now if sheep always, how much more must men always,
have their Chief, their Guide ! Man too is by nature quite
thoroughly gregarious : nay ever he struggles to be some-
thing more, to be social; not even when Society has become
impossible, does that deep-seated tendency and effort for-
sake him. Man, as if by miraculous magic, imparts his
Thoughts, his Mood of mind to man ; an unspeakable com-
munion binds all past, present and future men into one
Indissoluble whole, almost into one living individual. Of
which high, mysterious Truth, this disposition to imitate, to
lead and be led, this impossibility not to imitate, is the
most constant, and one of the simplest manifestations. To
imitate 1 which of us all can measure the significance that
lies in that one word ? By virtue of which the infant Man,
born at Woolsthorpe, grows up not to be a hairy Savage
and chewer of Acorns, but an Isaac Newton and Discoverer
of Solar Systems ! Thus both in a celestial and terrestrial
sense are we a Flock, such as there is no other ; nay looking
away from the base and ludicrous to the sublime and sacred
side of the matter (since in every matter there are two sides),
have not we also a SHEPHERD, 'if we will but hear his voice'?
Of those stupid multitudes there is no one but has an im-
mortal Soul within him; a reflex and living image of God's
whole Universe: strangely, from its dim environment, the
light of the Highest looks through him ; for which reason,
indeed, it is that we claim a brotherhood with him, and so
love to know his History, and come into clearer and clearer
union with all that he feels, and says, and does.
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON* 55
However, the chief thing to be noted was this : Amid
those dull millions, who, as a dull flock, roll hither and
thither, whithersoever they are led ; and seem all sightless
and slavish, accomplishing, attempting little save what the
animal instinct in its somewhat higher kind might teach,
To keep themselves and their young ones alive, are scat-
tered here and there superior natures, whose eye is not
destitute of free vision, nor then- heart of free volition.
These latter, therefore, examine and determine, not what
others do, but what it is right to do ; towards which, and
which only, will they, with such force as is given them,
resolutely endeavour: for if the Machine, living or inani-
mate, is merely fed, or desires to be fed, and so works; the
Person can will, and so do. These are properly our Men,
our Great Men ; the guides of the dull host, which follows
them as by an irrevocable decree. They are the chosen of
the world : they had this rare faculty not only of < suppos-
ing' and i inclining to think,' but of knowing and believing;
the nature of their being was, that they lived not by Hear-
say, but by clear Vision ; while others hovered and swam
along, in the grand Vanity-fair of the World, blinded by
the mere Shows of things, these saw into the Things them-
selves, and could walk as men having an eternal loadstar,
and with their feet on sure paths. Thus was there a JReality
in their existence ; something of a perennial character ; in
virtue of which indeed it is that the memory of them is
perennial. Whoso belongs only to his own age, and rever-
ences only its gilt Popinjays or soot- smeared Mumbojum-
bos, must needs die with it : though he have been, crowned
seven times in the Capitol, or seventy-and-seven times, and
Kurnour have blown his praises to all the four winds, deafen-
ing every ear therewith, it avails not ; there was nothing
universal, nothing eternal in him; he must f&de away, eV
56 MISCELLANIES.
as the Popinjay-gildings and Scarecrow-apparel, which lie
could not see through. The great man does, in good truth,
belong to his own age; nay more so than any other man 5
being properly the synopsis and epitome of such age with
its interests and influences : but belongs likewise to all ages,
otherwise he is not great. What was transitory in him
passes away ; and an immortal part remains, the signifi-
cance of which is in strict speech inexhaustible, as that of
every real object is. Aloft, conspicuous, on his enduring
basis, he stands there, serene, unaltering ; silently addresses
to every new generation a new lesson and monition. Well is
his Life worth writing, worth interpreting ; and ever, in the
new dialect of new times, of re-writing and re-interpreting.
Of such chosen men was Samuel Johnson : not ranking
among the highest, or even the high, yet distinctly ad-
mitted into that sacred band; whose existence was no idle
Dream, but a Eeality which he transacted awake ; nowise a
Clothes-horse and Patent Digester, but a genuine Man. By
nature he was gifted for the noblest of earthly tasks, that
of Priesthood, and Guidance of mankind; by destiny, more-
over, he was appointed to this task, and did actually, ac-
cording to strength, fulfil the same : so that always the
question, How ; in what spirit ; under what shape ? remains for
us to be asked and answered concerning him. For as the
highest Gospel was a Biography, so is the Life of every
good man still an indubitable Gospel, and preaches to the
eye and heart and whole man, so that Devils even, must
believe and tremble, these gladdest tidings : " Man is hea-
ven-born ; not the thrall of Circumstances, of Necessity, but
the victorious subduer thereof: behold how he can become
the ( Announcer of himself and of his Freedom f and is ever
what the Thinker has named him, 'the Messias of Nature/"
Yes, Reader, all this that thou hast so often heard about
BOSWELI/S LIFE OF JOHNSON, 5?
i force of circumstances/ ' the creature of the time,' ' balan-
cing of motives,' and who knows what melancholy stuff to
the like purport, wherein thou, as in a nightmare Dream,
sittest paralysed, and hast no force left, was in very truth,
if Johnson and waking men are to be credited, little other
than a hag-ridden vision of death-sleep ; some 7zaZ/*~fact,
more fatal at times than a whole falsehood. Shake it off;
awake ; up and be doing, even as it is given thee I
The Contradiction which yawns wide enough in every
Life, which it is the meaning and task of Life to reconcile,
was in Johnson's wider than in most. Seldom, for any man,
has the contrast between the ethereal heavenward side of
things, and the dark sordid earthward, been more glaring:
whether we look at Nature's work with him or Fortune's,
from first to last, heterogeneity, as of sunbeams and miry
clay, is on all hands manifest. Whereby indeed, only this
was declared, That much Life had been given him; many
things to triumph over, a great work to do. Happily also
he did it ; better than the most.
Nature had given him a high, keen-visioned, almost
poetic soul ; yet withal imprisoned it in an inert, unsightly
body : he that could never rest had not limbs that would
move with him, but only roll and waddle : the inward eye,
all -penetrating, all-embracing, must look through bodily
windows that were dim, half-blinded ; he so loved men, and
* never once saw the human face divine 5 ! Not less did he
prize the love of men ; he was eminently social ; the appro-
bation of his fellows was dear to Mm, * valuable,' as he
owned, c if from the meanest of human beings :' yet the first
impression he produced on every man was to be one of aver-
sion, almost of disgust. By Nature it was farther ordered
that the imperious Johnson should be born poor : the ruler-
soul, strong in its native royalty, generous, tmcontrollable!,
58 MISCELLANIES.
like the lion of the woods, was to be housed, then, in such
a dwelling-place : of Disfigurement, Disease, and lastly of
a Poverty which itself made him the servant of servants.
Thus was the born king likewise a born slave : the divine
spirit of Music must awake imprisoned arnid dull- croaking
universal Discords; the Ariel finds himself encased in the
coarse hulls of a Caliban. So is it more or less, we know
(and thou, Reader, knowest and feelest even now), with
all men : yet with the fewest men in any such degree as
with Johnson,
Fortune, moreover, which had so managed his first ap-
pearance in the world, lets not her hand He idle, or turn
the other way, but works unweariedly in the same spirit,
while he is journeying through the world. What such a
mind, stamped of Nature's noblest metal, though in so un-
gainly a die, was specially and best of all fitted for, might
still be a question. To none of the world's few Incorpo-
rated Guilds could he have adjusted himself without diffi-
culty, without distortion ; in none been a Guild-Brother well
at ease. Perhaps, if we look to the strictly practical nature
of his faculty, to the strength, decision, method that mani-
fests itself in him, we may say that his calling was rather
towards Active than Speculative life ; that as Statesman (in
the higher, now obsolete sense), Lawgiver, Kuler, in short
as Doer of the Work, he had shone even more than as
Speaker of the Word. His honesty of heart, his courageous
temper, the value he set on things outward and material,
might have made him a King among Kings. Had the
golden age of those new French Prophets, when it shall be
a chacun selon sa eapacit^ a cJiaque capacitS selon $es ceuvres,
but arrived ! Indeed even in our brazen and Birmingham-
lacquer age, he himself regretted that he had not become
a Lawyer, and risen to be Chancellor, which he might well
BOSWELI/S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 5 ( J
Have done. However, it was otherwise appointed. To
no man does Fortune throw open all the kingdoms of
this world, and say : It is thine ; choose where thou wilt
dwell ! To the most she opens hardly the smallest cranny
or doghutch, and says, not without asperity : There, that
is thine while thou canst keep it; nestle thyself there, and
bless Heaven! Alas, men must fit themselves into many
things : some forty years ago, for instance, the noblest and
ablest Man in all the British lands might be seen not sway-
ing the royal sceptre, or the pontiffs censer, on the pinnacle
of the World, but gauging ale-tubs in the little burgh of
Dumfries! Johnson came a little nearer the mark than
Burns : but with him too * Strength was mournfully denied
its arena ;' he too had to fight Fortune at strange odds, all
his life long.
Johnson's disposition for royalty (had the Fates so or-
dered it) is well seen in early boyhood. ' His favourites,*
says Boswell, 'used to receive very liberal assistance from
* him ; and such was the submission and deference with
6 which he was treated, that three of the boys, of whom
6 Mr. Hector was sometimes one, used to come in the mom-
ing as his humble attendants, and carry him to school.
* One in the middle stooped, while he sat upon his back,
* and one on each side supported him ; and thus was he
* borne triumphant.* The purfly, sand-blind lubber and
blubber, with his open mouth, and face of bruised honey-
comb; yet already dominant, imperial, irresistible 1 Not in
the i King's-chair* (of human arms), as we see, do his three
satellites carry him along : rather on the Tj/ranfs-saddle, the
back of his fellow-creature, must he ride prosperous ! The
child is father of the man. He who had seen fifty years
into coming Time, would have felt that little spectacle of
mischievous schoolboys to be a great one. For -us,
60
look back on it, and what followed it, now from afar, there
arise questions enough : How looked these urchins ? What
jackets and galligaskins had they; felt headgear, or of dog-
skin leather? What was old Lichfield doing then ; what
thinking 1 and so on, through the whole series of Corporal
Trim's ' auxiliary verbs.' A picture of it all fashions itself
together ; only unhappily we have no brush and no fingers.
Boyhood is now past; the ferula of Pedagogue waves
harmless, in the distance: Samuel has struggled up to
uncouth bulk and youthhood, wrestling with Disease and
Poverty, all the way; which two continue still his com-
panions. At College we see little of him ; yet thus much,
that things went not well. A rugged wildman of the de-
sert, awakened to the feeling of himself; proud as the
proudest, poor as the poorest; stoically shut up, silently
enduring the incurable : what a world of blackest gloom,
with sun-gleams and pale tearful moon-gleams, and flicker-
ings of a celestial and an infernal splendour, was this that
now opened for him ! But the weather is wintry ; and the
toes of the man are looking through his shoes. His muddy
features grow of a purple and sea-green colour ; a flood of
black indignation mantling beneath. A truculent, raw-boned
iigure ! Meat he has probably little ; hope he has less : his
feet, as we said, have come into brotherhood with the cold
mire.
* Shall I be particular,' inquires Sir John Hawkins, ' and relate
a circumstance of his distress, that cannot "be imputed to Mm as an
effect of Ms own extravagance or irregularity, and consequently re-
flects no disgrace on Ms memory ? He had scarce any change of rai-
ment, and, in a short time after Corbet left Mm, but one pair of shoes,
and those so old that his feet were seen through them : a gentleman
of Ms college, the father of an eminent clergyman now living, directed
a servitor one morning to place a new pair at the door of Johnson's
chamber ; who seeing them upon Ms tot going out, so far forgot Mm-
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 61
self and the spirit which must have actuated his unknown bene-
factor, that, with all the indignation of an insulted man, he threw
them away.'
How exceedingly surprising! The Rev. Dr. Hall re-
marks : tf As far as we can judge from a cursory view of the
6 weekly account in the buttery-books, Johnson appears to
* have lived as well as other commoners and scholars.' Alas!
such. ' cursory view of the buttery-books,' now from the safe
distance of a century, in the safe chair of a College Mas-
tership, is one thing ; the continual view of the empty or
locked buttery itself was quite a different thing. But hear
our Knight, how lie farther discourses. * Johnson/ quoth.
Sir John, could ' not at this early period of Ms life divest
* himself of an idea that poverty was disgraceful ; and was
very severe in his censures of that economy in both our
< Universities, which exacted at meals the attendance of
i poor scholars, under the several denominations of Servi-
* tors in the one, and Sizers in the other : he thought that
* the scholar's, like the Christian life, levelled all distinc-
6 tions of rank and worldly preeminence ; but in this he was
* mistaken : civil polity' &c. &c. Too true ! It is man's lot
to err.
However^ Destiny, in all ways, means to prove the mis-
taken Samuel, and see what stuff is in him. He must leave
these butteries of Oxford, Want like an armed man com-
pelling him ; retreat into his father's mean home ; and there
abandon himself for a season to inaction, disappointment,
shame and nervous melancholy nigh run mad : he is pro-"
bably the wretchedest man in wide England. In all ways he
too must ' become perfect through suffering' High thoughts,
have visited him; his College Exercises have been praised
beyond the walls of College ; Pope himself has seen that
Translation, and approved of it : Samuel had whispered tQ r
64 mSOELLANIES-
' At Edial near Lichfield, in Staffordshire, young gentlemen an
6 boarded, and taught the Latin and Greek languages, ly SAMUEL
JOHNSON.' Had this Edial enterprise prospered, how dif-
ferent might the issue have been! Johnson had lived a
life of unnoticed nobleness, or swoln into some amorphous
Dr. Parr, of no avail to us ; Bozzy would have dwindled
into official insignificance, or risen by some other eleva-
tion; old Anchinleck had never been afflicted with "ane
that keeped a schule," or obliged to violate hospitality by a
" Cromwell do ? God, sir, he gart kings ken that there was a
lith in their neck!" But the Edial enterprise did not prosper;
Destiny had other work appointed for Samuel Johnson; and
young gentlemen got board where they could elsewhere find
it. This man was to become a Teacher of grown gentlemen,
in the most surprising way; a Man of Letters, and Ruler of
the British Nation for some time, not of their bodies merely
but of their minds, not over them but in them.
The career of Literature could not, in Johnson's day, any
more than now, be said to lie along the shores of a Pactolus :
whatever else might be gathered there, gold-dust was nowise
the chief produce. The world, from the times of Socrates,
St. Paul, and far earlier, has always had its Teachers;
and always treated them in a peculiar way. A shrewd
Townclerk (not of Ephesus), once, in founding a Burgh-
Seminary, when the question came, How the Schoolmasters
should be maintained? delivered this brief counsel : "D n
them, keep them poor!" Considerable wisdom may lie in
this aphorism. At all events, we see, the world has acted
on it long, and indeed improved on it, putting many a
Schoolmaster of its great Burgh-Seminary to a death which
even cost it something. The world, it is true, had for some
time been too busy to go out of its way, andpttf any Author
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSOK. 65
to death ; however, tlie old sentence pronounced against
them was found to be pretty sufficient. The first Writers,
being Monks, were sworn to a vow of Poverty ; the modern
Authors had no need to swear to it. This was the epoch
when an Otway could still die of hunger; not to speak of
your innumerable Scrogginses, whom l the Muse found
stretched beneath a rug,' with * rusty grate unconscious of
a fire/ stocking -night cap, sanded floor, and all the other
escutcheons of the craft, time out of mind the heirlooms of
Authorship. Scroggins, however, seems to have been but
an idler ; not at all so diligent as worthy Mr. Boyce, whom
we might have seen sitting up in bed, with his wearing-;
apparel of Blanket about him, and a hole slit in the same,
that his hand might be at liberty to work in its vocation.
The worst was, that too frequently a blackguard reckless-
ness of temper ensued, incapable of turning to account what
good the gods even here had provided : your Boyces acted
on some stoico-epicurean principle of carpe diem, as men do
in. bombarded towns, and seasons of raging pestilence;
and so had lost not only their life, and presence of mind,
but their status as persons of respectability. The trade of
Author was at about one of its lowest ebbs when Johnson
embarked on it.
Accordingly we find no mention of Illuminations in the
city of London, when this same Ruler of the British Nation
arrived in it: no cannon-salvos are fired; no flourish of
drums and trumpets greets his appearance on the scene.
He enters quite quietly, with some copper halfpence in his
pocket ; creeps into lodgings in Exeter Street, Strand ; and
has a Coronation Pontiff also, of not less peculiar equip-
ment, whom, with all submissiveness, he must wait upon,
in his Vatican of St. John's Gate, This is the dull oily
Printer alluded to above. : - :
VOL. IX. (Misc. voL 4.) F
66 MISCELLANIES,
4 Cave's temper, 1 says our Knight Hawkins, * was phlegmatic :
though he assumed, as the publisher of the Magazine, the name of
Sylvanus Urban, he had few of those qualities that constitute urbanity.
Judge of Ms want of them by this question, which he once put to an
author : " Mr. , I hear you have just published a pamphlet, and
am told there is a very good paragraph in it upon the subject of music :
did you write that yourself?" His discernment was also slow; and
as he had already at his command some writers of prose and verse,
who, in the language of Booksellers, are called good hands, he was the
backwarder in making advances, or courting an intimacy with John-
son. Upon the first approach of a stranger, his practice was to con-
tinue sitting ; a posture in which he was ever to be found, and for a
few minutes to continue silent : if at any time he was inclined to
begin the discourse, it was generally by putting a leaf of the Maga-
zine, then in the press, into the hand of his visitor, and asking Ms
opinion of it. * * *
< He was so incompetent a judge of Johnson's abilities, that mean-
ing at one time to dazzle Mm with the splendour of some of those
luminaries in Literature, who favoured him with their correspondence,
lie told him that if he would, in the evening, be at a certain alehouse
in the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell, he might have a chance of seeing
Mr. Erowne and another or two of those illustrious contributors : John-
son accepted the invitation; and being introduced by Cave, dress 3d
in a loose horseman's coat, and such a great bushy wig as he con-
stantly wore, to the sight of Mr. Browne, whom he found sitting at
the upper end of a long table, in a cloud of tobacco-smoke, had his
curiosity gratified.' 3
In fact, if we look seriously into the condition of Author-
ship at that period, we shall find that Johnson had under-
taken one of the rnggedest of all possible enterprises ; that
here as elsewhere Fortune had given him unspeakable Con-
tradictions to reconcile. For a man of Johnson's stamp, the
Problem was twofold: First, not only as the humble but
indispensable condition of all else, to keep himself, if so
might be, alive; but secondly, to keep himself alive by speak*
8 Hawkins, pp. 46-50.
BOSWELI/S LIFE OF JOHNSON, 67
ing forth the Truth that was in him, and speaking it truly,
that is, in the clearest and fittest utterance the Heavens had
enabled him to give it, let the Earth say to this what she
liked. Of which twofold Problem if it be hard to solve
either member separately, how incalculably more so to solve
it, when both are conjoined, and work with endless compli-
cation into one another ! He that finds himself already kept
alive can sometimes (unhappily not always) speak a little
truth ; he that finds himself able and willing, to all lengths,
to speak lies, may, by watching how the wind sits, scrape
together a livelihood, sometimes of great splendour: he,
again, who finds himself provided with neither endowment,
has but a ticklish game to play, and shall have praises if he
win it. Let us look a little at both faces of the matter; and
see what front they then offered our Adventurer, what front
he offered them.
At the time of Johnson's appearance on the field, Litera-
ture, in many senses, was in a transitional state ; chiefly in
this sense, as respects the pecuniary subsistence of its cul-
tivators. It was in the very act of passing from the protec-
tion of Patrons into that of the Public ; no longer to supply
its necessities by laudatory Dedications to the Great, but by
judicious Bargains with the Booksellers., This happy change
has been much sung and celebrated ; many a * lord of the
lion heart and eagle eye' looking back with scorn enough
on the bygone system of Dependency : so that now it were
perhaps well to consider, for a moment, what good might
also be in it, what gratitude we owe it. That a good was
in it, admits not of doubt. Whatsoever has existed has had
its value: without some truth and worth lying in it, the
thing could not have hung together, and been the organ
and sustenance, and method of action, for men that reasoned
and were alive, Translate a Falsehood which is wholly
68 MISCELLANIES.
false into Practice, tlie result comes out zero; there is no
fruit or issue to be derived from it. That in an age, when
a Nobleman was still noble, still with his wealth the pro-
tector of worthy and humane things, and still venerated as
such, a poor Man of Genius, his brother in nobleness, should,
with unfeigned reverence, address him and say : " I have
found Wisdom here, and would fain proclaim it abroad ; wilt
thou, of thy abundance, afford me the means T in all this
there was no baseness; it was wholly an honest proposal,
which a free man might make, and a free man listen to. So
might a Tasso, with a Gerusalemme in his hand or in his
head, speak to a Duke of Ferrara; so might a Shakspeare
to his Southampton ; and Continental Artists generally to
their rich Protectors, in some countries, down almost to
these days. It was only when the reverence became feigned,
that baseness entered into the transaction on both sides;
and, indeed, flourished there with rapid luxuriance, till that
became disgraceful for a Dryden, which a Shakspeare could
once practise without offence.
Neither, it is very true, was the new way of Bookseller
Msecenassliip worthless ; which opened itself at this junc-
ture, for the most important of all transport-trades, now
when the old way had become too miry and impassable.
Remark, moreover, how this second sort of Mascenasship,
after carrying us through nearly a century of Literary Time,
appears now to have wellnigh discharged its function also ;
and to be working pretty rapidly towards some third method,
the exact conditions of which are yet nowise visible. Thus
all things have their end; and we should part with them
all, not in anger, but in peace. The Bookseller-System^
during its peculiar century, the whole of the eighteenth, did
carry us handsomely along; and many good Works it has
left us, and many good Men it maintained : if it is now expir-
BOSWELI/S LIFE Oi 1 JOHNSON. 09
ing by PliFFEBY, as the Patronage-System did Tby FLATTERY
(for Lying is ever the forerunner of Death, nay is itself
Death), let us not forget its benefits ; how it nursed Litera-
ture through boyhood and school-years, as Patronage had
wrapped it in soft swaddling-bands ; till now we sec it
about to put on the toga virilis, could it but find any such !
There is tolerable travelling on the beaten road, run how
it may; only on the new road not yet levelled and paved,
and on the old road all broken into ruts and quagmires, is
the travelling bad or impracticable. The difficulty lies al-
ways in the transition from one method to another. In which
state it was that Johnson now found Literature ; and out of
which, let us also say, he manfully carried it. What re-
markable mortal first paid copyright in England we have not
ascertained; perhaps, for almost a century before, some
scarce visible or ponderable pittance of wages had occasion-
ally been yielded by the Seller of Books to the Writer of
them: the original Covenant, stipulating to produce Para-
dise Lost on the one hand, and Five Pounds Sterling on the
other, still lies (we have been told) in black-on-white, for
inspection and purchase by the curious, at a Bookshop in
Chancery Lane. Thus had the matter gone on, in a mixed
confused way, for some threescore years ; -as ever, in such
things, the old system overlaps the new, by some generation
or two, and only dies quite out when the new has got a
complete organisation and weather-worthy surface of its
own. Among the first Authors, the very first of any sig-
nificance, who lived by the day's wages of his craft, and
composedly faced the world on that basis, was Samuel
Johnson.
At the time of Johnson's appearance there were still two
ways, on which an Author might attempt proceeding : there
were the Maecenases proper in the West End of London j
70 MISCELLANIES.
and the Maecenases virtual of St. John's Gate and Pater-
noster Row. To a considerate man it might seern uncertain
which method were preferable: neither had very high attrac-
tions ; the Patron's aid was now wellnigh necessarily polluted
by sycophancy, before it could come to hand; the Book-
seller's was deformed with greedy stupidity, not to say
entire wooden-headedness and disgust (so that an Osborne
even required to be knocked down, by an author of spirit),
and could barely keep the thread of life together. The one
was the wages of suffering and poverty ; the other, unless
you gave stiict heed to it, the wages of sin. In time, John-
son had opportunity of looking into both methods, and
ascertaining what they were ; but found, at first trial, that
the former would in nowise do for him. Listen, once again,
to that far-famed Blast of Doom, proclaiming into the ear
of Lord Chesterfield, and, through him, of the listening
world, that patronage should be no more I
* Seven years, my Lord, have now past, since I waited in your
outward rooms, ox was repulsed from your door ; during which time
I have "been pushing on my Work 4 through difficulties, of which it is
useless to complain, and have brought it at last to the verge of publi-
cation, without one act of assistance, 5 one word of encouragement, or
one smile of favour,
6 The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love, and
found him a native of the rocks.
* Is not a patron, my Lord, one who looks with unconcern on a
man struggling for life in the water, and when he has reached ground,
encumbers Mm with help ? The notice which you have "been pleased
4 The English Dictionary.
5 Were time and printer's space of no value, it were easy to wasli away certain
foolish soot- stains dropped here as 'Notes ;' especially two : the one on tHs word,
and on Bos well's Note to it ; the other on the paragraph which follows. Let ' ED.*
look a second time ; he will find that Johnson's sacred regard for Truth is th& only
thing to be 'noted,* in the former case; also, in the latter, that this of * Lore's
being a native of the rocks' actually has a * meaning.*
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSOK. 71
t ) take of my labours, had it "been early, had been Mnd : but it lias
been delayed till I am indifferent and cannot enjoy it; till I am
solitary and cannot impart it ; till I am known and do not want it.
I hope, it is no very cynical asperity, not to confess obligations where
no benefit has been received ; or to be unwilling that the public should
consider me as owing that to a patron which Providence has enabled
me to do for myself.
< Having carried on my "Work thus far with so little obligation to
any favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I should
conclude it, if less be possible, with less : for I have long been awak-
ened from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted myself with
so much exultation,
* My Lord, your Lordship's most humble, most obedient servant,
i SAM. JOHNSON.'
And thus must the rebellions ' Sam. Johnson' turn him
tc the Bookselling guild, and the wondrous chaos of 'Author
by trade ;' and, though ushered into it only by that dull oily
Printer, ' with loose horseman's coat and such a great bushy
wig as he constantly wore/ and only as subaltern to some
commanding-officer ' Browne, sitting amid tobacco-smoke at
the head of a long table in the alehouse at Clerkenwell,'
gird himself together for the warfare ; haying no alternative I
Little less contradictory was that other branch of the
twofold Problem now set before Johnson: the speaking
forth of Truth. Nay taken by itself, it had in those days
become so complex as to puzzle strongest heads, with no-
thing else imposed on them for solution ; and even to turn
high heads of that sort into mere hollow vizards, speaking
neither truth nor falsehood, nor anything but what the
Prompter and Player (WOK/HTT^C) put into them. Alas ! for
poor Johnson Contradiction abounded ; in spirituals and in
temporals, within and withoul Bom with the strongest
unconquerable love of just Insight, he must begin to live
and learn in a scene where Prejudice flourishes with rank
72 MISOELLAKIfiS.
luxuriance. England was all confused enough, sightless
and yet restless, take it where you would; but figure the
best Intellect in England nursed up to manhood in the idol-
cavern of a poor Tradesman's house, in the cathedral city of
Lichfield! What is Truth? said jesting Pilate. What is
Truth? might earnest Johnson much more emphatically
say. Truth, no longer, like the Phoenix, in rainbow plum-
age, poured, from her glittering beak, such tones of sweetest
melody as took captive every ear : the Phoenix (waxing
old) had wellnigh ceased her singing, and empty wearisome
Cuckoos, and doleful monotonous Owls, innumerable Jays
also, and twittering Sparrows on the housetop, pretended
they were repeating her.
It was wholly a divided age, that of Johnson ; Unity
existed nowhere, in its Heaven, or in its Earth. Society,
through every fibre, was rent asunder: all things, it was
then becoming visible, but could not then be understood,
were moving onwards, with an impulse received ages before,
yet now first with a decisive rapidity, towards that great
chaotic gulf, where, whether in the shape of French Revolu-
tions, Reform Bills, or what shape soever, bloody or Wood-
less, the descent and engulfment assume, we now see them
weltering and boiling. Already Cant, as once before hinted,
had begun to play its wonderful part, for the hour was come:
two ghastly Apparitions, unreal simulacra both, HYPOCRISY
and ATHEISM are already, in silence, parting the world.
Opinion and Action, which should live together as wedded
pair, * one flesh/ more properly as Soul and Body, have com-
menced their open quarrel, and are suing for a separate
maintenance, as if they could exist separately. To the
earnest mind, in any position, firm footing and a life of
Truth was becoming daily more difficult : in Johnson's po-
sition it was more difficult than in almost any other.
BOSWELI/S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 73
If, as for a devout nature was inevitable and indispens-
able, he looked up to Religion, as to the polestar of his
voyage, already there was no fixed polestar any longer visi-
ble ; but two stars, a whole constellation of stars, each pro-
claiming itself as the true. There was the red portentous
comet-star of Infidelity; the dim fixed-star, burning ever
dimmer, uncertain now whether not an atmospheric meteor,
of Orthodoxy : which of these to choose ? The keener in-
tellects of Europe had, almost without exception, ranged
themselves under the former : for some half century, it had
been the general effort of European speculation to proclaim
that Destruction of Falsehood was the only Truth ; daily
had Denial waxed stronger and stronger, Belief sunk more
and more into decay. From our Bolingbrokes and Tolands
the sceptical fever had passed into France, into Scotland ;
and already it smouldered, far and wide, secretly eating out
the heart of England. Bayle had played his part ; Voltaire,
on a wider theatre, was playing his, Johnson's senior by
some fifteen years : Hume and Johnson were children almost
of the same year. 6 To this keener order of intellects did
Johnson's indisputably belong: was he to join them; was
he to oppose them ? A complicated question : for, alas, the
Church itself is no longer, even to him, wholly of true ada-
mant, but of adamant and baked mud conjoined : the zeal-
ously Devout has to find his Church tottering; and pause
amazed to see, instead of inspired Priest, many a swine-
feeding Trulliber ministering at her altar. It is not the
least curious of the incoherences which Johnson had to re-
concile, that, though by nature contemptuous and incredu-
lous, he was, at that time of day, to find his safety and glory
in defending, with his whole might, the traditions of the
elders.
6 Johnson, September 1709 j Hume, April 1711.
74 MISCELLANIES.
Not less perplexingly intricate, and on both sides hollow
or questionable, was tbe aspect of Politics. Whigs strag-
gling blindly forward, Tories holding blindly back ; each with
some forecast of a half truth ; neither with any forecast of
the whole ! Admire here this other Contradiction in the
life of Johnson; that, though the most ungovernable, and
in practice the most independent of men, he must be a
Jacobite, and worshipper of the Divine Eight. In Politics
also there are Irreconcilables enough for Mm. As, indeed,
how could it be otherwise? For when Religion is torn
asunder, and the very heart of man's existence set against
itself, then in all subordinate departments there must needs
be hollowness, incoherence. The English Nation had re-
belled against a Tyrant; and, by the hands of religious tyran-
nicides, exacted stern vengeance of him : Democracy had
risen iron-sinewed, and, i like an infant Hercules, strangled
serpents in its cradle.' But as yet none knew the meaning
or extent of the phenomenon : Europe was not ripe for it ;
not to be ripened for it but by the culture and various ex-
perience of another aentury and a half. And now, when the
King-killers were all swept away, and a milder second picture
was painted over the canvas of the first, and betitled * Glori-
ous Revolution/ who doubted but the catastrophe was over,
the whole business finished, and Democracy gone to its long
sleep? Yet was it like a business finished and not finished ;
a lingering uneasiness dwelt in all minds : the deep-lying,
resistless Tendency, which had still to be obeyed, could no
longer be recognised; thus was there halihess, insincerity,
uncertainty in men's ways ; instead of heroic Puritans and
heroic Cavaliers, came now a dawdling set of argumentative
Whigs, and a dawdling set of deaf-eared Tories ; each halfv
foolish, each half-false. The Whigs were false and without
basis | inasmuch as their whole object was Resistance, Criti-
fcOSWEII/S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 75
cism, Demolition, they knew not why, or towards what
issue. In "Whiggism, eyer since a Charles and Ms Jeffries
had ceased to meddle with it, and to have any Bussel or
Sydney to meddle with, there could be no divineness of
character ; not till, in these latter days, it took the figure
of a thorough-going, all-defying Eadicalism, was there any
solid footing for it to stand on. Of the like uncertain, half-
hollow nature had Toryism become, in Johnson's time ;
preaching forth indeed an everlasting truth, the duty of
Loyalty; yet now, ever since the final expulsion of the
Stuarts, having no Person, but only an Office to be loyal
to; no living Soul to worship, but only a dead velvet-
cushioned Chair. Its attitude, therefore, was stiff-necked
refusal to move ; as that of Whiggism was clamorous com-
mand to move, let rhyme and reason, on both hands, say
io it what they might. The consequence was : Immeasur-
able floods of contentious jargon, tending nowhither; false
conviction ; false resistance to conviction ; decay (ultimately
to become decease) of whatsoever was once understood by
the words, Principle, or Honesty of heart; the louder and
louder triumph of IZaZ/hess and Plausibility over PFAofeness
and Truth ; at last, this all-overshadowing efflorescence of
QUACKERY, which we now see, with all its deadening and
killing fruits, in all its innumerable branches, down to the
lowest. How, between these jarring extremes, wherein the
rotten lay so inextricably intermingled with the sound, and
as yet no eye could see through the ulterior meaning of the
matter, was a faithful and true man to adjust himself?
That Johnson, in spite of all drawbacks, adopted the
Conservative side ; stationed himself as the unyielding op-
ponent of Innovation, resolute to hold fast the form of sound
words, could not but increase, in no small measure, the diffi-
culties he had to strive with. We mean, the moral difficid-
76 MISCELLANIES.
ties ; for in economical respects, it might be pretty equally
balanced; tlie Tory servant of the Public had perhaps about
the same chance of promotion as the Whig : and all the pro-
motion Johnson aimed at was the privilege to live. But, for
what, though unavowed, was no less indispensable, for his
peace of conscience, and the clear ascertainment and feeling
of his Duty as an inhabitant of God's world, the case was
hereby rendered much more complex, To resist Innovation
is easy enough on one condition: that you resist Inquiry.
This is, and was, the common expedient of your common
Conservatives ; but it would not do for Johnson : he was
a zealous recommender and practiser of Inquiry; once for
all, could not and would not believe, much less speak and
act, a Falsehood: the form of sound words, which he held
fast, must have a meaning in it. Here lay the difficulty : to
behold a portentous mixture of True and False, and feel
that he must dwell and fight there ; yet to love and defend
only the True. How worship, when you cannot and will
not be an idolater; yet cannot help discerning that the
Symbol of your Divinity has half become idolatrous ? This
was the question, which Johnson, the man both of clear eye
and devout believing heart, must answer, at peril of his
life. The Whig or Sceptic, on the other hand, had a much
simpler part to play. To him only the idolatrous side of
things, nowise the divine one, lay visible : not worship, there-
fore, nay in the strict sense not heart-honesty, only at most
lip- and hand-honesty, is required of him. What spiritual
force is his, he can conscientiously employ in the work of
cavilling, of pullmg-down what is False. For the rest, that
there is or can be any Truth of a higher than sensual nature,
lias not occurred to him. The utmost, therefore, that he as
man has to aim at, is EESPEOTABILITY, the suffrages of his
fellow-men. Such suffrages he may weigh as well as count ;
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 77
or count only : according as he is a Burke or a Wilkes. But
beyond these there lies nothing divine for him ; these at-
tained, all is attained. Tims is his whole world distinct and
rounded-in; a clear goal is set before him; a firm path,
rougher or smoother; at worst a firm region wherein to
seek a path : let him gird-up his loins, and travel on without
misgivings ! For the honest Conservative, again, nothing
is distinct, nothing rounded-in : RESPECTABILITY can nowise
be his highest Godhead ; not one aim, but two conflicting
aims to be continually reconciled by him, has he to strive
after. A difficult position, as we said; which accordingly
the most did, even in those days, but half defend : by the
surrender, namely, of their own too cumbersome honesty, or
even understanding ; after which the completest defence was
worth little. Into this difficult position Johnson, neverthe-
less, threw himself: found it indeed fall of difficulties ; yet
held it out manfully, as an honest-hearted, open-sighted
man, while life was in him.
Such was that same ' twofold Problem' set before Samuel
Johnson. Consider all these moral difficulties ; and add to
them the fearful aggravation, which lay in that other cir-
cumstance, that he needed a continual appeal to the Public,
must continually produce a certain impression and convio
tion on the Public ; that if he did not, he ceased to have
* provision for the day that was passing over him/ he could
not any longer live ! How a vulgar character, once launched
into this wild element; driven onwards by Fear and Famine;
without other aim than to clutch what Provender (of Enjoy-
ment in any kind) he could get, always if possible keeping
quite clear of the Gallows and Pillory, that is to say, minding
heedfolly both < person' and < character/ would have floated
hither and thither in it; and contrived to eat some three
repasts daily, and wear some three suits yearly, and then' td
78 MISCELLANIES.
depart and disappear, haying consumed Ms last ration : all
tids might be worth knowing, but were in itself a trivial
knowledge. How a noble man, resolute for the Truth, to
whom Shams and Lies were once for all an abomination.
was to act in it : here lay the mystery. By what methods,
by what gifts of eye and hand, does a heroic Samuel John-
son, now when cast forth into that waste Chaos of Au-
thorship, maddest of things, a mingled Phlegethon and
Fleet-ditch, with its floating lumber, and sea-krakens, and
mud-spectres, shape himself a voyage ; of the transient
drift-wood, and the enduring iron, build him a sea-worthy
Life-boat, and sail therein, unclrowned, unpolluted, through
the roaring 'mother of dead dogs/ onwards to an eternal
Landmark, and City that hath foundations? This high
question is even the one answered in BoswelTs Book; which
Book we therefore, not so falsely, have named a Heroic Poem;
for in it there lies the whole argument of such. Glory to
our brave Samuel I He accomplished this wonderful Pro-
blem ; arid now through long generations we point to him,
and say: Here also was a Man; let the world once more
have assurance of a Man !
Had there been in Johnson, now when afloat on that
confusion worse confounded of grandeur and squalor, no
light but an earthly outward one, he too must have made
shipwreck. With his diseased body, and vehement vora-
cious heart, how easy for him to become a carpe-diem Philo-
sopher, like the rest, and live and die as miserably as any
Boyce of that Brotherhood ! But happily there was a higher
light for him ; shining as a lamp to his path ; which, in all
paths, would teach him to act and walk not as a fool, but
as wise, and in those evil days too < redeeming the time/
Under dimmer or clearer manifestations, a Truth had been
revealed to him ; I also am a Man ; even in this mmtter-
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 79
able element of Authorship, I may live as beseems a Man !
That Wrong is not only different from Eight, but that it
is in strict scientific terms infinitely different; even as the
gaining of the whole world set against the losing of one's
own soul, or (as Johnson had it) a Heaven set against a
Hell ; that in all situations out of the Pit of Tophet, wherein
a living Man has stood or can stand, there is actually a
Prize of quite infinite value placed within his reach, namely
a Duty for him to do : this highest Gospel, which forms the
basis and worth of all other Gospels whatsoever, had been
revealed to Samuel Johnson ; and the man had believed it,
and laid it faithfully to heart. Such knowledge of the tran-
scendental, immeasurable character of Duty we call the basis
of all Gospels, the essence of all Eeligion : he who with his
whole soul knows not this, as yet knows nothing, as yet is
properly nothing.
This, happily for him, Johnson was one of those that
knew : under a certain authentic Symbol it stood forever
present to his eyes : a Symbol, indeed, waxing old as doth
a garment ; yet which had guided forward, as their Banner
and celestial Pillar of Fire, innumerable saints and wit-
nesses, the fathers of our modern world; and for him also
had still a sacred significance. It does not appear that at
any time Johnson was what we call irreligious : but in his
sorrows and isolation, when hope died away, and only a
long vista of suffering and toil lay before him to the end,
then first did Eeligion shine forth in its meek, everlasting
clearness ; even as the stars do in black night, which in the
daytime and dusk were hidden by inferior lights. How a
true man, in the midst of errors and uncertainties, shall work
out for himself a sure Life-truth; and adjusting the tran-
sient to the eternal, amid the fragments of ruined Temples
up, with toil and pain, a little Altar for MiB8el and
80 MISCELLANIES*
worship there ; how Samuel Johnson, in the era of Voltaire,
can purify and fortify his soul, and hold real communion
with the Highest, 'in the Church of St. Clement Danes:'
this too stands all unfolded in his Biography, and is among
the most touching and memorable things there ; a thing to
be looked at with pity, admiration, awe. Johnson's Religion
was as the light of life to him ; without it his heart was all
sick, dark and had no guidance left.
He is now enlisted, or impressed, into that unspeakable
shoeblack-seraph Army of Authors ; but can feel hereby that
he fights under a celestial flag, and will quit him like a man.
The first grand requisite, an assured heart, he therefore has :
what his outward equipments and accoutrements are, is the
next question ; an important, though inferior one. His in-
tellectual stock, intrinsically viewed, is perhaps inconsider-
able : the furnishings of an English School and English Uni-
versity; good knowledge of the Latin tongue, a more un-
certain one of Greek: this is a rather slender stock of
Education wherewith to front the world. But then it is to
be remembered that his world was England ; that such was
the culture England commonly supplied and expected. Be-
sides, Johnson has been a voracious reader, though a desul-
tory one, and oftenest in strange scholastic, too obsolete
Libraries ; he has also rubbed shoulders with the press of
Actual Life for some thirty years now : views or hallucina-
tions of innumerable things are weltering to and fro in him.
Above all, be his weapons what they may, he has an arm
that can wield them. Nature has given him her choicest
gift, an open eye and heart. He will look on the world,
wheresoever he can catch a glimpse of it, with eager curio-
sity: to the last, we find this a striking characteristic of
him ; for all human interests he has a sense ; the meanest
handicraftsman could interest him, even in extreme age, by
BOSWELt/S LIFE OF JOHNSON, 81
speaking of Ms craft: the ways of men are all interesting
to him ; any human thing, that he did not know, he wished
to know. Reflection, moreover, Meditation, was what he
practised incessantly, with or without his will : for the mind
of the man was earnest, deep as well as humane. Thus
would the world, such fragments of it as he could survey,
form itself, or continually tend to form itself, into a coherent
Whole ; on any and on all phases of which, his vote and
voice must "be well worth listening to. As a Speaker of the
Word, he will speak real words ; no idle jargon or hollow
triviality will issue from him. His aim too is clear, attain-
able; that of working for his wages : let him do this honestly,
and all else will follow of its own accord.
With such omens, into such a warfare, did Johnson go
forth, A rugged hungry Kerne or Gallowglass, as we called
him: yet indomitable; in. whom lay the true spirit of a
Soldier. With giant's force he toils, since such is his ap-
pointment, were it but at hewing of wood and drawing of
water for old sedentary bushy-wigged Cave; distinguishes
himself by mere quantity, if there is to be no other distinc-
tion. He can write all things ; frosty Latin verses, if these
are the saleable commodity; Book-prefaces, Political Phi-
lippics, Review Articles. Parliamentary Debates : all things
he does rapidly; still more surprising, all things he does
thoroughly and well. How he sits there, in his rough-hewn,
amorphous bulk, in that upper-room at St. John's Gate, and
trundles-off sheet after sheet of those Senate-of-Lilliput De-
bates, to the clamorous Printer's Devils waiting for them
with insatiable throat, down stairs; himself perhaps im-
pransus all the while! Admire also the greatness of Litera-
ture ; how a grain of mustard-seed cast into its Nile-waters,,
shall settle in the teeming mould, and be found, one day,
as a Tree, in whose branches ^U the fowk of heaven may
VO& IX (Misc. vol. 1) G ;
82 IMESCELLANIES.
lodge. Was It not so with these Lilliput Debates ? In that
small project and act began the stupendous FOURTH ESTATE ;
whose wide "world-embracing influences what eye can take
in ; in whose boughs are there not already fowls of strange
feather lodged 1 Such tilings, and far stranger, were done
in that wondrous old Portal, even in latter times. And then
figure Samuel dining ' behind the screen/ from a trencher
covertly handed-iii to him, at a preconcerted nod from the
* great bushy wig;' Samuel too ragged to show face, yet
* made a happy man of by hearing his praise spoken. If to
Johnson himself, then much more to us, may that St. John's
Gate be a place we can * never pass without veneration.' 7
Poverty, Distress, and as yet Obscurity, are his com-
panions : so poor is he that his Wife must leave him, and
seek shelter among other relations; Johnson's household
has accommodation for one inmate only. To all his ever-
varying, ever-recurring troubles, moreover, must be added
this continual one of ill-health, and its concomitant depres-
sivcness : a galling load, which would have crushed most
common mortals into desperation, is his appointed ballast
7 All Johnson's places of resort and abode are venerable, and now indeed to the
many as well as to the few ; for his name has become great j and, as we must often
with, a kind of sad admiration recognise, there ii, even to the rudest man, no great-
ness so venerable as intellectual, as spiritual greatness ; nay properly there is no
obher venerable at all. For example, what soul-subduing magic, for the very clown
or craftsman of our England, lies in the word 'Scholar' ! '"He is a Scholar :" he
is a man wiser than we ; of a wisdom to us boundless, infinite : who shall speak his
worth ! Such things, we say, fill us with, a certain pathetic admiration of defaced
and obstructed yet glorious man ; archangel though in ruins, or rather, though in
rybUsh of encumbrances and mud- incrustations, which also are not to be perpetual.
Nevertheless, in this mad-whirling all-forgetting London, the haunts of the
mighty that were can seldom without a strange difficulty be discovered. Will any
man, for instance, tell us which bricks it was in Lincoln's Inn Buildings that Ben
Jonson's hand and trowel laid? No man, it is to be feared, and also grumbled
at. With Samuel Johnson may it prove otherwise ! A Gentleman of the British
Museum is said to have made drawings of all his residences : the blessing of Old
Mortality be upon him! We ourselves, not without labour and risk, lately dis-
covered GOUGH SQUAKE, between Fleet Street and Holborn (adjoining both to BOM
BOSWELI/S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 83
and life-burden ; lie * could not remember the day he had
passed free from pain.' Nevertheless, Life, as we said be-
fore, is always Life : a healthy soul, imprison it as you will,
in squalid garrets, shabby coat, bodily sickness, or whatever
else, will assert its heaven -granted indefeasible Freedom,
its right to conquer difficulties, to do work, even to feel
gladness, Johnson does not whine over his existence, but
manfully makes the most and best of it. * He said, a man
6 might live in a garret at eighteenpence a-week : few people
* would inquire where he lodged \ and if they did, it was
' easy to say, " Sir, I am to be found at such a place." By
( spending threepence in a coffee-house, he might be for
* some hours every clay in very good company ; he might
4 dine for sixpence, breakfast on breacl-and-milk for a penny,
and do without supper. On clean-shirt day he went abroad
4 and paid visits.' Think by whom and of whom this was
uttered, and ask then, Whether there is more pathos in it
than in a whole circulating-library of Giaours and Harolds,
or less pathos? On another occasion, 'when Dr. Johnson,
* one day, read his own Satire, in which the life of a scholar
6 is painted, with the various obstructions thrown in his
4 way to fortune and to fame, he burst into a passion of
CQUKT and to JOHNSON'S COUBT) ; and on the second day of search, the very House
there, wherein the English Dictionary was composed. It is the first or corner house
on the right hand, as you enter through the arched way frcin the North-west. The
actual occupant, an elderly, well- washed, decent- looking man, invited us to enter ;
and courteously undertook to be cicerone ; though in his mtrmory lay nothing but
the foolishest jumble and hallucination. It is a stout old-fashioned, oak-balustraded
house : " I have spent many a pound and penny on it since then," said the worthy
Landlord : ** hero, you see, this Bedroom was the Doctor's study ; that was the
garden" (a plot of delved ground somewhat larger than a bed guilt), " where he
walked for exercise ; these three garret Bedrooms" (where his three Copyists safe
and wrote) "were the place he kept his Pupils in" ! T&mpus edax rerumf Yet
ferax also : for our friend now added, with a wistful look, which strove to seem
merely historical: "I let it all in Lodgings, to respectable gentlemen; by the
quarter or the month; it's all one to me." "To me also," whispered the
of %muel ? as we went pensively our ways,
84; MISCELLANIES.
* tears : Mr. Thrale's family and Mr. Scott only were pro
* sent, who, in a jocose way, clapped him on the back, and
* said 3 " What's all this, my dear sir? Why, you and I and
6 Hercules, yon know, were all troubled with melancholy." He
' was a very large man, and made-out the triumvirate with
6 Johnson and Hercules comically enough/ These were
sweet tears ; the sweet victorious remembrance lay in them
of toils indeed frightful, yet never flinched from, and now
triumphed over. * One day it shall delight you also to re-
member labour done !' Neither, though Johnson is obscure
and poor, need the highest enjoyment of existence, that of
heart freely communing with heart, be denied him. Savage
and he wander homeless through the streets ; without bed,
yet not without friendly converse ; such another conversa-
tion not, it is like, producible in the proudest drawing-room
of London. Nor, under the void Night, upon the hard pave-
ment, are their own woes the only topic: nowise; they "will
stand by their country," they there, the two e Backwoodsmen'
of the Brick Desert !
Of all outward evils Obscurity is perhaps in itself the
least. To Johnson, as to a healthy-minded man, the fan-
tastic article, sold or given under the title of Fame, had little
or no value but its intrinsic one. He prized it as the means
of getting him employment and good wages; scarcely as
anything more. His light and guidance came from a loftier
source ; of which, in honest aversion to all hypocrisy or pre-
tentious talk, he spoke not to men ; nay perhaps, being of
a healthy mind, had never spoken to himself. We reckon it
a striking fact in Johnson's history, this carelessness of his
to Fame. Most authors speak of their ' Fame' as if it were
a quite priceless matter ; the grand ultimatum, and heavenly
ConstantineVBanner they had to follow, and conquer under.
Thy * Fame' ! Unhappy mortal, where will it and thou
BOSWELL S LIFE OF JOHNSON, 85
both be in some fifty years 1 Shakspeare himself lias lasted
but two hundred; Homer (partly by accident) three thou-
sand : and does not already an ETERNITY encircle every Me
and every Thee ? Cease, then, to sit feverishly hatching on
that ' Fame* of thine ; and flapping and shrieking with fierce
hisses, like brood-goose on her last egg, if man shall or
dare approach it ! Quarrel not with me, hate me not, my
Brother : make what thou canst of thy egg, and welcome :
God knows, I will not steal it ; I believe it to be addle.
Johnson, for his part, was no man to be killed by a review ;
concerning which matter, it was said by a benevolent per-
son : If any author can be reviewed to death, let it be, with
all convenient despatch, done. Johnson thankfully receives
any word spoken in his favour ; is nowise disobliged by a
lampoon, but will look at it, if pointed out to him, and show
how it might have been done better: the lampoon itself is
indeed nothing, a soap-bubble that next moment will become
a drop of sour suds ; but in the mean while, if it do any-
thing, it keeps him more in the world's eye, and the next
largain will be all the richer : " Sir, if they should cease to
talk of me, I must starve." Sound heart and understanding
head : these fail no man, not even a Man of Letters 1
Obscurity, however, was, in Johnson's case, whether a
light or heavy evil, likely to be no lasting one. He is ani-
mated by the spirit of a true workman, resolute to do his
work well ; and he does his work well ; all his work, that of
writing, that of living. A man of this stamp is unhappily
not so common in the literary or in any other department of
the world, that he can continue always unnoticed. By slow-
degrees, Johnson emerges ; looming, at first, huge and dim
in the eye of an observant few ; at last disclosed, in his real
proportions, to the eye of the whole world, and encircled
a * light-nimbus' of glory, so that whoso is not blind
86 MISCELLANIES.
must and shall behold him. By slow degrees, we said ; for
this also Is notable ; slow but sure : as his fame waxes not
by exaggerated clamour of what lie seems to be, but by better
and better insight of what lie w, so it will last and stand
wearing, being genuine. Thus indeed is it always, or nearly
always, with true fame. The heavenly Luminary rises amid
vapours ; stargazers enough must scan it with critical tele-
scopes ; it makes no blazing, the world can either look at it,
or forbear looking at it ; not till after a time and tunes does
its celestial eternal nature become indubitable. Pleasant, on
the other hand, is the blazing of a Tarbarrel; the crowd dance
merrily round it, with loud huzzaing, universal three-times-
three, and, like Homer's peasants, * bless the useful light :'
but unhappily it so soon ends in darkness, foul choking
smoke ; and is kicked into the gutters, a nameless imbroglio
of charred staves, pitch-cinders and vomissement du dialle !
But indeed, from of old, Johnson has enjoyed all, or
nearly all, that Fame can yield any man : the respect, the obe-
dience of those that are about him and inferior to him; of
those whose opinion alone can have any forcible impression
on him* A little circle gathers round the Wise man ; which
gradually enlarges as the report thereof spreads, and more
can come to see and to believe ; for Wisdom is precious,
and of irresistible attraction to all. 'An inspired-idiot, 5 Gold-
smith, hangs strangely about him ; though, as Hawkins says,
* he loved not Johnson, but rather envied him for his parts j
6 and once entreated a friend to desist from praising him,
* " for in doing so," said he, " you harrow-up my very soul F J>
Yet, on the whole, there is no evil in the ' gooseberry-fool f
but rather much good ; of a finer, if of a weaker, sort than
Johnson's ; and all the more genuine that he himself could
never become constiow of it, though unhappily never cease
attempting to become so ; the Author of the genuine View
BOSWELL/S LIFE OF JOHNSOH. 87
of Wakefield, nill lie, will he, must needs fly towards such a
mass of genuine Manhood; and Dr. Minor keep gyrating
round Dr. Major, alternately attracted and repelled. Then
there is the chivalrous Topham Beauclerk, with his sharp
wit, and gallant courtly ways : there is Bemiet Langton, an
orthodox gentleman, and worthy; though Johnson once
laughed, louder almost than mortal, at his last will and testa-
ment; and ( could not stop his merriment, but continued it
* all the way till he got without the Temple-gate ; then burst
* into such a fit of laughter that he appeared to be almost in
* a convulsion; and, in order to support himself, laid hold
* of one of the posts at the side of the foot-pavement, and
4 sent forth peals so loud that, in the silence of the night, his
4 voice seemed to resound from Temple-bar to Fleet-ditch 1'
Lastly comes his solid- thinking, solid- feeding Thrale, the
well-beloved man; with Thralia, a bright papilionaceous
creature, whom the elephant loved to play with, and wave
to and fro upon his trunk. Not to speak of a reverent Bozzy,
for what need is there farther 1 ? Or of the spiritual Lumi-
naries, with tongue or pen, who made that age remarkable ;
or of Highland Lairds drinking, in fierce usquebaugh, * Your
health, Toctor ShonsonP Still less of many such as that
poor 'Mr. F. Lewis/ older in date, of whose birth, death and
whole terrestrial res gestcB, this only, and strange enough this
actually, survives : " Sir, he lived in London, and hung loose
upon society 1" Stat PARVI nominis umbra.
In his fifty-third year he is beneficed, by the royal bounty,
with a Pension of three-hundred pounds. Loud clamour is
always more or less insane : but probably the insanest of all
loud clamours in the eighteenth century was this tlaat was
raised about Johnson's Pension. Men seem to be led by th^
noses: but in, reality, it is by the ears, as some ancient
slaves were, wlio had their ears bored; or as some modem
88
quadrupeds may be, whose ears are long. Very falsely was
it said, ' Names do not change Things.' Names do change
Things ; nay for most part they are the only substance,
which mankind can discern in Things. The whole sum that
Johnson, during the remaining twenty-two years of his life,
drew from the public funds of England, would have sup-
ported some Supreme Priest for about half as many weeks ;
it amounts very nearly to the revenue of our poorest Church-
Overseer for one twelvemonth. Of secular Administrators
of Provinces, and Horse-subduers, and Game-destroyers, we
shall not so much as speak : but who were the Primates of
England, and the Primates of All England, during Johnson's
days ? No man has remembered. Again, is the Primate of
all England something, or is he nothing ? If something, then
what but the man who, in the supreme degree, teaches and
spiritually edifies, and leads towards Heaven by guiding
wisely through the Earth, the living souls that inhabit Eng-
land? We touch here upon deep matters; which but re-
motely concern us, and might lead us into still deeper : clear,
in the mean while, it is that the true Spiritual Edifier and
SoulVFather of all England was, and till very lately con-
tinued to be, the man named Samuel Johnson, whom this
scot-aud4ot-paying world cackled reproachfully to see re-
munerated like a Supervisor of Excise !
If Destiny had beaten hard on poor Samuel, and did
never cease to visit him too roughly, yet the last section of
his Life might be pronounced victorious, and on the whole
happy. He was not idle; but now no longer goaded-on
by want; the light which had shone irradiating the dark
haunts of Poverty, now illuminates the circles of Wealth,
of a certain culture and elegant intelligence ; he who had
once been admitted to speak with Edmund Cave and To-
bacco Browne, now admits a Eeynolds and a Burke to speak
&OSWELI/S LIFE OF JOHNSON, 89"
with Mm. Loving Mends are there; Listeners, even Ans-
werers : the frnit of his long labours lies round him in fair
legible Writings, of Philosophy, Eloquence, Morality, Philo-
logy ; some excellent, all worthy and genuine Works ; for
which too, a deep, earnest murmur of thanks reaches him
from all ends of his Fatherlandc Nay there are works of
Goodness, of undying Mercy, which even he has possessed
the power to do : * What I gave I have ; what I spent I had f
Early friends had long sunk into the grave ; yet in his soul
they ever lived, fresh and clear, with soft pious breathings
towards them, not without a still hope of one day meeting
them again in purer union. Such was Johnson's Life : the
victorious Battle of a free, true Man. Finally he died the
death of the free and true : a dark cloud of Death, solemn
and not untinged with haloes of immortal Hope, * took him
away, 5 and our eyes could no longer behold him; but can
still behold the trace and impress of his courageous honest
spirit, deep-legible in the World's Business, wheresoever he
walked and was.
To estimate the quantity of Work that Johnson per-
formed, how much poorer the World were had it wanted
Mm, can, as in all such cases, never be accurately done;
cannot, till after some longer space, be approximately done.
All work is as seed sown ; it grows and spreads, and sows
itself anew, and so, in endless palingenesia, lives and works.
To Johnson's Writings, good and solid, and still profitable
as they are, we have already rated his Life and Conversa-
tion as superior. By the one and by the other, who shall
compute what effects have been produced, and are still, and
into deep Time, producing ?
So much, however, we can already see : It is now some
three quarters of a century that Johnson has been the
90 MISCELLANIES.
pliet of the English ; the man by "whose light the English
people, In public and in private, more than by any other
man's, have guided their existence. Higher light than that
immediately practical one; Hgher virtue than an honest
PEHDENCE, he could not then communicate; nor perhaps
could they have received : such light, such virtue, however,
he did communicate. How to thread this labyrinthic Time,
the fallen and falling Ruin of Times ; to silence vain Scru-
ples, hold firm to the last the fragments of old Belief, and
with earnest eye still discern some glimpses of a true path,
and go forward thereon, ' in a world where there is much
to be done, and little to be known :' this is what Samuel
Johnson, by act and word, taught his Nation; what his
Nation received and learned of him, more than of any other.
We can view him as the preserver and transmitter of what-
soever was genuine in .the spirit of Toryism ; which genuine
spirit. It is now becoming manifest, must again embody
Itself in all new forms of Society, be what they may, that
are to exist, and have continuance elsewhere than on
Paper, The last in many things, Johnson was the last
genuine Tory; the last of Englishmen who, with strong
voice and wholly-believing heart, preached the Doctrine of
Standing-still; who, without selfishness or slavishness, re-
verenced the existing Powers, and could assert the privileges
of rank, though himself poor, neglected and plebeian ; who
had heart-devoutness with heart-hatred of cant, was ortho-
dox-religious with his eyes open; and in all things and
everywhere spoke out in plain English, from a soul wherein
Jesuitism could find no harbour, and with the front and tone
not of a diplomatist but of a man.
This last of the Tories was Johnson : not Burke, as is
often said; Burke was essentially a Whig, and only, on
reaching the verge of the chasm towards which Whiggism
BOSWELI/S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 91
from the first was inevitably leading, recoiled; and, like
a man vehement rather than earnest, a resplendent far-
sighted Rhetorician rather than a deep sure Thinker, re-
colled with no measure, convulsively, and damaging what
he drove back with him.
In a world which exists by the balance of Antagonisms,
the respective merit of the Conservator and the Innovator
must ever remain debatable. Great, in the mean while, and
undoubted for both sides, is the merit of him who, in a day
of Change, walks wisely, honestly. Johnson's aim was in
itself an impossible one : this of stemming the eternal Flood
of Time ; of clutching all things, and anchoring them down,
and saying, Move not 1 how could it, or should it, ever have
success? The strongest man can but retard the current
partially and for a short hour. Yet even in such shortest
retardation may not an inestimable value lie? If England
has escaped the blood-bath of a French Revolution; and
may yet, in virtue of this delay and of the experience it has
given, work out her deliverance calmly into a new Era, let
Samuel Johnson, beyond all contemporary or succeeding
men, have the praise for it. We said above that he was
appointed to be Ruler of the British Nation for a season :
whoso will look beyond the surface, into the heart of the
world's movements, may find that all Pitt Administrations,
and Continental Subsidies, and Waterloo victories, rested on
the possibility of making England, yet a little while, Toryish,
Loyal to the Old; and this again on the anterior reality,
"that the Wise had found such Loyalty still practicable, and
recommendable. England had its Hume, as France had its
Voltaires and Diderots ; but the Johnson was peculiar to us*
If we ask now, by what endowment it mainly was that
Johnson realised such a life for himself and others; what
quality of character the main phenomena of his Life may bo
92 MISCELLAMES.
most naturally deduced from, and Ms other qualities most
naturally subordinated to, in our conception of him, perhaps
the answer were : The quality of Courage, of Valour ; that
Johnson was a Brave Man. The Courage that can go forth,
once and away, to Chalk-Farm, and have itself shot, and
snuffed out, with decency, is nowise wholly what we mean
here. Such courage we indeed esteem an exceeding small
matter; capable of coexisting with a life full of falsehood,
feebleness, poltroonery and despicability. Nay ofteiier it
is Cowardice rather that produces the result : for consider,
Is the Chalk-Farm Pistoleer inspired with any reasonable
Belief and Determination ; or is he hounded-on by haggard
indefinable Fear, how he will be cut at public places, and
< plucked geese of the neighbourhood' will wag their tongues
at him a plucked goose ? If he go then, and be shot without
shrieking or audible uproar, it is well for him : nevertheless
there is nothing amazing in it. Courage to manage all this
has not perhaps been denied to any man, or to any woman,
Thus, do not recruiting sergeants drum through the streets
of manufacturing towns, and collect ragged losels enough ;
every one of whom, if once dressed in red, and trained a
little, will receive fire cheerfully for the small sum of one
shilling per diem, and have the soul blown out of him at
last, with perfect propriety? The Courage that dares only
die is on the whole no sublime affair necessary indeed, yet
universal; pitiful when it begins to parade itself. On this
Globe of ours there are some thirty-six persons that mani-
fest it, seldom with the smallest failure, during every second
of time. Nay look at Newgate : do not the offscourings of
Creation, when condemned to the gallows as if they were
not men but vermin, walk thither with decency, and even
to the scowls and hootings of the whole Universe give their
stern good-night in silence ? What is to be undergone only
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON, 93
once, we may undergo; what must be, comes almost of its
own accord. Considered as Duellist, what a poor figure does
the fiercest Irish Whiskerando make in comparison with any
English Game-cock, such as you may buy for fifteenpence 1
The Courage we desire and prize is not the Courage to
die decently, but to live manfully. This, when by God's
grace it has been given, lies deep in the soul; like genial
heat, fosters all other virtues and gifts; without it they
could not live. In spite of our innumerable Waterloos and
Peterloos, and such compaigning as there has been, this
Courage we allude to, and call the only true one, is perhaps
rarer in these last ages than it has been in any other since
the Saxon Invasion under Hengist. Altogether extinct it
can never be among men; otherwise the species Man were
no longer for this world : here and there, in all times, under
various guises, men are sent hither not only to demonstrate
but exhibit it, and testify, as from heart to heart, that it is
still possible, still practicable,
Johnson, in the eighteenth century, and as Man of Let-
ters, was one of such ; and, in good truth, ' the bravest of
the brave.' What mortal could have more to war with?
Yet, as we saw, he yielded not, faltered not; he fought, and
even, such was his blessedness, prevailed. Whoso will ui>
derstand what it is to have a man's heart may find that,
since the time of John Milton, no braver heart had beat in
any English bosom than Samuel Johnson now bore. Observe
too that he never called himself brave, never felt himself to
be so ; the more completely was so. No Giant Despair, no
Golgotha Death-dance or Sorcerer's -Sabbath of * Literary
Life in London,' appals this pilgrim ; he works resolutely for
deliverance ; in still defiance steps stoutly along. The thing
that is given him to do, he can make himself do ; what IB to
be endured, he can endure in silence*
94 MISCELLANIES,
How the great soul of old Samuel, consuming dally Ms
own bitter unalleviable allotment of misery and toil 5 shows
beside the poor flimsy little soul of young Boswell; one day
flaunting in the ring of vanity, tarrying by the wine-cup
and crying, Aha, the wine is red; the next day deploring
his downpressed, night-shaded, quite poor estate, and think-
ing it unkind that the whole movement of the Universe
should go on, while his digestive-apparatus had stopped!
We reckon Johnson's < talent of silence' to be among his
great and too rare gifts. Where there is nothing farther to
be done, there shall nothing farther be said: like his own
poor blind Welshwoman, he accomplished somewhat, and
also 'endured fifty years of wretchedness with unshaken
fortitude.' How grim was Life to him ; a sick Prison-house
and Doubting-castle! 'His great business,' he would pro-
fess, ' was to escape from himself.' Yet towards all this he
has taken his position and resolution; can dismiss it all
4 with frigid indifference, having little to hope or to fear.'
Friends are stupid, and pusillanimous, and parsimonious;
6 wearied of his stay, yet offended at his departure :* it is
the manner of the world. 'By popular delusion,' remarks
he with a gigantic calmness, * illiterate writers will rise into
renown :' it is portion of the History of English Literature ;
? perennial thing, this same popular delusion; and will
alter the character of the Language.
Closely connected with this quality of Valour, partly as
springing from it, partly as protected by it, are the more
recognisable qualities of Truthfulness in word and thought,
and Honesty in action. There is a reciprocity of influence
here : for as the realising of Truthfulness and Honesty is
the life-light and great aim of Valour, so without Valour
they qaixpot, in anywise, be realised. Now, in spite of all
practical shortcomings, $o one that sees iirfo the significance
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 95
of Johnson will say that his prime object was not Truth* In
conversation, doubtless, you may observe him, on occasion,
fighting as if for victory ; and must pardon these ebulli-
ences of a careless hour, which were not without temptation
and provocation. Remark likewise two things: that such
prize-arguings were ever on merely superficial debatable
questions ; and then that they were argued generally by the
fair laws of battle and logic-fence, by one cunning in that
same. If their purpose was excusable, their effect was harm-
less, perhaps beneficial: that of taming noisy mediocrity, and
showing it another side of a debatable matter; to see #0^
sides of which was, for the first time, to see the Truth of it.
In his Writings themselves are errors enough, crabbed pre-
possessions enough ; yet these also of a quite extraneous
and accidental nature, nowhere a wilful shutting of the eyes
to the Truth. Nay, is there not everywhere a heartfelt dis-
cernment, singular, almost admirable, if we consider through
what confused conflicting lights and hallucinations it had to
be attained, of the highest everlasting Truth, and beginning
of all Truths : this namely, that man is ever, and even in
the age of Wilkes and Whitefield^ a Revelation of Q-od to
man ; and lives, moves and has his being in Truth only ; is
either true, or, in strict speech, is not at all f '
Quite spotless, on the other hand, is Johnson's love of
Truth, if we look at it as expressed in Practice, as what we
have named Honesty of action. ' Clear your mind of Cant ;*
clear it, throw Cant utterly away: such was his emphatic,
repeated precept ; and did not he himself faithfully conform
to it! The Life. of this man has been, as it were, turned
inside out, and examined with microscopes by friend and
foe ; yet was there no Lie found in him. His Doings and
Writings are not shows but performances : yon may weigh
them in the balance, and they will stand weight. Not |a
96 MISCELLANIES.
line, not a sentence is dishonestly done, is other than it
pretends to "be. Alas ! and lie wrote not out of inward in-
spiration, but to earn Ms wages : and with that grand peren-
nial tide of < popular delusion' flowing by ; in whose waters
he nevertheless refused to fish, to whose rich oyster-beds the
dive was too muddy for him. Observe, again, with what
innate hatred of Cant, he takes for himself, and offers to
others, the lowest possible view of his business, which he
followed with such nobleness. Motive for wilting lie had
none, as he often said, but money; and yet he wrote so.
Into the region of Poetic Art he indeed never rose ; there
was no ideal without him avowing itself in his work: the
nobler was that unavowed ideal which lay within him, and
commanded saying, Work out thy Artisanship in the spirit
of an Artist! They who talk loudest about the dignity of
Art, and fancy that they too are Artistic guild -brethren,
and of the Celestials, let them consider well what manner
of man this was, who felt himself to be only a hired day-
labourer. A labourer that was worthy of his hire ; that has
laboured not as an eye-servant, but as one found faithful !
.Heither.was Johnson in those days perhaps wholly a unique.
Time was when, for money, you might have ware: and
needed not, in all departments, in that of the Epic Poem, in
that of the Blacking-bottle, to rest content with the mere
persuasion that you had ware. It was a happier time. But
as yet the seventh Apocalyptic Bladder (of PUFFERY) had
not been rent open, to whirl and grind, as in a West-Indian
Tornado, all earthly trades and things into wreck, and dust,
and consummation, and regeneration. Be it quickly, since
it must be !
That Mercy can dwell only with Valour, is an old senti-
ment or proposition ; which in Johnson again receives con-
jirmatioiu Few men on record have h&d a more merciful*
BOSWLL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 97
tenderly affectionate nature than old Samuel. He was called
the Bear; and did indeed too often look, and roar, like one;
being forced to it in his own defence : yet within that
shaggy exterior of his there beat a heart warm as a mother's
soft as a little child's. Nay generally, his very roaring was
but the anger of affection : the rage of a Bear, if you will ;
but of a Bear bereaved of her whelps. Touch his Religion,
glance at the Church of England, or the Divine Eight ; and
he was upon you! These things were his Symbols of all
that was good and precious for men ; his very Ark of the
Covenant : whoso laid hand on them tore asunder his heart
of hearts. Not out of hatred to the opponent, but of love
to the thing opposed, did Johnson grow cruel, fiercely con-
tradictory: this is an important distinction; never to be
forgotten in our censure of his conversational outrages. But
observe also with what humanity, what openness of love, he
can attach himself to all things : to a blind old woman, to
a Doctor Levett, to a cat 'Hodge.' c His thoughts in the
6 latter part of his life were frequently employed on his
6 deceased friends ; he often muttered these or suchlike
6 sentences : " Poor man ! and then he died." ' How he pa-
tiently converts his poor home into a Lazaretto ; endures,
for long years, the contradiction of the miserable and unrea-
sonable ; with him unconnected, save that they had no other
to yield them refuge! Generous old man! Worldly pos-
session he has little ; yet of this he gives freely ; from his
own hard-earned shilling, the half-pence for the poor, that
* waited his coming out,' are not withheld : the poor e waited
the coming out' of one not quite so poor! A Sterne can
write sentimentalities 011 Dead Asses : Johnson has a rough
voice ; but he finds the wretched Daughter of Vice fallen
down in the streets ; carries her home on his own shoul-
ders, and like a good Samaritan gives help to the
VOIi. IX. (Misc. voL 4.) H
98 MISCELLANIES.
needing, worthy or unworthy, Ouglit not Charity, even in
that sense, to cover a multitude of sins ? No Penny-a-week
Committee-Lady, no manager of Soup-Kitchens, dancer at
Charity -Balls, was this rugged, stern- visaged man: but
where, in all England, could there have been found another
soul so full of Pity, a hand so heavenlike bounteous as his ?
The widow's mite, we know, was greater than all the other
gifts.
Perhaps it is this divine feeling of Affection, throughout
manifested, that principally attracts us towards Johnson.
A true brother of men is he ; and filial lover of the Earth ;
who, with little bright spots of Attachment, where lives
6 and works some loved one,' has beautified ( this rough soli-
6 tary Earth into a peopled garden.' Lichfield, with its
mostly dull and limited inhabitants, is to the last one of the
sunny islets for him : Salve magna parens ! Or read those
Letters on his Mother's death : what a genuine solemn grief
and pity lies recorded there ; a looking back into the Past,
unspeakably mournful, unspeakably tender. And, yet calm,
sublime ; for he must now act, not look : his venerated
Mother has been taken from him; but he must now write
a Rasselas to defray her funeral ! Again in this little inci-
dent, recorded in his Book of Devotion, are not the tones of
sacred Sorrow and Greatness deeper than in many a blank-
verse Tragedy; as, indeed, 'the fifth act of a Tragedy,'
though unrhymed, does c lie in- every death-bed, were it a
peasant's, and of straw :'
6 Sunday, October 18, 1767. Yesterday, at about ten in the
morning, I took my leave forever of my dear old friend, Catherine
Chambers, who came to live with my mother about 1724, and has
been "but little parted from us since. She buried my father, my "bro-
ther and my mother. She is now fifty-eight years old.
'I desired all to withdraw; then told her that we were to part
BOSWELI/S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 99
forever; that as Christians, we should part with prayer; and that I
would, if she was willing, say a short prayer beside her. She ex-
pressed great desire to hear me ; and held up her poor hands as she
lay in bed, with great fervour, while I prayed kneeling by her. * * *
1 1 then kissed her. She told me that to part was the greatest
pain she had ever felt, and that she hoped we should meet again in a
better place. I expressed, with swelled eyes and great emotion of
tenderness, the same hopes. We kissed and parted ; I humbly hope,
to meet again, and to part no more.'
Tears trickling down the granite rock: a soft well of
Pity springs within ! Still more tragical is this other scene:
* Johnson mentioned that he could not in general accuse
6 himself of having been an imdutiful son. " Once, indeed/ 5 '
6 said he, " I was disobedient : I refused to attend my father
* to Uttoxeter market. Pride was the source of that refusal,
* and the remembrance of it was painful. A few years ago
6 1 desired to atone for this fault." ' But by what method?
What method was now possible? Hear it; the words
are again given as his own, though here evidently by a less
capable reporter :
6 Madam, I beg your pardon for the abruptness of my departure ia
the morning, but I was compelled to it by conscience. Fifty years
ago, Madam, on this day, I committed a breach of filial piety. My
father had been in the habit of attending Uttoxeter market, and open-
ing a stall there for the sale of his Books. Confined by indisposition,
he desired me, that day, to go and attend the stall in his place. My
pride prevented me ; I gave my father a refusal. And now today I
have been at Uttoxeter ; I went into the market at the time of busi-
ness, uncovered my head, and stood with it bare, for an hour, on the
spot where my father's stall used to stand. In contrition I stood, and
I hope the penance was expiatory.'
Who does not figure to himself this spectacle, amid the
6 rainy weather, and the sneers/ or wonder, * of the by-
standers' ? The memory of old Michael Johnson, rising from
100 MISCELLANIES.
the far distance ; sad-beckoning in the < moonlight of me-
mory:' how he had toiled faithfully hither and thither;
patiently among the lowest of the low ; been buffeted and
beaten down, yet ever risen again, ever tried it anew
And oh, when the wearied old man, as Bookseller, or
Hawker, or Tinker, or whatsoever it was that Fate had
reduced him to, begged help of thee for one day, how sav-
age, diabolic, was that mean Vanity, which answered, No !
He sleeps now ; after life's fitful fever, he sleeps well : but
thou, Merciless, how now wilt thoti still the sting of that
remembrance? The picture of Samuel Johnson standing
bareheaded in the market there, is one of the grandest and
saddest we can paint. Eepentance ! Repentance ! he pro-
claims, as with passionate sobs : but only to the ear of
Heaven, if Heaven will give him audience: the earthly ear
and heart, that should have heard it, are now closed, unre-
sponsive forever.
That this so keen-loving, soft-trembling Affectionateness,
the inmost essence of his being, must have looked forth, in
one form or another, through Johnson's whole character,
practical and intellectual, modifying both, is not to be
doubted. Yet through what singular distortions and super-
stitions, moping melancholies, blind habits, whims about
* entering with the right foot,' and ' touching every post as
*he walked along;' and all the other mad chaotic lumber
of a brain that, with sun -clear intellect, hovered forever on
the verge of insanity, must that same inmost essence have
looked forth ; unrecognisable to all but the most observant !
Accordingly it was not recognised ; Johnson passed not for
a fine nature, but for a dull, almost brutal one. Might not,
for example, the first-fruit of such a Lovingness, coupled
with his quick Insight, have been expected to be a pecu-
liarly courteous demeanour as man among men? In John-
BOSWBLL'S LIFE OP JOHNSON. 101
son's ( Politeness/ which he often, to the wonder of some,
asserted to be great, there was indeed somewhat that needed
explanation. Nevertheless, If he insisted always on handing
lady-visitors to their carriage; though with the certainty
of collecting a mob of gazers in Fleet Street, as might
well be, the beau having on, by way of court - dress, * his
A rusty brown morning suit, a pair of old shoes for slippers,
* a little shrivelled wig sticking on the top of his head, and
6 the sleeves of his shirt and the knees of his breeches
* hanging loose :' in all this we can see the spirit of true
Politeness, only shining through a strange medium. Thus
again, in his apartments, at one time, there were unfortu-
nately no chairs. * A gentleman who frequently visited him
* whilst writing his Idlers, constantly found him at his desk,
* sitting on one with three legs ; and on rising from it, he
* remarked that Johnson never forgot its defect ; but would
< either hold it in his hand, or place it with great composure
* against some support ; taking no notice of its imperfec-
* tion to his visitor/ who meanwhile, we suppose, sat upon
folios, or in the sartorial fashion. 4 It was remarkable in
4 Johnson/ continues Miss Keynolds (Benny dear), ' that no
* external circumstances ever prompted him to make any
* apology, or to seem even sensible of their existence. Whe-
* ther this was the effect of philosophic pride, or of some
* partial notion of his respecting high-breeding, is doubtful.'
That it was, for one thing, the effect of genuine Politeness,
is nowise doubtful. Not of the Pharisaical Brummellean
Politeness, which would suffer crucifixion rather than ask
twice for soup : but the noble universal Politeness of a man
that knows the dignity of men, and feels his own ; such
as may be seen in the patriarchal bearing of an Indian
Sachem ; such as Johnson himself exhibited, when a sudden
chance brought him into dialogue with his King. To us,
102 fflSOELLANIES.
with our view of the man, it nowise appears * strange' that
he should have boasted himself cunning in the laws of
Politeness ; nor ' stranger still/ habitually attentive to prac-
tise them.
More legibly is this influence of the Loving heart to be
traced in his intellectual character. What, indeed, is the
beginning of intellect, the first inducement to the exercise
thereof, but attraction towards somewhat, affection for it ?
Thus too, who ever saw, or will see, any true talent, not
to speak of genius, the foundation of which is not goodness,
love ? From Johnson's strength of Affection, we deduce
many of his intellectual peculiarities; especially that threat-
ening array of perversions, known under the name of < John-
son's Prejudices.' Looking well into the root from which
these sprang, we have long ceased to view them with hos-
tility, can pardon and reverently pity them. Consider with
what force early-imbibed opinions must have clung to a soul
of this Affection. Those evil-famed Prejudices of his, that
Jacobitism, Church- of- Englandism, hatred of the Scotch,
belief in Witches, and suchlike, what were they but the
ordinary beliefs of well-doing, well-meaning provincial Eng-
lishmen in that day? First gathered by his Father's hearth ;
round the kind ' country fires' of native Staffordshire ; they
grew with his growth and strengthened with his strength :
they were hallowed by fondest sacred recollections ; to part
with them was parting with his heart's blood. If the man
who has no strength of Affection, strength of Belief, have
no strength of Prejudice, let him thank Heaven for it, but
to himself take small thanks.
Melancholy it was, indeed, that the noble Johnson could
not work himself loose from these adhesions; that he could
only purify them, and wear them with some nobleness. Yet
let us understand how they grew out from the very centre
'S LIFE OF JOHNSOK. 103
of Ms being : nay moreover, how they came to cohere in
him with what formed the business and worth of his Life,
the sum of his whole Spiritual Endeavour. For it is on the
same ground that he became throughout an Edifier and
Repairer, not, as the others of his make were, a Puller-
down; that in an age of universal Scepticism, England was
still to produce its Believer. Mark too his candour even
here ; while a Dr. Adams, with placid surprise, asks, " Have
we not evidence enough of the soul's immortality T John-
son answers, " I wish for more."
But the truth is, in Prejudice, as in all things, Johnson
was the product of England; one of those good yeomen whose
limbs were made in England : alas, the last of swo/i Invincibles,
their day being now done ! His culture is Wholly English;
that not of a Thinker but of a * Scholar :' his interests are
wholly English ; he sees and knows nothing but England;
he is the John Bull of Spiritual Europe : let him live, love
him, as he was and could not but be ! Pitiable it is, no doubt,
that a Samuel Johnson must confute Hume's irreligious Philo-
sophy by some 4 story from a Clergyman of the Bishoprick of
Durham;' should see nothing in the great Frederick but Vol-
taire's lackey;' in Voltaire himself but a man acerrimi ingenii,
paucarum literarum; in Rousseau but one worthy to be hanged;
and in the universal, long-prepared, inevitable Tendency of
European Thought but a green-sick milkmaid's crotchet of,
for variety's sake, < milking the Bull. 5 Our good, dear John !
Observe too what it is that he sees in the city of Paris: no
feeblest glimpse of those D'Alemberts and Diderots, or of
the strange questionable work they did; solely some Bene-
dictine Priests, to talk kitchen-latin with them about Efo>
tiones Principes. "Monsheer NongtmgpawF'Qvr dear, foolish
John: yet is there a lion's heart withia him! Pitiable aU
these things were, we say; yet nowise inexcusable; nay,'
104 MISCELLANIES.
as basis or as foil to much else that was In Johnson, almost
venerable. Ought we not, Indeed, io honour England, and
English Institutions and Way of Life, that they could still
equip such a man ; could furnish him in heart and head to
be a Samuel Johnson,, and yet to love them, and unyield-
ingly fight for them? What truth and living vigour must
such Institutions once have had, when, in the middle of the
Eighteenth Century, there was still enough left in them for
this!
It is worthy of note that, in our little British Isle, the
two grand Antagonisms of Europe should have stood em-
bodied, under their very highest concentration, in two men
produced simultaneously among ourselves. Samuel Johnson
and David Hume, as was observed, were children nearly of
the same year : through life they were spectators of the
same Life-movement ; often inhabitants of the same city.
Greater contrast, In all things, between two great men,
could not be. Hume, well-born, competently provided for,
whole in body and mind, of his own determination forces
a way Into Literature : Johnson, poor, moonstruck, diseased,
forlorn, is forced into it *with the bayonet of necessity at
his back,' And what a part did they severally play there !
As Johnson became the father of all succeeding Tories ; so
was Hume the father of all succeeding Whigs, for his own
Jacobitisin was but an accident, as worthy to be named
Prejudice as any of Johnson's. Again, if Johnson's culture
was exclusively English ; Hume's, in Scotland, became Eu-
ropean; for which reason too we find his influence spread
deeply over all quarters of Europe, traceable deeply in all
speculation, French, German, as well as domestic; while
Johnson's name, out of England, Is hardly anywhere to be
met with. In spiritual stature they are almost equal ; both
great, among the greatest ; yet how unlike in likeness !
BOSWELIi'S LEFS Otf JOHNSON, 105
Hume lias the widest, methodising, comprehensive eye |
Johnson the keenest for perspicacity and minute detail : so
had, perhaps chiefly, their education ordered it. Neither of
the two rose into Poetry ; yet both to some approximation
thereof: Hiune to something of an Epic clearness and me-
thod, as in his delineation of the Commonwealth Wars ;
Johnson to many a deep Lyric tone of plaintiveness and
impetuous graceful power, scattered over his fugitive com-
positions. Both, rather to the general surprise, had a cer-
tain rugged Humour shining through their earnestness : the
indication, indeed, that they were earnest men, and had sub-
dued their wild world into a bind of temporary home and
safe dwelling. Both were, by principle and habit, Stoics:
yet Johnson with the greater merit, for he alone had very
much to triumph over; farther, he alone ennobled his Stoic-
ism into Devotion. To Johnson Life was as a Prison, to
be endured with heroic faith : to Hume it was little more
than a foolish Bartholomew-Fair Show-booth, with the fool-
ish crowdings and elbowings of which it was not worth
while to quarrel; the whole would break up, and be at
liberty, so soon. Both realised the highest task of Manhood,
that of living like men; each died not unfitly, in his way:
Hume as one, with factitious, half-false gaiety, taking leave
of what was itself wholly but a Lie: Johnson as one, with
awe-struck, yet resolute and piously expectant heart, taking
leave of a Eeality, to enter a Reality still higher. Johnson
had the harder problem of it, from first to last: whether,
with some hesitation, we can admit that he was intrinsically
the better-gifted, may remain undecided.
These two men now rest ; the one in Westminster Abbey
here; the other in the Calton-Hill Churchyard of Edinburgh.
Through Life they did not meet: as contrasts, Mike in Tin-
like/ love each other; so might they two have loved,
106 " MISCJELLANEB&
communed kindly, had not the terrestrial dross and dark-
ness that was in them withstood ! One day, their spirits,
what Truth was in each, will be found working, living in
harmony and free union, even here below. They were the
two half-men of their time: whoso should combine the in-
trepid Candour and decisive scientific Clearness of Hume,
with the Reverence, the Love and devout Humility of John-
son, were the whole man of a new time. Till such whole
man arrive for us, and the distracted time admit of such,
might the Heavens but bless poor England with half-men
-worthy to tie the shoe-latchets oi these, resembling these
even from afar ! Be both attentively regarded, let the true
Effort of both prosper ; and for the present, both take our
affectionate farewell I
GOETHE'S WORKS.
GOETHE'S WORKS/
[1832.]
IT is now four years since we specially invited attention to
this Book ; first in an essay on the graceful little fantasy-
piece of Helena, then in a more general one on the merits
and workings of Goethe himself: since which time two im-
portant things have happened in reference to it; for the
publication, advancing with successful regularity, reached
its fortieth and last volume in 1830; and now, still more
emphatically to conclude both this * completed, final edi-
tion/ and all other editions, endeavours and attainments
of one in whose hands lay so much, come tidings that the
venerable man has been recalled from our earth, and of his
long labours and high faithful stewardship we have had what
was appointed us.
The greatest epoch in a man's life is, not always his
death; yet for bystanders, such as contemporaries, it is
always the most noticeable. All other epochs are transi-
tion-points from one visible condition to another visible;
the days of their occurrence are like any other days, from
which only the clearer-sighted will distinguish them; bridges
they are, over which the smooth highway runs continuous,
1 FOKEIGN QUARTEBLY REVIEW, No. 19. Goetkes W&rke. Vollstandiffe Am&afte
letzter Hand (Goethe's Works, Completed, final Edition), 40 voIU Stuttgard asd
Tubingen, 1827 &>
110 MISCELLANIES,
as If no Bubicon were there. But the day in a mortal's
destinies "which is like no other is his death-day: here, too,
is a transition, what we may call a bridge, as at other
epochs ; but now from the keystone onwards half the arch
rests on invisibility ; this is a transition out of visible Time
Into invisible Eternity.
Since Death, as the palpable revelation (not to be over-
looked by the dullest) of the mystery of wonder and depth
and fear, which everywhere from beginning to ending
through its whole course and movement lies under Life, is
in any case so great, we find it not unnatural that hereby
a new look of greatness, a new interest should be im-
pressed on whatsoever has preceded it and led to it ; that
even towards some man, whose history did not then first
become significant, the world should turn, at his departure,
with a quite peculiar earnestness, and now seriously ask
itself a question, perhaps never seriously asked before, What ;
the purport and character of his presence here was ; now !
when he has gone hence, and is not present here, and will
remain absent forevermore. It is the conclusion that crowns
the work; much more the irreversible conclusion wherein all
is concluded : thus is there no life so mean but a death will
make it memorable.
At all lykewakes, accordingly, the doings and endurances
of the Departed are the theme : rude souls, rude tongues
grow eloquently busy with Mm; a whole septuagint of bel-
dames are striving to render, in such dialect as they have,
the small bible, or apocrypha, of his existence, for the gene-
ral perusal. The least famous of mankind will for once be-
come public, and have his name printed, and read not with-
out interest : in the Newspaper Obituaries ; on some frail
memorial, under which he has crept to sleep. Foolish love-
sick girls know that there is one method to impress the
GOETHE'S WORKS. Ill
obdurate false Lovelace, and wring his "bosom ; the method
of drowning : foolish ruined dandies, whom the tailor will
no longer trust, and the world turning on its heel is ahout
forgetting, can recall it to attention by report of pistol ;
and so, in a worthless death, if in a worthless life no more,
reattain the topgallant of renown, for one day. Death is
ever a sublimity and supernatural wonder, were there no
other left : the last act of a most strange drama, which is
not dramatic, but has now become real; wherein, miracu-
lously, Furies, god-missioned, have in actual person risen
from the abyss, and do verily dance there in that terror of
all terrors, and wave their dusky-glaring torches, and shaka
their serpent-hair ! Out of which heart-thrilling, so authen-
tically tragic fifth-act there goes, as we said, a new meaning
over all the other four; making them likewise tragic and
authentic, and memorable in some measure, were they for-
merly the sorriest pickle-herring farce.
But above all, when a Great Man dies, then has the
time come for putting us in mind that he was alive ; bio-
graphies and biographic sketches, criticisms, characters,
anecdotes, reminiscences, issue forth as from opened spring-
ing fountains ; the world, with a passion whetted by im-
possibility, will yet a while retain, yet a whilQ speak with,
though only to the unanswering echoes, what it has lost**
without remedy; thus ig the last event of life often the
loudest; and real spiritual Apparitions (who have be0n
named Men), as false imaginary ones are fabled to do, vanish,
in thunder.
For ourselves, as regards the great Goethe, if not seek-
ing to be foremost in this natural movement, neither $o w$
shun to mingle in it. The life and ways of such m&n as ha,
are, in all seasons, a matter profitable to contemplate, to
speak of; if in this death-season, long with $ ea4
112 MISCELLANIES.
looted forward to, there lias little increase of light, little
change of feeling arisen for the writer, a readier attention,
nay a certain expectancy, from some readers is call sufficient.
Innumerable meditations and disquisitions on this subject
must yet pass through the minds of men ; on all sides must
it be taken up, by various observers, by successive genera-
tions, and ever a new light may evolve itself: why should
not this observer, on this side, set down what he partially
has seen into; and the necessary process thereby be for-
warded, at any rate continued?
. A continental Humorist, of deep-piercing, resolute though
strangely perverse faculty, whose works are as yet but spar-
ingly if at all cited in English literature, has written a chap-
ter, somewhat in the nondescript manner of metaphysico-rhe-
torical, homiletic-exegetic rhapsody, on the Greatness of Great
Men; which topic we agree with him in reckoning one of
the most pregnant. The time, indeed, is come when much
that was once found visibly subsistent Without must anew
be sought for Within ; many a human feeling, indestructible
and to man's well-being indispensable, which once mani-
fested itself in expressive forms to the Sense, now lies hid-
den in the formless depths of the Spirit, or at best struggles
out obscurely in forms become superannuated, altogether in-
expressive and unrecognisable; from which paralysed im-
prisoned state, often the best effort of the thinker is required,
and moreover were well applied, to deliver it. For if the
Present is to be the ' living sum-total of the whole Past,'
nothing that ever lived in the Past must be let wholly die ;
whatsoever was done, whatsoever was said or written afore-
time was done and written for our edification. In such state
of imprisonment, paralysis and unrecognisable defacement,
as compared with its condition in the old ages, lies this our
feeling towards great men ; wherein, and in the much else
GOETHE'S WORKS. 113
that belongs to it, some of the deepest human interests
be found involved. A few words from Heir Professor Teu-
felsdrockh, if they help to set this preliminary matter in a
clearer light, may be worth translating here. Let us first
remark with him, however, 'how wonderful in all cases,
great or little, is the importance of man to man :'
'Deny it as he will/ says Teufelsdrockh, 'man reverently
* loves man, and daily by action evidences his belief in the
* divineness of man. What a more than regal mystery en-
( circles the poorest of living souls for us! The highest is
* not independent of him ; his suffrage has value : could the
* highest monarch convince himself that the humblest beg-
* gar with sincere mind despised him, no serried ranks of
* halberdiers and bodyguards could shut out some little
* twinge of pain ; some emanation from the low had pierced
4 into the bosom of the high. Of a truth, men are mystic-
* ally united ; a mystic bond of brotherhood makes all men
4 one.
Thus too has that fierce false hunting after Popularity,
6 which you often wonder at, and laugh at, a basis on some-
6 thing true : nay, under the other aspect, what is that won-
* derful spirit of Interference, were it but manifested as the
* paltriest scandal and tea-table backbiting, other than in-
* versely or directly, a heartfelt indestructible sympathy of
s man with man? Hatred itself is but an inverse love. The
( philosopher's wife complained to the philosopher that cer-
* tain two-legged animals without feathers spake evil of
* him, spitefully criticised his goings out and comings in ;
' wherein she too failed not of her share: "Light of my life,"
* answered the philosopher, " it is their love of us, unknown
4 to themselves, and taking a foolish shape ; thank them for
* it, and do thou love them more wisely. Were we mere
* steam - engines working here tinder this rooftree, they
VOX* IX. (Misc. vol. 4) I
114 MISCELLANIES.
* would scorn, to speak of us once in a twelvemonth.* The
6 last stage of human perversion, it has been said, is when
* sympathy corrupts itself into envy ; and the indestructible
* interest we take in men's doings has become a joy over
' their faults and misfortunes : this is the last and lowest
' stage ; lower than this we cannot go : the absolute petri-
6 faction of indifference is not attainable on this side total
6 death.
6 And now/ continues the Professor, * rising from these
6 lowest tea-table regions of human communion into the
* higher and highest, is there not still in the world's de-
* meanour towards Great Men, enough to make the old
* practice of Hero-worsldp intelligible, nay significant ? Sim-
* pleton ! I tell thee Hero-worship still continues ; it is the
4 only creed which never and nowhere grows or can grow
( obsolete. For always and everywhere this remains a true
6 saying : II y a dans le coeur Jiumain un fibre religieux. Man
* always worships something ; always he sees the Infinite
* shadowed forth in something finite ; and indeed can and
* must so see it in any finite thing, once tempt him well to
' fiss his eyes thereon. Yes, in practice, be it in theory
6 or not, we are all Supernaturalists ; and have an infinite
* happiness or an infinite woe not only waiting us here-
* after, but looking out on us through any pitifulest present
* good or evil ; as, for example, on a high poetic Byron
* through his lameness ; as on all young souls through their
* first lovesuit; as on older souls, still more foolishly, through
* many a lawsuit, paper-battle, political horse-race or ass-
* race. Atheism, it has been said, is impossible ; and truly,
< if we will consider it, no Atheist denies a Divinity, but
1 only some NAME (Nomen, Numen) of a Divinity : the God is
4 still present there, working in that benighted heart, were
< it only as a god of darkness. Thousands of stern Sans-
GOETHE'S WORKS. 115
i culottes, to seek no other instance, go chanting martyr-
' hymns to their guillotine : these spurn at the name of a
* God ; yet worship one (as hapless " Proselytes without the
* Gate") tinder the new pseudonym of Freedom. What in-
< deed is all this that is called political fanaticism, revolu-
* tionary madness, force of hatred, force of love and so forth,
' but merely, tinder new designations, that same wondrous,
6 wonder-working reflex from the Infinite, which in all times
' has given the Finite its empyrean or tartarean hue, thereby
6 its blessedness or cursedness, its marketable worth or un-
6 worth?
s Remark, however, as illustrative of several things, and
i more to the purpose here, that man does in strict speech
1 always remain the clearest symbol of the Divinity to man.
* Friend Novalis, the devoutest heart I knew, and of purest
' depth, has not scrupled to call man, what the Divine Man
t is called in Scripture, a " Revelation in the Flesh." " There
< is but one temple in the world," says he, " and that is the
* body of man. Bending before men is a reverence done to
6 this revelation in the flesh. We touch heaven when we
* lay our hand on a human body." In which notable words
6 a reader that meditates them may find such meaning and
* scientific accuracy as will surprise him,.
* The ages of superstition, it appears to be sufficiently
4 known, are behind us. To no man, were he never so heroic
6 are shrines any more built, and vows offered as to one
* having supernatural power. The sphere of the TRANBCEN-
6 DENTAL cannot now, by that avenue of heroic worth, of
f eloquent wisdom, or by any other avenue, be so easily
' reached. The worth that in these days could transcend all
' estimate or survey, and lead men willingly captive into
6 infinite admiration, into worship, is still waited for (with
' little hope) from the unseen. Time. All that can be said to
1 1 6 MISCELLANIES.
< offer itself in that kind, at present, is some slight house-
4 hold devotion (Ham-Andacli), whereby this or the other
6 enthusiast, privately in all quietness, can love his hero
* or sage without measure, and idealise, and so, in a sense,
* idolise him; which practice, as man is by necessity an
6 idol-worshipper (no offence in him so long as idol means
' accurately vision, clear symbol), and all wicked idolatry is
6 but a more idolatrous worship, may be excusable, in certain
e cases praiseworthy. Be this as it will, let the curious eye
* gratify itself in observing how the old antediluvian feeling
* still, though now struggling out so imperfectly, and forced
c into unexpected shapes, asserts its existence in the newest
e man : and the Chaldeans or old Persians, with their Zer-
* dusht, differ only in vesture and dialect from the French,
* with their Voltaire etouffe sous des roses!' 2
This, doubtless, is a wonderful phraseology, but refer-
able, as the Professor urges, to that capacious reservoir and
convenience, * the nature of the time :' < A time/ says he,
* when, as in some Destruction of a Roman Empire, wrecks
' of old things are everywhere confusedly jumbled with rudi-
* ments of new ; so that, till once the mixture and amalga-
* mation be complete, and even have long continued com-
* plete and universally apparent, 110 grammatical langue $oc
6 or langue d'oui can establish itself, but only some barbarous
6 mixed lingua rustica, more like a jargon than a language,
* must prevail ; and thus the deepest matters be either bar-
* "barously spoken of, or wholly omitted and lost sight of,
* which were still worse.' But to let the Homily proceed :
Consider, at any rate,' continues he elsewhere, e under
* how many categories, down to the most impertinent, the
4 world inquires concerning Great Men, and never wearies
2 DieKleidcr: ihr Werdenund Wirken, Von D.
Staiscliweign'selie Buchhandlung, 1830,
GOETHE'S WORKS. 117
* striving to represent to Itself tlieir whole structure, aspect,
* procedure, outward and inward ! Blame not the world for
6 such minutest curiosity about its great ones : this comes
< of the world's old-established necessity to worship : and,
4 indeed, whom but its great ones, that " like celestial fire-
* pillars go before it on the march," ought it to worship ?
* Blame not even that mistaken worship of sham great ones,
f that are not celestial fire-pillars, but terrestrial glass-lan-
i terns with wick and tallow, under no guidance but a stupid
* fatuous one ; of which worship the litanies and gossip-
* homilies are, in some quarters of the globe, so inexpressibly
* uninteresting. Blame it not ; pity it rather, with a certain
' loving respect.
* Man is never, let me assure thee, altogether a clothes-
* horse : under the clothes there is always a body and a souL
6 The Count von Biigeleisen, so idolised by our fashionable
< classes, is not, as the English Swift asserts, created wholly
* by the Tailor; but partially also by the supernatural Powers.
' His beautifully-cut apparel, and graceful expensive tackle
' and environment of all kinds, are but the symbols of a
* beauty and gracefulness, supposed to be inherent in the
4 Count himself; under which predicament come also our
* reverence for his counthood, and in good part that other
6 notable phenomenon of his being worshipped because he is
6 worshipped, of one idolater, sheep-like, running after him,
* because many have already run. Nay, on what other prin-
6 ciple but this latter hast thou, reader (if thou be not one
* of a thousand), read, for example, thy Homer, and found
' some real joy therein? All these things, I say, the apparel,
* the counthood, the existing popularity and whatever else
6 can combine there, are symbols ; bank-notes, which, whe-
* ther there be gold behind them, or only bankruptcy and
* empty drawers, pass current for gold. But how, now, could
118 MISCELLANIES,
6 they so pass, if gold itself were not prized, and believed
* and known to be somewhere extant? Produce the actual
tf gold visibly, and mark how, in these distrustful days, your
< most accredited bank-paper stagnates in the market ! No
* Holy Alliance, though plush and gilding and genealogical
* parchment, to the utmost that the time yields, be hung
* round it, can gain for itself a dominion in the heart of any
* man ; some thirty or forty millions of men's hearts being,
* on the other hand, subdued into loyal reverence by a Cor-
' sican Lieutenant of Artillery. Such is the difference between
* God-creation and Tailor-creation. Great is the Tailor, but
s not the greatest. So, too, in matters spiritual, what avails
* it that a man be Doctor of the Sorbonne, Doctor of Laws,
* of Both Laws ; and can cover half a square foot in pica-
6 type with the list of his fellowships, arranged as equilateral
* triangle, at the vertex an " &c." over and above, and with
* the parchment of his diplomas could thatch the whole
* street he lives in : what avails it 1 The man is but an
* owl ; of prepossessing gravity, indeed ; much respected by
* simple neighbours \ but to whose sorrowful hootings no
* creature hastens, eager to listen. While, again, let but
6 some riding gauger arrive under cloud of night at a Scot-
* tish inn, and word be whispered that it is Robert Burns ;
* in few instants all beds and trucklebeds, from garret to
* cellar, are left vacant, and gentle and simple, with open
* eyes and erect ears, are gathered together.'
Whereby, at least, from amid this questionable lingua,
* more like a jargon than a language,' so much may have
become apparent : What unspeakable importance the world
attaches, has ever attached (expressing the same by all pos-
sible methods) and will ever attach, to its great men. Deep
and venerable, whether looked at in the Teufelsdrockh man-
ner or otherwise, is this love of men for great men, this
'S WORKS* < 119
their exclusive admiration of great men ; a quality of vast
significance, if we consider it well; for, as in its origin it
reaches up into the highest and even holiest provinces of
man's nature, so in his practical history it will be found to
play the most surprising part. Does not, for one example,
the fact of such a temper indestructihly existing in all men,
point out man as an essentially governable and teachable
creature, and forever refute that calumny of his being by
nature insubordinate, prone to rebellion? Men seldom, or
rather never for a length of time and deliberately, rebel
against anything that does not deserve rebelling against.
Keady, ever zealous is the obedience and devotedness they
show to the great, to the really high ; prostrating their whole
possession and self, body, heart, soul and spirit, under the
feet' of whatsoever is authentically above them. Nay, in
most times, it is rather a slavish devotedness to those who
only seem and pretend to be above them that constitutes
their fault.
But why seek special instances'? Is not Love, from of
old, known to be the beginning of all things ? And what is
admiration of the great but love of the truly lovable 1 The
first product of love is imitation, that all-important peculiar
gift of man, whereby Mankind is not only held socially to-
gether in the present time, but connected in like union with
the past and. the future; so that the attainment of the in-
numerable Departed can be conveyed down to the Living,
and transmitted with increase to the Unborn. Now great
men, in particular spiritually great men (for all men have a
spirit to guide, though all have not kingdoms to govern
and battles to fight), are the men universally imitated and
learned of, the glass in which whole generations survey and
shape themselves.
Thus is the Great Man of an age, beyond comparison,
120 MISCELLANIES.
the most important phenomenon therein; all other pheno-
mena, were they Waterloo Victories, Constitutions of the
Year One, glorious revolutions, new births of the golden age
in -what sort you will, are small and trivial. Alas, all these
pass away, and are left extinct behind, like the tar-barrels
they were celebrated with; and the new-born golden age
proves always to be still-born : neither is there, was there
or will there be any other golden age possible, save only in
this : in new increase of worth and wisdom ; that is to say,
therefore, in the new arrival among us of wise and worthy
men. Such arrivals are the great occurrences, though un-
noticed ones ; all else that can occur, in what kind soever,
is but the road, up-hill or down-hill, rougher or smoother;
nowise the power that will nerve us for travelling forward
thereon. So little comparatively can forethought or the
cunningest mechanical precontrivance do for a nation, for a
world ! Ever must we wait on the bounty of Time, and see
what leader shall be born for us, and whither he will lead.
Thus too, in defect of great men, noted men become
important : the Noted Man of an age is the emblem and
living summary of the Ideal which that age has fashioned
for itself: show me the noted man of an age, you show me
the age that produced him. Such figures walk in the van,
for great good or for great evil ; if not leading, then driven
and still farther misleading. The apotheosis of Beau Brum-
mel has marred many a pretty youth; landed him not at
any goal where oak garlands, earned by faithful labour and
valour, carry men to the immortal gods ; but, by a fatal in-
version, at the King's Bench gaol, where he that has never
sowed shall not any longer reap, still less any longer burn
his barn, but scrape himself with potsherds among the ashes
thereof, and consider with all deliberation ' what he wanted,
and what he wants/
GOETHE'S WOBKS. 121
To enlighten this principle of reverence for the great,
to teach us reverence, and whom "we are to revere and ad-
mire, should ever be a chief aim of Education (indeed it is
herein that instruction properly both begins and ends) ; and
in these late ages, perhaps more than ever, so indispensable
is now our need of clear reverence, so inexpressibly poor
our supply. e Clear reverence !' it was once responded to a
seeker of light: ''all want it, perhaps thou thyself.' What
wretched idols, of Leeds cloth, stuffed out with bran of one
kind or other, do men either worship, or being tired of wor-
shipping (so expensively without fruit), rend in pieces and
kick out of doors, amid loud shouting and crowing, what
they call * tremendous cheers,' as if the feat were miracu-
lous 1 In private life, as in public, delusion in this sort does
its work; the blind leading the blind, both fall into the ditch.
* For, alas,' cries Teufelsdrockh on this occasion, e though
' in susceptive hearts it is felt that a great man is unspeak-
t ably great, the specific marks of him are mournfully mis-
* taken : thus must innumerable pilgrims journey, in toil and
* hope, to shrines where there is no healing. On the fairer
* half of the creation, above all, such error presses hard.
* Women are born worshippers ; in their good little hearts
* lies the most craving relish for greatness : it is even said,
* each chooses her husband on the hypothesis of his being
* a great man in his way. The good creatures, yet the
* foolish ! For their choices, no insight, or next to none,
* being vouchsafed them, are unutterable. Yet how touching
* also to see, for example, Parisian ladies of quality, all rust-
* ling in silks and laces, visit the condemned-cell of a fierce
* Cartouche ; and in silver accents, and with the looks of
* angels, beg locks of hair from him ; as from the greatest,
* were it only in the profession of highwayman ! Still more
* fatal is that other mistake, the commonest of all, whereby
MISCELLANIES
* the devotional youth, seeking for a great man to worship,
f finds such within his own worthy person, and proceeds with
4 all zeal to worship there. Unhappy enough : to realise, in
6 an age of such gas-light illumination, this basest super-
s stition of the ages of Egyptian darkness !
* Remark, however, not without emotion, that of all ritu-
* als and divine services and ordinances ever instituted for
* the worship of any god, this of Self-worship is the ritual
< most faithfully observed. Trouble enough has the Hindoo
* devotee, with Ms washings and cookings and perplexed for-
* mularies, tying him up at every function of his existence :
4 but is it greater trouble than that of his German self-wor-
< shipping brother ; is it trouble even by the devoutest Fakir,
< so honestly undertaken and fulfilled ? I answer, No ; for
< the German's heart is in it. The German worshipper, for
* whom does he work, and scheme, and struggle, and fight,
6 at his rising up and lying down, in all times and places,
but for his god only? Can he escape from that divine
6 presence of Self; can his heart waver, or his hand wax
6 faint IE that sacred service ? The Hebrew Jonah, prophet
* as he was, rather than take a message to Nineveh, took
6 ship to Tarshish, hoping to hide there from his Sender;
' but in what ship-hull or whale's belly shall the madder Ger-
i man Jonah cherish hope of hiding from Himself 1 Consider,
6 too, the temples he builds, and the services of (shoulder-
6 knotted) priests he ordains and maintains ; the smoking
6 sacrifices, thrice a day or oftener, with perhaps a psalmist
6 or two of broken-winded laureats and literators, if such are
* to be had. Nor are his votive gifts wanting, of rings and
1 jewels and gold embroideries, such as our Lady of Loretto
* might grow yellower to look upon. A toilsome, perpetual
* worship, heroically gone through : and then with what
'issue? Alas, with the worst. The old Egyptian leek-
GOETHE'S WOBKS, 123
* worshipper had, it is to be hoped, seasons of light and
* faith : his leek-god seems to smile on him ; he is humbled,
4 and in humility exalted, before the majesty of something,
6 were it only that of germinatiye Physical Nature, seen
e through a germinating, not unnourishing potherb. The
' Self-worshipper, again, has no seasons of light, which are
' not of blue sulphur-light ; hungry, envious pride, not hu-
' mility in any sort, is the ashy fruit of his worship ; his self-
6 god growls on him with the perpetual wolf-cry, Give! Give!
6 and your devout Byron, as the Frau Hunt, with a wise
' simplicity (geistreich naiv), once said, "must sit sulking like
( a great schoolboy, in pet because they have given him a
4 plain bun and not a spiced one." His bun was a life-rent
tf of God's universe, with the tasks it offered, and the tools
' to do them with ; a priori, one might have fancied it could
1 be put up with for once.*
After which wondrous glimpses into the Teufelsdrockh
Homily on the Greatness of Great Men, it may now be high
time to proceed with the matter more in hand ; and remark
that our own much-calumniated age, so fruitful in noted men,
is also not without its great. In noted men, undoubtedly
enough, we surpass all ages since the creation of the world;
and from two plain causes : First, that there has been a
French Revolution, and that there is now pretty rapidly
proceeding a European Revolution ; whereby everything, as
in the Term-day of a great city, when all mortals are re-
moving, has been, so to speak, set out into the street ; and
many a foolish vessel of dishonour, unnoticed and worth no
notice in its own dark corner, has become universally recog-
nisable when once mounted on the summit of some furniture-
wagon, and tottering there (as Committee-president, or other
head-director), with what is put under it, slowly onwards
124 MISCELLANIES.
to Its new lodging and arrangement, Itself, alas, hardly to
get thither without breakage. Secondly, that the Printing
Press, with stitched and loose leaves, has now come into full
action ; and makes, as It were, a sort of universal daylight,
for removal and revolution and everything else to proceed
in, far more commodiously, yet also far more conspicuously.
A complaint has accordingly been heard that famous men
abound, that we are quite overrun with famous men: how-
ever, the remedy lies in the disease itself; crowded succession
already means quick oblivion. For wagon after wagon rolls
off, and either arrives or is overset ; and so, in either case,
the vessel of dishonour, which, at worst, we saw only in
crossing some street, will afflict us no more.
Of great men, among so many millions of noted men, it
is computed that in our time there have been Two ; one in
the practical, another in the speculative province : Napoleon
Buonaparte and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. In which
dual number, inconsiderable as it is, our time may perhaps
specially pride itself, and take precedence of many others;
in particular, reckon itself the flowertime of the whole last
century and half. Every age will, no doubt, have its su-
perior man or men; but one so superior as to take rank
among the high of all ages, this Is what we call a great man;
this rarely makes his appearance, such bounty of Nature and
Accident must combine to produce and unfold him. Of Na-
poleon and his works all ends of the world have heard : for
such a host marched not in silence through the frighted deep:
few heads there are in this Planet which have not formed to
themselves some featured or featureless image of him ; his
history has been written about, on the great scale and on the
small, some millions of times, and still remains to be written:
one of our highest literary problems. For such a ' light-
nimbus' of glory and renown encircled the man ; the environ-
GOETHE'S WORKS. 125
ment he walked iu was Itself so stupendous, that the eye
grew dazzled, and mistook his proportions ; or quite turned
away from him in pain and temporary blindness. Thus even
among the clear-sighted there is no unanimity about Napo-
leon ; and only here and there does his own greatness begin
to be interpreted, and accurately separated from the mere
greatness of his fame and fortune.
Goethe, again, though of longer continuance in the world,
and intrinsically of much more unquestionable greatness and
even importance there, could not be so noted by the world :
for if the explosion of powder-mines and artillery-parks na-
turally attracts every eye and ear; the approach of a new-
created star (dawning on us, in new-created radiance, from
the eternal Deeps !), though this, and not the artillery-parks,
is to shape our destiny and rule the lower earth, is notable
at first only to certain stargazers and weather-prophets.
Among ourselves especially, Goethe had little recognition :
indeed, it was only of late that his existence, as a man and
not as a mere sound, became authentically known to us ;
and some shadow of his high endowments and endeavours,
and of the high meaning that might lie therein, arose in the
general mind of England, even of intelligent England. Five
years ago, to i*ank him with Napoleon, like him as rising
unattainable beyond his class, like him and more than he of
quite peculiar moment to all Europe, would have seemed a
wonderful procedure; candour even, and enlightened liber-
ality, to grant him place beside this and the other home-born
ready-writer,, blessed with that special privilege of * English
cultivation,' and able thereby to write novels, heart- capti-
vating, heart-rending, or of enchaining interest.
Since which time, however, let us say, the progress of
clearer apprehension has been rapid and satisfactory i innu-
merable uimraslcal voices HTO already fallen silent on this
126 MISCELLANIES.
matter; for in fowls of every feather, even In the pertest
choughs and thievish magpies, there dwells a singular rever-
ence of the eagle ; no Dulness is so courageous, but if you
once show it any gleam of a heavenly Resplendence, it will,
at lowest, shut its eyes and say nothing. So fares it here
with the old-estahlished British critic; who, indeed, in these
days of ours, begins to be strangely situated ; so many new
things rising on Ms horizon, black indefinable shapes, magi-
cal or not ; the old brickfield (where he kneaded insufficient
marketable bricks) all stirring under his feet ; preternatural,
mad-making tones in the earth and air; with all which
what shall an old-established British critic and brickmaker
do, but, at wisest, put his hands in his pockets, and, with
the face and heart of a British mastiff, though amid dismal
enough forebodings, see what it will turn to ?
In the younger, more hopeful minds, again, in most minds
that can be considered as in a state of growth, German litera-
ture is taking its due place ; in such, and in. generations of
other such that are to follow them, some thankful apprecia-
tion of the greatest in German literature cannot fail; at all
events this feeling that he is great and the greatest, whereby
appreciation, and what alone is of much value, appropriation,
first becomes rightly possible. To forward such on their
way towards appropriating what excellence this man realised
and created for them, somewhat has already been done, yet
not much ; much still waits to be done. The field, indeed, is
large; there are Forty Yolurnes of the most significant Writ-
ing that has been produced for the last two centuries ; there
is the whole long Life and heroic Character of him who pro-
duced them ; all this to expatiate over and inquire into ; in
both which departments the deepest thinker, and most far-
sighted, may find scope enough.
Nevertheless, k these days of the ten-pound franchise,
GOETHE'S WORKS. 127
when all tlie world (perceiving now, like the Irish innkeeper,
that ' death and destruction are just coining in s ) will have
itself represented in parliament ; and the wits of so many
are gone in this direction to gather wool, and must needs
return more or less shorn ; it were foolish to invite either
young or old into great depths of thought on such a remote
matter ; the tendency of which is neither for the Reform
Bill nor against it, but quietly through it and beyond it ; no-
wise to prescribe tliis or that mode of electing members, but
only to produce a few members worth electing. Not for many
years (who knows how many !) in these harassed, hand-to-
mouth circumstances, can the world's bleared eyes open
themselves to study the true import of such topics ; of this
topic, the highest of such. As things actually stand, some
quite cursory glances, and considerations close on the surface,
to remind a few (unelected, unelective) parties interested,
that it lies over for study, are all that can be attempted
here: could we, by any method, in any measure, disclose
for such the wondrous wonder-working element it hovers in,
the light it is to be studied and inqtiired-after in, what is
needfulest at present were accomplished.
One class of considerations, near enough the surface,
we avoid ; all that partakes of an elegiac character. Trae
enough, nothing can be done or suffered, but there is sotno-
thing to be said, wisely or unwisely. The departure of owe
Greatest contemporary Man could not be other than a great
event ; fitted to awaken, in all who with understanding be-
held it, feelings sad, but high and sacred, of mortality and
immortality, of mourning and of triumph ; far lockings into
the Past and into the Future, so many changes, fearful and
wonderful, of fleeting Time ; glimpses too of the Eternity
these rest on, which knows no change. At the present date
and distance, however, all this pertains not to us; has beea
128 MISCELLAMES.
uttered elsewhere, or may be left for utterance there. Let
us consider the Exequies as past ; that the high Bogus, with
its sweet-scented wood, amid the wail of music eloquent to
speechless hearts, has flamed aloft, heaven-kissing, in sight
of all the Greeks ; and that now the ashes of the Hero are
gathered into their urn, and the host has marched onwards
to new victories and new toils ; ever to be mindful of the
dead, not to mourn for him any more. The host of the
Greeks, in this case, was all thinking Europe : whether their
funeral games were appropriate and worthy, we stop not to
inquire ; the time, in regard to such things, is empty or ill-
provided, and this was what the time could conveniently do.
All canonisation and solemn cremation are gone by; and
as yet nothing suitable, nothing that does not border upon
parody, has appeared in their room. A Bentham bequeaths
his remains to be lectured over in a school of anatomy ; and
perhaps, even in this way, finds, as chief of the Utilitarians,
a really nobler funeral than any other, which the prosiac
age, rich only in crapes and hollow scutcheons (of timber as
of words), could have afforded him.
The matter in hand being Goethe's Works, and the greatest
work of every man, or rather the summary and net amount of
all his works, being the Life he has led, we ask, as the first
question : How it went with Goethe in that matter ; what
was the practical basis, of want and fulfilment, of joy and
sorrow, trom which his spiritual productions grew forth; the
characters of which they must more or less legibly bear?
In which sense, those Volumes entitled by him Dielitung und
Wakrheit, wherein his personal history, what he has thought
fit to make known of it, stands delineated, will long be
valuable. A noble commentary, instructive in many ways,
lies opened there, and yearly increasing in worth and in-
GOETHE'S WORKS. 129
terest; which all readers, now when the true quality of it is
ascertained, will rejoice that circumstances induced and
allowed him to write : for surely if old Cellini's counsel have
any propriety, it is doubly proper in this case : the auto-
biographic practice he recommends (of which the last cen-
tury in particular has seen so many worthy and worthless
examples) was never so much in place as here. ' All men, of
6 what rank soever,' thus counsels the brave Ben venuto, 'who
' have accomplished aught virtuous or -virtuous-lite, should,
' provided they be conscious of really good purposes, write
* clown their own life ; nevertheless, not put hand to so
6 worthy an enterprise till after they have reached the age
* of forty.' All which ukase-regulations Goethe had abund-
antly fulfilled, the last as abundantly as any, for he had
now reached the age of sixty-two.
'This year, 1811,' says he, 'distinguishes itself for me by perse-
vering outward activity. The Life of Philip Hackert went to press ;
the papers committed to me all carefully elaborated as the case re-
guired. By this task I was once more attracted to the South : the
occurrences which, at that period, had befallen me there, in Hackert's
company or neighbourhood, became alive in the imagination ; I had
cause to ask, Why this which I was doing for another should not be
attempted for myself? I turned, accordingly, before completion of
that volume, to my own earliest personal history ; and, in truth, found
here that 'I had delayed too long. The work should have been under-
taken while my mother yet lived; thereby had I got nigher those
scenes of childhood, and been, by her great strength of memory, trans-
ported into the midst of them. ISTow, however, must these vanished
apparitions be recalled by my own help ; and first, with labour, many
an incitement to recollection, like a necessary magic apparatus, be de-
vised. To represent the development of a child who had grown to
be remarkable, how this exhibited itself under given circumstances,
and yet how in general it could content the student of human nature
and his views : such was the thing I had to do.
In this sense, unpretendingly enough, to a work treated with.
YOL. IX. (Misc. vol. 4.) K
130 MISCELLANIES.
anxious fidelity, I gave tlie name WahrJieit und Dichtung (Truth and
Motion) ; deeply convinced that man in immediate Presence, still
more in Bemembrance, fashions and models the external world accord-
ing to his own peculiarities.
c The "business, as, with historical studying, and otherwise recall-
ing of places and persons, I had much time to spend on It, busied me
wheresoever I went or stood, at home and abroad, to such a degree
that my actual condition became like a secondary matter; though
again, on all hands, when summoned outwards by occasion, I with
full force and undivided sense proved myself present.' 3
These Volumes, with what other supplementary matter
lias been added to them (the rather as Goethe's was a life
of manifold relation, of the widest connexion with important
or elevated persons, not to be carelessly laid before the
world, and he had the rare good fortune of arranging all
things that regarded even his posthumous concernment
with the existing generation, according to his own delibe-
rate judgment), are perhaps likely to be, for a long time,
our only authentic reference. By the last will of the de-
ceased, it would seem, all his papers and effects are to lie
exactly as they are, till after another twenty years.
Looking now into these magically -recalled scenes of
childhood and manhood, the student of human nature will
under all manner of shapes, from first to last, note one
thing : The singularly complex Possibility offered from with-
out, yet along with it the deep never- failing Force from
within, whereby all this is conquered and realised. It was
as if accident arid primary endowment had conspired to pro-
duce a character on the great scale ; a will is cast abroad
into the widest, wildest element, and gifted also in an ex-
treme degree to prevail over this, to fashion this to its own
form; in which subordinating and self-fashioning of its cir-
W&rfo,
GOETHE'S WORKS. 131
cunistanees a character properly consists. In external situ-
ations, it is true, in occurrences such as could be recited in
the Newspapers, Goethe's existence is not more complex
than other men's ; outwardly rather a pacific smooth exist-
ence : but in his inward specialties and depth of faculty
and temper, in his position spiritual and temporal towards
the world as it was, and the world as he could have wished
it, the observant eye may discern complexity, perplexity
enough ; an extent of data greater, perhaps, than had lain
in any life-problem for some centuries. And now, as men-
tioned, the force for solving this was, in like manner, granted
him in extraordinary measure ; so that we must say, his pos-
sibilities were faithfully and with wonderful success turned
into acquisitions ; and this man fought the good fight, not
only victorious, as all true men are, but victorious without
damage, and with an ever-increasing strength for new vic-
tory, as only great and happy men are. Not wounds and
loss (beyond fast-healing skin-deep wounds) has the uncon-
querable to suffer ; only ever-enduring toil ; weariness, from
which, after rest, he will rise stronger than before.
Good fortune, what the world calls good fortune, awaits
him from beginning to end; but also a far deeper felicity
than this. Such worldly gifts of good fortune are what we
call possibilities : happy he that can rule over them ; but
doubly unhappy he that cannot. Only in virtue of good
guidance does that same good fortune prove good. Wealth,
health, fiery light with Proteus many-sidedness of mind,
peace, honour, length of days : with all this you may make
no Goethe, but only some Yoltaire; with the most that was
fortuitous in all this, make only some short-lived, unhappy,
unprofitable Byron.
At no period of the World's History can a gifted man
be born when he will not find enough to do ; in no circum-
132 MISCELLANIES,
stances come Into life but there will be contradictions for
him to reconcile, difficulties which it will task his whole
strength to surmount, if his whole strength suffice. Every-
where the human soul stands between a hemisphere of light
and another of darkness ; on the confines of two everlast-
ingly hostile empires, Necessity and Freewill. A pious adage
says, * the back is made for the burden ;' we might with
no less truth invert it, and say, the burden was made for
the back. Nay, so perverse is the nature of man, it has in
all times been found that an external allotment superior to
the common was more dangerous than one inferior ; thus
for a hundred thai can bear adversity, there is hardly one
that can bear prosperity.
Of riches, in particular, as of the grossest species of pro-
sperity, the perils are recorded by all moralists; and ever,
as of old, must the sad observation from time to time occur :
Easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle !
Riches in a cultured community are the strangest of things ;
a power all-moving, yet which any the most powerless and
slrilless can put in motion ; they are the readiest of possibi-
lities ; the readiest to become a great blessing or a great
curse. < Beneath gold thrones and mountains/ says Jean
Paul, c who knows how many giant spirits lie entombed!'
The first fruit of riches, especially for the man born rich, is
to teach him faith in them, and all but hide from him that
there is any other faith : thus is he trained up in the miser-
able eye-service of what is called Honour, Respectability ;
instead of a man we have but a gigman, one who ' always
kept a gig,' two-wheeled or four-wheeled. Consider, too,
what this same gigmanhood issues in; consider that first
and most stupendous of gigmen, Phaeton, the son of Sol,
who drove the brightest of all conceivable gigs, yet with
the sorrowful eat result, Alas, Phaeton was his father's heir ;
GOETHE'S WORKS. 133
born to attain the highest fortune without earning it:
he had "built no sun-chariot (could not build the simplest
wheelbarrow), but could and would insist on driving one ;
and so broke his own stiff neck, sent gig and horses spin-
ning through infinite space, and set the universe on fire 1
Or, to speak in more modest figures, Poverty, we may say,
surrounds a man with ready-made barriers, which, if they
mournfully gall and hamper, do at least prescribe for him
and force on hini a sort of course and goal ; a safe and
beaten though a circuitous course ; great part of his guid-
ance is secure against fatal error, is withdrawn from his
control. The rich, again, has his whole life to guide, with-
out goal or barrier, save of his own choosing ; and tempted
as we have seen, is too likely to guide it ill; often, instead
of walking straight forward, as he might, does but, like
Jeshurun, wax fat and kick; in which process, it is clear,
not the adamantine circle of Necessity whereon the World
is built, but only his own limb-bones must go to pieces !
Truly, in plain prose, if we bethink us what a road many
a Byron and Mirabeau, especially in these latter generations,
have gone, it is proof of an uncommon inward wealth in
Goethe, that the outward wealth, whether of money or other
happiness which Fortune offered him, did in no case ex-
ceed the power of Nature to appropriate and wholesomely
assimilate; that all outward blessedness grew to inward
strength, and produced only blessed effects for him. Those
'gold mountains' of Jean Paul, to the giant that can rise
above them are excellent, both fortified and speculatory,
heights ; and do in fact become a throne, where happily they
have npt been a tomb.
Goethe's childhood is throughout of riant, joyful charac-
ter : kind plenty in every sense, security, affection, manifold
excitement, instruction encircles him; wholly an element
134 MISCELLANIES.
of sun and azure, wherein the young spirit, awakening and
attaining, can on all hands richly unfold itself. A beautiful
boy, of earnest, lucid, serenely deep nature, with the peace-
ful completeness yet infinite incessant expansiveness of a
boy, has, in the fittest environment, begun to be : beautiful
he looks and moves ; rapid, gracefully prompt, like the son
of Maia ; wise, noble, like Latona's son : nay (as all men
may now see) he is, in very truth, a miniature incipient
World- Poet; of all heavenly figures the beautifulest we
know of that can visit this lower earth. Lovely enough
shine for us those young years in old Teutonic Frankfort ;
mirrored in the far remembrance of the Self-historian, real
yet ideal, they are among our most genuine poetic Idyls.
No smallest matter is too small for us, when we think who
it was that did it or suffered it. The little long-clothed
urchin, mercurial enough with all his stillness, can throw
a whole cargo of new-marketed crockery, piece by piece,
from the balcony into the street, when once the feat is sug-
gested to him ; and comically shatters cheap delf-ware with
the same right hand which tragically wrote and hurled forth
the demoniac scorn of Mephistopheles, or as 'right hand' of
Faust, 'smote the universe to ruins.' Neither smile more
than enough (if thou be wise) that the gray-haired all-ex-
perienced man remembers how the boy walked on the Mayn
bridge, and 'liked to look at the bright weather-cock 5 on
the barrier there. That foolish piece of gilt wood, there glit-
tering sunlit, with its reflex wavering in the Mayn waters,
is awakening quite another glitter in the young gifted soul :
is not this foolish sunlit splendour also, now when there is
an eye to behold it, one of Nature's doings 1 The eye of
the young seer is here, through the paltriest chink, looking
into the infinite Splendours of Nature, where, one day,
himself is to enter and dwell.
GOETHE'S WORKS. 135
Goethe's mother appears to have been the more gifted
of the parents : a woman of altogether genial character,
great spiritual faculty and worth ; whom the son, at an after
time, put old family friends in mind of. It is gratifying for
us that she lived to witness his maturity in works and hon-
ours; to know that the little infant she had nursed was
grown to be a mighty man, the first man of his nation and
time. In the father, as prosperous citizen of Frankfort,
skilled in many things ; improved by travel, by studies both
practical and ornamental; decorated with some diplomatic
title, but passing, among his books, paintings, collections
and household possessions, social or intellectual, spiritual or
material, a quite undiplomatic independent life, we become
acquainted with a German, not country- but city-gentleman
of the last century ; a character scarcely ever familiar in our
Islands; now perhaps almost obsolete among the Germans
too. A positive, methodical man, sound-headed, honest-
hearted, sharp-tempered ; with an uncommon share of vo-
lition, among other things, so that scarcely any obstacle
would turn him back, but whatsoever he could not mount
over he would struggle round, and in any case be at the end
of his journey : many or all of whose good qualities passed
also over by inheritance ; and, in fairer combination, on
nobler objects, to the whole world's profit, were seen a
second time in action,.
Family incidents ; house-buildings, or rebuildings ; arri-
vals, departures; in any case, newy ear's -days and birth-
days, are not wanting ; nor city-incidents ; many-coloured
tumult of Frankfort fairs; Kaisers' coronations, expected and
witnessed ; or that glorious ceremonial of the yearly Pfeifer-
gericht, wherein the grandfather himself plays so imperial a
part. World-incidents too roll forth their billows into the
remotest creek, and alter the current there. The Earth-
130 MISCELLANIES.
quake of Lisbon hurls the little Frankfort boy into wondrous
depths of another sort ; enunciating dark theological pro-
blems, which 110 theology of his "will solve. Direction, in-
struction, in like manner, awaits him in the Great Frederic's
Seven-Tears War; especially in that long "billeting of King's
Lieutenant Comte de Thorane, with his sergeants and ad-
jutants, with his painters and picture-easels, his quick pre-
cision and decision, his ' dry gallantry' and stately Spanish
"bearing; though collisions with the 'house-father/ whose
German house-stairs (though lie silently endures the inevit-
able) were not new-built to bo made a French highway of;
"who besides loves not the French, but the great invincible
Fritz they are striving to beat down. Think, for example,
of that singular congratulation on the Victory at Bergen:
c So then, at last, after a restless Passion-week, Passion-Friday,
1759, arrived. A deep stillness announced the appioaclihig storm.
We children were forbidden to leave the house; our father had no
rest, and went out. The battle began ; I mounted to the top story,
where the field indeed was still out of my sight, Ibut the thunder of
the cannon and the volleys of the small arms could be fully discerned.
After some hours, we saw the first tokens of the battle, in a row of
wagons, whereon wounded men, in all sorts of sorrowful dismember-
ment and gesture, were driven softly past us to the Liebfrauen-Kloster,
which had been changed into a hospital. The compassion of the citi-
zens forthwith awoke. Beer, wine, bread, money were given to such
as had still power of receiving. But when, erelong, wounded and cap-
tive Germans also were noticed in that train, the pity had no limits ;
it seemed as if each were "bent to strip himself of whatever movable
thing he had, to aid Ms countrymen therewith in their extremity.
* The prisoners, meanwhile, were the symptoms of a battle unpro-
sperous for the Allies. My father, in his partiality, quite certain that
these would gain, had the passionate rashness to go out to meet the
expected visitors ; not reflecting that the beaten side would in that
case have to run over him. He went first into his garden, at the
Friedberg Gate, where Ke found all quiet and solitary ; then ventured
GOETHE'S WORKS. 137
forth to the Bornheim Heath, where soon, however, various scattered
outrunners and "baggage-men carne in sight, who took the satisfaction,
as they passed, of shooting at the "boundary- stones, and sent our eager
wanderer the reverberated lead singing about his ears. He reckoned
it wiser, therefore, to come back ; and learned on some inquiry, what
the sound of the firing might already have taught him, that for the
French all went well, and no retreat was thought of. Arriving home
full of black humour, he quite, at sight of his wounded and prisoner
countrymen, lost all composure. From him also many a gift went
out for the passing wagons, but only Germans were to taste of it ;
which arrangement, as Fate had so huddled friends and foes together,
could not always be adhered to.
1 Our mother, and we children, who had from the first built upon,
the Count's word, and so passed a tolerably quiet day, were greatly
rejoiced, and our mother doubly comforted, as she that morning, on
questioning the oracle of her jewel-box by the scratch of a needle,
had obtained a most consolatory answer not only for the present but
for the future. We wished our father a similar belief and disposi-
tion ; we flattered him what we could, we entreated him to take some
food, which he had forborne all day; he refused our caresses and
every enjoyment, and retired to his room. Our joy, in the mean,
while, was not disturbed ; the business was over : the King's Lieu-
tenant, who today, contrary to custom, had been on horseback, at
length returned ; his presence at home was more needful than ever.
"We sprang oiit to meet him, kissed his hands, testified our joy. It
seemed to please him greatly. " Well 1" said he, with more softness
than usual, " I am glad too for your sake, dear children." He ordered
us sweetmeats, sweet wine, everything the best, and went to his
chamber, where already a mass of importuners, solicitors, petitioners,
were crowded.
' We held now a dainty collation ; deplored our good father, who
could not participate therein, and pressed our mother to bring him
down ; she, however, knew better, and how uncheering such gifts
would be to him. Meanwhile she had put some supper in order,
and would fain have sent Mm up a little to his room ; but such irre-
gularity was a thing he never suffered, not in extremest cases ; so the
sweet gifts being once put aside, she set about entreating him to come
down in his usual way. He yielded at last, unwillingly, and little
138
did we know what mischief we were making ready. The stairs raft
free through the whole house, past the door of every ante-chamber.
Our father, in descending, had to pass the Count's apartments. His
ante-chamber was so Ml of people that he had at length resolved to
come out, and despatch several at once ; and this happened, alas, just
at the instant our father was passing down. The Count stept cheer-
fully out, saluted him and said : " You will congratulate us and your-
self that this dangerous affair has gone off so happily." "Not at all !"
replied my father, with grim emphasis : " I wish they had chased you
to the Devil, had I myself gone too." The Count held-in for a mo-
ment, then hurst forth with fury : " You shall repent this ! You shall
Father Goethe, however, has e in the mean while
quietly descended/ and sat down to sup much cheerfuller
than formerly ; lie little caring, & we little knowing, in what
questionable way lie had rolled the stone from his heart/
and how official friends must interfere, and secret negotia-
tions enough go on, to keep him out of military prison, and
worse tMngs that might have befallen there. On all which
may we be permitted once again to make the simple reflec-
tion: What a plagued and plaguing world, with its battles
and bombardments, wars and rumours of war (which, sow or
reap no ear of corn for any man) ? this is ! The boy, who
here watches the musket-volleys and cannon-thunders of the
great Fritz, shall, as man, witness the siege of Mentz; fly
with Brunswick Dukes before Dumouriez and his Sanscu-
lottes, through a country champed into one red world of mud,
* like Pharaoh' (for the carriage too breaks down) * through
the Red Sea/ and finally become involved in the universal
fire-consummation of Napoleon, and by skill defend himself
from hurt therein I
The father, with occasional subsidiary private tutors, is
Ms son's schoolmaster; a somewhat pedantic pedagogue,
with ambition enough and faithful goodwill, but more of
GOETHE'S WOBKS.
rigour than of insight ; who, however, works on a subject
that he cannot spoil Languages, to the number of six or
seven, with whatsoever pertains to them; histories, sylla-
buses, knowledges-made- easy; not to speak of dancing 1 ,
drawing, music, or, in due time, riding and fencing : all is
taken-in with boundless appetite and aptitude; all is but
fuel, injudiciously piled and of wet quality, yet under which
works an unquenchable Greek-fire that will feed itself there-
with, that will one clay make it all clear and glowing. The
paternal grandmother, recollected as a 'pale, thin, ever white
and clean-dressed figure/ provides the children many a satis-
faction ; and at length, on some festive night, the crowning
one of a puppet-show : whereupon ensues a long course of
theatrical speculatings and practising, somewhat as de-
lineated, for another party, in the first book of Meisters Ap-
prenticeship ; in which Work, indeed, especially in the earlier
portion of it, some shadow of the author's personal experi-
ence and culture is more than once traceable. Thus Meis-
ter's desperate burnt-offering of his young 'Poems on various
Occasions/ was the image of a reality which took place in
Leipzig; performed desperately enough, 'on the kitchen
* hearth, the thick smoke from which, flowing through the
* whole house, filled our good landlady with alarm/
Old Imperial-Freetown Frankfort is not without its no-
tabilities, tragic or comic; in any case, impressive and di-
dactic. The young heart is filled with boding to look into
the Judengasse (Jew-gate), where squalid painful Hebrews
are banished to scour old clothes, and in hate, and greed,
and Old-Hebrew obstinacy and implacability, work out a
wonderful prophetic existence, as <a people terrible from the
beginning;' manages, however, to get admittance to their
synagogue, and see a wedding and a circumcision. On its
spike, aloft on one of the steeples, ^rins, for the last two-
140 MISCELLANIES.
hundred years, the bleached skull of a malefactor and traitor;
properly, Indeed, not so much a traitor, as a Radical whose
Reform Bill could not be carried through. The future book-
writer also, on one occasion, sees the execution of a book ;
how the huge printed reams rustle in the flames, are stirred-
up with oven-forks, and fly half-charred aloft, the sport of
winds; from which half-charred leaves, diligently picked
up, he pieces himself a copy together, as did many others,
and with double earnestness reads it.
As little is the old Freetown deficient in notable men;
all accessible to a grandson of the Schultheiss, 4 who besides
is a youth like no other. Of which originals, curious enough,
and long since * vanished from the sale -catalogues/ take
only these two specimens :
* Von Beineek, of an old-noble house ; able, downright, but stiff-
necked ; a lean black-brown man, whom I never saw smile. The mis-
fortune befel Mm tliat Ms only daughter was carried-off by a friend
of the family. He prosecuted his son-in-law with the most vehement
suit ; and as the courts, in their formality, would neither fast enough
nor with force enough obey his vengeance, he fell-out with them ; and
there arose quarrel on quarrel, process on process. He withdrew him-
self wholly into his house and the adjoining garden, lived in a spa-
cious but melancholy under-room, where for many years no brush of
a painter, perhaps scarcely the besom of a maid, had got admittance.
Me he would willingly endure ; had specially recommended me to his
younger son. His oldest friends, who knew how to humour him, Ms
men of business and agents he often had at table : and, on such occa-
sions, he failed not to invite me. His board was well furnished, Ms
"buffet still better. His guests, however, had one torment, a large stove
smoking out of many cracks. One of the most intimate ventured once
to take notice of it, and ask the host whether he could stand such an
inconvenience the whole winter. He answered, like a second Timon,
4 SchuUhtiss is the title of the cMef magistrate in some free- towns and republics,
for instance, in Berne too. It seems to derive itself from. Schuld-heiss&n y and may
mean the Teller of Duty, him by T&hom. what should be is Ught*
GOETHE'S WORKS. 141
and Heantontimorumenos : " Would to God tMs "were the worst mis-
chief of those that plague me !" Noi till late would he be persuaded
to admit daughter and grandson to his sight ; the son-in-law was never
more to show face before him.
e On this brave and unfortunate man my presence had a kind
effect j for as he gladly spoke with me, in particular instructed me
on political and state concerns, lie seemed himself to feel assuaged
and cheered. Accordingly, the few old friends who still kept about
him, would often make use of me when they wished to soothe his
indignant humour, and persuade him to any recreation. In fact he
now more than once went out with us, and viewed the neighbourhood
again, on which, for so many years, he had not turned an eye.' * * *
' Jtofrath Huisgen, not a native of Frankfort ; of the Reformed
religion, and thus incapable of public office, of advocacy among the
rest, which latter, however, as a man much trusted for juristic talent,
he, under another's signature, contrived quite calmly to practise, as
well in Frankfort as in the Imperial Courts, might be about sixty
when I happened to have writing-lessons along with his son, and so
came into the house. His figure was large ; tall without being bony,
broad without corpulency. His face, deformed not only by small-pox,
but wanting one of the eyes, you could not look on, for the first time,
without apprehension. On his bald head he wore always a perfectly
white bell-shaped cap (GflocJcenmutze) tied at top with a ribbon. His
night-gowns, of calamanco or damask, were always as if new-washed,
He inhabited a most cheerful suite of rooms on the ground floor in
the Allee, and the neatness of everything about him corresponded to
it. The high order of his books, papers, maps made a pleasant im-
pression. His son, Heinrich Sebastian, who afterwards became known
by various writings on Art, promised little in his youth. Good-natured
but heavy, not rude yet artless, and without wish to instruct himself,
he sought rather to avoid his father, as from his mother he could get
whatever he wanted. I, on the other hand, came more and more into
intimacy with the master the more I knew of him. As he meddled
with none but important law-cases, he had time enough to amuse and
occupy himself with other things. I had not long been about him,
and listened to his doctrine, till I came to observe that in respect of
God and the World he stood on the opposition side. One of his pet
was Agrippa de Vanifyte Soieiitfyrum / this he particularly re-
142 MISCELLANIES.
commended me to read, and did therewith set my young brain, for a
while, into considerable tumult. I, in the joy of my youth, was in-
clined to a sort of optimism, and with God or the Gods had now
tolerably adjusted myself again ; for, by a series of years, I had got
to experience that there is many a balance against evil, that misfor-
tunes are things one recovers from, that in dangers one finds deliver-
ance, and does not always break his neck. On what men did and
tried, moreover, I looked with tolerance, and found much praiseworthy
which my old gentleman would nowise be content with. Nay, once,
as he had been depicting me the world not a little on the crabbed
side, I noticed in him that he meant still to finish with a trump-card.
He shut, as in such cases Ms wont was, the blind left eye close ;
looked with the other broad out ; and said, in a snuffling voice :
"Auch in Gott entdecti ic
Of a gentler character is the reminiscence of the maternal
grandfather, old Schultkeiss Textor; with his gift of pro-
phetic dreaming, ' which endowment none of his descendants
inherited;' with his kind, mild ways; there as he glides about
in his garden, at evening, 'in black-velvet cap/ trimming
'the finer sort of fruit-trees/ with aid of those antique em-
broidered gloves or gauntlets, yearly handed him at the
Pfd/ergericht : a soft, spirit-looking figure ; the farthest out-
post of the Past, which behind him melts into dim vapoilr.
In Frau von Klettenberg, a religious associate of the mo-
ther's, we become acquainted with the Schone Seele (Fair
Saint) ofMeister; she, at an after period, studied to convert
her Philo y but only very partially succeeded. Let us notice
also, as a token for good, how the young universal spirit
takes pleasure in the workshops of handicraftsmen, and loves
to understand their methods of labouring and of living :
i My father had early accustomed me to manage little matters for
him. In particular, it was often my commission to stir-up the crafts-
men he employed ; who were too apt to loiter with him ; as he wanted
k> have all accurately done ? and finally for prompt payment to have
GOETHE'S WORKS. 143
the price moderated. I came, in this way, into almost all manner of
workshops ; and as it lay in my nature to shape myself into the cir-
cumstances of others, to feel every species of human existence, and
with satisfaction participate therein, I spent many pleasant hours in
such places ; grew to understand the procedure of each, and what of
joy and of sorrow, advantage or drawback, the indispensable condi-
tions of this or that way of life brought with them. * * *
The household economy of the various crafts, which took its figure
and colour from the occupation of each, was also silently an object
of attention ; and so unfolded, so confirmed itself in me the feeling of
the equality, if not of all men, yet of all men's situations ; existence
by itself appearing as the head condition, all the rest as indifferent and
accidental.'
And so, amid manifold instructive influences, has the boy
grown out of boyhood; when now a new figure enters on
the scene, bringing far higher revelations :
1 As at last the wine was failing, one of them called the maid ; but
instead of her there came a maiden of uncommon, and to see her in
this environment, of incredible beauty. " What is it f said she, after
kindly giving us good-evening: "the maid is ill and gone to bed:
can I serve you T " Our wine is done," said one ; " couldst thou get
us a couple of bottles over the way, it were very good of thee." "Bo
it, Gretchen," said another, " it is but a cat's-leap." " Surely !" said
she j took a couple of empty bottles from the table, and hastened out.
Her figure, when she turned away from you, was almost prettier than
before. The little cap sat so neat on the little head, which a slim
neck so gracefully united with back and shoulders. Everything about
her seemed select ; and you could follow the whole form more calmly,
as attention was not now attracted and arrested by the true still eyes
and lovely mouth alone.'
It is at tlie very threshold of youtb tbat this episode of
Gretchen (Margarete, T&ax-tfref-Mri) occurs ; the young critic
of slim necks and true still eyes stall now know something
of natural magic, and the importance of one mortal to an-
other; the wild-flowing; .bottomless sea of humaii Passion,
144 MISCELLANIES*
glorious In auroral light (which, alas, may "become infernal
lightning), unveils itself a little to Mm. A graceful little
episode we reckon it ; and Gretchen better than most first-
loves : wholly an innocent, wise, dainty maiden ; pure and
poor, who vanishes from us here ; but, we trust, in some
quiet nook of the Rhineland, became wife and mother, and
was the joy and sorrow of some brave man's heart, according
as it is appointed. To the boy himself it ended painfully,
almost fatally, had not sickness come to his deliverance;
and here too he may experience how * a shadow chases us in
all manner of sunshine/ and in this What-tfye-call-it of Exist-
ence the tragic element is not wanting. The name of
Gretchen, not her story, which had nothing in it of that
guilt and terror, has been made world-famous in the Play
of Faust.
Leipzig University has the honour of matriculating him.
The name of his ' propitious mother' she may boast of, but
not of the reality : alas, in these days, the University of the
Universe is the only propitious mother of such ; all other
propitious mothers are but unpropitious superannuated dry-
nurses fallen bedrid, from whom the famished nursling has
to steal even bread and water, if he will not die ; whom for
most part he soon takes leave of, giving perhaps (as ID Gib-
Toon's case), for farewell thanks, some rough tweak of the
nose ; and rushes desperate into the wide world an orphan.
The time is advancing, slower or faster, when the bedrid
dry-nurse will decease, and be succeeded by a walking and
stining wet one. Goethe's employments and culture at
Leipzig lay in quite other groves than the academic ; he
listened to the Ciceronian Ernesti with eagerness, but the
life-giving word flowed not from Ms mouth; to the sacer-
dotal, eclectic-sentimental Gellert (the divinity of all tea-
table moral-philosophers of both sexes); witnessed 'the pure
GOETHE'S WORKS, 145
' soul, the genuine will of the noble man/ heard c his adnio-
* rations, warnings and entreaties, littered in a somewhat
* hollow and melancholy tone ;' and then the Frenchman say
to it all, "Laissez lefaire; il nous forme des dupes." 'In logic
* it seemed to me very strange that I must now take-up those
6 spiritual operations which from of old I had executed with
the utmost convenience, and tatter them asunder, insulate
* and as if destroy them, that their right employment might
6 become plain to me. Of the Thing, of the World, of God,
4 1 fancied I knew almost about as much as the Doctor him-
* self; and he seemed to me, in more than one place, to
6 hobble dreadfully (gewaltig zu hapern).*
However, he studies to some profit with the Painter
Oeser; hears, one day, at the door, with horror, that there
is no lesson, for news of Winkelmann's assassination have
come. With the ancient G-ottsched, too, he has an inter-
view : alas, it is a young Zeus come to dethrone old Saturn,
whose time in the literary heaven is nigh run ; for on Olym-
pus itself, one Demiurgus passeth away and another cometh.
Gottsched had introduced the reign of water, in all shapes
liquid and solid, and long gloriously presided over the same;
but now there is enough of it, and the < rayless majesty*
(had he been prophetic) here beheld the rayed one, before
whom he was to melt away :
* We announced ourselves. The servant led us into a large room,
and said his master would come immediately. Whether we misinter-
preted a motion he made I cannot say ; at any rate, we fancied he had
"beckoned us to advance into an adjoining chamber. We did advance,
and to a singular scene ; for, at the same moment, Gottsched, the huge
"broad gigantic man, entered from the opposite door, in green damask
nightgown, lined with red taffeta ; but his enormous head was bald
and without covering. This, however, was the very want to be now
supplied : for the servant came springing-in at the side-door, with a
full-bottomed wig on his hand (the looks fell down to his elbow), and
VOL. IX. (Misc. vol. 1) Xi
146 MISCELLANIES.
held it out, with terrified gesture, to his master. Gottsched, without
uttering the smallest complaint, lifted the head-gear with his left hand
from the servant's arm ; and very deftly swinging it up to its place on
the head, at the same time, with his right hand, gave the poor man a
box on the ear, which, as is seen in comedies, dashed him spinning
out of the apartment ; whereupon the respectable -looking Patriarch
quite gravely desired us to be seated, and with proper dignity went
through a tolerably long discourse/
In which discourse, however, it is likely, little edification
for the young inquirer could lie. Already by multifarious
discoursings and readings he lias convinced himself, to his
despair, of the watery condition of ttie Gottschedic world,
and how 'the NoacJiide (Noakeid) of Bodmer is a true symbol
6 of the deluge that has swelled-up round the German Par-
< nassus,' and in literature as in philosophy there is neither
landmark nor loadstar. Here, too, lie resumes his inquiries
about religion, falls into i black scruples' about most things ;
and in 'the bald and feeble deliverances' propounded him
lias sorry comfort. Outward things, moreover, go not as
they should : the copious philosophic harlequinades of that
wag, Beyrish 'with a long nose/ unsettle rather than settle;
as do, in many ways, other wise and foolish mortals of both
sexes: matters grow worse and worse. He falls sick, be-
comes wretched enough; yet unfolds withal *an audacious
* humour which feels itself superior to the moment, not only
* fears no danger, but even wilfully courts it.' And thus,
somewhat in a wrecked state, he quits Ms propitious mother,
and returns home.
Nevertheless let there be no reflections: he must now
in earnest get forward with his Law, and on to Strasburg
to complete himself therein ; so has the. paternal judgment
arranged it. A Lawyer, the thing in these latter days called
Lawyer, of a man. in whom eyey-bounteotis Nature has sent
GOETHE'S WOEKS. 147
us a Poet for the World ! blind mortals, blind over what
lies closest to us, what we have the truest wish to gee !
In this young colt that caprioles there in young lustihood,
and snuffs the wind with an tf audacious humour/ rather dan-
gerous-looking, no Sleswic Dobbin, to rise to dromedary
stature, and draw three tons avoirdupois (of street-mud or
whatever else), has been vouchsafed; but a winged mira-
culous Pegasus to carry us to the heavens 1 Whereon too
(if we consider it) many a heroic Bellerophon shall, in times
coming, mount, and destroy Chiaieeras, and deliver afflicted
nations 011 the lower earth.
Meanwhile, be this as it may, the youth is gone to Stras-
burg to prepare for the eatamen rigorosum; though, as it
turned out, for quite a different than the Law one. Con-
fusion enough is in his head and heart; poetic objects too
have taken root there, and will not rest till they have
worked themselves into form. fi These/ says he, ' were Grotz
6 von Beiiichiiigen and Faust. The written Life of the for-
6 mer had seized my inmost soul. The figure of a rude
* well-meaning self-helper, in wild anarchic time, excited
' my deepest sympathy. The impressive puppet-show Fable
* of the other sounded and hummed through me many-toned
6 enough.' 'Let us withdraw, however/ subjoins he, 'into
* the free air, to the high broad platform of the Minster ; as
6 if the time were still here, when we young ones often ren-
' dezvoused thither to salute, with full rammers, the sink-
* ing sun.' They had good telescopes with them; 'and one
* friend after another searched out the spot in the distance
* which had become the dearest to him ; neither was I with-
* out a little eye-mark of the like, which, though it rose not
* conspicuous in the landscape, drew me to it beyond all
< else with a kindly magic.' This alludes, we perceive, to
that Alsatian Vicar of Wakefield, and his daughter the fair
148 MISCELLANIES,
Frederike ; concerning which matter a word may not be
useless here. Exception has been taken by certain tender
souls, of the all-for-love sort, against Goethe's conduct in
that business. He flirted with his blooming blue-eyed Alsa-
tian, she with him, innocently enough, thoughtlessly enough,
till they both came to love each other; and then, when the
marrying point began to grow visible in the distance, he
stopt short and would no farther. Adieu, he cried, and
waved his lily hand. 'The good Frederike was weeping;
I too was sick enough at heart.' Whereupon arises the
question: Is Goethe a bad man; or is he not a bad man?
Alas, worthy souls ! if this world were all a wedding dance,
and Thoii-shalt never caxne into collision with TJiou-wilt, what
a new improved time had we of it ! But it is man's miser-
able lot, in the mean while, to eat and labour as well as
wed; alas, how often, like Corporal Trim, does he spend
the whole night, one moment dividing the world into two
halves with his fair Beguine, next moment remembering
that he has only a knapsack and fifteen florins to divide
with any one ! Besides, you do not consider that our dear
Frederike, whom we too could weep for if it served, had
a sound German heart within her stays; had furthermore
abundance of work to do, and not even leisure to die of
love ; above all, that at this period, in the country parts of
Alsatia, there were no circulating-library novels.
With regard to the false one's cruelty of temper, who,
if we remember, saw a ghost in broad noon that day he
rode away from her, let us, on the other hand, hear Jung
Stilling, for he also had experience thereof at this very date.
Poor Jung, a sort of German Dominie Sampson, awkward,
honest, irascible, * in old-fashioned clothes and bag-wig,' who
had been several things, charcoal-burner, and, in repeated
alternation, tailor and schoolmaster; was now come to Stras*
GOETHE'S WOBKS. 149
"burg to study medicine; witli purse long-necked, yet -with
head that had brains in it, and heart full of trust in God.
A pious soul, who if lie did afterwards write books on the
Nature of Departed Spirits, also restored to sight (by his
skill in eye-operations) above two thousand poor blind persons,
without fee or reward, even supporting many of them in the
hospital at his own expense.
* There dined,' says he, ' at this table about twenty people, whom
the two comrades' (Troost and I) ' saw one after the other enter. One
especially, with large bright eyes, magnificent brow, and fine stature,
walked gallantly (muthig) in. He drew Herr Troost's and Selling's
eyes on him; Herr Troost said, "That must be a superior man.' 1 Still-
ing assented, yet thought they would both have much vexation from
him, as he looked like one of your wild fellows. This did Stilling
infer from the frank style which the student had assumed j but here
he was far mistaken. They found, meanwhile, that this distinguished
individual was named Herr Goethe.
* Herr Troost whispered to Stilling, " Here it were best one sat
seven days silent." Stilling felt this truth ; they sat silent therefore,
and no one particularly minded them, except that Goethe now and
then hurled over (lieruberwalde) a look : he sat opposite Stilling, and
had the government of the table without aiming at it.
* Herr Troost was neat, and dressed in the fashion ; Stilling like-
wise tolerably so. He had a dark-brown coat with fustian under-
garments : only that a scratch-wig also remained to him, which, amorg
his bag-wigs, he would wear out. This he had put on one day, and
came therewith to dinner. [Nobody took notice of it except Herr
Waldberg of Yienna. That gentleman looked at him ; and as he
had already heard that Stilling was greatly taken up about religion,
he began, and asked him, "Whether he thought Adam in Paradise had
worn a scratch-wig 1 ? All laughed heartily, except Salzman, Goethe
and Troost ; these did not laugh, In Stilling wrath rose and burnt,
and he answered : " Be ashamed of this jest ; such a trivial thing is
not worth laughing at !" But Goethe struck-in and added : " Try a
man first whether he deserves mockery. It is devil-like to fall upon
an honest-hearted person who has injured nobody, and make sport of
150 MISCELLANIES.
Mm P From that time Herr Goethe took up Stilling, visited him,
liked him, made friendship and brothership with him, and strove by
all opportunities to do him kindness. Pity that so few are acquainted
with this noble man in respect of his heart !' 5
Here, indeed, may be the place to mention, that this
noble man, in respect of Ms heart, and goodness and bad-
ness, is not altogether easy to get acquainted with; that
innumerable persons, of the man-milliner, parish-clerk and
circulating-library sort, will find him a hard nut to crack.
Hear in what questionable manner, so early as the year
1773, he expresses himself towards Herr Sulzer, whose beau-
tiful hypothesis, that * Nature meant, by the constant influx
* of satisfactions streaming-in upon us, to fashion our minds,
* on the whole, to softness and sensibility,' lie will not leave
a leg to stand on. c On the whole,' says lie, 'she does no
* such thing ; she rattier, God be thanked, hardens her
6 genuine children against the pains and evils she inces-
* santly prepares for them ; so that we name him the hap-
* piest man who is the strongest to make front against evil,
* to put it aside from him, and in defiance of it go the road
< of his own will/ * Man's art in all situations is to fortify
6 himself against Nature, to avoid her thousandfold ills, and
6 only to enjoy his measure of the good ; till at length he
* manages to include the whole circulation of Ms true and
* factitious wants in a palace, and fix as far as possible all
* scattered beauty and felicity within his glass walls, where
accordingly lie grows ever the weaker, takes to "joys of
* the soul," and his powers, roused to their natural exertion
<by no contradiction, melt away into' horresco refer ens
* Virtue, Benevolence, Sensibility P In Goethe's Writings
too* we all know ? the moral lesson is seldom so easily educed
as one would wish, Alas, how seldom is he so direct in
8 StiUings Wanderscha/t, Berlin and Leipzig, 1778.
GOETHE'S WORKS, 151
tendency as Ms own plain-spoken moralist at Plunders-
weilern s
* Dear Christian people, one and all,
When will you cease your sinning ?
Else can your comfort be but small,
Good hap scarce have beginning :
For Vice is hurtful unto man,
In Virtue lies his surest plan /
or, to give it in the original words, the emphasis of which
no foreign idiom can imitate :
* Die Tugend ist das Jwchste Gut,
Das Laster Weh dem Menschm thutf
In which emphatic couplet, does there not, as the critics say-
in other cases, lie the essence of whole volumes, such as we
have read ?
Goethe's far most important relation in Strasburg was
the accidental temporary one with Herder; which issued,
indeed, in a more permanent, though at no time an alto-
gether intimate one. Herder, with much to give, had always
something to require ; living with him seenis never to have
been wholly a sinecure. Goethe and he moreover were fun-
damentally different, not to say discordant; neither could
the humour of the latter be peculiarly sweetened by his
actual business in Strasburg, that of undergoing a surgical
operation on * the lachrymatory duct/ and, above all, an
unsuccessful one :
6 He was attending the Prince of Holstein-Eutin, who laboured
under mental distresses, on a course of travel ; and had arrived with
him at Strasburg. Our society, so soon as his presence there was
known, felt a strong wish to get near him ; which happiness, quite
unexpectedly and by chance, befel me first. I had gone to the Inn
mm Geist, visiting I forget what stranger of rank. Just at the bottom
of the stairs I came upon a man, like myself about to ascend, whom
152 MISCELLANIES.
by his look I could take to IDG a clergyman, His powdered hair was
fastened-up into a round lock, the Hack coat also distinguished him ;
still more a long "black-silk mantle, the end of which he had gathered
together and stuck into his pocket. This in some measure surprising,
yet on the whole gallant and pleasing figure, of whom I had already
heard speak, left nie no doubt but it was the famed Traveller and
my address soon convinced him that he was known to me. He asked
my name, which could not be of any significance to him ; however, my
openness seemed to give pleasure, for he replied to it in friendly style,
and as we stept up stairs, forthwith showed himself ready for a lively
communication. Our visit also was to the same party ; and before
separating I begged permission to wait upon himself, which lie kindly
enough accorded me. I delayed not to make repeated use of this pre-
ferment ; and was the longer the more attracted towards him. He
had something softish in his manner, which was fit and dignified,
without strictly being bred. A round face ; a fine brow ; a somewhat
short blunt nose; a somewhat projected, yet highly characteristic,
pleasant, amiable mouth. Under black eyebrows, a pair of coal-black
eyes, which failed not of their effect, though one of them was wont to
be red and inflamed/
With this gifted man, by five years Ms senior, whose
writings had already given him a name, and announced the
much that Jay in him, the open-hearted disciple could mani-
foldly communicate, learning and enduring. Erelong, under
that ' softish manner/ there disclosed itself a * counterpoise'
of causticity, of ungentle almost noisy banter ; the blunt
nose was too often curled in an adunco-suspensive manner.
Whatsoever of self-complacency, of acquired attachment and
insight, of self-sufficiency well or ill grounded, lay in the
youth, was exposed, we can fancy, to the severest trial.
In Herder too, as in an expressive microcosm, he might see
imaged the whole wild world of German literature, of Eu-
ropean Thought ; its old workings and inisworkings, its best
recent tendencies and efforts ; what its past and actual
wasteness, perplexity, confusion worse confounded, was. In
GOETHE'S WORKS, 153
all which, moreover, the bantered, yet imperturbably inquir-
ing brave young man had quite other than a theoretic in-
terest, being himself minded to dwell there. It is easy to
conceive that Herder's presence, stirring-up in that fashion
so many new and old matters, wonld mightily aggravate
the former * fermentation ;' and thereby, it is true, uninten-
tionally or not, forward the same towards clearness.
In fact, with the hastiest glance over the then position
of the world spiritual, we shall find that as Disorder is never
wanting (and for the young spiritual hero, who is there
only to destroy Disorder and make it Order, can least of
all be wanting), so, at the present juncture, it specially
abounded. Why dwell on this often -delineated Epoch ?
Over all Europe the reign of Earnestness had now wholly
dwindled into that of Dilettantism. The voice of a certain
modern ' closet-logic/ which called itself, and could not but
call itself, Philosophy, had gone forth, saying, Let there be
darkness, and there was darkness. "No Divinity any longer
dwelt in the world; and as men cannot do without a Di-
vinity, a sort of terrestrial-upholstery one had been got
together, and named TASTE, with medallic virtuosi and pic-
ture cognoscenti, and enlightened letter and belles-lettres
men enough for priests. To which worship, with its stunted
formularies and hungry results, must the earnest mind, like
the hollow and shallow one, adjust itself, as best might be.
To a new man, no doubt, the Earth is always new, never
wholly without interest. Knowledge, were it only that of
dead languages, or of dead actions, the foreign tradition of
what others had acquired and done, was still to be searched
after; fame might be enjoyed if procurable ; above all, the
culinary and brewing arts remained in pristine complete-
ness, their results could be relished with pristine vigour.
Life lumbered along, better or worse, in pitiful discontent.
154
not yet in. decisive desperation, as through a dim day of
languor, sultry and sunless. Already, too, on the horizon
might be seen clouds, might be heard murmurs, "which by
and by proved themselves of an electric character, and were
to cool and clear that same sultriness in wondrous deluges.
To a man standing in the midst of German literature,
and looking out thither for his highest good, the view was
troubled perhaps with various peculiar perplexities. For
two centuries, German literature had lain in the sere leaf.
The Luther, * whose words were half battles/ and such half
battles as could shake and overset half Europe with their
cannonading, had long since gone to sleep; and all other
words were but the miserable bickering of theological camp-
sutlers in quarrel over the stripping of the slain. Ulrich
Hutten slept silent, in the little island of the Zurich Lake ;
the weary and heavy-laden had wiped the sweat from his
brow, and laid him down to rest there : the valiant, fire-
tempered heart, with all its woes and loves and loving
indignations, mouldered, cold, forgotten ; with such a pulse
no new heart rose to beat. The tamer Opitzes and Flem-
mings of a succeeding era had, in like manner, long fallen
obsolete, One unhappy generation after another of pedants,
'rhizophagous,' living on roots, Greek or Hebrew; of farce-
writers, gallant-verse writers, journalists and other jugglers
of nondescript sort, wandered in nomadic wise, whither pro-
vender was to be had; among whom, if a passionate Gnnther
go with some emphasis to ruin; if an illuminated Thomasius,
earlier than the general herd, deny witchcraft, we are to es-
teem it a felicity* This too, however, has passed ; and now,
in manifold enigmatical signs, a new Time announces itself.
Well-born Hagedorns, munificent Gleims have again rendered
the character of Author honourable ; the polish of correct,
assiduous Eabeners and Bamlers have smoothed away the
GOETHE'S WORKS. 155
old Impurities ; a pious Klopstock, to the general enthusi-
asm, rises anew into something of seraphic music, though
by methods wherein he can have no follower; the brave
spirit of a Lessing pierces, in many a life-giving ray, through
the dark inertness : Germany has risen to a level with Eu-
rope, is henceforth participant of all European influences ;
nay it is now appointed, though not yet ascertained, that
Germany is to be the leader of spiritual Europe. A deep
movement agitates the universal mind of Germany, though
as yet no one sees towards what issue i only that heavings
and eddyings, confused conflicting tendencies, work tin-
quietly everywhere; the movement is begun and will not
stop, but the course of it is yet far from ascertained. Even
to the young man now looking-on with such anxious in-
tensity had this very task been allotted: To find it a course,
and set it flowing thereon.
Whoever will represent this confused revolutionary con-
dition of all things, has but to fancy how it would act on
the most susceptive and comprehensive of living minds ;
what a Chaos he had taken in, and was dimly struggling to
body-forth into a Creation. Add to which, Ms so confused,
contradictory personal condition; appointed by a positive
father to be practitioner of Law, by a still more positive
mother (old Nature herself) to be practitioner of Wisdom,
and Captain of spiritual Europe : we have confusion enough
for him, doubts economic and doubts theologic, doubts moral
and eesthetical, a whole world of confusion and doubt.
Nevertheless to the young Strasburg student the gods
had given their most precious gift, which is worth all others,
without which all others are worth nothing ; a seeing eye
and a faithful loving heart :
* JEr liaW ein Auge treu und Mug,
Und war aucli KebevoH genug t
156 MISOELLANIES.
ZM schauen mancftes Tdar und rein,
Und wieder alles zu macken sein ;
Hatf auch erne Zunge die sick ergoss,
Und leiclit und fein in Worte floss;
Dess thaten die Musen sicli erfreun,
Wollten ihn mm Meistenanger
A mind of all-piercing vision, of sunny strength, not made
to ray-out darker darkness, but to bring warm sunlight, all-
purifying, all-uniting. A clear, invincible mind, and t conse-
crated to be Master-singer 5 in quite another guild than that
Niirnberg one.
His first literary productions fall in his twenty -third
year ; Werter, the most celebrated of these, in his twenty-
fifth. Of which wonderful Book, and its now recognised
character as poetic (and prophetic) utterance of the World's
Despair, it is needless to repeat what has elsewhere been
written. This and Qdte von JBerlichingen, which also, as a
poetic looting-back into the past, was a word for the world,
have produced incalculable effects; which, now indeed, how-
ever some departing echo of them may linger in the wrecks
of our own Mosstrooper and Satanic Schools, do at length
all happily lie behind us. Some trifling incidents at Wetzlar,
and the suicide of an unhappy acquaintance, were the means
of * crystallising* that wondrous perilous stuff, which the
young heart oppressively held dissolved in it, into this world-
famous, and as it proved world-medicative Werter. He had
gone to Wetzlar with an eye still to Law ; which now, how-
ever, was abandoned, never to be resumed. Thus did he
too, ' like Saul the son of Kish, go out to seek his father's
asses, and instead thereof find a kingdom.'
6 Hans Sachsens Poetische Sendunff (Goethes Werlce, xiii.) ; a beautiful piece (a
very Hans Sachs leatijted, both in character and style), which we wish there was
an,, possibility of translating.
GOETHE'S WOBKS. 157
" With the completion of these two Works (a completion
in every sense, for they were not only emitted, but speedily
also Remitted, and seen over, and left behind), commences
what we can specially call his Life, his activity as Man,
The outward particulars of it, from this point where his
own Narrative ends, have been briefly suinmed-up in these
terms :
6 In 1776, the Heir-apparent of Weimar was passing through
Frankfort, on which occasion, by the intervention of some frienda,
he waited upon Goethe. The visit must have "been mutually agree-
able ; for a short time afterwards the young author was invited to
court ; apparently to contribute Ms assistance in various literary in-
stitutions anil arrangements then proceeding or contemplated ; and in
pursuance of this honourable call, he accordingly settled at Weimar,
with the title of Legationsratli, and the actual dignity of a place in
the Collegium, or Council The connexion begun under such favour-
able auspices, and ever afterwards continued under the like or better,
has been productive of important consequences, not only to Weimar
but to all Germany. The noble purpose undertaken by the I)uchcB8
Amelia was zealously forwarded by the young Duke on his ucccsHion ;
under whose influence, supported and directed by his new Councillor*
this inconsiderable state has gained for itself a fairer distinction than
any of its larger, richer or more warlike neighbours. By degrees
whatever was brightest in the genius of Germany had been gathered
to this little court ; a classical theatre was under the superintendence
of Goethe and Schiller; here Wieland taught and sung; in the pulpit
was Herder ; and possessing such a four, the small town, of "Weimar,
some five-and-twenty years ago, might challenge the proudest capital
of the world to match it in intellectual wealth* Occupied so profit-
ably to his country, and honourably to himself, Goethe continued
rising in favour with his Prince; by degrees a political was added to
his literary trust; in 1T79 he became Privy Councillor; President in
1782; and at length after his return from Italy, where he had qxmt
two years in varied studies and observation, he was appointed Min-
ister; a post which he only a few years ago resigned, on his
retirement from public affair/
158 mSCELLANXJES,
Notable enough that little Weimar should, in this par-
ticular, have "brought back, as it were, an old Italian Com-
monwealth into the nineteenth century! For the Petrarcas
and Boccaccios, though reverenced as Poets, were not sup-
posed to have lost their wits as men; "but could be employed
in the highest services of the state, not only as fit, but as the
fittest, to discharge these. Very different with us, where
Diplomatists and Governors can be picked up from the high-
ways, or chosen in the manner of blindman's buff (the first
figure you clutch, say rather that clutches you, will make a
governor) ; and, even in extraordinary times, it is thought
much if a Milton can become Latin Clerk under some Bui-
strode Whitelock, and be called c one Mr. Milton.' As if the
poet, with his poetry, were 110 other than a pleasant mounte-
bank, with faculty of a certain ground-and-lofty tumbling
which would amuse ; for which you must throw him a few
coins, a little flattery, otherwise he would not amuse you
with it. As if there were any talent whatsoever; above
all, as if there were any talent of Poetry (by the consent of
all ages the highest talent, and sometimes pricelessly high),
the first foundation of which were not even these two things
(properly but one thing) : intellectual Perspicacity, with force
and honesty of Will. Which two, do they not, in their sim-
plest quite naked form, constitute the very equipment a Man
of Business needs ; the very implements whereby all busi-
ness, from that of the delver and ditcher to that of the legis-
lator and imperator, is accomplished; as in their noblest
concentration they are still the moving faculty of the Artist
and Prophet!
To Goethe himself this connexion with Weimar opened
the happiest course of life which, probably, the age he lived
in could have yielded him. Moderation, yet abundance ^ ele-
gance without luxury or sumptuosity: Art enough to give a
GOETHE'S WORKS. 159
heavenly firmament to his existence; Business enough to
give it a solid earth. In his multifarious duties he comes in
contact with all manner of men ; gains experience and toler-
ance of all men's ways. A faculty like his, which could mas-
ter the highest spiritual problems and conquer Evil Spirits in
their own domain, was not likely to be foiled by such when
they put-on the simpler shape of material clay. The great-
est of Poets is also the skilfulest of Managers : the little ter-
restrial Weimar trust committed to him prospers; and one
sees with a sort of smile, in which may lie a deep seriousness,
how the Jena Museums, University arrangements, Weimar
Art-exhibitions and Palace-buildings, are guided smoothly
on, by a hand which could have worthily swayed imperial
sceptres. The world, could it intrust its imperial sceptres
to such hands, were blessed : nay to this man, without the
world's consent given or asked, a still higher function had
been committed. But on the whole, we name his external
life happy, among the happiest, in this, that a noble princely
Courtesy could dwell in it, based on the worship, by speech
and practice, of Truth only (for his victory, as we said above,
was so complete, as almost to hide that there had been a
struggle), and the worldly could praise him as the most
agreeable of men, and the spiritual as the highest and clear-
est ; but happy above all, in this, that it forwarded him, as
no other could have done, in his inward life, the good or evil
hap of which was alone of permanent importance.
The inward life of Goethe, onward from this epoch, lies
nobly recorded in the long series of his Writings. Of these,
meanwhile, the great bulk of our English world has nowise
yet got to such understanding and mastery, that we could,
with much hope of profit, go into a critical examination of
their merits and characteristics, Sueh a task can stand-oyoi f
160 MISCELLANIES.
till the day for It arrive ; be It in this generation, or the
next, or after the next. What lias been elsewhere already
set forth suffices the present want, or needs only to be re-
peated and enforced ; the expositor of German things must
say, with judicious Zanga in the play : " First recover that,
then shalt thou know more." A glance over the grand out-
lines of the matter, and more especially under the aspect
suitable to these days, can alone be in place here.
In Goethe s Works, chronologically arranged, we see this
above all tilings : A mind working itself into clearer and
clearer freedom ; gaining a more and more perfect dominion
of its world. The pestilential fever of Scepticism runs through
its stages ; but happily it ends and disappears at the last
stage, not in death, not in chronic malady (the commonest
way), but in clearer, henceforth invulnerable health. Werter
we called the voice of the world's despair : passionate, un-
controllable is this voice ; not yet melodious and supreme, -
as nevertheless we at length hear it in the wild apocalyp-
tic Faust : like a death-song of departing worlds ; no voice
of joyful * morning stars singing together' over a Creation ;
but of red nigh-extinguished midnight stars, in spheral swan-
melody, proclaiming, It is ended !
What follows, in the next period, we might, for want of
a fitter term, call Pagan or Ethnic in character; meaning
thereby an anthropomorphic character, akin to that of old
Greece and Borne. Wilhelm Meister is of that stamp : warm,
hearty, sunny human Endeavour ; a free recognition of Life,
in its depth, variety and majesty; as yet no Divinity recog-
nised there. The famed Venetian Epigrams are of the like
Old Ethnic tone : musical, joyfully strong ; true, yet not the
whole truth, and sometimes in. their blunt realism jarring on
the sense. As in this, oftener cited perhaps, by a certain
class of wise men, than the due proportion demanded :
GOETHE'S WORKS. 101
Why so bustle th the People and crieth 1 Would find itself victual;
Children too would beget, feed on the best may be had I
Mark in thy notebooks, Traveller, this, and at home go do likewise :
Farther reacheth no man, make he what stretching he will.
Doubt, reduced Into Denial, now lies prostrate under
foot : the fire has done its work, an old world is in ashes ;
but the smoke and the flame are blown away, and a sun
again shines clear over the ruin, to raise therefrom a new
nobler verdure and nWerage. Till at length, in the third
or final period, melodious Reverence becomes triumphant;
a deep all-pervading Faith, with mild voice, grave as gay,
speaks forth to us in a Meisters Wanderjahre, in a West~CE#t~
ticker Divan; in many a little Zahme Xenie, and true-hearted
little rhyme, which,' it has been said, ' for pregnancy and
* genial significance, except in the Hebrew Scriptures, you
* will nowhere match/ As here, striking-in almost at a ven-
ture:
Like as a Star,
That maketh not haste,
That taketh not rest,
Be each one fulfilling
His god-given Host. 7
7 Wie das Gestirn>
Ohne Hast,
Aber okne Mast,
I>reke swh jeder
U"m die eigne Last.
So stands it in the original; hereby, however, hangs a tale :
S A fact/ says one of our fellow-labourers in this German vineyard, 'has but
< ow ? ome ** <* knowledge, which we take pleasure and pride in stating. Fifteen
J^nglisnmen, entertaining that high consideration for the good Goethe, winch the
labours and high -deserts of a long life usefully employed so richly merit from all
^ mankind, have presented him with a highly-wrought Seal, as a token of their
veneration.' We must pass over the description of the gift, for it would be too
elaborate; suffice it to say, that amid tasteful carving and emblematic eml>odi> 2
enough stood these words engraven on a gold belt, on the four sides respectively:
To the German Master: From friends in JBv ff tond: 28t* August: 18S7 - finally
VOL. IX. (Misc. vol. 4.) ! ' /f
If) 2 MISCELLANIES.
Or tliis small Couplet, which the reader, if lie will, may sub-
stitute for whole horse-loads of Essays on the Oriyiu of Eoil;
a spiritual manufacture which, in these enlightened times,
ought ere now to have gone out of fashion :
What shall I teach tliee, the foremost tiling? 51
Couldst teach me off my own Shadow to spring !
Or the pathetic picturesqueness of this :
A rampart-breach is every Day,
Which many mortals are storming ;
Full in tlio gap wlio may,
Of the slain no heap is forming.
Eine BrescJie istjedor T<t<j,
Die vide Menschen erstimnen ;
Wt>r da auch fallen mag,
Die Todten sicli niemals tJninnen.
In sueli spirit, and with an ey^ that takes-iii all provinces
of human Thought, Feeling and Activity, does the Poet
that the impression was a star encircled with a serpent- of eternity, and this motto :
Ohne ffast Alcr Ohne East.
* The following is the Letter which accompanied it :
4 " To the Poet Goethe, on tlie 28tli of August 1831.
s "Sir, Among- the fiiends whom this so interesting Anniversary calls round
*you, may we 'English friends,' in thought and symbolically, since personally it
* is impossible, present ourselves to offer you our affectionate congratulations. We
* hope you will do us the honour to accept this little Birthday Gift, which, as a
* true testimony of our feelings, may not be without value.
6 " We said to ourselves : As it is always the highest duty and pleasure to show
* reverence to whom reveience is due, and our chief, perhaps our only benefactor
* is he who by act and word instructs us in wisdom, so we, undersigned, fouling
' towards the Poet Goethe as tho spiritually taught towards their spiritual teacher,
* are desirous to express that sentiment openly and in common ; for which end we
have determined to solicit his acceptance of a small English gift, proceeding from
* us all equally, on his approaching birthday ; that so, while the venerable man
' still dwells among us, some memorial of the gratitude we owe him, and think the
' whole world owes him, may not be wanting.
1 "And thus our little tdbute, perhaps among the purest that men could offer
GOETHE'S WOKKS, 1 (>3
stand fortli as tlie true prophet of liis time; victorious over
its contradiction, possessor of its wealth ; embodying the
nobleness of the past into a new whole, into a new vital
nobleness for the present and the future. Antique noble-
ness in all kinds, yet worn with new clearness ; the spirit
of it is preserved and again revealed in shape, when the
former shape and vesture had become old (as vestures do),
and was dead and cast fortli ; and we mourned as if the
spirit too were gone. This, we are aware, is a high saying;
applicable to no other man living, or that has lived for some
two centuries ; ranks Goethe, not only as the highest man of
his time, but as a raan of universal Time, important for all
generations, one of the landmarks in the History of Men.
f to man, now stands in visible shape, and begs to be receiver!. May it be welcome,
1 and speak permanently of a mosfa close relation, though, wide seas flow between
* the parties !
' * We pray that many years may be added to a life so glorious, that all happi-
1 ness may be yours, and strength given to complete your high task, even as it has
' hitherto proceeded, like a star, without haste, yet without lest.
' " We remain, Sir, your friends and servants,
* "FIFTEEN ENGLISHMEN."
* The wonderful old man, to whom distant and unknown friends had paid such
* homage, could not but be moved at sentiments expressed in such terms. We hear
* that be values the token highly, and has condescended to icturn the following
* lines for answer :
" DEN FUNFZEHN ENGLISCHEN FKEUNJDEN.
Worte, die der Dickter spricht,
Treu, in heimisclien JBezirken
WirJten gleich, dock weiss er nicM
Ob sie in die Feme ivirken*
Britten! halt sie aufgefa&st ;
* Thdtigen Sinn, das Thnn gez'&gelt;
Stctig Strelen ohne Mast;'
Und so wollt Ihrs denn besicyelt J
" Weimar, d. 2Sten August 1831 GOETHE."
(Frasers Magazine, ajf ii. 447 )
And thus, as it chanced, was the poet's last birthday celebrated by an outlaid
ceremony of a peculiar kind j wherein too, it is to be hoped, might lie some iuwaid
meaning and sincerity.
164 MISCELLANIES,
Thus, from our point of view, docs Goethe rise on as as
the Uuiter, and victorious Reconciler, of the distracted, clash-
ing elements of the most distracted and divided age that the
world has witnessed since the Introduction of the Christian
Religion; to which old chaotic Era, of world-confusion and
world-rrfusion, of blackest darkness, succeeded by a dawn of
light and nobler i dayspring from on high,' this wondrous
Era of ours is, indeed, oftenest likened, To the faithful heart
let no era be a desperate one ! It is ever the nature of Dark-
ness to be followed by a new nobler Light ; nay to produce
such. The woes and contradictions of an Atheistic time;
of a world sunk in wickedness and baseness and unbelief,
wherein also physical wretchedness, the disorganisation and
broken-heartedness of whole classes struggling in ignorance
and pain will not fail : all this, the view of all this, falls like
a Sphinx-question on every new-born earnest heart, a life-
and-death entanglement for every earnest heart to deliver it-
self from, and the world from. Of Wisdom cometh Strength:
only when there is 'no vision' do the people perish. But, by
natural vicissitude, the age of Persiflage goes out, and that of
earnest unconquerable Endeavour must come in: for the
ashes of the old fire will not warm men anew; the new
generation is too desolate to indulge in mockery, unless,
perhaps, in bitter suicidal mockery of itself! Thus after
Voltaires enough have laughed and sniffed at what is false,
appear some Turgots to ask what is true. Woe to the land
where, in these seasons, no prophet arises ; but only censors,
satirists and embittered desperadoes, to make the evil worse;
at best but to accelerate a consummation, which in acceler-
ating they have aggravated ! Old Europe had its Tacitus
and Juvenal; but these availed not. New Europe too has
had its llirabeaus, and Byrons, and Napoleons, and innumer-
able red-flaming meteors, shaking pestilence from their hair;
GOETHE S WORKS. 1C3
and earthquakes and deluges, and Chaos come again; luit
the clear Star, day's harbinger (Pkosphoros, the bringer of
litjltt), had not yet been recognised.
That In Goethe there lay Force to educe reconcilement
out of such contradiction as man Is now born into, marts
him as the Strong One of Ms time; the true Earl, though
now with quite other weapons than those old steel Jarh
were used to ! Such reconcilement of contradictions, indeed,
is the task of every man : the weakest reconciles soniew r liat ;
reduces old chaotic elements into new higher order; ever,
according to faculty and endeavour, brings good out of evil.
Consider now what faculty and endeavour must belong to
the highest of such tasks, which virtually includes all others
whatsoever! The thing that was given this man to recon-
cile (to begin reconciling and teach us how to reconcile),
was the inward spiritual chaos ; the centre of all other con-
fusions, outward and inward: he was to close the Abyss out
of which such manifold destruction, moral, intellectual, social,
was proceeding.
The greatness of his Endowment, manifested in such a
work, has long been plain to all men. That it belongs to the
highest class of human endowments, entitling the wearer
thereof, who so nobly used it, to the appellation, in its strict-
est sense, of Great Man, is also becoming plain. A giant
strength of Character is to be traced here ; mild and kindly
and calm, even as strength ever is. In the midst of so much
spasmodic Byronism, bellowing till its windpipe is cracked,
how very different looks tJiis symptom of strength: *He
* appeared to aim at pushing away from him everything that
* did not hang upon his individual will/ * In his own im-
6 pcrturbable firmness of character, he had grown into the
4 habit of never contradicting any one. On the contrary, he
166 MISCELLANIES.
listened with a friendly air to every one's opinion, and
* would himself elucidate and strengthen it by instances and
' reasons of his own. All "who did not know him fancied
* that he thought as they did ; for he was possessed of a
4 preponderating intellect, and could transport himself into
' the mental state of any man, and imitate his manner of
1 conceiving.' 8 Beloved brethren, who wish to be strong !
Had not the man, who could take this smooth method of it,
more strength in him than any teeth-grinding, glass-eyed
'lono Caloyer' you have yet fallen -in with? Consider your
ways | consider, first, whether you cannot do with being
loeak ! If the answer still prove negative, consider, secondly,
what strength actually is, and where you are to try for it.
A certain strong man, of former time, fought stoutly at Le-
panto; worked stoutly as Algerine slave; stoutly delivered
himself from such working ; with stout cheerfulness endured
famine and nakedness and the world's ingratitude ; and, sit-
ting in jail, with the one arm left him, wrote our joyfulest,
and all but our deepest, modern book, and named it Don
Quixote : this was a genuine strong man. A strong man, of
recent time, fights little for any good cause anywhere ; works
weakly as an English lord; weakly delivers himself from
such working; with weak despondency endures the cackling
of plucked geese at St. James's ; and, sitting in sunny Italy,
in his coach-and-four, at a distance of two thousand miles
from them, writes, over many reams of paper, the following
sentence, with variations: Saw ever the world one greater or
unhappier ? This was a sham strong man. Choose ye.
Of G-oethe's spiritual Endowment, looked at on the Intel-
lectual side, we have (as indeed lies in the nature of things,
for moral and intellectual are fundamentally one and the
same) to pronounce a similar opinion ; that it is "great among
8 Willidm Jfds/er, book vi
GOETHE'S WORKS* 1 6 7
tlic very greatest. As tlie first gift of all, may be discerned
here utmost Clearness, all-piercing faculty of Vision ; where-
to, as we ever find it, all other gifts are snperadded ; nay,
properly they are but other forms of the same gift. A nobler
power of insight than this of Goethe you in vain look for,
since Shakspeare passed away. In fact, there is much every
way, here in particular, that these two minds have in com-
mon. Shakspeare too does not look at a thing, but into it,
through it; so that he constructively comprehends it, can
take it asunder, and put it together again ; the thing melts,
as it were, into light under his eye, and anew creates itself
before him. That is to say, he is a Thinker in the highest
of all senses : he is a Poet. For Goethe, as for Shakspeare,
the world lies all translucent, all fusible we might call it, en-
circled with WOXDEE; the Natural in reality the Superna-
tural, for to the seer's eyes both become one. What are the
Hamlets and Tempests, the Fausts and Hignons, but glimpses
accorded us into this translucent, wonder-encircled world;
revelations of the mystery of all mysteries, Man's Life as it
actually is 1
Under other secondary aspects the poetical faculty of the
two will still be found cognate. Goethe is full of figurative-
ness ; this grand light-giving Intellect, as all such are, is an
imaginative one, and in a quite other sense than most of
our unhappy Imaginatives will imagine. Gall the Cranio-
logist declared him to be a born Volksredner (popular orator),
both by the figure of his brow, and what was still more de-
cisive, because * he could not speak but a figure came.' Gall
saw what was high as his own nose reached,
High as the nose doth reach, all clear !
What higher lies, they ask : Is it here ?
A far different figurativeness was this of Goethe than
popular oratory has work for. In figures of the popular-
168 MISCELLANIES,,
oratory bind, Goethe, throughout Ins Writings at least, is
nowise the most copious man known to us, though on a
stricter scrutiny we may find him the richest. Of your ready-
made, coloured-paper metaphors, such as can be sewed or
plastered on the surface, by way of giving an ornamental
finish to the rag-web already woven, we speak not ; there is
not one such to be discovered in all his Works, But even in
the use of genuine metaphors, which are not haberdashery
ornament, but the genuine new vesture of new thoughts, he
yields to lower men (for example to Jean Paul) ; that is to
say, in fact, he is more master of the common language, and
can oftener make it serve him, Goethe's figurativeness lies
in the very centre of his being ; manifests itself as the con-
structing of the inward elements of a thought, as the vital
embodiment of it: such figures as those of Goethe you will
look for through all modern literature, and except here and
there in Shakspeare, nowhere find a trace of. Again, it ia
the same faculty in higher exercise, that enables the poet
to construct a Character. Here too Shakspeare and Goethe,
unlike innumerable others, are vital; their construction be-
gins at the heart and flows outward as the life-streams do ;
fashioning the surface, as it were, spontaneously. Those Mac-
beths and Falstaffs, accordingly, these Fausts and Philinas
have a verisimilitude and life that separates them from
all other fictions of late ages. All others, in comparison,
have more or less the nature of hollow vizards, constructed
from without inwards, painted like, and deceptively put in
motion. Many years ago on finishing our first perusal of
Wilhelm Meister, with a very mixed sentiment in other re*
spects, we could not but feel that here lay more insight into
the elements of human nature, and a more poetically perfect
combining of these, than in all the other fictitious literature
of our generation.
GOETHE S WORKS. 1 09
Neither, as an additional similarity (for the great is ever
like itself), let the majestic Calmness of both be omitted;
their perfect tolerance for all men and all things. This too
proceeds from the same source, perfect clearness of vision :
he who comprehends an object cannot hate it, has already
begun to love it. In respect of style, no less than of cha-
racter, this calmness and graceful smooth-flowing softness
is again characteristic of both; though in Goethe the quality
is more complete, having been matured by far more assidu-
ous study. Goethe's style is perhaps to be reckoned the
most excellent that our modern world, in any language, can
exhibit. < Even to a foreigner/ says one, ' it is full of cha-
4 racter and secondary meanings ; polished, yet vernacular
* and cordial, it sounds like the dialect of wise, antique-
c minded, true-hearted men : in poetry, brief, sharp, simple
* and expressive: in prose, perhaps still more pleasing; for
* it is at once concise and full, rich, clear, unpretending and
melodious ; and the sense, not presented in alternating
* flashes, piece after piece revealed and withdrawn, rises be-
* fore us as in continuous dawning, and stands at last simul-
< taneously complete, and bathed in the mellowest and rud-
6 diest sunshine. It brings to mind what the prose of Hooker,
6 Bacon, Milton, Browne, would have been, had they written
6 under the good without the bad influences of that French
< precision, which has polished and attenuated, trimmed and
' impoverished all modern languages ; made our meaning
' clear, and too often shallow as well as clear/
Finally, as Shakspeare is to be considered as the greater
nature of the two, so on the other hand we must admit him
to have been the less cultivated, and much the more careless.
What Shakspeare could have done we nowhere discover. A
careless mortal, open to the Universe and its influences, not
caring strenuously to open himself; who, Prometheus-like,
170 MISCELLANIES.
scale Heaven (if it so must be), and is satisfied if he
therewith pay the rent of his London Playhouse ; who, had
the Warwickshire Justice let him hunt deer unmolested,
might, for many years more, have lived quiet on the green
earth without such aerial journeys : an unparalleled mortal.
In the great Goethe, again, we see a man through life at
his utmost strain ; a man who, as he says himself, < struggled
toughly ;' laid hold of all things, under all aspects, scientific
or poetic ; engaged passionately with the deepest interests
of man's existence, in the most complex age of man's history.
What Shakspeare's thoughts on God, Nature, Art/ would
have been, especially had he lived to number fourscore years,
were curious to know: Goethe's, delivered in many-toned
melody, as the apocalypse of our era, are here for us to
know*
Such was the noble talent intrusted to this man; such
the noble employment he made thereof. We can call him,
once more, *a clear and universal man;' we can say that,
in his universality, as thinker, as singer, as worker, he lived
a life of antique nobleness under these new conditions ; and,
in so living, is alone in all Europe; the foremost, whom
others are to learn from and follow. In which great act, or
rather great sum-total of many acts, who shall compute
what treasure of new strengthening, of faith become hope
and vision, lies secured for all ! The question, Can man still
live in devoutness, yet without blindness or contraction ; in
unconquerable steadfastness for the right, yet without tu-
multuous exasperation against the wrong; as an antique
worthy, yet with the expansion and increased endowment
of a modern? is no longer a question, but has become a
certainty, and ocularly-visible fact.
We have looked at Goethe, as we engaged to do, f on
GOETHE'S WORKS. 171
tlds side/ and with the eyes of < this generation ;' that is to
say, chiefly as a world-changer, and benignant spiritual re-
volutionist: for in our present so astonishing condition of
' progress of the species/ such is the category under which
we must try all things, wisdom itself. And, indeed, under
this aspect too, Goethe's Life and Works are doubtless of
incalculable value, and worthy our most earnest study : for
his Spiritual History is, as it were, the ideal emblem of all
true men's in these days \ the goal of Manhood, which he
attained, we too in our degree have to aim at ; let us mark
well the road he fashioned for himself, and in the dim wel-
tering chaos rejoice to find a paved way.
Here, moreover, another word of explanation is perhaps
worth adding. We mean, in regard to the controversy agi-
tated (as about many things pertaining to Goethe) about
his Political creed and practice, Whether he was Ministerial
or in Opposition? Let the political admirer of Goethe be
at ease : Goethe was both, and also neither ! The * rotten
whitewashed (gebrecliliche ubertunchte) condition of society 5
was plainer to few eyes than to his, sadder to few hearts
than to his. Listen to the Epigrammatist at Venice :
To this stithy I liken the land, the hammer its ruler,
And the people that plate, "beaten between them that writhes ;
Woe to the plate, when nothing but wilful bruises on bruises
Hit it at random ; and made, cometh no Kettle to view !
But, alas, what is to be done ?
KTo Apostle-of-Liberty much to my heart ever found I ;
License, each for himself, this was at bottom their want.
Liberator of many ! first dare to "be Servant of many :
What a business is that, wouldst thou know it, go try !
Let the following also be recommended to all inordinate
worshippers of Septenn!als, Triennials, Elective Franchise*
172 MISCELLANIES.
and the Shameful Parts of the Constitution ; and let each
be a little tolerant of his neighbour's ' festoon/ and rejoice
that he has himself found out Freedom, a thing much
wanted:
Walls I can see tumbled down, walls I see also a-building i
Here sit prisoners, there likewise do prisoners sit :
Is the world, then, itself a huge prison ? Free only the madman,
His chains knitting still up into some graceful festoon 1
So that, for the Poet, what remains but to leave Conserva-
ive and Destructive pulling one another's locks and ears
off, as they will and can (the ulterior issue being long since
indubitable enough) ; and, for Ms own part, strive day and
night to forward the small suffering remnant of Productives ;
of those who, in true manful endeavour, were it under des-
potism or under sanscnlottism, create somewhat, with whom
alone, in the end, does the hope of the world lie ? Go thou
and do likewise ! Art thou called to politics, work therein,
as this man would have done, like a real and not an ima-
ginary workman. Understand well, meanwhile, that to no
man is his political constitution <a life, but only a house
wherein his life is led:' and hast thou a nobler task than
such /icw$#-pargeting and smoke-doctoring, and pulling down
of ancient rotten rat-inhabited walls, leave such to the pro-
per craftsman ; honour the higher Artist, and good-humour-
edly say with him:
All this is neither my coat nor my cake,
Why fill my hand with other men's charges ?
The fishes swim at ease in the lake,
And take no thought of the barges.
Goethe's political practice, or rather no-practice, except that
of self-defence, is a part of his conduct quite inseparably
coherent with the rest; a thing we could recommend to
GOETHE'S WORKS. 173
universal study, that the spirit of it might be understood
by all men, and by all men imitated.
Nevertheless it is nowise alone on this revolutionary or
* progress-of-the-species' side that Goethe has significance ;
his Life and Work is no painted show but a solid reality,
and may be looked at with profit on all sides, from all ima-
ginable points of view. Perennial, as a possession forever,
Goethe's History and Writings abide there; a thousand-
voiced 4 Melody of Wisdom,' which he that has ears may
hear. What the experience of the most complexly-situated,
deep-searching, everyway far- experienced man has yielded
him of Insight, lies written for all men here. He who was
of compass to know and feel more than any other man, this
is the record of his knowledge and feeling. * The deepest
heart, the highest head to scan/ was not beyond his faculty ;
thus, then, did he scan and interpret : let many generations
listen, according to their want ; let the generation which
has no need of listening, and nothing new to learn there,
esteem itself a happy one.
To us, meanwhile, to all that wander in darkness and
seek light, as the one thing needful, be this possession
reckoned among our choicest blessings and distinctions.
Oolite talem virum; learn of him, imitate, emulate him! So
did he catch the Music of the Universe, and unfold it into
clearness, and In authentic celestial tones bring it home to
the hearts of men, from amid that soul-confusing Babylonish
hubbub of this our new Tower-of-Babel era ! For now too,
as in that old time, had men said to themselves : Come, let
us build a tower which shall reach to heaven ; and by our
steam-engines, and logic-engines, and skilful mechanism and
manipulation, vanquish not only Physical Nature, but the
divine Spirit of Nature, and scale the empyre'an itself.
Wherefore they must needs again be stricken with con-
] 74 MISCELLANIES.
fusion of tongues (or of printing-presses) ; and dispersed^
to other work; wherein also, let us hope, their hammers
and trowels shall better avail them.
Of Goethe, with a feeling such as can be due to no other
man, we now take farewell. Vixit^ vimt*
CORN-LAW RHYMES.
CORN-LAW RHYMES. 1
[1832.]
REDIVIVUS, throwing clown his critical assaying
balance some years ago, and taking leave of tlie Belles-
Lettres function, expressed himself in this abrupt way : < The
4 end having come, it is fit that we end. Poetry having
ceased to be read, or published, or written, how can it
i continue to be reviewed f With your Lake Schools, and
* Border-Thief Schools, and Cockney and Satanic Schools,
< there has been enough to do ; and now, all these Schools
4 having burnt or smouldered themselves out, and left no-
4 thing but a wide-spread wreck of ashes, dust and cinders,
< or perhaps dying embers, kicked to and fro under the
6 feet of innumerable women and children in the Magazines,
6 and at best blown here and there into transient sputters,
4 with vapour enough, so as to form what you might name a
* boundless Green-sick, or New-Sentimental, or Sleep-Awake
* School, what remains but to adjust ourselves to circum-
stances ? Urge me not,' continues the able Editor, sud-
denly changing his figure, with considerations that Poetry,
' as the inward voice of Life, must be perennial, only dead
1 EDINBURGH EEVIEW, No. 110. 1. Corn-Law Rhymes. Third Edition. 8vo.
London, 1831.
2. Love; a Poem. By the Author of "Corn-Law Rhymes." Third Edition.
8vo. London, 1831.
3. The Village Patriarch; a Poem. By the Author of "Corn-Law Rhymes.'*
12mo. London, 1831.
VOL. IX. (Misc. vol. 4.) N
178 MISCELLANIES.
' la one form to become alive la another ; that this still
* abundant deluge of Metre, seeing there must needs be frao
* tions of Poetry floating scattered in it, ought still to be
1 net-fished, at all events surveyed and taken note of: the
6 survey of English Metre, at this epoch, perhaps transcends
the human faculties ; to hire-out the reading of it, by es-
( tiraate, at a remunerative rate per page, would, in few
* Quarters, reduce the cash-box of any extant Review to the
4 verge of insolvency.'
What our distinguished contemporary has said remains
said. Far be it from us to censure or counsel any able
Editor; to draw aside the Editorial veil, and, officiously
prying into his interior mysteries, impugn the laws he walks
by ! For Editors, as for others, there are times of perplexity,
wherein the cunning of the wisest will scantily suffice his
own wants, to say nothing of his neighbour's.
To us, on our side, meanwhile, it remains clear that
Poetry, or were it but Metre, should nowise be altogether
neglected. Surely it is the Reviewer's trade to sit watching,
not only the tillage, crop-rotation, marketings and good or
evil husbandry of the Economic Earth, but also the weather-
symptoms of the Literary Heaven, on which those former
BO much depend : if any promising or threatening meteoric
phenomenon make its appearance, and he proclaim not tid-
ings thereof, it is at his peril. Farther, be it considered
how, in tins singular poetic epoch, a small matter consti-
tutes a novelty. If the whole welkin hang overcast in drizzly
dinginess, the feeblest light-gleam, or speck of blue, cannot
pass unheeded.
The Works of this Corn-Law Rhymer we might liken
rather to some little fraction of a rainbow: hues of joy and
harmony, painted out of troublous tears. No round full bow,
indeed ; gloriously spanning the heavens ; shone on by the
CORN-LAW RHYMES. 179
full sun; and, with, seven-striped, gold-crimson border (as
Is in some sort the office of Poetry) dividing Black from
Brilliant: not such; alas, still far from it! Yet, in very
truth, a little prismatic blush, glowing genuine among the
wet clouds ; which proceeds, if you will, from a sun cloud-
hidden, yet indicates that a sun does shine, and above those
vapours, a whole azure vault and celestial firmament stretch
serene.
Strange as it may seem, it is nevertheless true, that here
we have once more got sight of a Book calling itself Poetry,
yet which actually is a kind of Book, and no empty paste-
board Case, and simulacrum or ' ghost-defunct' of a Book,
such as is too often palmed on the world, and handed over
Booksellers' counters, with a demand of real money for it,
as if it too were a reality- The speaker here is of that
singular class who have something to say ; whereby, though
delivering himself in verse, and in these days, he does not
deliver himself wholly in jargon, but articulately, and with
a certain degree of meaning, that has been believed, and
therefore is again believable.
To some the wonder and interest will be heightened by
another circumstance : that the speaker in question is not
school-learned, or even furnished with pecuniary capital ; is,
indeed, a quite unmoneyed, russet-coated speaker; nothing
or little other than a Sheffield worker in brass and iron, who
describes himself as ( one of the lower, little removed above
the lowest class.' Be of what class he may, the man is pro-
vided, as we can perceive, with a rational god-created soul ;
which too has fashioned itself into some clearness, some sell-
subsistence, and can actually see and know with its own
organs ; and in rugged substantial English, nay with tones
of poetic melody, utter forth what it has seen.
It used to be said that lions do not paint, that poor men
180 MISCELLANIES.
do not write ; but the case is altering now. Here is a voice
coming from the deep Cyclopean forges, where Labour, in
real soot and sweat, beats with his thousand hammers 4 the
red son of the furnace ;' doing personal battle with Necessity,
and her dark brute Powers, to make them reasonable and
serviceable ; an intelligible voice from the hitherto Mute
and Irrational, to tell us at first-hand how it is with him,
what in very deed is the theorem of the world and of him-
self, which he, in those dim depths of his, in that wearied
head of his, has put together. To which voice, in several
respects significant enough, let good ear be given.
Plere too be it premised, that nowise under the category
of ( Uneducated Poets,' or in any fashion of dilettante pa-
tronage, can our Sheffield friend be produced. His position
is unsuitable for that : so is ours. Genius, which the French
lady declared to be of no sex, is much more certainly of no
rank ; neither when * the spark of Nature's fire 5 has been
imparted, should Education take high airs in her artificial
light, which is too often but phosphorescence and putres-
cence. In fact, it now begins to be suspected here and
there, that this same aristocratic recognition, which looks
down with an obliging smile from its throne, of bound Vol-
umes and gold Ingots, and admits that it is wonderfully
well for one of the uneducated classes, may be getting out
of place. There are unhappy times in the world's history,
when he that is the least educated will chiefly have to say
that he is the least perverted; and with the multitude of
false eye-glasses, convex, concave, green, even yellow, has 1
not lost the natural use of his eyes. For a generation that
reads Cobbett's Prose, and Bimis's Poetry, it need be no
miracle that here also is a man who can handle both pen
and hammer like a man.
Nevertheless, this serene-highness attitude and temper
CORN-LAW RHYMES. 181
is so frequent, perhaps it were good to turn the tables for
a moment, and see what look it lias under that reverse
aspect How were it if we surmised, that for a man gifted
with natural vigour, with a man's character to be developed
in him, more especially if in the way of Literature, as
Thinker and Writer, it is actually, in these strange days,
no special misfortune to be trained up among the Unedu-
cated classes, and not among the Educated; but rather of
two misfortunes the smaller ?
For all men, doubtless, obstructions abound ; spiritual
growth must be hampered and stunted, and has to struggle
through with difficulty, if it do not wholly stop. We may
grant, too, that, for a mediocre character, the continual
training and tutoring, from language -masters, dancing-
masters, posture-masters of all sorts, hired and volunteer,
which a high rank in any time and country assures, there
will be produced a certain superiority, or at worst, air of
superiority, over the corresponding mediocre character of
low rank: thus we perceive the vulgar Do-nothing, as
contrasted with the vulgar Drudge, is in general a much
prettier man; with a wider, perhaps clearer outlook into
the distance ; in innumerable superficial matters, how-
ever it may be when we go deeper, he lias a manifest
advantage. But with the man of uncommon character,
again, in whom a germ of irrepressible Force has been im-
planted, and will unfold itself into some sort of freedom,
altogether the reverse may hold. For such germs too, there
is, undoubtedly enough, a proper soil where they will grow
best, and an improper one where they will grow worst.
True also, where there is a will, there is a way; where a
genius has been given, a possibility, a certainty of its grow-
ing is also given. Yet often it seems as if the injudicious
gardening and manuring were worse than none at all ; and
182 MISCELLANIES.
killed what the inclemencies of blind chance would nave
spared. We find accordingly that few Fredericks or Na-
poleons, indeed none since the Great Alexander, who un-
fortunately drank himself to death too soon for proving what
lay in Mm, were nursed up with an eye to their vocation :
mostly with an eye quite the other way, in the midst of
isolation and pain, destitution and contradiction. Nay in
our own times, have we not seen two men of genius, a By-
ron and a Burns ; they both, by mandate of Nature, struggle
and must struggle towards clear Manhood, stormfully enough,
for the space of six-and-tliirty years ; yet only the gifted
Ploughman can partially prevail therein : the gifted Peer
nrast toil and strive, and shoot-out in wild efforts, yet die
nt last in Boyhood, with the promise of his Manhood still
but announcing itself in the distance. Truly, as was once
written, ' it is only the artichoke that will not grow except
* in gardens; the acorn is cast carelessly abroad into the
* wilderness, yet on the "\vild soil it nourishes itself, and
rises to be an oak.' All woodmen, moreover, will tell you
that fat manure is the ruin of your oak ; likewise that the
thinner and wilder your soil, the tougher, more iron-textured
is your timber, though unhappily also the smaller. So too
with the spirits of men: they become pure from their errors
by suffering for them ; he who lias battled, were it only with
Poverty and hard toil, will be found stronger, more expert,
than he who could stay at home from the battle, concealed
among the Provision -wagons, or even not tin watchfully
'abiding by the stuff.' In which sense, an observer, not
without experience of our time, has said: Had I a man of
clearly developed character (clear, sincere within its limits),
of insight, courage and real applicable force of head and of
heart, to search for ; and not a man of luxuriously distorted
character, with haughtiness for courage, and for insight and
CORN-LAW RHYMES. 183
applicable force, speculation and plausible sliow of force,-
it were rather among the lower than among the higher
classes that I should look for him.
A hard saying, indeed, seems this same : that he, whose
other wants were all beforehand supplied ; to whose capa-
bilities no problem was presented except even this, How to
cultivate them to best advantage, should attain less real
culture than he whose first grand problem and obligation
was nowise spiritual culture, but hard labour for his daily
bread ! Sad enough must the perversion be, where prepara-
tions of such magnitude issue in abortion ; and so sumptuous
an Art with all its appliances can accomplish nothing, not
so much as necessitous Nature would of herself have sup-
plied ! Nevertheless, so pregnant is Life with evil as with
good ; to such height in an age rich, plethorically overgrown
with means, can means be accumulated in the wrong place,
and immeasurably aggravate wrong tendencies, instead of
righting them, this sad and strange result may actually turn
out to have been realised.
But what, after all, is meant by uneducated, in a time
when Books have come into the world; come to be house-
hold furniture in every habitation of the civilised world ? In
the poorest cottage are Books; is one BOOK, wherein for
several thousands of years the spirit of man has found light,
and nouiishment, and an interpreting response to whatever
is Deepest in him; wherein still, to this day, for the eye
that will look well, the Mystery of Existence reflects itself,
if not resolved, yet revealed, and prophetically emblemed;
if not to the satisfying of the outward sense, yet to the
opening of the inward sense, which is the far grander re-
sult. * In Books lie the creative phoenix-ashes of the whole
Past.' All that men have devised, discovered, done, felt or
imagined, lies recorded in Books ; wherein whoso has learned
184 MISCELLANIES.
the mystery of spelling printed letters may find it, and ap-
propriate it.
Nay, what indeed is all this ? As if it were by univer-
sities and libraries and lecture-rooms, that man's Education,
what we can call Education, were accomplished; solely, or
mainly, by instilling the dead letter and record of other
men's Force, that the living Force of a new man were to be
awakened, enkindled and purified into victorious clearness !
Foolish Pedant, that sittest there compassionately descant-
ing on the Learning of Shakspeare ! Shakspeare had pene-
trated into innumerable things ; far into Nature with her
divine Splendours and infernal Terrors, her Ariel Melodies,
and mystic manclragora Moans ; far into man's workings
with Nature, into man's Art and Artifice ; Shakspeare knew
(kenned, which in those days still partially meant can-ned)
innumerable things; what men are, and what the world is,
and how and what men aim at there, from the Dame Quickly
of modern Eastcheap to the Caesar of ancient Rome, over
many countries, over many centuries: of all this lie had the
clearest understanding and constructive comprehension ; all
this was his Learning and Insight; what now is thine? In-
sight into none of those things ; perhaps, strictly considered,
into no thing whatever : solely into thy own sheepskin diplo-
mas, fat academic honours, into vocables and alphabetic
letters, and but a little way into these ! The grand result
of schooling is a mind with just vision to discern, with free
force to do : the grand schoolmaster is Practice.
And now, when kenning and can-ning have become two
altogether different words ; and this, the first principle oi
human culture, the foundation-stone of all but false ima-
ginary culture, that men must, before every other thing, be
trained to do somewhat, has been, for some generations, laid
quietly on the shelf, with such result as we see, consider
CORN-LAW RHYMES, ] 85
what advantage those same uneducated Working classes
have over the educated Unworking classes, in one particu-
lar ; herein, namely, that they must wo A To work ! What
incalculable sources of cultivation lie in that process, in that
attempt ; how it lays hold of the whole man, not of a small
theoretical calculating fraction of him, but of the whole
practical, doing and daring and enduring man; thereby to
awaken dormant faculties, root-out old errors, at every step !
He that has done nothing has known nothing. Vain is it
to sit scheming and plausibly discoursing : up and be doing !
If thy knowledge be real, put it forth from thee : grapple
with real Nature ; try thy theories there, and see how they
hold out. Do one thing, for the first time in thy life do a
thing ; a new light will rise to thee on the doing of all
things whatsoever. Truly, a boundless significance lies in
work; whereby the humblest craftsman comes to attain
much, which is of indispensable use, but which he who is
of no craft, were he never so high, runs the risk of missing.
Once turn to Practice, Error and Truth will no longer con-
sort together : the result of Error involves you in the square-
root of a negative quantity ; try to extract that, to extract
any earthly substance or sustenance from that ! The honour-
able Member can discover that i there is a reaction,' and be-
lieve it, and wearisomely reason on it, in spite of all men,
while he so pleases, for still his wine and his oil will not
fail him : but the sooty Brazier, who discovered that brass
was green-cheese, has to act on his discovery ; finds there-
fore, that, singular as it may seem, brass cannot be masti-
cated for dinner, green-cheese will not beat into fire-proof
dishes ; that such discovery, therefore, has 110 legs to stand
on, and must even be let fall. Now, take this principle of
difference through the entire lives of two men, and calculate
what it will amount to ! Necessity, moreover, which we
186 MISCELLANIES.
here see as the mother of Accuracy, is well known as the
mother of Invention. He who wants everything must know
many things, do many things, to procure even a few : dif-
ferent enough with him, whose indispensable knowledge is
this only, that a finger will pull the bell !
So that, for all men who live, we may conclude, this
Life of Man is a school, wherein the naturally foolish will
continue foolish though you bray him in a mortar, but the
naturally wise will gather wisdom under every disadvant-
age. What, meanwhile, must be the condition of an Era,
when the highest advantages there become perverted into
drawbacks ; when, if you take two men of genius, and put
the one between the handles of a plough, and mount the
other between the painted coronets of a coach-and-four, and
bid them both move along, the former shall arrive a Burns,
the latter a Byron : two men of talent, and put the one
into a Printer's chapel, full of lamp-black, tyrannous usage,
hard toil, and the other into Oxford universities, with lexi-
cons and libraries, and hired expositors and sumptuous en-
dowments, the former shall come out a Dr. Franklin, the
latter a Dr. Parr !
However, we are not here to write an Essay on Educa-
tion, or sing misereres over a ' world in its dotage ;' but
simply to say that our Corn-Law Rhymer, educated or un-
educated as Nature and Art have made him, asks not the
smallest patronage or compassion for his rhymes, professes
not the smallest contrition for them. Nowise in such atti-
tude does he present himself; not supplicatory, deprecatory,
but sturdy, defiant, almost menacing. Wherefore, indeed,
should he supplicate or deprecate ? It is out of the abund-
ance of the heart that he has spoken : praise or blame
cannot make it truer or falser than it already is. By the
CORN-LAW RHYMES. ] 8 7
grace of God tills man is sufficient for himself; by Ms still
in metallurgy can beat out a toilsome but a manful living,
go how it may ; lias arrived too at that singular audacity
of believing what he knows, and acting on it, or writing
on it, or thinking on it, without leave asked of any one:
there shall he stand, and work, with head and with hand,
for himself and the world ; blown about by no wind of doc-
trine ; frightened at no Beviewer's shadow ; having, in his
time, looked substances enough in the face, and remained
unfrightened.
What is left, therefore, but to take what he brings, and
as he brings it ? Let us be thankful, were it only for the
day of small things. Something it is that we have lived to
welcome once more a sweet Singer wearing the likeness of
a Man. In humble guise, it is true, and of stature more or
less marred in its development; yet not without a genial
robustness, strength and valour built on honesty and love ;
on the whole, a genuine man, with somewhat of the eye
and speech and bearing that beseems a man. To whom all
other genuine men, how different soever in subordinate par-
ticulars, can gladly hold out the right hand of fellowship.
The great excellence of our Rhymer, be it understood,
then, we take to consist even in this, often hinted at already,
that he is genuine. Here is an earnest truth-speaking man ;
no theoriser, sentimentaliser, but a practical man of work
and endeavour, man of sufferance and endurance. The thing
that he speaks is not a hearsay, but a thing which he has
himself known, and by experience become assured of. He
has used his eyes for seeing ; uses his tongtiS for declaring
what he has seen. His voice, therefore, among the many
noises of our Planet, will deserve its place better than the
most ; will be well worth some attention. Whom else should
we attend to but such ! The man who speaks with some
188 MISCELLANIES.
half shadow of a Belief, and supposes, and inclines to think ;
and considers not with undivided soul, what is true, but
only what is plausible, and will find audience and recom-
pense : do we not meet him at every street-turning, on all
highways and byways; is he not stale, unprofitable, inef-
fectual, wholly grown a weariness of the flesh? So rare
is his opposite in any rank of Literature or of Life, so very
rare, that even in the lowest he is precious. The authentic
insight and experience of any human soul, were it but in-
sight and experience in hewing of wood and drawing of
water, is real knowledge, a real possession and acquirement,
how small soever: pald)TCi^ again, were it a supreme pon-
tifFs, is wind merely, and nothing, or less than nothing.
To a considerable degree, this man, we say, has worked
himself loose from cant and conjectural halfness, idle pre-
tences and hallucinations, into a condition of Sincerity.
Wherein, perhaps, as above argued, his hard social environ-
ment, and fortune to be ' a workman born,' which brought
so many other retardations with it, may have forwarded and
accelerated him.
That a man, Workman or Idleman, encompassed, as in
these days, with persons in a state of willing or unwilling
Insincerity, and necessitated, as man is, to learn whatever
lie does traditionally learn by imitating these, should never-
theless shake off Insincerity, and struggle out from that
dim pestiferous marsh-atmosphere, into a clearer and purer
height, betokens in him a certain Originality; in which
rare gift, force of all kinds Is presupposed. To our Rhymer,
accordingly, as hinted more than once, vision and determi-
nation have not been denied : a rugged, homegrown under-
standing Is in him ; whereby, In his own way, he has mas-
tered this and that, and looked into various things, in
general honestly and to purpose, sometimes deeply, piero-
CORN-LAW RHYMES. 189
ingly and with a Seer's eye. Strong thoughts are not want-
ing, beautiful thoughts ; strong and beautiful expressions of
thought. As traceable, for instance, in this new illustration
of an old argument, the mischief of Commercial Restrictions:
Those, ye quacks, these are your remedies :
Alms for the Rich, a bread-tax for the Poor !
Soul-purchased harvests on the indigent moor !
Thus the winged victor of a hundred fights,
The warrior Ship, bows low her banner' d head,
When through her planks the seaborn reptile bites
Its deadly way ; and sinks in Ocean's bed,
Vanquish'd by worms. "What then 1 The worms were fed
Will not God smite tliee black, thou whited wall ?
Thy life is lawless, and thy law a lie,
Or Nature is a dream unnatural :
Look on the clouds, the streams, the earth, the sky ;
Lo, all is interchange and harmony !
Where is the gorgeous pomp which, yester morn ?
Curtain'd yon Orb with amber, fold on fold ?
Behold it in the blue of Rivelin, borne
To feed the all-feeding sea ! The molten gold
Is flowing pale in Loxley's waters cold,
To kindle into beauty tree and flower,
And wake to verdant life hill, vale and plain.
Cloud trades with river, and exchange is power :
But should the clouds, the streams, the winds disdain
Harmonious intercourse, nor dew nor rain
Would forest-crown the mountains : airless day
Would blast on Kinderscout the heathy glow ;
IsTo purply green would meeken into gray
O'er Don at eve; no sound of river's flow
Disturb the Sepulchre of all below.
Nature and the doings of men have not passed by this man
unheeded, like the endless cloud-rack in dull weather ; or
lightly heeded, like a theatric phantasmagoria; but earnestly
190 MISCELLANIES.
Inquired Into, like a tiling of reality; reverently loved and
worshipped, as a thing with divine significance in its reality,
glimpses of which divineness he has caught and laid to
heart. For his vision, as was said, partakes of the genu-
inely Poetical ; he is not a Rhymer and Speaker only, but,
in some genuine sense, something of a Poet,
Farther, we must admit Mm, what indeed is already
herein admitted, to be, if clear-sighted, also brave-hearted.
A troublous element is his ; a Life of painfulness, toil, inse-
curity, scarcity ; yet he fronts it like a man ; yields not to
it, tames it into some subjection, some order; its wild fearful
dinning and tumult, as of a devouring Chaos, becomes a
sort of wild war-music for him; wherein too are passages
of beauty, of melodious melting softness, of lightness and
briskness, even of joy. The stout heart is also a warm and
kind one ; Affection dwells with Danger, all the holier and
the lovelier for such stern environment. A working man
is this ; yet, as we said, a man : in his sort, a courageous,
much-loving, faithfully enduring and endeavouring man.
What such a one, so gifted and so placed, shall say to a
Time like ours; how he will fashion himself into peace, or
war, or armed neutrality, with the world and his fellow-
men ; and work oiit his course in joy and grief, in victory
and defeat, is a question worth asking : which in these
three little Volumes partly receives answer. He has turned,
as all thinkers up to a very high and rare order in these
days must do, into Politics ; is a Eeformer, at least a stern
Complain er, Radical to the core: his poetic melody takes
an elegiaco- tragical character; much of him is converted
into hostility, and grim, hardly-suppressed indignation, such
as right long denied, hope long deferred, may awaken in
the kindliest heart. Not yet as a rebel against anything
does he stand; but as a free man, and the spokesman of
CORN-LAW RHYMES. jgj
free men, not far from rebelling against much; with soi%
rowful appealing dew, yet also with incipient lightning, In
his eyes ; whom it were not desirable to provoke into re-
bellion. He says in Vulcanic dialect, his feelings have been
hammered till they are cold-short; so they will no longer
bend; 'they snap, and fly off,' in the face of the hammerer.
Not unnatural, though lamentable ! Nevertheless, under all
disguises of the Radical, the Poet is still recognisable : a
certain music breathes through all dissonances, as the pro-
phecy and ground-tone of returning harmony; the man, as
\ve said, is of a poetical nature.
To his Political Philosophy there is perhaps no great
importance attachable. Pie feels, as all men that live must
do, the disorganisation, and hard-grinding, unequal pressure
of our Social Affairs; but sees into it only a very little far-
ther than far inferior men do. The frightful condition of a
Time, when public and private Principle, as the word was
once understood, having gone out of sight, and Self-interest
being left to plot, and struggle, and scramble, as it could
and would, Difficulties had accumulated till they were no
longer to be borne, and the spirit that should have fronted
and conquered them seemed to have forsaken the world;
when the Rich, as the utmost they could resolve on, had
ceased to govern, and the Poor, in their fast-accumulating
numbers, and ever-widening complexities, had ceased to be
able to do without governing ; and now the plan of f Com-
petition' and * X*ai$$ez-faM was, on every side, approaching
its consummation; and each, bound-up in the circle of his
own wants and perils, stood grimly distrustful of his neigh-
bour, and the distracted Common-weal was a Common-woe,
and to all men it became apparent that the end was draw-
ing nigh: all this black aspect of Ruin and Decay, visible
enough, experimentally known to our Sheffield friend, he
192 MISCELLANIES.
calls by the name of * Corn-Law/ and expects to be in good
part delivered from, were the accursed Bread-tax repealed.
In this system of political Doctrine, even as here so em-
phatically set forth, there is not much of novelty. Radicals
we have many ; loud enough on this and other grievances ;
the removal of which is to be the one thing needful. The
deep, wide flood of bitterness, and hope becoming hopeless,
lies acrid, corrosive in every bosom; and flows fiercely
enough through any orifice Accident may open: through
Law-Reform, Legislative Reform, Poor-Laws, want of Poor-
Laws, Tithes, Game-Laws, or, as we see here, Corn-Laws*
Whereby indeed only this becomes clear, that a deep, wide
flood of evil does exist and corrode ; from which, in all ways,
blindly and seeingly, men seek deliverance, and cannot rest
till they find it ; least of all till they know what part and
proportion of it is to be found. But with us foolish sons of
Adam this is ever the way : some evil that lies nearest us,
be it a chronic sickness, or but a smoky chimney, is ever the
acme and sum-total of all evil ; the black hydra that shuts
us out from a Promised Land ; and so, in. poor Mr. Shandy's
fashion, must we * shift from trouble to trouble, and from side
* to side ; button-up one cause of vexation, and unbutton
* another.'
Thus for our keen-hearted singer, and sufferer, has the
'Bread-tax/ in itself a ^considerable but no immeasurable
smoke-pillar, swoln out to be a world-embracing Darkness,
that darkens and suffocates the whole earth, and has blotted
out the heavenly stars. Into the merit of the Corn-Laws,
which has often been discussed, in fit season, by competent
hands, we do not enter here ; least of all in the way of argu-
ment, in the way of blame, towards one who, if he read such
merit with some emphasis * on the scantier trenchers of his
children/ may well be pardoned. That the * Bread-tax/ with
CORN-LAW BHYMES. 193
various other taxes, may ere long be altered and abrogated,
andtlie Corn-Trade become as free as the poorest "bread-
taxed drudge 5 could wish, it, or the richest 4 satrap bread-tax-
fed' could fear it, seems no extravagant hypothesis : would
that the mad Time could, by such simple hellebore-dose, be
healed I Alas for the diseases of a world lying in wicked-
ness, in heart-sickness and atrophy, quite another alcahest
is needed ; a long, painful course of medicine and regimen,
surgery and physic, not yet specified or indicated in the
Eoyal-College Books !
But if there is little novelty in our friend's Political Phi-
losophy, there is some in his political Feeling and Poetry.
The peculiarity of this Radical is, that with all his stormful
destructiveness he combines a decided loyalty and faith.
If he despise and trample under foot on the one hand, he
exalts and reverences on the other; the 6 landed pauper in
his coach-and-four' rolls all the more glaringly, contrasted
with the 4 Eockinghams and Savilles' of the past, with the
*Lansdowns and Fitzwilliams/ many a 'Wentworth's lord/
still ' a blessing' to the present. This man, indeed, has in
him the root of all reverence, a principle of Religion. He
believes in a Godhead, not with the lips only, but apparently
with the heart ; who, as has been written, and often felt,
' reveals Himself in Parents, in all true Teachers and Rulers/
as in false Teachers and Rulers quite Another may be re-
vealed ! Our Rhymer, it would seem, is no Methodist : far
enough from it. He makes * the Ranter/ in his hot-heacled
way, exclaim over
The Hundred Popes of England's Jesuistry ;
and adds, by way of note, in his own person, some still
stronger sayings : How * this baneful corporation, dismal as
* its Reign of Terror is, and long-armed its Holy Inquisition,
VOL. IX. (Misc. vol. 4.) O
194 MISCELLANIES.
* must condescend to learn and teach what Is useful, or go
4 where all nuisances go/ As little perhaps is he a Church-
man; the ' Cadi-Dervish* seems nowise to his mind. Scarcely,
however, if at all, does he show aversion to the Church as
Church ; or, among his many griefs, touch upon Tithes as
one. But, in any case, the black colours of Life, even as
here painted, and brooded over, do not hide from him that
a God is the Author and Sustainer thereof; that God's world,
if made a House of Imprisonment, can also be a House of
Prayer; wherein for the weary and heavy-laden pity and
hope are not altogether cut away.
It is chiefly in virtue of this inward temper of heart, with
the clear disposition and adjustment which for all else results
therefrom, that our Radical attains to be Poetical ; that the
harsh groanings, contentions, upbraidings, of one who un-
happily has felt constrained to adopt such mode of utterance,
become ennobled into something of music. If a land of bond-
age, this is still his Father's land, and the bondage endures
not forever. As worshipper and believer, the captive can
look with seeing eye : the aspect of the Infinite Universe
still fills him with an Infinite feeling ; his chains, were it but
for moments, fall away ; he soars free aloft, and the sunny
regions of Poesy and Freedom gleam golden afar on the
widened horizon* Gleamings we say, prophetic dawnings
from those far regions, spring up for him; nay, beams of
actual radiance. In his ruggedness, and dim contractedness
(rather of place than of organ), he is not without touches of
a feeling and vision, which, even in the stricter sense, is to
be named poetical.
One deeply poetical idea, above all others, seems to have
taken hold of him : the idea of TIME. As was natural to a
poetic soul, with few objects of Art in its environment, and
driven inward, rather than invited outward, for occupation.
CORN-LAW RHYMES. 195
THs deep mystery of ever-flowing Time; bringing forth, and
as the Ancients wisely fabled, devouring what it has brought
forth ; rushing on, in us, yet above us, all uncontrollable by
us; and under it, dimly visible athwart it, the bottomless
Eternal ; this is, indeed, what we may call the primary idea
of Poetry; the first that introduces itself into the poetic
mind. As here s
The bee shall seek to settle on his hand,
But from the vacant bench haste to tlie moor,
Mourning the last of England's Mgh-souTd Poor,
And Lid the mountains weep for Enoch Wray.
And for themselves, albeit of tMngs that last
Unaltered most ; for they shall pass away
Like Enoch, though their iron roots seem fast,
Bound to the eternal future as the past :
The Patriarch died ; and they shall "be no more !
Yes, and the sailless worlds, which navigate
The unutterable Deep that hath no shore,
Will lose their starry splendour soon or late,
Like tapers, quencla'd by Him, whose will is fate !
Yes, and the Angel of Eternity,
Who numbers worlds and writes their names in light,
One day, Earth, will look in vain for thee,
And start and stop in Ms unerring flight,
And with Ms wings of sorrow and afirignt
Veil his impassioned brow and heavenly tears 1
And not the first idea only, but the greatest, properly the
parent of all others. For if it can rise in the remotest ages,
in the rudest states of culture, wherever an 'inspired thinker*
happens to exist, it connects itself still with all great things;
with the highest results of new Philosophy, as of primeval
Theology ; and for the Poet, in particular, is as the life- ele-
ment, wherein alone his conceptions can take poetic form
and the whole world become miraculous and magical
196 MISCELLANIES.
We are, sucli stuff
As Dreams are made of : and our little life
Is rounded with a Sleep !
Figure that, "believe that, Reader; then say whether the
Arabian Tales seem wonderful! 'Rounded with a sleep
* (mit Schlaf wncjeben}^ says Jean Paul; 'these three words
4 created whole volumes in me.'
To turn now on our worthy Rhymer, who has brought us
so much, and stingily insist on his errors and shortcomings,
were no honest procedure. We should have the whole poeti-
cal encyclopaedia to draw upon, and say cornmodiously,
Such and such an item is not here ; of which encyclopaedia the
highest genius can fill but a portion. With much merit, far
from common in his time, he is not without something of the
faults of his time. We praised him for originality; yet is
there a certain remainder of imitation in him; a tang of the
Circulating Libraries ; as in Sancho's wine, with its key and
thong, there was a tang of iron and leather. To be reminded
of Crabbe, with his truthful severity of style, in such a place,
we cannot object; but what if there were a slight bravura
dash of the fair tuneful Henians? Still more, what have
we to do with Byron, and his fierce vociferous mouthings,
whether c passionate,' or not passionate and only theatrical ?
King Cambyses' vein is, after all, but a worthless one; no
vein for a wise man. Strength, if that be the thing aimed
at, does not manifest itself in spasms, but in stout bearing
of burdens. Our Author says, * It is too bad to exalt into a
* hero the coxcomb who would have gone into hysterics if a
6 tailor had laughed at him.' Walk not in his footsteps, then,
we say, whether as hero or as singer ; repent a little, for
example, over somewhat in that fuliginous, Hue-flaming,
pitch-and-sulphur * Dream of Enoch Wray,' and write the
next otherwise.
CORN-LAW RHYMES. 197
We mean no imitation in a bad palpable sense ; only that
there is a tone of such occasionally audible, which ought to
be removed ; of which, in any case, we make not much.
Imitation is a leaning on something foreign ; incompleteness
of individual development, defect of free utterance. From
the same source spring most of our Author's faults; in par-
ticular, his worst, which, after all, is intrinsically a defect o
manner. He has little or no Humour. Without Humour of
character he cannot well be; but it has not yet got to utter-
ance. Thus, where he has mean things to deal with, he
knows not how to deal with them ; oftenest deals with them
more or less meanly. In his vituperative prose Notes, he
seems embarrassed; and but ill hides his embarrassment,
under an air of predeterminer] sarcasm, of knowing briskness,
almost of vulgar pertness. He says, he cannot help it ; he
is poor, hard-worked, and 'soot is soot.' True, indeed; yet
there is no connexion between Poverty and Discourtesy ;
which latter originates in Dulness alone. Courtesy is the
due of man to man ; not of suit-of-clothes to suit-of-clothes.
He who could master so many things, and make even Corn-
Laws rhyme, we require of him this farther thing: a bearing
worthy of himself, and of the order he belongs to, the
highest and most ancient of all orders, that of Manhood. A
pert snappishness is no manner for a brave man ; and then
the manner so soon influences the matter : a far worse re-
sult. Let him speak wise things, and speak them wisely ;
which latter may be done in many dialects, grave and gay,
only in the snappish dialect seldom or never.
The truth is, as might have been expected, there is still
much lying in him to be developed; the hope of which de-
velopment it were rather sad to abandon. Why, for example,
should not his view of the world, his knowledge of what is
and has been in the world, indefinitely extend itself 1 ? Were
198 MISCELLANIES.
he merely the ' uneducated Poet/ we should say, he had read
largely; as he is not such, we say, Eead still more, much
more largely. Boots enough there are in England, and of
quite another weight and worth than that circulating-library
sort ; may be procured too, may be read, even by a hard-
worked man ; for what man (either in God's service or the
Devil's, as himself chooses it) is not hard-worked! But
here again, where there is a will there is a way. True, our
friend is no longer in his teens ; yet still, as would seem, in
the vigour of his years : we hope too that his mind is not
finally shut-in, but of the improvable and enlargeable sort.
If Alfieri (also kept busy enough, with horse-breaking and
what not) learned Greek after he was fifty, why is the Corn-
Law Rhymer too old to learn !
However, be in the future what there may, our Rhymer
has already done what was much more difficult, and better
than reading printed books; looked into the great prophe-
tic manuscript Book of Existence, and read little passages
there. Here 3 for example, is a sentence tolerably spelled :
Where toils the Mill by ancient woods embraced,
Hark, how the cold steel screams in hissing fire !
Blind Enoch sees the Grinder's wheel no more,
CouchM beneath rocks and forests, that admire
Their beauty in the waters, ere they roar
Dash'd in white foam the swift circumference o'er.
There draws the Grinder his laborious breath j
There coughing at his deadly trade he bends :
Born to die young, he fears nor man nor death ;
Scorning the future, what he earns he spends ;
Debauch and riot are Ms bosom friends.
Behold Ms failings ! Hath he virtues too ?
He is no Pauper, blackguard though he "be :
OOEN-LAW RHYMES, 199
Full well he knows wliat minds combined can do,
Full well maintains his birthright : he is free,
And, frown for frown, outstares monopoly.
Yet Abraham and Elliot both in vain
Bid science on his cheek prolong the bloom :
He will not live ! He seems in haste to gain
The undisturb'd asylum of the tomb, .
And, old at two-and-thirty, meets his doom !
Or this, * of Jem, the rogue avowed/
Whose trade is Poaching ! Honest Jem works not,
Begs not, but thrives by plundering beggars here.
Wise as a lord, and quite as good a shot,
He, like his betters, lives in hate and fear,
And feeds on partridge because bread is dear.
Sire of six sons apprenticed to the jail,
He prowls in arms, the Tory of the night ;
With them he shares his battles and his ale,
With him they feel the majesty of might,
No Despot better knows that Power is Right.
Mark his unpaidish sneer, his lordly frown ;
Hark how he calls the beadle and flunky liars ;
See how magnificently he breaks down
His neighbour's fence, if so his will requires,
And how his struttle emulates the squire's !
*****
Jem rises with the Moon j but when she sinks,
Homeward with sack-like pockets, and quick heels,
Hungry as boroughmongering gowl, he slinks.
He reads not, writes not, thinks not, scarcely feels ;
Steals all he gets ; serves Hell with all he steals !
It is rustic, rude existence ; barren moors, with the smoke
of Forges rising over the waste expanse. Alas, no Arcadia ;
but the actual dwelling-place of actual toil-grimed sons of
Tubalcain: yet are there blossoms, and the wild natural
fragrance of gorse and "broom ; yet has the Craftsman pauses
200 MISCELLANIES.
in his toil ; tlie Craftsman too has an inheritance in Eartli,
and even in Heaven:
Light ! All is not corrupt, for tliou art pure,
Unchanged and changeless. Though, frail man is Tile,
Thou look'st on him ; serene, sublime, secure,
Yet, like thy Father, with a pitying smile.
Even on this wintry day, as marble cold,
Angels might quit their home to visit thee,
And match their plumage with thy mantle rolTd
Beneath God's Throne, o'er "billows of a sea
Whose isles are "Worlds, whose bounds Infinity.
Why, then, is Enoch absent from my side ?
I miss the rustle of his silver hair ;
A guide no more, I seem to want a guide.
While Enoch journeys to the house of prayer ;
Ah, ne'er came Sabbath-day but he was there !
Lo how, like him, erect and strong though gray,
Yon village-tower time-touch' d to God appeals !
And hark ! the chimes of morning die away :
Hark ! to the heart the solemn sweetness steals,
Like the heart's voice, unfelt by none who feels
That God is Love, that Man is living Dust ;
Unfelt by none whom ties of brotherhood
Link to his kind ; by none who puts his trust
In nought of Earth that hath survived the Elood,
Save those mute charities, by which the good
Strengthen poor worms, and serve their Maker best.
Hail, Sabbath ! Day of mercy, peace and rest !
Thou o'er loud cities throw'st a noiseless spell ;
The hammer there, the wheel, the saw molest
Pale Thought no more : o'er Trade's contentious hell
Meek Quiet spreads her wings invisible.
And when thou cortfst, less silent are the fields,
Through whose sweet paths the toil-freed townsman steals,
To him. the very air a banquet yields.
Envious he watches the poised hawk that wheels
His flight on chainless winds. Each cloud reveals
CORN-LAW RHYMES. 201
A paradise of "beauty to his eye.
His little Boys are with him, seeking flowers,
Or chasing the too-venturous gilded fly.
So by the daisy's side he spends the hours,
[Renewing friendship with the budding bowers ;
* And while might, beauty, good without alloy,
Are mirror' d in his children's happy eyes,
In His great Temple offering thankful joy
To Him, the infinitely Great and Wise,
With soul attuned to Nature's harmonies,
Serene and cheerful as a sporting child,
His heart refuses to believe that man
Could turn into a hell the blooming wild,
The blissful country where his childhood ran
A race with infant rivers, ere began
< lung-humbling' Bread-tax, 6 blind Misrule/ and several
other crabbed tilings !
And so our Corn-Law Rhymer plays his part. In this
wise does lie indite and act his Drama of Life, which for
him is ail-too Domestic-Tragical. It is said, ' the good actor
* soon makes us forget the bad theatre, were it but a barn ;
< while, again, nothing renders so apparent the badness of
4 the Ibad actor as a theatre of peculiar excellence.' How
much more in a theatre and drama such as these of Life
itself! One other item, however, we must note in that
ill- decorated Sheffield theatre: the back-scene and bot-
tom-decoration of it all; which is no other than a Work-
house. Alas, the Workhouse is the bourne whither all these
actors and workers are bound; whence none that lias once
passed it returns ! A bodeful sound, like the rustle of ap-
proaching world-devouring tornadoes, quivers through their
whole existence ; and the voice of it is, Pauperism 1 The
thanksgiving they offer up to Heaven is, that they are not
202 MISCELLANIES.
yet Paupers ; the earnest cry of their prayer is, that * God
would shield them from the bitterness of Parish Pay.'
Mournful enough, that a white European Man must pray
wistfully for what the horse he drives is sure of, That the
strain of his whole faculties may not fail to earn him food
and lodging. Mournful that a gallant manly spirit, with an
eye to discern the world, a heart to reverence it, a hand
cunning and willing to labour in it, must be haunted with
such a fear. The grim end of it all, Beggary 1 A soul loath-
ing, what true souls ever loathe, Dependence, help from the
unworthy to help; yet sucked into the world-whirlpool,
able to do no other : the highest in man's heart struggling
vainly against the lowest in man's destiny 1 In good truth,
if many a sickly and sulky Byron, or Byronlet, glooming
over the woes of existence, and how unworthy God's Uni-
verse is to have so distinguished a resident, could transport
himself into the patched coat and sooty apron of a Sheffield
Blacksmith, made with as strange faculties and feelings as
he, made by God Almighty all one as he was, it would
throw a light on much for him.
Meanwhile, is it not frightful as well as mournful to con-
sider how the wide-spread evil is spreading wider and wider?
Most persons, who have had eyes to look with, may have
verified, in their own circle, the statement of this Sheffield
Eye-witness, and 6 from their own knowledge and observa-
4 tion fearlessly declare that the little master-manufacturer,
* that the working man generally, is in a much worse con-
* dition than he was twenty-five years ago.' Unhappily,
the fact is too plain ; the reason and scientific necessity ol
it is too plain. In this mad state of things, every new man
is a new misfortune ; every new market a new complexity ;
the chapter of chances grows ever more incalculable ; the
hungry gamesters (whose stake is their lite) are ever in-
CORN-LAW RHYMES. 203
creasing In numbers; the world - movement rolls on: by
what method shall the weak and help -needing, who has
none to help him, withstand it? Alas, how many brave
hearts, ground to pieces in that unequal battle, have al-
ready sunk ; in every sinking heart, a Tragedy, less famous
than that of the Sons of Atreus ; wherein, however, if no
6 kingly house, 9 yet a manly house went to the dust, and a
whole manly lineage was swept away ! Must it grow worse
and worse, till the last brave heart is broken in England;
and this same fi brave Peasantry' has become a kennel of
wild-howling ravenous Paupers? God be thanked! there
is some feeble shadow of hope that the change may have
begun while it was yet time. You may lift the pressure
from the free man's shoulders, and bid him go forth re-
joicing ; but lift the slave's burden, he will only wallow
the more composedly in his sloth : a nation of degraded
men cannot be raised up, except by what we rightly name
a miracle.
Under which point of view also, these little Volumes,
indicating such a character in such a place, are not with-
out significance. One faint symptom, perhaps, that clear-
ness will return, that there is a possibility of its return. It
is as if from that Gehenna of Manufacturing Radicalism,
from amid its loud roaring and cursing, whereby nothing
became feasible, nothing knowable, except this only, that
misery and malady existed there, we heard now some man-
ful tone of reason and determination, wherein alone can
there be profit, or promise of deliverance. In this Corn-
Law Rhymer we seem to trace something of the antique
spirit; a spirit which had long become invisible among
our working as among other classes ; which here, perhaps
almost for the first time, reveals itself in an altogether
modem political vesture. < The Pariahs of the Isle of Woe/
204 MISCELLANIES.
as lie passionately names them, are no longer Pariahs If
they have become Men. Here is one man of their tribe ;
an several respects a true man; who has abjured Hypo-
crisy and Servility, yet not therewith trodden Eeligion and
Loyalty under foot; not without justness of insight, de-
voutness, peaceable heroism of resolve; who, in all circum-
stances, even in these strange ones, will be found quitting
himself like a man. One such that has found a voice :
who knows how many mute but not inactive brethren he
may have, in his own and in all other ranks ? Seven thou-
sand that have not bowed the knee to Baal! These are
the men, wheresoever found, who are to stand forth in Eng-
land's evil day, on whom the hope of England rests.
For it has been often said, and must often be said again,
that all Reform except a moral one will prove unavailing.
Political Reform, pressingly enough wanted, can indeed root-
out the weeds (gross deep-fixed lazy dock-weeds, poisonous
obscene hemlocks, ineffectual spurry in abundance) ; but it
leaves the ground empty, ready either for noble fruits, or
for new worse tares ! And how else is a Moral Reform to
be looked for but in this way, that more and more Good
Men are, by a bountiful Providence, sent hither to dissemi-
nate Goodness ; literally to soiv it, as in seeds shaken abroad
by the living tree? For such, in all ages and places, is the
nature of a Good Man ; he is ever a mystic creative centre
of Goodness : his influence, if we consider it, is not to be
measured ; for his works do not die, but being of ^Eternity,
are eternal; and in new transformation, and ever -wider
diffusion, endure, living and life-giving. Thou who ex-
claimest over the horrors and baseness of the Time, and
how Diogenes would now need two lanterns in daylight,
think of this : over the Time thou hast no power ; to re-
deem a World sunk in dishonesty lias not been given thee ;
CORN-LAW RHYMES. 205
solely over one man therein thou hast a quite absolute un-
controllable power ; him redeem, him make honest ; it will
be something, it will be much, and thy life and labour not in
vain.
We have given no epitomised abstract of these little
Books, such as is the Beviewer's wont: we would gladly
persuade many a reader, high and low, who takes interest
not in rhyme only, but in reason, and the condition of his
fellow-man, to purchase and peruse them for himself. It is
proof of an innate love of worth, and how willingly the
Public, did not thousand-voiced Puffery so confuse it, would
have to do with substances, and not with deceptive shadows,
that these Volumes carry ' Third Edition' marked on them,
on all of them, but the newest, whose fate with the reading
world we yet know not ; which, however, seems to deserve
not worse but better than either of its forerunners.
Nay, it appears to us as if in this humble Chant of the
Village Patriarch might be traced rudiments of a truly great
idea ; great though all undeveloped. The Rhapsody of
6 Enoch Wray' is, in its nature and unconscious tendency,
Epic ; a whole world lies shadowed in it. What we might
call an. inarticulate, half-audible Epic! The main figure is
a blind aged man; himself a ruin, and encircled with the,
ruin of a whole Era. Sad and great does that image of a
universal Dissolution hover visible as a poetic background.
Good old Enoch! He could do so much; was so wise, so
valiant. No Dion had he destroyed; yet somewhat he had
built up : where the Mill stands noisy by its cataract, making
corn into bread for men, it was Enoch that reared it, and
made the rude rocks send it water; where the mountain
Torrent now boils in vain, and is mere passing music to the
traveller, it was* Enoch's cunning that spanned it with that
206 MISCELLANIES.
that strong Arch, grim, time-defying. Where Enoch*s hand
or mind has been. Disorder has become Order; Chaos has
receded some little handbreadth, had to give up some new
handbreadth of his ancient realm. Enoch too has seen his
followers fall round him (by stress of hardship, and the
arrows of the gods), has performed funeral games for them,
and raised sandstone memorials, and carved his Abiit ad
Plures thereon, with Ms own hand. The living chronicle
and epitome of a whole century ; when he departs, a whole
century will become dead, historical.
Rudiments of an Epic, we say ; and of the true Epic of
our Time, were the genius but arrived that could sing it !
Not 'Arms and the Man/ Tools and the Man/ that were
now our Epic, What indeed are Tools, from the Hammer
and Plummet of Enoch Wray to this Pen we now write
with, but Arms, wherewith to do battle against UNKEASON
without or within, and smite in pieces not miserable fellow-
men, but the Arch-Enemy that makes us all miserable ; hence-
forth the only legitimate battle !
Which Epic, as we granted, is here altogether Imper-
fectly sung ; scarcely a few notes thereof brought freely
out : nevertheless with indication, with prediction that it
will be sung. Such Is the purport and merit of the Village
Patriarch; it struggles towards a noble utterance, which
however it can nowise find. Old Enoch is from the first
speechless, heard of rather than heard or seen; at best,
mute, motionless like a stone pillar of his own carving. In-
deed, to find fit utterance for such meaning as lies strug-
gling here, is a problem, to which the highest poetic minds
may long be content to accomplish only approximate solu-
tions. Meanwhile, our honest Rhymer, with no guide bift
the Instinct of a clear natural talent, has created and ad-
justed somewhat, not without vitality of union; has avoided
CORN-LAW RHYMES. 207
somewhat,, the road to which lay open enough. His Village
Patriarch, for example, though of an elegiac strain, is not
wholly lachrymose, not without touches of rugged gaiety ;
is like Life itself, with tears and toil, with laughter and rude
play, such as metallurgic Yorkshire sees it : in which sense,
that wondrous Courtship of the sharp-tempered, oft-widowed
Alice Green may pass, questionable, yet with a certain air
of soot-stained genuineness. And so has, not a Picture, in-
deed, yet a sort of genial Study or Cartoon come together
for him: and may endure there, after some flary oil~daub-
ings, which we have seen framed with gilding, and hung-up
in proud galleries, have "become rags and rubbish.
To one class of readers especially, such Books as these
ought to be interesting : to the highest, that is to say, the
richest class. Among our Aristocracy, there are men, we
trust there are many men, who feel that they also are work-
men, born to toil, ever in their great Taskmaster's eye, faith-
fully with heart and head for those that with heart and hand
do, under the same great Taskmaster, toil for them; who
have even this noblest and hardest work set before them:
To deliver out of that Egyptian bondage to Wretchedness,
and Ignorance, and Sin, the hardhanded millions ; of whom
this hardhanded earnest witness and writer is here repre-
sentative. To such men his writing will be as a Docu-
ment, which they will lovingly interpret : what is dark and
exasperated and acrid, in their humble Brother, they for
themselves will enlighten and sweeten; taking thankfully
what is the real purport of his message, and laying it earn-
estly to heart. Might an instructive relation and interchange
between High and Low at length ground itself, and more
and more perfect itself, to the unspeakable profit of all
parties; for if all parties are to love and help one another,
the first step towards this is, that all thoroughly understand
208 MISCELLANIES.
one another ! To such rich men an authentic message from
the hearts of poor men, from the heart of one poor man, will
be welcome.
To another class of our Aristocracy, again, who unhap-
pily feel rather that they are not workmen ; and profess not
so much to bear any burden, as to be themselves, with ut-
most attainable steadiness, and if possible gracefulness, borne,
such a phenomenon as this of the Sheffield Corn-Law
Rhymer, with a Manchester Detrosier, and much else, point-
ing the same way, will be quite unwelcome ; indeed, to the
clearer-sighted, astonishing and alarming. It indicates that
they find themselves, as Napoleon was wont to say, 'in a
new position;' a position wonderful enough; of extreme
singularity, to which, in the whole course of History, there
is perhaps but one case in some measure parallel. The case
alluded to stands recorded in the Book of Numbers : the case
of Balaam the son of Beor.
Truly, if we consider it, there are few passages more not-
able and pregnant in their way, than this of Balaam. The
Midianitish Soothsayer (Truth-speaker, or as we should now
say, Counsel-giver and Senator) is journeying forth, as he has
from of old quite prosperously done, in the way of his voca-
tion ; not so much to * curse the people of the Lord,' as to
earn for himself a comfortable penny by such means as are
possible and expedient; something, it is hoped, midway be-
tween cursing and blessing; which shall not, except in case
of necessity, be either a curse or a blessing, or indeed be any-
thing so much as a Nothing that will look like a Something
and bring wages in. For the man is not dishonest ; far from
it: still less is he honest; but above all things, he is, has
been and will be, respectable. Did calumny ever dare to
fasten itself on the fair fame of Balaam ? In his whole walk
and conversation, has he not shown consistency enough ; ever
CORN-LAW RHYMES, 209
doing and speaking the thing that was decent ; with, proper
spirit maintaining his status ; so that friend and opponent
held him in respect, and he could defy the spiteful world to
say on any occasion, Herein art thou a knave ? And now as
he jogs along, in official comfort, with brave official retinue,
his heart filled with good things, his head with schemes
for the Preservation of Game, the Suppression of Vice, and
the Cause of Civil and Religious Liberty all over the World ;
consider what a spasm, and life -clutching ice-taloned
pang, must have shot through the brain and pericardium of
Balaam, when his Ass not only on the sudden stood stock-
still, defying spur and cudgel, but began to talk, and that
in a reasonable manner! Did not his face, elongating, col-
lapse, and tremour occupy his joints? For the thin cmst
of Respectability has cracked asunder ; and a bottomless
preternatural Inane yawns under him instead. Farewell, a
long farewell to all my greatness : the spirit-stirring Vote,
ear-piercing Hear ; the big Speech that makes ambition vir-
tue ; soft Palm-greasing first of raptures, and Cheers that
emulate sphere-music : Balaam's occupation's gone !
As for our stout Corn-Law Rhymer, what can we say by
way of valediction but this, "Well done; come again, doing
better"? Advices enough there were; but all lie included
under one: To keep his eyes open, and do honestly what-
soever his hand shall find to do. We have praised him for
sincerity: let him become more and more sincere; casting
out all remnants of Hearsay, Imitation, ephemeral Specu-
lation ; resolutely ( clearing his mind of Cant/ We advised
a wider course of reading : would he forgive us if we now
suggested the question, Whether Rhyme is the only dialect
he can -write in; whether Rhyme is, after all, the natural or
fittest dialect for him I In good Prose, which differs incon-
ceivably from bad Prose, what may not be written, what
VOL. IX. (Misc. vol. 4.) F
210 MISCELLANIES.
may not be read; from a Waverlcy Novel 1o an Arabic
Koran, to an English. Bible ! Rhyme lias plain advantages ;
which, however, are often purchased too dear. If the in-
ward thought can speak itself, instead of sing itself, let it,
especially in these quite unmusical days, do the former! In
any case, if the inward Thought do not sing itself, that sing-
ing of the outward Phrase is a timber-toned false matter we
could well dispense with. Will our Rhymer consider him-
self, then; and decide for what is actually best. Rhyme,
up to this hour, never seems altogether obedient to him;
and disobedient Rhyme, who would ride on it that had
once learned walking I
He takes amiss that some friends have admonished him
to quit Politics: we will not repeat that admonition. Let
him, on this as on all other matters, take solemn counsel
with his own Socrates'-Demon ; such as dwells in every
mortal; such as he is a happy mortal who can hear the
voice of, follow the behests of, like an unalterable law. At
the same time, we could truly wish to see such a mind as
his engaged rather in considering what, in his own sphere,
could be done, than what, in his own or other spheres, ought
to be destroyed; rather in producing or preserving the True,
than in mangling and slashing asunder the False. Let him
be at ease : the False is already dead, or lives only with a
mock life. The death-sentence of the False was of old, from
the first beginning of it, written in Heaven; and is now
proclaimed in the Earth, and read aloud at all market -
crosses ; nor are innumerable volunteer tipstaves and heads-
men wanting, to execute the same : for wlrich needful
service men inferior to him may suffice. Why should the
heart of the Corn-Law Rhymer be troubled? Spite of * Bread-
tax/ he and his brave children, who will emulate their sire,
have yet bread ; the Workhouse, as we rejoice to fancy, has
CORN-LAW RHYMES. 211
receded into the safe distance; and is now quite shut-out
from his poetic pleasure-ground. Why should he afflict him-
self with devices of * Boroughmongering gowls/ or the rage
of the Heathen imagining a vain thing ? This matter, which
he calls Corn-Law, will not have completed itself, adjusted
itself into clearness, for the space of a century or two : nay
after twenty centuries, what will there, or can there bo for
the son of Adam but Work, Work, two hands quite full of
Work! Meanwhile, is not the Corn-Law Rhymer already
a king, though a belligerent one; king of his own mind and
faculty; and what man in the long-run is king of more?
Not one in the thousand, even among sceptred kings, is
king of so much. Be diligent in business, then ; fervent in
spirit. Above all things, lay aside anger, uncharitableness,
hatred, noisy tumult ; avoid them, as worse than Pestilence,
worse than * Bread-tax' itaeii :
For it well beseemetli kings, all mortals it "beseemctli well,
To possess their souls in patience, and await what can "betide.
ON HISTOBY AGAIN.
ON HISTORY AGAIN?
[1833.]
[The following singular Fragment on History forms part, as may "be
recognised, of the Inaugural Discourse delivered by our assiduous
* D. T.' at the opening of the Society for the Diffusion of Common
Honesty. The Discourse, if one may credit the Morning Papers,
t touched in the most wonderful manner, didactically, poetically,
4 almost prophetically, on all things in this world and the next,
{ in a strain of sustained or rather of suppressed passionate elo-
' quonce rarely witnessed in Parliament or out of it : the chief
* hursts were received with profound silence/ interrupted, we
fear, "by snuff-taking. As will he seen, it is one of the didactic
passages that we introduce here. The Editor of this Magazine
is responsible for its accuracy, and publishes, if not with leave
given, then with leave taken. 0. Y.]
* * * HISTORY recommends itself as the most profitable of
all studies : and truly, for such a "being as Man, who is born,
and lias to learn and work, and then after a measured term,
of years to depart, leaving descendants and performances,
and so, in all ways, to vindicate himself as vital portion of
a Mankind, no study could be fitter. History is the Letter
of Instructions, which the old generations write and post-
humously transmit to the new ; nay it may be called, more
1 PHASER'S MAGAZINE, No. 41,
216 MISCELLANIES.
generally still, the Message, verbal or written, which all
Mankind delivers to every man ; it is tlie only articulate
comnrunication (when the inarticulate and mute, intelligible
or not, lie round us and in us, so strangely throngh every
fibre of our being, every step of our activity) which the Past
can have with the Present, the Distant with what is Here.
All Books, therefore, were they but Song-books or treatises
on Mathematics, are in the long-run historical documents
as indeed all Speech itself is : thus might we say, History
is not only the fittest study, but the only study, and in-
cludes all others whatsoever. The Perfect in History, he
who understood, and saw and knew within himself, all that
the whole Family of Adam had hitherto been and hitherto
done, were perfect in all learning extant or possible ; needed
not thenceforth to study any more ; had thenceforth nothing^
left but to le and to do something himself, that others might ,
make History of it, and learn of him.
Perfection in any kind is well known not to be the lot of
man: but of all supernatural perfect-characters this of the
Perfect in History (so easily conceivable, too) were perhaps
the most miraculous. Clearly a faultless monster which the
world is not to see, not even on paper. Had the Wandering
Jew, indeed, begun to wander at Eclen, and with a Fortu-
natus's Hat on his head ! Nanac Shah too, we remember,
steeped himself three days in some sacred Well ; and there
learnt all things : Nanac's was a far easier method ; but
unhappily not practicable in this climate. Consider, how-
ever, at what immeasurable distance from this perfect Nanac
your highest imperfect Gibbons play their part ! Were there
no brave men, thinkest them, before Agamemnon ? Beyond
the Thracian Bosphorus, was all dead and void ; from Cape
Horn to Nova Zembla, round the whole habitable Globe, not
a mouse stirring! Or. again, in reference to Time: the
ON HISTORY AGAIN. 217
Creation of the World is indeed old, compare it to the Year
One ; yet young, of yesterday, compare it to Eternity 1
Alas, all Universal History is but a sort of Parish History ;
which the ' P. P. Clerk of this Parish/ member of < our Ale-
house Club' (instituted for what 4 Psalmody' is in request
there) puts together, in such sort as his fellow-members
will praise. Of the thing now gone silent, named Past, which
was once Present, and loud enough, how much do we know?
Our ' Letter of Instructions' comes to us in the saddest state;
falsified, blotted out, torn, lost and but a shred of it in ex-
istence ; this too so difficult to read or spell.
Unspeakably precious meanwhile is our shred of a Letter,
is our written or spoken Message, such as we have it. Only
he who understands what has been, can know what should
be and will be. It is of the last importance that the indi-
vidual have ascertained his relation to the whole ; ' an indi-
vidual helps not,' it has been written ; ' only he who unites
with many at the proper hour.' How easy, in a sense, for
your all-instructed Nanac to work without waste or force
(or what we call fault) ; and, in practice, act new History,
as perfectly as, in theory, he knew the old ! Comprehending
what the given world was, what it had and what it wanted,
how might his clear effort strike-in at the right time and
the right point ; wholly increasing the true current and
tendency, nowhere cancelling itself in opposition thereto I
Unhappily, such smooth-running, ever-accelerated course is
nowise the one appointed us ; cross-currents we have, per-
plexed back-floods; innumerable efforts (every new man is
a new effort) consume themselves in aimless eddies : thus
is the River of Existence so wild-flowing, wasteful; and
whole multitudes, and whole generations, in painful un-
reason, spend and are spent on what can never profit. Of
all which, does not one-half originate in this which we have
218 MISCELLANIES.
named want of Perfection la History; the other half, in-
deed, in another want still deeper, still more irremediable?
Here, however, let us grant that Nature, in regard to
Bitch historic want, is nowise blamaTble : taking up the other
face of the matter, let us rather admire the pains she has
been at, the truly magnificent provision she has made, that
this same Message of Instructions might reach us in bound-
less plenitude. Endowments, faculties enough, we have:
it is her wise will too that no faculty imparted to us shall
rust from disuse; the miraculous faculty of Speech, once
given, becomes not more a gift than a necessity; the Tongue,
with or without much meaning, will keep in motion ; and
only in some La Trappe by unspeakable self-restraint for-
bear wagging. As little can the fingers that have learned
the miracle of Writing lie idle ; if there is a rage of speak-
ing, we know also there is a rage of writing, perhaps the
more furious of the two. It is said, ' so eager are men to
speak, they will not let one another get to speech ;* but, on
the other hand, writing is usually transacted in private,
and every man has his own desk and inkstand, and sits in-
dependent and unrestrainable there. Lastly, multiply this
power of the Pen some ten-thousandfold : that is to say,
invent the Printing-Press, with its Printer's Devils, with its
Editors, Contributors, Booksellers, Billstickers, and see what
it will do ! Such are the means wherewith Nature, and Art
the daughter of Nature, have equipped their favourite Man,
for publishing himself to man.
Consider, now, two things: first, that one Tongue, of
average velocity, will publish at the rate of a thick octavo
volume per day; and then how many nimble-enough Tongues
may be supposed to be at work on this Planet Earth, in this
City London, at this hour! Secondly, that a Literary Con-
tributor, if in good heart and urged by hunger, will many
ON HISTORY AGAIN. 219
times, as we are credibly informed, accomplish his two Ma-
gazine sheets within the four-and-twenty hours ; mich Con-
tributors being now numerable not by tho thousand, but by
the million. Nay, taking History, in its narrower, vulgar
sense, as the mere chronicle of e occurrences/ of things that
can be, as we say, < narrated,' our calculation is si ill but a
little altered. Simple Narrative, it will be observed, is tho
grand staple of Speech; "the common man,' says Jean I'mil,
6 is copious in Narrative, exiguous in Reflection ; only with
6 the cultivated man is it otherwise, reverse wise.* Allow
even the thousandth part of human publishing for tho emis-
sion of Thought, though perhaps the millionth were enough,
we have still the nine hundred and ninety-nine employed in
History proper, in relating occurrences, or conjecturing pro-
babilities of such; that is to say, either in History or Pro-
phecy, which is a new form of History : and so tho reader
can judge with what abundance this life-breath of tho hu-
man intellect is furnished in our world; whether Natnre has
been stingy to him or munificent. Courage, reader ! Never
can the historical inquirer want pabulum, better or worno ;
are there not forty-eight longitudinal foot of small-printed
History in thy Daily Newspaper?
The truth is, if Universal History is such a ininoraUo
defective c shred' as we have named it, the fault lies not ia
our historic organs, but wholly in our misuse of thesa 5 say
rather, in so many wants and obstructions, varying with the
various age, that pervert our right use of them; especially
two wants that press heavily in all ages : want of Honesty,
want of Understanding. If the thing published is not true,
is only a supposition, or even a wilful invention, what can
be done with it, except abolish it and annihilate it? But
again, Truth, says Home Tooke, means simply tho thing
trowed, the thing believed; and now, from this to the thing
220 MISCELLANIES.
itself, what a new fetal deduction have we to suffer ! With-
out Understanding, Belief itself will profit little : and how
can your publishing avail, when there was no vision in It,
but mere blindness? For as in political appointments, the
man you appoint is not he who was ablest to discharge the
duty, but only he who was ablest to be appointed ; so too,
in all historic elections and selections, the maddest work
goes on. The event worthiest to be known is perhaps of
all others the least spoken of: nay, some say, it lies in the
very nature of such events to be so. Thus, in those same
forty-eight longitudinal feet of History, or even when they
have stretched out Into forty-eight longitudinal miles, of the
like quality, there may not be the forty-eighth part of a
hairsbreadth that will turn to anything. Truly, in these
times, the quantity of printed Publication tliat will need to
be consumed with fire, before the smallest permanent ad-
vantage can be drawn from, it, might fill us with astonish-
ment, almost with apprehension. Where, alas, Is the in-
trepid Herculean Dr. Wagtail, that will reduce all these
paper-mountains Into tinder, and extract therefrom the three
drops of Tinder-water Elixir?
For Indeed, looking at the activity of the historic Pen
and Press through this last half-century, and what bulk of
History It yields for that period alone, and how it is hence-
forth like to Increase 111 decimal or vigesimal geometric pro-
gression, one might feel as if a day were not distant, when
perceiving that the whole Earth would not now contain
those writings of what was done in the Earth, the human
memory must needs sink confounded, and cease remember-
ing ! To some the reflection may be new and consolatory,
that this state of ours is not so unexampled as it seems;
that with memory and things memorable the case was
always Intrinsically similar. The Life of Nero occupies
ON HISTORY AGAIN". 221
some diamond pages of our Tacitus : but in the parchment
and papyrus archives of Nero's generation how many did
it fill ? The author of the Vie de Semque, at this distance,
picking-up a few residuary snips, has with ease made two
octavos of it. On the other hand, were the contents of the
then extant Roman memories, or, going to the utmost length,
were all that was then spoken on it, put in types, how many
* longitudinal feet' of small-pica had we, in belts that would
go round the Globe !
History, then, before it can become Universal History,
needs of all things to be compressed. Were there no epi-
tomising of History, one could not remember beyond a week.
Nay, go to that with it, and exclude compression altogether.
we could not remember an hour, or at all: for Time, like
Space, is infinitely divisible: and an hour with its events,
with its sensations and emotions, might be diffused to such
expansion as should cover the whole field of memory, and
push all else over the limits. Habit, however, and the na-
tural constitution of man, do themselves prescribe service-
able rules for remembering ; and keep at a safe distance
from us all such fantastic possibilities; into which only
some foolish Mahomeclan Caliph, ducking his head in a
bucket of enchanted water, and so beating -out one wet
minute into seven long years of servitude and hardship,
could fall. The rudest peasant has his complete set of
Annual Registers legibly printed in his brain ; and, without
the smallest training in Mnemonics, the proper pauses, sub-
divisions and subordinations of the little to the great, all
introduced there. Memory and Oblivion, like Day and Night,
and indeed like all other Contradictions in this strange dual-
istic Life of ours, are necessary for each other's existence :
Oblivion is the dark page, whereon Memory writes her light-
beam characters, and makes them legible ; were it all light,
222 MISCELLANIES.
nothing could be read there, any more than if it were all
darkness.
As with man and these autobiographic Annual-Registers
of his, so goes it with Mankind and its Universal History,
which also is its Autobiography : a like unconscious talent
of remembering and of forgetting again does the work here.
The transactions of the day, were they never so noisy, can-
not remain loud forever; the morrow comes with its new
noises, claiming also to be registered : in the immeasurable
conflict and concert of this chaos of existence, figure after
figure sinks, as all that has emerged must ouo clay sink :
what cannot be kept in mind will even go out of mind ;
History contracts itself into readable extent; and at last,
in the hands of some Bossuet or Miiller, the whole printed
History of the World, from the Creation downwards, has
grown shorter than that of the Ward of Portsoken for ono
solar day.
Whether such contraction and epitome is always wisely
formed, might admit of question ; or rather, as we say,
admits of no question. Scandalous Cleopatras and Messa-
linas, Caligulas and Commoduses, in unprofitable proportion,
survive for memory; while a scientific Pancirollus has to
write his Book of Arts Lost ; and a moral Pancirollus, were
the vision lent him, might write a still more mournful Book
of Virtues Lost ; of noble men, doing and daring and endur-
ing, whose heroic life, as a new revelation and development
of Life itself, were a possession for all, but is now lost and
forgotten, History having otherwise filled her page. In fact,
here as elsewhere, what we call Accident governs much ; in
any case, History must come together not as it should, but
as it can and will.
Remark nevertheless how, by natural tendency alone,
and as it were without man's forethought, a certain fitness
ON HISTOKY AGAIN. 223
of selection, and fcliis even to a high degree, becomes inevit-
able. Wholly worthless the selection could not be, were
there no better rule than this to guide it : that men per-
manently speak only of what is extant and actively alive
beside them. Thus do the things that have produced fruit,
nay whose fruit still grows, turn out to be the things
chosen for record and writing of; which things alone were
great, and worth recording. The Battle of CMlons, where
Himland met Rome, and the Earth was played for, at sword-
fence, by two earth-bestriding giants, the sweep of whose,
swords cut kingdoms in pieces, hovers dim in the languid
remembrance of a few; while the poor police-court Treachery,-
of a wretched Iscariot, transacted in the wretched land
of Palestine, centuries earlier, for * thirty pieces of silver/
lives clear in the heads, in the hearts of all men. Nay
moreover, as only that which bore fruit was great; so of
all things, that whose fruit is still here and growing must
be the greatest, the best worth remembering ; which again,
as we see, by the very nature of the case, is mainly the
thing remembered. Observe, too, how this < mainly' tends
always to become a * solely,' and the approximate continu-
ally approaches nearer: for triviality after triviality, as it
perishes from the living activity of men, drops away from
their speech and memory, and the great and vital more and
more exclusively survive there. Thus does Accident correct
Accident ; and in the wondrous boundless jostle of things
(an aimful POWER presiding over it, say rather, dwelling in
it), a result comes out that may be put-up with.
Curious, at all events, and worth looking at once in our
life, is this same compressure of History, be the process
thereof what it may. How the * forty- eight longitudinal
feet' have shrunk together after a century, after ten centu-
ries! Look back from end to beginning, over any History;
224 MISCELLANIES.
over our own England: how, in rapidost law of perspective,
it dwindles from the canvas ! An unhappy Sybarite, if we
stand within two centuries of him and name him Charles
Second, shall have twelve times the space of a heroic Alfred;
two or three thousand times, if we name him George the
Fourth. The whole Saxon Heptarchy, though events, to
which Magna Charta, and the world-famous Third Reading,
are as dust in the balance, took place then, for did not
England, to mention nothing else, get itself, if not repre-
sented in Parliament, yet converted to Christianity? the
whole Saxon Heptarchy, I say, is summed -up practically
in that one sentence of Milton's, the only one succeeding
writers have copied, or readers remembered, of the ' fighting
and flocking of kites and crows.' Neither was that an unim-
portant wassail-night, when the two black-browed Brothers,
strongheaded, headstrong, Hengst and Horsa (Stallion and
Horse), determined on a man-hunt in Britain, the boar-hunt
at home having got over-crowded ; and so, of a few hungry
Angles made an English Nation, and planted it here, and
produced thee, Reader ! Of Hengst's whole campaignings
scarcely half a page of good Narrative can now be written;
the Lord Mayors Visit to Oxford standing, meanwhile, re-
vealed to mankind in a respectable volume. Nay what of
this ? Does not the Destruction of a Brunswick Theatre
take above a million times as much telling as the Creation
of a World?
To use a ready-made similitude, we might liken Universal
History to a magic web; and consider with astonishment
how, by philosophic insight and indolent neglect, the ever-
growing fabric wove itself forward, out of that ravelled
immeasurable mass of threads and thrums, which we name
Memoirs ; nay, at each new lengthening, at each new epoch,
changed its whole proportions, its hue and structure to the
ON HISTORY AGAIN. 225
very origin. Tims, do not the records of a Tacitus acquire
new meaning, after seventeen hundred years, in the hands
of a Montesquieu ? Niebuhr has to reinterpret for us, at a
still greater distance, the writings of a Titus Livius : nay,
the religious archaic chronicles of a Hebrew Prophet and
Lawgiver escape not the like fortune; and many a ponder-
ous Eichhorn scans, with new-ground philosophic spectacles,
the revelation of a Moses, and strives to reproduce for this
century what, thirty centuries ago, was of plainly infinite
significance to all. Consider History with the beginnings
of it stretching dimly into the remote Time ; emerging
darkly out of the mysterious Eternity: the ends of it en-
veloping us at this hour, whereof we at this hour, both as
actors and relators, form part ! In shape we might ma-
thematically name it Hyperbolic-A symjjtotie ; ever of infinite
breadth around us; soon shrinking within narrow limits:
ever narrowing more and more into the infinite depth be-
hind us. In essence and significance it has been called ' the
* true Epic Poem, and universal Divine Scripture, wJiose "pie
6 nary Inspiration" no man, out of Bedlam or in it, shall
6 bring in question/
VOL. IX. (Miso. TO! 13
DIDEROT.
DIDEROT. 1
[1833.]
THE A cts of the Christian Apostles, on which, as we may say,
the world has, now for eighteen centuries, had its founda-
tion, are written in so small a compass, that they can be read
in one little hour. The Acts of the French PMlosophes, the
importance of which is already fast exhausting itself, lie
recorded in whole acres of typography, and would furnish
reading for a lifetime. Nor is the stock, as we see, yet any-
wise complete, or within computable distance of completion.
Here are Four quite new Octavos, recording the labours,
voyages, victories, amours and indigestions of the Apostle
Denis : it is but a year or two since a new contribution on
Voltaire came before us ; since Jean Jacques had a new Life
written for him ; and then of those Feuilles de Grimm, what
incalculable masses may yet lie dormant in the Petersburg
Library, waiting only to be awakened and let slip I Bead-
ing for a lifetime! Thomas Parr might begin reading in
long-clothes, and stop in his last hundred and fiftieth year
without having ended. And then, as to when the process of
1 FOREIGN QUAETEELY BEVIEW, Ko. 22. 1. M&moires, Correspondance et
Owrages inSdits de Diderot; puUUs tfapres les manuscrits confi&s, en mourant,
par I'auteur & Grimm. 4 torn. 8vo. Paris (Faulin, Libraire-Edifceur), 1831.
2. (Euvres de Denis Diderot; pr&ctd&cs de Memoircs histonques et yhttosophiquet
mr sa Vie et scs Ourrages, var J. A. Naigeon. 22 torn. Svo. Pans (Bridre), 1821.
230 MISCELLANIES.
addition -will cease, and the Acts and Epistles of the Parisian
Churcli of Antichrist will have completed themselves ; except
in so far as the quantity of paper written on, or even manu-
factured, in those days, being finite and not infinite, the
business one day or other must cease, and the Antichristian
Canon close for the last time, we yet know nothing.
Meanwhile, let us nowise be understood as lamenting
this stupendous copiousness, but rather as viewing it histori-
cally with patience, and indeed with satisfaction. Memoirs,
so long as they are true, how stupid soever, can hardly be
accumulated in excess. The stupider they are, let them
simply be the sooner cast into the oven ; if true, they will
always instruct more or less, were it only in the way of con-
firmation and repetition ; and, what is of vast moment, they
do not 7?minstruct. Day after day looking at the high des-
tinies which yet await Literature, which Literature will ere
long address herself with more decisiveness than ever to
fulfil, it grows clearer to us that the proper task of Litera-
ture lies in the domain of BELIEF ; within which * Poetic
Fiction/ as it is charitably named, will have to take a quite
new figure, if allowed a settlement there. Whereby were it
not reasonable to prophesy that this exceeding great multi-
tude of Novel-writers and suchlike, must, in a new genera-
tion, gradually do one of two tilings : either retire into nur-
series, and work for children, minors and semifatuous persons
of both sexes ; or else, what were far better, sweep their
Novel-fabric into the dust-cart, and betake them with such
faculty as they have to understand and record what is true,
of which, surely, there is, and will forever be, a whole In-
finitude unknown to us, of infinite importance to us! Poetry,
it will more and more come to be understood, is nothing
but higher Knowledge ; and the only genuine Eomance (for
grown persons) Reality. The Thinker is the Poet, tho Seer;
DIDEROT. 231
let him who sees write down according to his gift of sight ;
if deep and with inspired vision, then creatively, poetically;
if common, and with only uninspired everyday vision, let
him at least be faithful in this and write Memoirs.
On us still so near at hand, that Eighteenth Century in
Paris presenting itself nowise as portion of the magic wel>
of Universal History, but only as the confused and ravelled
mass of threads and thrums, ycleped Memoirs, in process of
Icing woven into such, imposes a rather complex relation.
Of which, however, as of all such, the leading rules may be
happily comprised in this very plain one, prescribed by Na-
ture herself: to search in them, so far as they seem worthy,
for whatsoever can help us forward on our own path, were
it in the shape of intellectual instruction, of moral edifica-
tion, nay of mere solacement and amusement. The Bour-
bons, indeed, took a shorter method (the like of which has
been often recommended elsewhere) : they shut-up and hid
the graves of the Philosophes, hoping that their lives and
writings might likewise thereby go out of sight and out of
mind; and thus the whole business would be, so to spea,k,
suppressed. Foolish Bourbons ! These things were not done
in a corner, but on high places, before the anxious eyes of
all mankind : hidden they can in nowise be : to conquer
them, to resist them, our first indispensable preliminary is to
see and comprehend them. To us, indeed, as their imme-
diate successors, the right comprehension of them is of prime
necessity; for, sent of God or of the Devil, they have plainly
enough gone before us, and left us such and such a world -c
it is on ground of their tillage, with the stubble of their
harvest standing on it, that we now have to plough. Before
all things, then, let us understand what ground ifc is ; what
manner of men and husbandmen these were. For which
reason, be all authentic Philosophe-Memoirs welcome, each
232 MISCELLANIES.
in Its kind! For which reason, let us now, without tlie
smallest reluctance, penetrate into this wondrous Gospel
according to Denis Diderot, and expatiate there, to see
whether it will yield us aught.
In any phenomenon, one of the most important moments
is the end Now this epoch of the Eighteenth or Philosophe-
century was properly the End ; the End of a Social System
which for above a thousand years had been building itself
together, and, after that, had begun, for some centuries (as
human things all do), to moulder down. The mouldering-
down of a Social System is no cheerful business either to
form part of, or to look at : however, at length, in the course
of it, there comes a time when the mouldering changes into
a rushing ; active hands drive-in their wedges, set-to their
crowbars ; there is a comfortable appearance of work going
on. Instead of here and there a stone falling out, here and
there a handful of dust, whole masses tumble down, whole
clouds and whirlwinds of dust : torches too are applied, and
the rotten easily takes fire : so, what with flame-whirlwind,
what with dust- whirl wind, and the crash of falling towers,
the concern grows eminently interesting ; and our assiduous
craftsmen can encourage one another with Vivats, and cries
of Speed the tvorL Add to tins, that of all labourers, no one
can see such rapid extensive fruit of his labour as the De-
stroyer can and does : it will not seem unreasonable that
measuring from effect to cause, he should esteem his labour
as the best and greatest ; and a Voltaire, for example, be
by his guild-brethren and apprentices confidently accounted
'not only the greatest man of this age, but 01 all past
6 ages, and perhaps the greatest that Nature could produce/
Worthy old Nature I She goes on producing whatsoever
is needful in each season oi her course ; and produces, with
DIDEROT* 233
perfect composure, that Encyclopedist opinion, that she can
produce no more.
Such a torch-and-crowbar period, of quick rushing-down
and conflagration, was this of the Siede de Louis Quinze;
when the Social System having all fallen into rottenness,
rain-holes and noisome decay, the shivering natives resolved
to cheer their dull abode "by the questionable step of setting
it on fire. Questionable we call their manner of procedure;
the thing itself, as all men may now see, was inevitable ; one
way or other, whether by prior burning or milder methods,
the old house must needs be new-built. We behold the
business of pulling down, or at least of assorting the rubbish,
still go resolutely on, all over Europe : here and there some
traces of new foundation, of new building-up, may now also,
to the eye of Hope, disclose themselves.
To get acquainted with Denis Diderot and his life were
to see the significant epitome of all this, as it works on the
thinking and acting soul of a man, fashions for him a singu-
lar element of existence, gives himself therein a peculiar hue
and figure. Unhappily, after all that has been written, the
matter still is not luminous : to us strangers, much in that
foreign economy, and method of working and living, remains
obscure; much in the man himself, and his inward nature
and structure. But indeed, it is several years since the pre-
sent Reviewer gave up the idea of what could be called un-
derstanding any man whatever, even himself. Every Man,
within that inconsiderable figure of his, contains a whole
Spirit-kingdom and Reflex of the ALL ; and, though to the
eye but some six standard feet in size, reaches downwards
and upwards, unsurveyable, fading into the regions of Im-
mensity and of Eternity. Life everywhere, as woven on that
stupendous ever-marvellous 'Loom of Time/ may be said
to fashion itself of a woof of light, indeed, yet on a warp
234 MISCELLANIES.
of mystic darkness: only He tliat created it can understand
it. As to this Diderot, had we once got so far that we
could, in the faintest degree, personate him; take upon our-
selves his character and his environment of circumstances,
and act his Life over again, in that small Private-Theatre
of ours (under our own Hat), with moderate illusiveness and
histrionic effect, that were what, in conformity with com-
mon speech, we should name understanding him, and could be
abundantly content with.
In his manner of appearance before the world, Diderot
has been, perhaps to an extreme degree, unfortunate* His
literary productions were invariably dashed- off in hottest
haste, and left generally on the waste of Accident, with an
ostrich-like indifference. He had to live, in France, in the
sour days of a Journal de Trevoux; of a suspicious, decaying
Sorbonne. He was too poor to set foreign presses, at Kehl
or elsewhere, in motion; too headlong and quick of temper
to seek help from those that could : thus must he, if his pen
was not to lie idle, write much of which there was no pub-
lishing. His Papers accordingly are found flying about, like
Sibyl's leaves, in all corners of the world: for many years
no tolerable Collection of Ms Writings was attempted; to
this day there is none that in any sense can be called per-
fect. Two spurious j surreptitious Amsterdam Editions, * or
rather formless, blundering Agglomerations,' were all that
the world saw during his life. Diderot did not hear of these
for several years, and then only, it is said, 'with peals of
laughter/ and no other practical step whatever. Of the four
that have since been printed (or reprinted, for Faigeon's, of
1798, is the great original), no one so much as pretends
either to be complete, or selected on any system, Briere's,
the latest, of which alone we have much personal know-
lodge, is a well-printed book, perhaps better worth buying
DIDEROT. 23 5
than any of the others; yet without arrangement, without
coherence, purport; often lamentably in need of commentary;
on the whole, in reference to the wants and specialties of
this time, as good as imcdited. Briere seems, indeed, to
have hired some person, or thing, to play the part of Editor ;
or rather more things than one, for they sign themselves
Editors in the plural number ; and from time to time,
throughout the work, some asterisk attracts us to the bot-
tom of the leaf, and to some printed matter subscribed
'EDIT 8 .:' but unhappily the journey is for most part in vain;
in the course of a volume or two, we learn too well that
nothing is to be gained there ; that the Note, whatever it
professedly treat of, will, in strict logical speech, mean only
as much as to say: 'Header! tliou perceivest that we Editors,
4 to the number of at least two, are alive, and if we had
' any information would impart it to thee. EDIT 8 .' For the
rest, these ' EDIT S . J are polite people ; and with this uncer-
tainty (as to their being persons or things) clearly before
them, continue, to all appearance, in moderately good spirits.
One service they, or Briere for them (if, indeed, Britre
is not himself they, as we sometimes surmise), have accom-
plished for us: sought out and printed the long-looked-
for, long-lost Life of Diderot by Naigeon. The lovers of
biography had for years sorrowed over this concealed Manu-
script, with a wistfulness from which hope had nigh fled.
A certain- Naigeoii, the beloved disciple of Diderot, had (if
his own word, in his own editorial Preface, was to be cre-
dited) written a Life of him : and, alas I whither was it
now vanished? Surely all that was dark in Denis the
Fatalist had there been illuminated: nay, was there not,
probably, a glorious ' Light -Street' carried through that
whole Literary Eighteenth Century? And was not Dide-
rot, long belauded as < the most encyclopedical head that
236 MISCELLANIES,
perhaps ever existed,' now to show himself as such, in the
new Practical Encyclopedia, philosophic, economic, specu*
lative, digestive, of LIFE, in threescore and ten Years, or
Volumes 1 Diderot too was known as the vividest, noblest
talker of his time: considering all that Boswell, with his
slender opportunities, had made of Johnson, what was there
we had not a right to expect I
By B riere's endeavour, as we said, the concealed Manu-
script of Naigeon now lies, as published Volume, on this
desk. Alas, a written life, too like many an acted life,
where hope is one thing, fulfilment quite another ! Per-
haps, indeed, of all biographies ever put together by the
hand of man, this of Naigeon's is the most uninteresting.
Foolish Nuigeon ! We wanted to see and know how it
stood with the bodily man, the clothed, boarded, bedded,
working and wariaring Denis Diderot, in that Paris of his ;
how he looked and lived, what he did, what he said : had
the foolish Biographer so much as told us what colour his
stockings were ! Of all this, beyond a date or two, not a
syllable, not a hint; nothing but a dull, sulky, snuffling,
droning, interminable lecture on Atheistic Philosophy ; how
Diderot came upon Atheism, how be taught it, how true it
is, how inexpressibly important. Singular enough, the zeal
of the devifs house had eaten Naigeon up. A man of coarse,
mechanical, perhaps intrinsically rather feeble intellect ; and
then, with the vehemence of some pulpit-drumming * Gowk-
thrapple,' or * precious Mr. Jabesh Rentowel/ only that his
kirk is of the other complexion ! Yet must he too see him-
seli in a wholly backsliding world, where much theism and
other scandal still rules ; and many times Gowkthrapple
Naigeon be tempted to weep by the streams of Babel.
Withal, however, he is wooden; thoroughly mechanical, as
ii Vaucanson himseh had made him; and that singularly
DIDEROT. 237
tempers Ms fury. Let the reader, finally, admire tlie bounte-
ous produce of this Earth, and how one element bears no-
thing but the other matches it : here have we not the truest
odium theologicum, working quite demonologicallj, in a wor-
shipper of the Everlasting Nothing ! So much for Naigeon ;
what we looked for from him, and what we have got.
Must Diderot, then, be given up to oblivion, or remem-
bered not as Man, but merely as Philosophic-Atheistic Logic-
Mill ? Did not Diderot live, as well as think ? An Amateur
reporter in some of the Biographical Dictionaries declares
that he heard him talk one day, in nightgown and slippers,
for the space of two hours, concerning earth, sea and air,
with a fulgorous impetuosity almost beyond human, rising
from height to height, and at length finish the climax by
6 dashing his nightcap against the wall.' Most readers will
admit this to be biography: we, alas, must say, it comprises
nearly all about the Man Diderot that hitherto would abide
with us.
Here, however, comes 'Paulin, Publishing -Bookseller/
with a quite new contribution : a long series of Letters, ex-
tending over fifteen years ; unhappily only love-letters, and
from a married sexagenarian ; yet still letters from his own
hand. Amid these insipid floods of tendresse, sensiUUU and
so forth, vapid, like long-decanted small-beer, many a curi-
ous biographic trait comes to light ; indeed, we can hereby
see more of the individual Diderot, and his environment, and
method of procedure there, than by all the other books that
have yet been published of him. Forgetting or conquering
the species of nausea that such a business, on the first an-
nouncement of it, may occasion, and in many of the details
of it cannot but confirm, the biographic reader will find this
well worth looking into. Nay, is it not something, of itseh,
to see that Spectacle of the Philosophe in Love, or at least
238 MISCELLANIES.
zealously endeavouring to fancy himself so? For scientific,
purposes a considerable tedium, of 'noble sentiment/ and
even worse things, can be undergone. How the most ency-
clopedical head that perhaps ever existed, now on the bor-
ders of his grand climacteric, and already provided with wife
and child, comports himself in that trying circumstance of
preternuptial (and indeed, at such age, and with so many
4 indigestions/ almost preternatural) devotion to the queens
of this earth, may, by the curious in science, who have
nerves for it, be here seen. There is besides a lively Me-
moiT of him by Mademoiselle Diderot, though too brief, and
not very true-looking. Finally, in one large Volume, his
Dream of < Alembert, greatly regretted and commented upon
byNaigeon; which we could have done without. For its
bulk, that little Memoir by Mademoiselle is the best of the
whole. Unfortunately 5 indeed, as hinted, Mademoiselle, re-
solute of all things to be piquaulc, writes, or rather thinks,
in a smart, antithetic manner, nowise the fittest for clear-
ness or credibility: without suspicion of voluntary falsehood,
there is no appearance that this is a camera-lucida picture,
or a portrait drawn by legitimate rules of art. Such resolu-
tion to "be piquant is the besetting sin of innumerable per-
sons of both sexes, and wofully mars any use there might
otherwise be in their writing or their speaking. It is, or
was, the fault specially imputed to the French. : in a woman
and Frenchwoman, who besides has much to tell us, it must
even be borne with. And now, from these diverse scattered
materials, let us try how coherent a figure of Denis Diderot,
and his earthly Pilgrimage and Performance, we can piece
together.
In the ancient Town of Langres, in the month of October
1713, it begins. Fancy Langres, aloft on its hill-top, amid
DIDEROT, '
Eoman ruins, nigh tlie sources of the Saone and of the
Marne, with Its coarse substantial houses, and fifteen thou-
sand inhabitants, mostly engaged in knife -grinding; and
one of the quickest, clearest, most volatile and susceptive
little figures of that century, just landed in the World there.
In this French Sheffield, Diderot's Father was a Cutler,
master of his craft ; a much-respected and respect-worthy
man ; one of those ancient craftsmen (now, alas ! nearly
departed from the earth, and sought, with little effect, by
idy lists, among the 'Scottish peasantry' and elsewhere) who,
in the school of practice, have learned not only skill of hand,
but the far harder skill of head and of heart ; whose whole
knowledge and virtue, being by necessity a knowledge
and virtue to do somewhat, is true, and has stood trial :
humble modern patriarchs, brave, wise, simple ; of worth
rude but imp er verted, like genuine unwrought silver, native
from the mine ! Diderot loved his father, as he well might,
and regrets on several occasions that he was painted in holi-
day clothes, and not in the workday costume of his trade,
* with apron and grinder's - wheel, and spectacles pushed
* up,' even as he lived and laboured, and honestly made
good for himself the small section of the Universe he pro-
tended to occupy. A man of strictest veracity and integrity
was this ancient master; of great insight and patient dis-
cretion, so that he was often chosen as umpire and adviser ;
of great humanity, so that one day crowds of poor were to
6 follow him. with tears to his long home.' An outspoken
Langres neighbour gratified the now fatherless Philosopher
with this saying ; < Ah, Monsieur Diderot, you are a famous
man, but you will never be your father's equal.' Truly, of
all the wonderful illustrious persons that come to view in
the biographic part of these six~aud-twonty Volumes, ifc IB
a question whether this old Laugres Cutler is not the woi>
MISCELLANIES.
tliiest; to us no other suggests himself whose worth can
be admitted, without lamentable pollutions and defacements
to be deducted from it. The Mother also was a loving-
hearted, just woman: so Diderot might account himself well-
born; and it is a credit to the man that he always, were
it in the circle of kings and empresses, gratefully did so.
The Jesuits were his schoolmasters : at the age of twelve
the encyclopedical head was 'tonsured.' He was quick in
seizing, strong in remembering and arranging; otherwise
flighty enough ; fond of sport, and from time to time getting
Into trouble. One grand event, significant of all this, he
has himself commemorated; his Daughter records it in these
terms :
'He had chanced to have a (parrel with liis comrades: it had
been serious enough to bring on him a sentence of exclusion from
college on some day of public examination and distribution of prizes.
The idea of passing this important time at home, and grieving his
patents, was intolerable ; Ire proceeded to the college-gate ; the porter
refused him admittance ; he presses-in while some crowd is entering,
and sets off running at full speed ; the porter gets at him with a sort
of pike he carried, and wounds Mm in the side : the boy will not be
driven, back ; arrives, takes the place that belonged to him : prizes of
all sorts, for composition, for memory, for poetry, he obtains them all.
$"0 doubt he had deserved them ; since even the resolution to punish
him could not withstand the sense of justice in his superiors. Several
volumes, a number of garlands had fallen to Ms lot ; being too weak
to carry them all, he put the garlands round his neck, and with his
arms full of books, returned home. His mother was at the door ; and
saw Mm coming through the public square in this equipment, and
surrounded by his schoolfellows : one should be a mother to conceive
what she must have felt. He was feasted, he was caressed : but next
Sunday, in dressing Mm for church, a considerable wound was found
on him, of which he had not so much as thought of complaining.'
' One of the sweetest moments of my life,' writes Diderot himself
of this same business, with a slight variation, l was more than thirty
DIDEROT, 241
years ago, and 1 1611161111)61 it like yesterday, when my Father saw me
coming home from the college, with my arms full of prizes that I had
carried off, and my shoulders with the garlands they had given me,
which, being too big for my brow, had let my head slip through them.
Noticing me at a distance, he threw down his work, hastened to the
door to meet me, and could not help weeping. It is a fine sight, a
true man and rigorous falling to weep P
Mademoiselle, in her quick -sparkling way, informs us,
nevertheless, that the school-victor, getting tired of peda-
gogic admonitions and inflictions, whereof there were many,
said * one morning* to his father, ' that he meant to give
up school' I" Thou hadst rather Tbe a cutler, then T With
all my heart." They handed him an apron, and he placed
himself beside his father. He spoiled whatever he laid hands
on, penknives, whittles, blades of all kinds. It went on for
four or five days ; at the end of which he rose, proceeded
to his room, got his books there, and returned to college,
and having, it would appear, in this simple manner sown
his college wild-oats, never stirred from it again.
To the Reverend Fathers, it seemed that Denis would
make an excellent Jesuit ; wherefore they set about coaxing
and courting, with intent to crimp him. Here, in some
minds, a certain comfortable reflection on the diabolic cun-
ning and assiduity of these Holy Fathers, now happily all
dissolved and expelled, will suggest itself. Along with
which, may another melancholy reflection no less be in
place : namely, that these Devil-serving Jesuits should have
shown a skill and zeal in their teaching vocation, such as
no Heaven-serving body, of what complexion soever, any-
where on our earth now exhibits. To decipher the talent
of a young vague Capability, who must one day be a man
and a Reality; to take him by the hand, and train him to
a spiritual trade, and set him up in it, with tools, shop and
VOL. IX. (Misc. vol. 4.) B
MISCELLANIES.
goodwill, were doing Mm in most cases an i
service, on tliis one proviso, it is true, that the trade be a
just and honest one ; in which proviso surely there should
lie no hindrance to such service, but rather a help. Nay,
could many a poor Dermody, Hazlitt, Heron, Derrick and
suchlike, have been trained to be a good Jesuit, were it
greatly worse than to have lived painfully as a bad Nothing-
at-all ? But indeed, as was said, the Jesuits are dissolved ;
and Corporations of all sorts have perished (from corpulence);
and now, instead of the seven corporate selfish spirits, we
have the four-and-twenty millions of diseorporate selfish; and
the rule, Man, mind thyself^ makes a jumble and a scramble,
and crushing press (with dead-pressed figures and dismem-
bered limbs enough) ; into whose dark chaotic depths (for
human Life is ever unfathomable) one shudders to look.
Loneliest of all, weakest and worst-bested, in that world-
scramble, is the extraordinary figure known in these times
as Man of Letters ! It appears to be indubitable that this
state of matters will alter and improve itself, in a century
or two. But to return :
4 The Jesuits,' thus sparkles Mademoiselle, ' employed the tempta-
tion, which is always so seductive, of travelling and of liberty ; they
persuaded the youth to quit Ms home, and set forth with a Jesuit,
to whom lie was attached. Denis had a friend, a cousin of Ins own
age ; he intrusted his secret to Mm, wishing that he should accom-
pany them. But the cousin, a tamer and discreeter personage, dis-
covered the whole project to the father; the day of departure, tho
hour, all was betrayed. My grandfather kept the strictest silence;
"but before going to sleep he carried off the keys of the street-door ;
and at midnight, hearing his son descend, he presented himself "before
him, with the question, "Whither "bound, at such an hour?" "To
Paris," replied the young man, " where I am to join the Jesuits."
" That will not "be tonight ; but your desires shall he fulfilled : let us
in the first place go to sleep."
DIDERUT. 243
morning his father engaged two plws in tho public con-
veyance, and carried him to Paris, to the Colii-go dllarfouri Iff,
settled the terms of his little establishment, ant! hade iiis son gooil-
Vye. But the worthy man loved his child too well to leave him
without being quite satisfied about his situation; lie had the constancy
to stay a fortnight longer, killing the turn, ami dyli^ of tedium, in
an inn, without seeing the nole ohj^.t he was delaying fur. At tlm
end, lie proceeded to the College; and my Hither has often told me
that this proof of tenderness would have made him go to the end of
the world, if the old man had required it. " Fi'ioml," paid lie, " I am
come to know if your health keeps good; if you are content with your
superiors, with your diet, with others and with y nun-elf. If you are
not well, if you are nofc happy, we will go back again to your mother.
If you like better to remain here, I have but to speak a word with
you, to embrace you, and give you my blessing. 5 ' The, youth assured
him that lie was perfectly content, that be lik< j d his now abode very
much. My grandfather then took leave of him, and went to the
Principal, to know if he was satisfied with his pupil"
On which side also the answer proving favourable, the
worthy father returned home. Denis saw little more of him;
never again residing under his roof; though for many years,
and to the last, a proper intercom-Be was kept up ; not, as
appears, without a visit or two on the eon's part, and cer-
tainly with the most unwearied, prudent superintendence
and assistance on the father's. Indeed, it was a worthy
family, that of the Diderots ; and a fair degree of natural
affection must be numbered among the virtues of our Phi-
losophe. Those scenes about ratal Langres, and the old
homely way of life there, as delineated fictitiously in tihe
Entretien (Pun P^re aves $e$ JSn/ins 9 and now more fully, as
matter of fact, in this just-published Correspondance, are of
a most innocent, cheerful, peacefully -secluded character;
more pleasing, we might almost say more poetical, than
could elsewhere be gathered out of Diderot's whole Writing**.
Denis was the eldest of the family, and much looked up
244 MISCELLANIES*
to, with, all Ms shortcomings : there was a Brother, who
became a clergyman ; and a true-hearted, sharp-witted Sis-
ter, who remained unmarried, and at times tried to live in
partnership with this latter, rather unsuccessfully. The
Clergyman being a conscientious, even strait-laced man, and
Denis such as we know, they had, naturally enough, their
own difficulties to keep on brotherly terms ; and indeed, at
length abandoned the task as hopeless. The Abb6 stood
rigorous by his Breviary, from time to time addressing
solemn monitions to the lost Philosophe, who also went on
his way. He is somewhat snarled at by the Denisian side
of the house for this ; but surely without ground : it was
his virtue rather; at lowest his destiny. The true Priest,
who could, or should, look peaceably on an Encyclopedic, is
yet perhaps waited for in the world ; and of all false things,
is not a false Priest the falsest?
Meanwhile Denis, at the College d'Harcourt, learns addi-
tional Greek and Mathematics, and quite loses taste for the
Jesuit career. Mad pranks enough he played, we douifc
not ; followed by reprimands. He made several friends,
however ; got intimate with the Abb6 Bernis, Poet at that
time, afterwards Cardinal. 4 They used to dine together,
* for six sous a-piece, at the neighbouring Traiteurs; and I
4 have often heard him vaunt the gaiety of these repasts.'
f His studies being finished,' continues Mademoiselle, < Ms father
wrote to M. Clement de Bis, a Procureur at Paris, and Ms country-
man, to take Mm as hoarder, that lie might study Jurisprudence and
the Laws. He continued here two years; "but the business of ades
and inventaires had few charms for him. All the time he could steal
from the office- desk was employed in prosecuting Latin and Greek,
in which lie thought himself still imperfect ; Mathematics, which, ho
to the last continued passionately fond of ; Italian, English, &c. In
the end he gave himself up so completely to Ids taste ior letters, that
M. Clement thought it right to inform his father how ill the youth
DIDEROT, 245
was employing his time. My grandfather then expressly commissioned
M. Clement to urge and constrain him to make choice of some pro-
fession, and, once for all, to become Doctor, Procureur, or Advocate.
My lather begged time to think of it ; time was given. At the end
of several months these proposals were again laid before him : he
answered, that the profession of Doctor did nob please Mm, for he
could not think of killing anybody ; that the Procureur business was
too difficult to execute with delicacy ; that he would willingly choose
the profession of Advocate, were it not that he felt an invincible re-
pugnance to occupy himself all his life with other people's business.
" But," said M. Clement, " what will you be, then?' " On my \voru,
nothing, nothing whatever (Ma fat, rien, mats rien du tout)* I love
study j I am very happy, very content, and want nothing else." *
Here clearly is a youth of spirit, determined to take the
world on the broadside, and eat thereof and be filled. His
decided turn, like tliat of so many others, is for the trade
of sovereign prince, in one shape or other ; unhappily, how-
ever, the capital and outfit to set it up is wanting. Under
winch circumstances, nothing remains but to instruct M.
Clement de Ris that no board-wages will henceforth be paid,
and the young sovereign may, at his earliest convenience,
be turned out of doors.
What Denis, perched aloft in his own hired attic, may
have thought of it now, does not appear. The good old
Father, in stopping his allowance, had reasonably enough
insisted on one of two things : either that he should betake
him to some intelligible method of existence, wherein all
help should be furnished him ; or else return home within
the week. Neither of which could Denis think of doing. A
similar demand continued to be reiterated for the next ten
years, but always with the like non-effect. King Denis, in
his furnished attic, with or without money to pay for it, was
now living and reigning, like other kings, * by the grace of
God;' and could nowise resolve to abdicate, A sanguine-
246 MISCELLANIES,
otis, vehement, volatile mortal ; young, and in so wide an
earth, it seemed to him next to impossible but he must find
gold-mines there. He lived, while victual was to be got,
taking no thought for the morrow. He had boobs, he had
merry company, a whole piping and dancing Paris round
him; he could teach Mathematics, he could turn himself so
many ways ; nay, might not he become a Mathematician
one day ; a glorified Savant, and strike the stars with his
sublime head ! Meanwhile he is like to be overtaken by one
of the sharpest of human calamities, cleanness of teeth/
* One Shrove Tuesday morning, he rises, gropes in his pocket; he
lias not wherewith to dine ; "will not trouble his friends who have not
invited him. This clay, which in childhood he had so often passed
in the middle of relations who adored him, "becomes sadder by remem-
brance : he cannot work ; he hopes to dissipate his melancholy by a
walk ; goes to the Xnvalides, to the Courts, to the Bibliothec[iie du
Eoi ? to the Jardin des Plantes. You may drive away tedium ; hut
you cannot give hunger the slip. He returns to his quarters; on
entering he feels unwell ; the landlady gives him a little toast and
wine ; he goes to bed. " That day/' he has often said to me, " I
swore that, if ever I came to have anything, I would never in my life
refuse a poor man help, never condemn my fellow-creature to a day
as painful" *
That Diderot, during all this period, escaped starvation,
is plain enough by the result : but how he specially accom-
plished that, and the other business of living, remains mostly
left to conjecture. Mademoiselle, confined at any rate with-
in narrow limits, continues as usual too intent on sparkling:
is bnttante and pttillante, rather than lucent and illuminating.
How inferior, for seeing with, is your brightest train of fire-
works to the humblest farthing candle I Who Diderot's com-
panions, friends, enemies, patrons were, what his way of
life was, what the Paris he lived in and from his garret
DIDEROT* 247
looked down on was, we learn only in hints, dislocated,
enigmatic. It is in general to be impressed on us, that
young Denis, as a sort of spiritual swashbuckler, who went
about conquering Destiny, in light rapier-fence, by way of
amusement; or at lowest, in reverses, gracefully insulting
her with mock reverences, lived and acted like no other
man; all which being freely admitted, we ask, witli small
increase of knowledge, How did he act, then 1 ?
He gave lessons in Mathematics, we find; but with the.
princeliest indifference as to payment ; 6 was his scholar
6 lively, and prompt of conception, he sat by him teaching
c all day ; did he chance on a blockhead, he returned not
' back. They paid him in books, in movables, in linen, in
4 money, or not at all; it was quite the same.' Farther, he
made Sermons to order; as the Devil is said to quote Scrip-
ture : a Missionary bespoke half-a-dozen of him (of Denis,
that is) for the Portuguese Colonies, and paid for them very
handsomely at fifty crowns each. Once a family Tutorship
came in his way, with tolerable appointments, but likewise
with incessant duties : at the end of three months, he waits
upon the house-father with this abrupt communication: "I
am come, Monsieur, to request you to seek a new tutor ; I
cannot remain with you any longer." "But, Monsieur Di-
derot, what is your grievance? Have you too little salary?
I will double it Are you ill-lodged! Choose your apart-
ment. Is your table ill-served! Order your own dinner.
All will be cheap to parting with you." " Monsieur, look at
me : a citron is not so yellow as my face. I am making men.
of your children ; but every day I am becoming a child with
them. I feel a hundred times too rich and too well off in
your house ; yet I must leave it : the object of my wishes is
not to live better, but to keep from dying."
Mademoiselle grants that, if sometimes c drunk with gaiety/
548 MISCELLANIES.
lie was often enough plunged in bitterness; but then a New-
tonian problem, a fine thought, or any small godsend of that
sort, would instantly cheer him again. The * gold -mines'
had not yet come to light. Meanwhile, between him and
starvation we can still discern Langres covertly stretching
out its hand. Of any Langres man, coming in his way,
Denis frankly borrows ; and the good old Father refuses not
to pay. The Mother is still kinder, at least softer: she
sends him direct help, as she can ; not by the post, but by
a serving-maid, who travelled these sixty leagues on foot ;
delivered him a small sum from his mother; and, without
mentioning it, added all her own savings thereto. This
Samaritan journey she performed three times. ' I saw her
some years ago/ adds Mademoiselle ; * she spoke of my
* father with tears ; her whole desire was to see him again :
* sixty years' service had impaired neither her sense nor her
i sensibility.'
It is granted also that his company was * sometimes
good, sometimes indifferent, not to say bad.' Indeed, put-
ting all things together, we can easily fancy that the last
sort was the preponderating. It seems probable that Denis,
during these ten years of probation, walked chiefly in the
subterranean shades of Rascaldom; now swilling from full
Circe-goblets, now snuffing with haggard expectancy the
hungry wind; always * sorely flamed- on from the neigh-
bouring hell. 5 In some of his fictitious writings, a most
intimate acquaintance with the nether world of Polissoiis,
Escrocs, Filles de Joie, Maroufles, Maquerelles, and their
ways of doing, comes to light : among other things (as may
be seen in Jacques le Fataliste, and elsewhere), a singular
theoretic expertness in what is technically named * raising
the wind;' which miracle, indeed, Denis himself is expressly
(in this Mtmoire) found once performing, and in a style to
DIDEROT.
require legal cognisance, had not the worthy Father * sneered
at the dupe, and paid. 5 The dupe here was a proselytising
Abbe, whom, the dog glozed with professions of life-weari-
ness and turning monk; which all evaporated, once the
money was in his hands. On other occasions, it might turn
out otherwise, and the gudgeon-fisher hook some shark of
prey.
Literature, except in the way of Sermons for the Portu-
guese Colonies, or other the like small private dealings, had
not yet opened her hospitable bosom, to him. Epistles, pre-
catory and amatory, for such as had more cash than gram-
mar, he may have written ; Catalogues also, Indexes, Adver-
tisements, and, in these latter cases, even seen himself in
print. But now he ventures forward, with bolder step, to-
wards the interior mysteries, and begins producing Trans-
lations from the English. Literature, it is true, was then, as
now, the universal free-hospital and Refuge for the Destitute,
where all mortals, of what colour and kind soever, had
liberty to live, or at least to die : nevertheless, for an en-
terprising man its resources at that time were comparatively
limited. Newspapers were few ; Reporting existed not, still
less the inferior branches, with their fixed rate per line:
Packwood and Warren, much more Panckonke and Colburn,
as yet slumbered (the last century of their slumber) in the
womb of Chaos ; Fragmentary Panegyric-literature had not
yet come into being, therefore could not be paid for. Talent
wanted a free staple and workshop, where wages might be
certain ; and too often, like virtue, was praised and left
starving. Lest the reader overrate the munificence of the
literary cornucopia in France at this epoch, let us lead him
into a small historical scene, that he may see with his own
eyes. Diderot is the historian ; the date too is many years
later, when times, if anything, were mended :
250 MISCELLANIES.
I had given a poor devil a manuscript to copy. The time lie liad
promised it at having expired, and my man not appearing, I grow
unoasy ; set off to hunt him out. I iind him in a hole the size of my
hand, almost without daylight, not the wretchedest tatter of serge to
cover his walls ; two straw-bottom chairs, a flock-bed, the coverlet
chiselled with worms, without curtains ; a trunk in a corner of the
(ihiumey, nigs of all sorts hooked above it ; a little white-iron lamp,
with a bottle for pediment to it \ on a deal shelf, a dozen of excellent
books. I chatted with him three quarters of an hour. My gentleman
was naked as a worm' (nil comme un ver: it was August); 'lean,
dingy, dry, yet serene, complaining of nothing, eating his junk of
bread with appetite, and from time to time caressing his beloved, who
reclined on that miserable truckle, taking-up two-thirds of the room.
If I had not known that happiness resides in the soul, my Epictetus
of the Rue Hyaeiuthe might have taught it me.'
Notwithstanding all which, Denis, now in Ms twenty-
ninth year, sees himself necessitated to fall desperately and
over head and ears in love. It was a virtuous, pure attach-
ment; his first of that sort, probably also Ms last. Readers
who would see the business poetically delineated, and what
talent Diderot had for such delineations, may read this
scene in the once-noted Drama of the P$re de Famille. It is
known that lie drew from the life ; and with few embellish-
ments, which too, except in the French Theatre, do not
beautify.
1 ACT I. SCENE 7.
Baint-Albin, Father, you shall know all. Alas, how else can I
move you? The first time I ever saw her was at church. She was
on her knees at the foot of the altar, beside an aged woman, whom I
took for her mother. Ah, father I what modesty, what charms ! . . . .
Her image followed me by day, haunted me by night, left me rest
nowhere, I lost my cheerfulness, my health, my peace. I could not
live without seeking to find her. She has changed me ; I am.
no longer what I was. From the first moment all shameful desires
fade away from my soul; respect and admiration succeed them. With-
DIDEROT. 251
out rebuke or restraint on her part, perliaps before slio had raised her
eyes on me, I became timid ; more so from day to day ; and soon I
felt as little free to attempt her virtue as her life.
The Father. And who are these women f How do they live ?
Saint- Alb In. Ah ! if you knew it, unhappy as they are ! Imagine
that their toil begins before day, and often they have to continue
it through the night. The mother spins on the wheel ; hard coarse
cloth is between the soft small fingers of Sophie, and wounds them. 2
Her eyes, the brightest eyes in this world, are worn at the light of
a lamp. She lives in a garret, within four bare walls; a wooden
table, a couple of chairs, a truckle-bed, that is their furniture,
Heavens, when ye fashioned such a creature, was this the lot ye
destined her?
The Father. And how got you access '? Speak me truth.
jSamt-Allin. It is incredible what obstacles I had, what I sur-
mounted. Though now lodged there, iinder the same roof, I at first
did not seek to see them : if we met on the stairs, coming up, going
down, I saluted them respectfully. At night, when I came home (for
all day I was supposed to be at my work), I would go knock gently
at their door; ask them for the little services usual among neighbours,
as water, fire, light. By degrees they grew accustomed to me;
lather took to me. I offered to serve them in little things ; for in-
stance, they disliked going out at night;; I fetched and carried for
them.'
The real truth here is, " I ordered a set of shirts from
them; said I was a Church-licentiate just bound for the
Seminary of St. Nicholas, and, above all, had the tongue
of the old serpent. 5 * But to skip much, and finish :
4 Yesterday I came as usual ; Sophie was alone ; she was sitting
with her elbows on the table, her head leant on her hand ; her work
had fallen at her feet. I entered without her hearing me : she sighed.
Tears escaped from between her fingers, and ran along her arms. For
some time, of late, I had seen her sad. Why was she weeping ? What
was it that grieved her 1 Want it could no longer be ; her labour and
8 The real trade appears to have been a * sempstress one in laces and linens :' the
poverty is somewhat exaggerated; otherwise fcha bha<lo*r may be faithful enough.
254 MISCELLANIES.
my attentions provided against that. Threatened "by the only mis*
fortune terrible to me, I did not hesitate : I threw myself at her
knees. What was her surprise ! Sophie, said I, you weep ; what ails
you ? Do not hide your trouble from me : speak to me ; 0, speak
to me ! She spoke not. Her tears continued flowing. Her eyes,
where calmness no longer dwelt, but tears and anxiety, bent towards
me, then turned away, then turned to me again. She said only. Poor
Sergi ! unhappy Sophie ! I had laid my face on her knees j I was
wetting her apron with niy tears.'
In a word, there is nothing for it but marriage. Old
Diderot, joyous as lie was to see his Son once more, started
back in indignation and derision from such a proposal ; and
young Diderot had to return to Paris, and be forbid the
beloved house, and fall sick, and come to the point of death,
before the fair one's scruples could be subdued. However,
she sent to get news of him; 'learnt that his room was a
6 perfect dog-kennel, that he lay without nourishment, with-
' out attendance, wasted, sad : thereupon she took her re-
* solution ; mounted to him, promised to be his wife ; and
* mother and daughter now became Ms nurses. So soon as
* he recovered, they went to Saint-Pierre, and were married
* at midnight (1744).' It only remains to add, that if the
Sophie whom he had wedded fell much short of this Sophie
whom he delineates, the fault was less in her qualities than
" in his own unstable fancy : as in youth she was * tall, beau-
tiful, pious and wise,' so through a long life she seems to
have approved herself a woman of courage, discretion, faith-
ful affection; far too good a wife for such a husband.
* My father was of too jealous a character to let my mother con-
tinue a traffic, which obliged her to receive strangers and treat with
them: he begged her therefore to give-up that business; she was very
loath to consent; poverty did not alarm her on her own account, but
her mother was old, unlikely to remain with her long; and the fear
DIDEROT, 253
of not being able to provide for all her wants was afflicting : never-
theless, persuading herself that this sacrifice was for her husband's
happiness, she made it. A char-woman looked-in daily, to sweep
their little lodging, and fetch provisions for the day ; my mother
managed all the rest. Often when my father dined or supped out,
she would dine or sup on bread; and took a great pleasure in the
thought that, next day, she could double her little ordinary for him.
Coffee was too considerable a luxury for a household of this sort : but
she could not think of his wanting it, and every day gave him six
sous to go and have his cup, at the Cafe de la Kugence, and see the
chess-playing there.
' It was now that he translated the History of Greece in three
volumes' (by the English Stanyan) ; * he sold it for a hundred crowns.
This sum brought a sort of supply into the house. # # *
' My mother had been brought to bed of a daughter : she was
now big a second time. In spite of her precautions, solitary life, and
the pains she had taken to pass-off her husband as her brother, Ids
family, in the seclusion of their province, learnt that he was living
with two women. Directly, the birth, the morals, the character of
my mother became objects of the blackest calumny. lie foresaw that
discussions by letter would be endless ; he found it simpler to put his
wife into the stage-coach, and send her to his parents. She had just
been delivered of a son ; he announced this event to his father, and
the departure of my mother. " She set out yesterday," said he ; " she
will be with you in three days. You will say to her what shall please
you, and send her back when you are tired of her." Singular as this
sort of explanation was, they determined, in any case, on sending my
father's sister to receive her. Their first welcome was more than
cold : the evening grew less painful to her; but next morning betimes
she went in to her father-in-law ; treated him as if he had been her
own father; her respect and her caresses charmed the good, sensible
old man. Coming down stairs, she began working : refused nothing
that could please a family whom she was not afraid of, and wished to
be loved by. Her conduct was the only excuse she gave for her hus-
band's choice : her appearance had prepossessed them in her favour ;
her simplicity, her piety, her talents for household economy secured
her their tenderness ; they promised her that my father's disinherit-
nient should be revoked. They kept her three months ; and sent her
MISCELLANIES.
back loaded with whatever they could think -would be useful or agree*
able to her.*
All this IB beautiful, told with a graceful simplicity ; the
beautiful, real-ideal prose-idyl of a Literary Life ; but, alas,
in the music of your prose-idyl there lurks ever an accursed
dissonance (or the players make one) ; where men are, there
"will be mischief. ' This journey/ writes Mademoiselle, * cost
my mother many tears.' What will the reader say when he
finds that Monsieur Diderot has, in the interim, taken up
with, a certain Madame de Puisieux ; and welcomes his brave
Wife (worthy to have been a true man's) with a heart and
bosom henceforth estranged from her! Madame Diderot
made two journeys to Langres, and both were fatal to her
* peace. 5 This affair of the Puisieux, for whom he despicably
enough not only burned, but toiled and made money, kept
him busy for some ten years; till at length, finding that
she played false, he gave her up ; and minor miscellaneous
flirtations seem to have succeeded. But, returning from her
second journey, the much-enduring Housemother finds him
in meridian glory with one Voland, the im-maiden Daughter
of a * Financier's Widow ;' to whom we owe this present
pretenraptial Correspondance ; to whom indeed he mainly
devoted himself for the rest of his life, * parting his time
between Ms study and her ; to his own wife and household
giving little save the trouble of cooking for him, and of
painfully, with repressed or irrepressible discontent, keeping
tip some appearance of terms with him. Alas ! alas ! and
his Puisieux seems to have been a hollow mercenary (to
whose scandalous soul he reckons obscenest of Books fit
; and the Voland an elderly spinster, with cceur
JiomtitHi arm tendre e,t bonne! And then those
old dinmgii OB bread; the six sous spired fur his cup of
coffee! Foolish Diderot, scarcely pardonable Diderot I A
DIDEROT, 255
hart! saying is this, yet a true one : Scounclrelism signifies
injustice, and should be left to scoundrels alone. For thy
wronged wife, whom thou hadst sworn far other things to,
ever in her afflictions (here so hostilely scanned and writ-
ten of) a true sympathy will awaken ; and sorrow that the
patient, or even impatient, endurances of such a woman
should be matter of speculation and self-gratulation to such
another.
But looking out of doors now, from an indifferently-
guided Household, which must have fallen shamefully in
pieces, had not a wife been wiser and stronger than her
husband, we find the Philosophe making distinct way witli
the Bibliopolic world ; and likely, in the end, to pick up a
kind of living there. The Stanyan*s History of Greece; the
other English -translated, nameless Medical Dictionary, are
dropped by all editors as worthless : a like fate might, with
little damage, have overtaken the Essai sur le MJrite et la
Vertu, rendered or redacted out of Shaftesbury's Character
istics. In which redaction, with its Notes, of anxious Ortho-
doxy, and bottomless Falsehood looking through it, we in-
dividually have found nothing, save a confirmation of the
old twice-repeated experience, That in Shaftesbury's famed
Book there lay, if any meaning, a meaning of such long-
windedne$s ? circumvolution and lubricity, that^ like an ^ej,
it must forever, slip <tqr6agl*'CHu? fi4gfers,/and leave tis '
among the gravel. One reason teay'paitly b% that
bury was not only a Sceptic but an Amateur Sceptic;
sort a darker, more earnest, have long since swallowed and
abolished. The meaning of a delicate, perfumed, gentle-
manly individual standing there, in that war of Titans (hill
meeting hill with all its woods), and putting out hand to it
-with a pair of tweezers f
However, our Denis has now emerged from the inteJ?-
256 MISCELLANIES,
mediate Hades of Translatorship into the Heaven of per-
fected Authorship : empties his commonplace book of Pensees
Philosophiques (it is said in the space of four days) ; writes
his Metaphysico-Baconian phantasmagories on the Interprt-
tation de la Nature (an endless business to * interpret') ; arid
casts the money-produce of both into the lap of his Scarlet-
woman Puisieux. Then forthwith, for the same object, in a
shameful fortnight, puts together the beastliest of all past,
present or future dull Novels ; a difficult feat, unhappily not
an impossible one. If any mortal creature, even a Reviewer,
be again compelled to glance into that Book, let him bathe
himself in running water, put on change of raiment, and be
unclean until the even. As yet the Metaphysieo-Atheistic
Lettre sur les Sourds et Muets and Lettre sur Us Aveugles, which
brings glory and a three-months lodging in the Castle of
Vincennes, are at years' distance in the background. But
already by his gilded tongue, growing repute and sanguine
projecting temper, he has persuaded Booksellers to pay-off
the Abbe Gua, with his lean Version of Chambers 9 s Dictionary
of Arts* and convert it into an Encyclopedic, with himself and
D'Alembert for Editors: and is henceforth (from the year
of grace 1751) a duly dis-indentured Man of Letters, an in-
disputable and more and more conspicuous member of that
surprising guild.
Literature, ever since its appearance in our European
world, especially since it emerged out of Cloisters into the
open Market-place, and endeavoured to make itself room,
and gain a subsistence there, has offered the strangest phases,
and consciously or unconsciously done the strangest work.
Wonderful Ark of the Deluge, where so much that is pre-
cious, nay priceless to mankind, floats carelessly onwards
through the Chaos of distracted Times, if so be it may one
day find an Ararat to rest on, and see the waters abate!
DIDEROT.
The History of Literature, especially for the last two cen-
turies, is our proper Church History ; the other Church,
during that time, having more and more decayed from its
old functions and influence, and ceased to have a history.
And now, to look only at the outside of the matter, think of
the Tassos and older or later Bacines, struggling to raise
their office from its pristine abasement of court-jester; and
teach and elevate the World, in conjunction with that other
quite heteroclite task of solacing and glorifying some Pulhts
Jocis, in plush cloak and other gilt or golden king-tackle,
that they in the interim might live thereby! Consider
the Shakspeares and Molieres, plying a like trade, but on
a double material ; glad of any royal or noble patronage,
but eliciting, as their surer stay, some fractional contribution
from the thick-skinned, many-pocketed million. Satmaaises,
now bully -fighting 4 for a hundred gold Jacobuses/ now
closeted with Queen Christinas, who blow the fire with their
own queenly mouth, to make a pedant's breakfast ; anon cast
forth (being scouted and confuted), and dying of heartbreak,
coupled with henpeck. Then the Laws of Copyright, the
Quarrels of Authors, the Calamities of Authors; the Heynes
dining on boiled peascods, the Jean Pauls on water; the
Johnsons bedded and boarded on fourpence-halfpenny a-day.
Lastly, the unutteruble confusion worse confounded of our
present Periodical existence; when, among other pheno-
mena, a young Fourth Estate (whom all the three elder
may try if they can hold) is seen sprawling and staggering
tumultuously through the world; as yet but a huge, raw-
boned, lean calf; fast growing, however, to be a Pharaoh's
lean cow, of whom let the fat kine beware !
All this, of the mere exterior, or dwelling-place of Litera-
ture, not yet glancing at the internal, at the Doctrines emitted
or striven after, will the future Eusebius and Mosheim have
VOL. IX. (Mi-c. vol. 4.) 8
MISCELLANIES.
to record ; and (in some small degree) explain to us "wliat it
means. Unfathomable is Its meaning : Life, mankind's Life,
ever from its unfathomable fountains, rolls wondrous on, an-
other though the same ; in Literature too, the- seeing eye
will distinguish Apostles of the Gentiles, Proto- and Deutoro-
mart JTS ; still less will the Simon Magus, or Apollonius with
the golden thigh, be wanting. But all now is on an infi-
nitely mtkr wile; the clement** of it all swim far-scattered,
and still only striving towards union ; whereby, indeed, it
happens that to the most, under this new figure, they are
unrecognisable.
French Literature, in Diderofs time, presents itself in a
certain state of culmination, where causes long prepared
are rapidly becoming effects ; and was doubtless in one of
its more notable epochs. Under the Economic aspect, in
France, as in England, this was the Age of Booksellers;
when, as a Dodsley and Miller could risk capital in an Eng-
lish Dictionary, a Lebreton and Briasson could become pur-
veyors and commissariat-officers for a French Encydopedie.
The world forever loves Knowledge, and would part with
its last sixpence in payment thereof: this your Dodsleys
and Lebretons well saw ; moreover they could act on it, for
as yet PUFFERY was not. Alas, offences must come ; Puffery
from the first was inevitable: woe to them, nevertheless,
by whom it did come ! Meanwhile, as we said, it slept in
Chaos; the Word of man and tradesman was still partially
credible to man. Booksellers were therefore a possible,
were even a necessary class of mortals, though a strangely
anomalous one ; had they kept from lying, or lied with any
sort of moderation, the anomaly might have lasted still
longer. For the present, they managed in Paris as else-
where: tibte Timber-headed could perceive that lor Thought
DIDEROT. 259
tli e world would give money; farther, by mere shopkeeper
cunning, that true Thought, as in the end sure to be recog-
nised, and by nature infinitely more durable, was better tc
deal in than false ; farther, by credible tradition of public
consent, that such and such had the talent of furnishing' true
Thought (say rather truer, as the more correct word): on
this hint the Timber-headed spake and bargained. $Tay, let
us say he bargained, and worked, for most part with in-
dustrious assiduity, with patience, suitable prudence; nay
sometimes with touches of generosity and magnanimity,
beautifully irradiating the circumambient mass of greed and
dulness. For the rest, the two high contracting parties
roughed it out as they could ; so that if Booksellers, in their
back-parlour Valhalla, drank wine out of the skulls of Au-
thors (as they were fabled to do), Authors, in the front-
apartments, from time to time, gave them a Roland for their
Oliver: a Johnson can knock his Osborne on the head, like
any other Bull of Bashan ; a Diderot commands his corpu-
lent Panckouke to " Leave the room, and go to the devil ;
Allez au diable, sortez de chez moil"
Under the internal or Doctrinal aspect, again, French
Literature, we can see, knew far better what it was about
than English. That fable, indeed, first set afloat by some
Trevoux Journalist of the period, and which has floated
foolishly enough into every European ear since then, of
there being an Association specially organised for the de-
struction of government, religion, society, civility (not to
speak of tithes, rents, life and property), all over the world ;
which hell-serving Association met at the Baron d'Holbach's,
there had its blue-light sederunts, and published Transac-
tions legible to all* was and remains nothing but a fable,
Minute-books, president's hammer, ballot-box, punch-bowl
of such Pandemonium have not been produced to the world.
260 MISCELLANIES,
The sect of Philosophes existed at Paris, but as other sects
do; held together by loosest, informal, unrecognised ties;
within which every one, no doubt, fallowed his own natural
objects, of prcmelytism, of glory, of getting a livelihood.
Mean while, whether in constituted association or not, French
Philosophy resided in the persons of the French Philosophes ;
and, as a mighty deep-straggling Force, was at work there.
Deep-straggling, irrepressible ; the subterranean fire, which
long heaved unquietly, and shook all things with an omin-
ous motion, was here, we can say, funning itself a decided
Hj drude; which, by and by, as French Revolution, became
that volcano-crater, world-famous, world-appalling, world-
maddening, as yet very far from closed! Fontenelle said,
lie wished lie could live sixty years longer, and see what
that universal infidelity, depravity and dissolution of all ties
would turn to. In threescore years Fontenelle might have
seen strange things; but not the end of the phenomenon
perhaps in three hundred.
Why France became such a volcano-crater, what special-
ties there were in the French national character, and poli-
tical, moral, intellectual condition, by virtue whereof French
Philosophy there and not elsewhere, then and not sooner or
later, evolved itself, is an inquiry that has been often put,
and cheerfully answered ; the true answer of which might
lead us far. Still deeper than this Whence were the question
of Whither; with which, also, we intermeddle not here.
Enough for us to understand that there verily a Scene of
Universal History is being enacted, a little living TiME-pic-
ture in the bosom of ETERNITY; and, with the feeling due
in that case, to ask not so much Why it is, as What it is.
Leaving priorities and posteriorities aside, and cause-and-
effect to adjust itself elsewhere, conceive so many vivid
epirits thrown together into the Europe, into the Paris of
DIDEROT. 2G1
that day, and see how they demean themselves, what lliey
work-out and attain there.
As the mystical enjoyment of an object goes infinitely
farther than the intellectual., and we can look at a picture with
delight and profit, after all that we can be taught about it is
grown poor and wearisome ; so here, and by far stronger
reason, these light Letters of Diderot to the Voland, again
unveiling and showing Parisian Life, are worth more to us
than many a heavy tome laboriously struggling to explain
It. True, we have seen the picture, that same Parisian life-
picture, ten times already; but we can look at It an eleventh
time : nay this, as we said, is not a canvas-picture, but a life-
picture, of whose significance there Is no end for us. G radge
not the elderly Spinster her existence, then ; say not she has
lived in vain. For what of History there Is In tills Preter-
nuptial Correspondence should we not endeavour to forgive
and forget all else, the semililite itself ? The curtain which
had fallen for almost a century Is again drawn up ; the scene
Is alive and busy. Figures grown historical are here seen
face to face, and live before us.
A strange theatre that of French Plillosophism ; a strange
dramatic corps ! Such another corps for brilliancy and levity,
for gifts and vices, and ail manner of sparkling inconsisten-
cies, the world is not like to see again. There is Patriarch
Voltaire, of all Frenchmen the most French ; he whom the
French had, as It were, long waited for, * to produce at once,
* in a single life, all that French genius most prized and most
* excelled In ;* of him and his wondrous ways, as of one known,
we need say little. Instant enough to * crush the Abomina-
tion, Eraser Ulnfame? he has prosecuted his Jesuit-hunt over
many lands and many centuries, in many ways, with an
alacrity that has made him dangerous, and endangered him ;
he now sits at Ferney, withdrawn from the active toils of
262 MISCELLANIES.
the chase; clieers-on his hunting-dogs mostly from afar:
Diderot, a beagle of tlie first vehemence, he has rather to
restrain. That all extant and possible Theology be abol-
ished, -will not content the fell Denis, as surely it might
have done; the Patriarch lias to address him a friendly
admonition on his Atheism, and make Mm eat it again.
D'Alembert, too, we may consider as one known ; of all
the Philosophe fraternity, him who in speech and conduct
agrees best with our English notions : an independent, pa-
tient, prudent man; of great faculty, especially of great
clearness and method ; famous in Mathematics ; no less so 9
to the wonder of some, in the intellectual provinces of Lite-
rature. A foolish wonder ; as if the Thinker could think
only on one thing, and not on any thing he had a call to-
wards. D'Alembert's Melanges, as the impress of a genuine
spirit, in peculiar position and probation, have still instruc-
tion for us, both of head and heart. The man lives retired
here, in questionable seclusion with his Espinasse; incurs
the suspicion of apostasy, because in the Encyclopidie he saw
no Evangel and celestial Revelation, but only a huge Folio
Dictionary ; and would not venture life and limb on it with-
out a * consideration/ Sad was it to Diderot to see his
fellow-voyager make for port, and disregard signals, when
the sea-krakens rose round him ! They did not quarrel ;
were always friendly when they met, but latterly met only
at the rate of ' once in the two years/ D'Alembert died
when Diderot was on his deathbed : " My friend/' said the
latter to the news-bringer, " a great light is gone out."
Hovering in the distance, with wostruck, minatory air,
stern-beckoning, comes Rousseau. Poor Jean Jacques ! Al-
ternately deified, and cast to the dogs ; a deep-minded, high-
minded ? even noble, yet wofully misarranged mortal, with
all misformations of Nature intensated to the verge of mad-
DIDEROT. 203
ness by unfavourable Fortune. A lonely man; liis life a
long soliloquy! The wandering Tiresias of the time; in
whom, however, did lie prophetic meaning, such, as none of
the others offer. Whereby indeed it might partly be that
the world went to such extremes about him : that, long after
his departure, we have seen one whole nation worship him,
and a Burke, in the name of another, class him with the off-
scourings of the earth. His true character, with its lofty
aspirings and poor performings ; and how the spirit of the
man worked so wildly, like celestial fire in a thick dark
element of chaos, and shot-forth ethereal radiance, all-pierc-
ing lightning, yet could not illuminate., was quenched and
did not conquer: this, with what lies in it, may now be
pretty accurately appreciated. Let his history teach all
whom it concerns, to * harden themselves against the ills
which Mother Nature will try them with ;' to seek within
their own soul what the world must forever deny them;
and say composedly to the Prince of the Power of this lower
Earth and Air: Go thou thy way; I go mine!
Rousseau and Diderot were early Mends : who has for-
gotten tow Jean Jacques walked to the Castle of Vincennes,
where Denis (for heretical Metaphysics, and irreverence to
the S trump etocracy) languishes in durance ; and devised his
first Literary Paradox on the road thither! Their Quarrel,
which, as a fashionable hero of the time complains, occupied
all Paris, is likewise famous enough. The reader recollects
that heroical epistle of Diderot to Grimm on that occasion,
and the sentence : ' 0, my friend, let ua continue virtuous ;
* for the state of those who have ceased to be so makes me
4 shudder/ But is the reader aware what the fault of him
*,who has ceased to be so' wast A series of ravelments
and squabbling grudges, ' which/ says Mademoiselle with
much simplicity, 4 the Devil himself could not understand**
264 MISCELLANIES,
Alas, the Devil well niulerstootl It, and Tyrant Grimm too
did, who had the ear of Diderot, and poured into it his own
unjust, almost alwrninable spleen. Clean paper need not
he Boiled with u foul pfory, where the main actor is only
* Tynm lc Blanc;" enough to know that the continually vir-
tuous Tyrant found F>i<lerot * extremely impreBBionahlo;* BO
poor JVnn Jaeqiierf must go Ms ways (with both the south
and the scorn), and niaong his many woes bear this also.
Diderot is in it Wiua'tMe; pitiable rather; for who would be
a pipe, which not Fortune only, but any Sycophant may
play tun^s on?
Of this name Tyrant Grimm, desiring to speak peaceably,
we shall say little. The man himself is less remarkable
than liis fortune* Changed times indeed, since the thread-
bare German Burwh quitter! Rntisbon, with the sound of
catcalls in hit* car*?, the condemned 4 Tragedy, BtmiwJ in his
pocket; and fled southward, on a thiu travelling-tutorship;
since Rousseau met you, Herr Grimtn, *a young man
4 deKcrilxjd as seeking a situation, and whose appearance in-
6 the pressing; necessity he was in of soon finding
1 one f Of a truth, you have flourished since then, Herr
Grimm; Ms introductions of you to Diderot, to Holbach, to
the black-lucked D'Epinay, where not only you are wormed-
in, but lie is wormed-out, have turned to somewhat; the
Threadbare lias become well-napped, and got ruffles and
jewel-rings, and walks abroad in sword and bagxvig, and
ketpers his brass countenance with rouge, and so (as Tyran
k Blanc} recommends himself to the fair; and writes Pan-
Philosophe-gossip to the Hyperborean Kings, and his
4 Grimm's Leaves/ copied * to the number of twenty/ are
of life to many; and cringes here, and domineers
there- ; and Eyes at Ms ease in the Creation, in an effective
with the D'Epinay, husband or custom of the conn-
DIDEROT. 205
try not objecting! Poor Borne, the new German Flying-
Sansculotte, feels his mouth water, at Paris, over these flesh-
pots of Grimm: reflecting with what heart he too could
write * Leaves/ and he fed thereby. Borne, my friend, those
days are done ! While Northern Courts were a * Lunar Ver-
sailles/ it was well to have an Uriel stationed in their Sim
there ; but of all spots in this Universe (hardly excepting
Tophet) Paris now is the one we at court could best dispense
with news from ; never more, in these centuries, will a Grimm
be missioned thither ; never a * Leaf of Borne 9 be blown
court-wards by any wind. As for the Grimm, we can see
that he was a man made to rise in the world : a fair, even
handsome outfit of talent, wholly marketable ; skill in mu-
sic, and the like, encyclopedical readiness in all ephemera ;
saloon-wit, a trenchant, unhesitating head; above all, a
heart ever in the right place, in the market-place, namely,
and marked 6 for sale to the highest bidder.* Really a me-
thodical, adroit, managing man. By * hero-worship/ and
the cunning appliance of alternate sweet and sullen, he has
brought Diderot to be his patient milk-cow, whom he can
milk an Essay from, a Volume from, when he lists. Vic-
torious Grimm! He even escaped those same 'horrors of
the French Kevolutlon* (with loss of his ruffles) ; and was
seen at the Court of Gotha, sleek and well to live, within
the memory of man.
The world has heard of M. le Chevalier de Sabt-Lsm-
bert; considerable in Literature, in Love and War, He is
here again, singing the frostiest Pastorals; happily, how-
ever, only in the distance, and the jingle of his wires soon
dies away. Of another Chevalier, worthy Jaucourt, be the
name mentioned, and little more : he digs unweariedly,
molewise, in the Encyclopedic field, catching what he can,
uiid shuns the light. Then there is Helvetius, the well-fed
2 G C MISCELL ANTES,
Fanner-general, enlivening his sybaritic life with metapliy-
sic paradoxes. His revelations De THomme and De ZEsprit
breathe the freest Philosophe-spirit, with Philanthropy and
Sensibility enough : the greater is our astonishment to find
him here so ardent a Preserver of the Game :
4 This Madame de Noce,' writes Diderot, treating of the Bour-
bonne Hot-springs, { is a neighbour of Helvetius. She told us, the
Philosopher was the unhappiest man in the world OB Ms estates. He
is surrounded there by neighbours and peasants who detest him. They
break the windows of Ms mansion, plunder his grounds by night, cut
his trees, throw down Ms walls, tear-up Ms spiked paling. Pie dare
not go to shoot a hare, without a train of people to guard Mm. You
will ask me, How it lias come to pass ? By a boundless zeal for Ms
game. M. Fagon, his predecessor, used to guard the grounds with,
two keepers and two guns. Helvetius lias twenty-four, and cannot
do it. These men have a small premium for every poacher they can
catch ; and there is no sort of mischief they will not cause to get
more and more of these. Besides, they are themselves so many Mred
poachers. Again, the border of Ms woods was inhabited by a set of
poor people, who had got huts there ; he has caused all the huts to
be swept away. It is these, and such acts of repeated tyranny, that
have raised him enemies of all kinds ; and the more insolent, says
Madame de Xoce, as they have discovered that the worthy Philosopher
is a coward. I would not have his fine estate of Yor6 as a present,
bad I to live there in these perpetual alarms. What profits he draws
from that mode of management I know not : but he is alone there ;
he is hated, he is in fear. Ah ! how much wiser was our lady Geof-
fiin ; when speaking of a lawsuit that tormented her, she said to me,
" Get done with my lawsuit ; they want money 2 I have it. Give
them money. "What better use can I make of my money than to buy
peace with it I* 1 In Helvetius's place, I would have said, "They kill
me a few hares and rabbits ; let them be doing. These poor creatures
have no shelter but my forest ; let them stay there." I should have
reasoned like M. Fagon, and been adored like him. 5
Alas! are not Helvetius's preserves, at this hour, all
broken up, and lying desecrated? Neither can the others.
DIDEROT. 267
In wliat latitude and longitude soever, remain eternally im-
pregnable. But if a Rome was once saved by geese, need
we wonder that an England is lost by partridges ? We are
sons of Eve, who bartered Paradise for an apple.
But to return to Paris and its Philosophe Church-mili-
tant. Here is a Marmontel, an active subaltern thereof, who
fights in a small way, through the Mercure; and, in rose-
pink romance-pictures, strives to celebrate the 'moral sub-
lime.' An Abbe Morellet, busy with the Corn-Laws, walks in
at intervals, stooping, shrunk together, < as if to get nearer
himself, pour Hre plus prds de M-mgme. 9 The rogue Galiani
alternates between Naples and Paris ; Galiani, by good luck,
has < forever settled the question of the Corn-Laws :* an idle
fellow otherwise ; a spiritual Lazzarone ; full of frolics, wanton
quips, anti-jesuit gesta, and wild Italian humour; the sight
of his swart, sharp face is the signal for Laughter, in which,
indeed, the Man himself has unhappily evaporated, leaving
no result behind him.
Of the Baron d'Holbach thus much may be said, that
both at Paris and at Grandval he gives good dinners. His
two or three score volumes of Atheistic Philosophism, which
he published (at his own expense), may now be forgotten
and even forgiven. A purse open and deep, a heart kindly-
disposed, quiet, sociable, or even friendly; these, with excel-
lent wines, gain him a literary elevation, which no thinking
faculty he had could have pretended to. An easy, laconic
gentleman ; of grave politeness ; apt to lose temper at play ;
yet, on the whole, good-humoured, eupeptic and eupractic :
there may he live, and let live.
Nor is heaven's last gift to man wanting here; the
natural sovereignty of women. Your CMtelets, Epinays, Es~
pinasses, Geoflrins, Deffands, will play their part too : there
shall, in ^11 senses, be not only Philosophers, but Pliiloso-
2(58 MISCELLANIES.
pliesses. Strange enough is the figure these women make i
good souls, It was a strange world for them. What with
metaphysics and flirtation, system of nature, fashion of dress-
caps, vanity, curiosity, jealousy, atheism, rheumatism, trails,
bouts-rirnds, noble-sentiments, and rouge-pofcs, the vehement
female intellect sees itself sailing on a chaos, where a wiser
might have wavered, if not foundered. For the rest (as
an accurate observer has remarked), they become a sort of
Lady-Presidents in that society ; attain great influence ; and,
imparting as well as receiving, communicate to all that is
done or said somewhat of their own peculiar tone.
In a world so wide and multifarious, this little band of
Philosophes, acting and speaking as they did, had a most
various reception to expect; votes divided to the uttermost.
The mass of mankind, busy enough with their own work,
of course heeded them only when forced to do it; these,
meanwhile, form the great neutral element, in which the
battle has to fight itself; the two hosts, according to their
several success, to recruit themselves. Of the Higher Classes,
it appears, the small proportion not wholly occupied in eat-
ing and dressing, and therefore open to such a question,
are in their favour, strange as to us it may seem; the
spectacle of a Church pulled down is, in stagnant times,
amusing; nor do the generality, on either side, yet see
whither ulteriorly it is tending. The Eeading World, which
was then more than now the intelligent, inquiring world,
reads eagerly (as it will ever do) whatsoever skilful, sprightly,
reasonable-looking word is written for it; enjoying, appro-
priating the same ; perhaps without fixed judgment, or
deep care of any kind. Careful enough, fixed enough, on
the other hand, is the Jesuit Brotherhood ; in these days
sick unto death ; but only the bitterer and angrier for that.
DIDEROT. 269
Dangerous are tlie death. -convulsions of an expiring Sor-
bonne, ever and anon filling Paris with agitation : it behoves
your Pliilosophe to walk warily, and in many a critical circum-
stance, to weep with the one cheek, and smile with the other.
Nor is Literature itself wholly Philosophe : apart from
the Jesuit regulars, in their Trevoux Journals, Sermons,
Episcopal Charges, and other camps or casemates, a consi-
derable Guerrilla or Eeviewer force (consisting, as usual,
of smugglers, unemployed destitute persons, deserters who
have been refused promotion, and other the like broken cha-
racters) has organised itself, and maintains a harassing bush-
warfare : of these the chieftain is Fr6ron, once in tolerable
repute with the world, had he not, carrying too high a head,
struck his foot on stones, and stumbled. By the continual
depreciating of talent grown at length undeniable, he has
sunk low enough : Voltaire, in the Ecossaise, can bring him
on the stage, and have him killed by laughter, under the
name, sufficiently recognisable, of Wasp (in French, Freloii).
Another Ernpecedor, still more hateful, is Palissot, who has
written and got acted a Comedy of Les PhilosopJies, at which
the Parisians, spite of its dulness, have also laughed. To
laugh at us, the so meritorious us! Heard mankind ever
the like ! For poor Palissot, had he fallen into Philosophe
hands, serious bodily tar-and-feathering might have been
apprehended: as it was, they do what the pen, with its gall
and copperas, can; invoke Heaven and Earth to witness
the treatment of Divine Philosophy; with which view, in
particular, friend Diderot seems to have composed his J?<z-
meaifs Nephew, wherein Palissot and others of his kidney are
(figuratively speaking) mauled and mangled, and left not in
dog's likeness. So divided was the world, Literary, Courtly,
Miscellaneous, on this matter i it was a confused anomalous
time*
270 MISCELLANIES.
Among Its more notable anomalies may be reckoned the
relations of French Philosophism to Foreign Crowned Heads.
In Prussia there is a Philosophe King; in Knssia a Philo-
soplie Empress : the whole North swarms with kinglets and
queenlets of the like temper. Nay, as we have seen, they
entertain their special ambassador in Philosophedom, their
lion's-provider to furnish spiritual Philosophe-pro vender ; and
pay him well. The great Frederic, the great Catherine are
as nursing-father and nursing-mother to this new Church
of Antichrist ; in all straits, ready with money, honourable
royal asylum, help of every sort, which, however, except
in the money-shape, the wiser of our Philosophes are shy
of receiving, Voltaire had tried it in the asylum-shape, and
found it unsuitable; D'Alembert and Diderot decline re-
peating the experiment. What miracles are wrought by the
arch -magician Time ! Could these Frederics, Catherines,
Josephs, have looked forward some threescore years; and
beheld the Holy Alliance in conference at Laybach ! But so
goes the world: kings are not seraphic doctors, with gift
of prescience, but only men, with common eyesight, partici-
pating in the influences of their generation : kings too, like
all mortals, have a certain love of knowledge ; still more
infallibly, a certain desire of applause ; a certain delight in
mortifying one another. Thus what is persecuted here finds
refuge there; and ever, one way or other, the New works
itself out full-formed from under the Old; nay the Old, as
in this instance, sits sedulously hatching a cockatrice that
will one day devour it.
No less anomalous, confused and contradictory is the
relation of the Philosophes to their own Government. How,
indeed, could it be otherwise, their relation to Society being
still so undecided; and the Government, which might have
endeavoured to adjust and preside over this, being itself in
DIDEUOT. 271
a state of anomaly, death-lethargy, and doting decrepitude ?
The true conduct and position for a French Sovereign to-
wards French Literature, in that country might have been,
though perhaps of all things the most important, one of the
most difficult to discover and accomplish. What chance wa&
there that a thick-blooded Louis Quinze, from his Pare auos
Cerfs, should discover it, should have the faintest inkling
of it? His 'peaceable soul' was quite otherwise employed:
Minister after Minister must consult his own several insight,
his own whim, above all his own ease : and so the whole
business, now when we look on it, conies out one of the
most botched, piebald, inconsistent, lamentable and even
ludicrous objects in the history of State-craft. Alas, neces-
sity has no law : the statesman, without light, perhaps even
without eyes, whom Destiny nevertheless constrains to ' go-
vern' his nation in a time of World-Downfall, what shall he
do, but if so may be, collect the taxes ; prevent in somo
degree murder and arson ; and for the rest, wriggle hither
and thither, return upon his steps, clout-up old rents and
open new, and, on the whole, eat his victuals, and let the
Devil govern it ? Of the pass to which Statesmanship had
come in respect of Philosophism, let this one fact be evi-
dence instead of a thousand. M. de Malesherbes writes to
warn Diderot that, next day, he will give orders to have all
his papers seized. Impossible! answers Diderot : juste del!
how shall I sort them, where shall I hide them, within four-
and-twenty hours ? Send them to me, answers M. de Males-
herbes ! Thither accordingly they go, under lock and seal ;
and the hungry catchpoles find nothing buc empty drawers.
The Encyclopedie was set forth first 'with approbation
and Privilege du Roi/ next, it was stopped by Authority:
next, the public murmuring, suffered to proceed; then again,
positively for the last time, stopped, and, no whit the less,
272 MISCELLANIES.
printed, and written, and circulated, under tliln disguises,
some hundred and fifty printers working at it with open
doors, all Paris knowing of it, only Authority winking hard.
Choiseul, in his resolute way, had now shut the eyes of
Authority, and kept them shut. Finally, to crown the whole
matter, a copy of the prohibited Book lies in the King's
private library : and owes favour, and a withdrawal of the
prohibition, to the foolishest accident :
* One of Louis Fifteenth's domestics told me,' says Yoltaire, * that
once, the King his master supping, in private circle (en petite com-
pagnie), at Trianon, the conversation turned first on the chase, and
from this on gunpowder. Some one said that the best powder was
made of sulphur, saltpetre, and charcoal, in equal parts. The Due do
la Yalliere, with better knowledge, maintained that for good powder
there must be one part of sulphur, one of charcoal, with five of salt-
petre, well filtered, well evaporated, well crystallised.
e " It is pleasant," said the Due de Mvernois, " that we who daily
amuse ourselves with killing partridges in the Park of Versailles, and
sometimes with killing men, or getting ourselves killed, on the fron
tiers, should not know what that same work of killing is done with."
6 " Alas ! we are in the like case with all things in this world,"
answered Madame de Pompadour : "I know not what the rouge I
put up'on my cheeks is made of ; you would bring me to a nonplus,
if you asked how the silk hose I wear are manufactured." " 'Tis a*
pity," said the Due de la Valliere, " that his Majesty confiscated our
Dictionnaires Encyclopediques, which cost us our hundred pistoles ;
we should soon find the decision of all our questions there." The
King justified the act of confiscation; he had been informed that these
twenty-one folio volumes, to be found lying on all ladies' toilettes,
were the most pernicious things in the world for the kingdom of
Trance ; he had resolved to look for himself if this were true, before
suffering the book to circulate. Towards the end of the repast, he
sends three of his valets to bring him a copy ; they enter, struggling
under seven volumes each. The article powder is turned up; the Due
de la Yalliere is found to be right : and soon Madame de Pompadour
learns the difference between the old rouge d'Espagne with, which the
DIDEROT. 273
ladies of Madrid colourel their cheeks, and the rouge des dames of
Paris. She finds that the Greek and Roman ladies painted with a
purple extracted from the murex, and that consequently our scarlet
is the purple of the ancients ; and that there is more purple in the
rouge cTEspagne 9 and more cochineal in that of France. She learns
how stockings are woven ; the stocking-frame described there fills her
with amazement. " Ah, what a glorious hook !" cried she. " Sire,
did you confiscate this magazine of all useful things, that you might
have it wholly to yourself, then, and he the one learned man in your
kingdom?" Each threw himself on the volumes, like the daughters
of Lycomedes on the jewels of Ulysses ; each found forthwith what-
ever he was seeking. Some who had lawsuits were surprised to see
the decision of them there. The King reads there all the rights of
his crown. " Well, in truth (mats vraiment)" said he, " I know not
why they said so much ill of the "book." " Ah, sire," said the Due
de Mvernois, " does not your Majesty see," &c. &c,'
In sncli a confused world, under such, unheard-of circum-
stances, must friend Diderot ply his editorial labours. No
sinecure is it! Penetrating into all subjects and sciences;
waiting and rummaging in all libraries, laboratories; nay,
for many years, fearlessly diving into all manner of work-
shops, unscrewing stocking-looms, and even working there-
on (that the department of Arts and Trades might be per-
fect) ; then seeking out contributors, and flattering them,
quickening their laziness, getting payment for them , quar-
relling with Bookseller and Printer : bearing all miscalcula-
tions, misfortunes, misdoings of so many fallible men (for
there all at last lands) on his single back : surely this was
enough, without having farther to do battle with the beagles
of Office, perilously withstand them, expensively sop them,
toilsomely elude them! Nevertheless, he perseveres, and
will not but persevere; less, perhaps, with the deliberate
courage of a Man, who has compared result and outlay, than
with the passionate obstinacy of a Woman, who, having
VOL. IX. (Misc, vol. 4.) T
274 MISCELLANIES.
made-up her mind, will shrink at no ladder of ropes, but
ride with her lover, though all the four Elements gainsay it.
At every new concussion from the Powers, he roars; say
rather, shrieks, for there is a female shrillness in it; pro-
claiming, Murder! Robbery! Rape! invoking men and angels;
meanwhile proceeds unweariedly with the printing. It is a
hostile building-up, not of the Holy Temple at Jerusalem,
but of the Unholy one at Paris : thus must Diderot, like
Ezra, come to strange extremities; and every workman
works with his trowel in one hand, in the other his weapon
of war; that so, in spite of all Tiglaths, the work go on,
and the topstone of it be brought out with shouting.
Shouting ! Ah, what faint broken quaver is that in the
shout; as of a man that shouted with the throat only, and
inwardly was bowed down with dispiritment? It is Diderot's
faint broken quaver; he is sick and heavy of soul. Scan-
dalous enough : the Goth Lebreton, loving, as he says,
Ins head better even than his profit, has for years gone
privily at dead of night to the finished Encyclopedic proof*
sheets, and there with nefarious pen scratched out whatever
to Urn seemed dangerous ; filling-up the gap as "he could, or
merely letting it fill itself up. Heaven and Earth ! Not
only are the finer Philosophe sallies mostly cut out, but
hereby has the work become a sunken, hitching, ungainly
mass, little better than a monstrosity. Goth! Hun! sacri-
legious Attila of the book-trade! 0, surely for this treason
the hottest of Dante's Purgatory were too temperate. In-
famous art thou, Lebreton, to all ages that read the jBn-
cydoptdie; and Philosophes not yet in swaddling-clothes
shall gnash their teeth over thee, and spit upon thy memory.
Lebreton pockets both the abuse and the cash, and sleeps
sound in a whole skin. The able Editor could never be said
to get entirely the better of it while he lived.
DIDEROT. 275
Now, however, it is time tliat, quitting generalities, we
go, in this fine autumn weather,* to Holbach's at Grandval,
where the hardworked but unwearied Encyclopedist, with
plenty of ink and writing-paper, is sure to be. Ever in the
Holbach household his arrival is a holyday; if a quarrel
spring up, it is only because he will not come, or too soon
goes away. A man of social talent, with such a tongue as
Diderot's, in a mansion where the only want to be guarded
against was that of wit, could not be other than welcome.
He composes Articles there, and walks, and dines, and plays
cards, and talks; languishingly waits letters from his Vo-
land, copiously writes to her. It is in these copious love-
despatches that the whole matter is so graphically painted :
we have an Asmodeus' view of the interior life there, and
live it over again with him. The Baroness, in red silk tem-
pered with snow-white gauze, is beauty and grace itself;
her old Mother is a perfect romp of fifteen, or younger; the
house is lively with company; the Baron, as we said, speaks
little, but to the purpose; is seen sometimes with his pipe, in
dressing-gown and red slippers ; otherwise the best of land-
lords. Remarkable figures drop in; generals disabled at
Quebec; fashionable gentlemen rusticating in the neigh-
bourhood; Abb&, such as Galiani, Raynal, Morellet; peiv
h^ps Grimm and his Epinay ; other Philosophes and Philoso-
phesses. Guests too of less dignity, acting rather as butts
than as bowmen : for it is the part of every one either to
have wit, or to be the cause of having it.
Among these latter, omitting many, there is one whom,
for country's sake, we must particularise ; an ancient pei>
sonage, named Hoop (Hope), whom ijtey called P&re Hoop ;
by birth a Scotchman. Hoop seems ''to to a sort of fixture
at Grandval, not bowman, therefore bt^i; and is shot at
for his lodging. A most .shrivelled, wind-dried, dyspeptic,
276 MISCELLANIES.
chill-shivering individual ; Professor of Life-weariness ; sits
dozing there, dozes there, however, with one eye open.
He submits to be called Mummy > without a shrug; cowers
over the fire, at the warmest corner. Yet is there a certain
sardonic subacidity in Pre Hoop ; when he slowly unlocks
his leathern jaw, we hear him with a sort of pleasure. Hoop
has been in various countries and situations ; in that croak-
ing metallic voice of his, can tell a distinct story. Diderot
apprehended he would one day hang himself: if so, what Mu-
seum now holds his remains ? The Parent Hoops, it would
seem, still dwelt in the city of Edinburgh ; he, the second
son, as Bourdeaux Merchant, having helped them thither,
out of some proud Manorhouse no longer weather-tight.
Can any ancient person of that city give us trace of such
a man ? It must be inquired into. One only of Father
Hoop's reminiscences we shall report, as the highest instance
on record of a national virtue : At the battle of Prestonpans,
a kinsman of Hoop's, a gentleman with gold rings on his
fingers, stands fighting and fencing for life with a rough
Highlander ; the Highlander, by some clever stroke, whisks
the jewelled hand clear off, and then picks it up from the
ground, sticks it in his sporran for future leisure, and fights
on I The force of vertue^ could no farther go.
It cannot be uninteresting to the general reader to learn,
that in the last days of October, in the year of grace 1770,
Denis Diderot over-ate himself (as he was in the habit of
doing), at Grandval ; and had an obstinate * indigestion of
bread.' He writes to Grimm that it is the worst of all indi-
gestions : to his fair Voland that it lay more than fifteen
hours on his stomach, with a weight like to crush the life
out of him ; would neither remonter nor descendre ; nor indeed
8 Virtus (properly manliness, the chief duty of man) meant, in old Rome, powet
0/fiffMing; means, in modern Rome, connoisseurship; in Scotland, thrift. ED.
DIDEROT. 277
stir a hairsbreadth for warm water, de quelque cotS que je la
(the warm water) prisse.
Clystfirium donare,
Ensuita purgare !
Such tilings, we grieve to say, are of frequent occurrence ;
the Holbachian table is ail-too plenteous ; there are cooks
too, we know, who boast of their diabolic ability to cause
the patient, by successive intensations of their art, to eat
with new and ever-new appetite, till he explode 011 the spot.
Diderot writes to his fair one, that his clothes will hardly
button, that he is thus * stuffed' and thus ; and so indiges-
tion succeeds indigestion. Such Narratives fill the heart of
sensibility with amazement; nor to the woes that chequer
this imperfect, caco-gastric state of existence is the tear
wanting.
The society of Grandval cannot be accounted very dull :
nevertheless let no man regretfully compare it with any
neighbourhood he may have drawn by lot, in the present
day; or even with any no-neighbourhood, if that be his
affliction. The gaiety at Grandval was of the kind that
could not last. Were it not that some Belief is left in Man-
kind, how could the sport of emitting Unbelief continue?
On which ground indeed, Swift, in his masterly argument
' Against abolishing the Christian Religion,' urges, not with-
out pathos, that innumerable men of wit, enjoying a coin^
fortable status by virtue of jokes on the Catechiism, would
hereby be left without pabulum, the staff of life cut away
from their hand. The Holbachs were blind to this consider-
ation; and joked away, as if it would last forever. So too
with regard to Obscene Talk: where were the merit of
a riotous Mother-in-law saying and doing, in public, these
never-imagined scandals, had not a cunningly-devised fablei
278 MISCELLANIES.
of Modesty been get afloat; were there not some remnants
of Modesty still extant among the unphilosophic classes?
The Samoeids (according to Travellers) have few double-
meanings ; among stall-cattle the witty effect of such is lost
altogether. Be advised, then, foolish old woman! 'Burn
not thy bed / the light of it will soon go out, and then ?
Apart from the common household topics, which the * daily
household epochs' bring with them everywhere, two main
elements, we regret to say, come to light in the conversation
at Grandval ; these, with a spicing of Noble-sen timeiit, are,
unfortunately, Blasphemy and Bawdry. Whereby, at this
distance, the whole matter grows to look poor and effete;
and we can honestly rejoice that it all has been, and need
not be again.
But now, hastening back to Paris, friend Diderot finds
proof-sheets enough on his desk, and notes, and invitations,
mid applications from distressed men of letters ; neverthe-
less runs over, in the first place, to seek news from the
Voland ; will then see what is to be done. He writes much ;
talks and visits much : besides the Savans, Artists, spiritual
Notabilities, domestic or migratory, of the period, he has a
liberal allowance of unnotable Associates; especially a whole
bevy of young or oldish, mostly rather spiteful Women ; in
whose gossip he is perfect. We hear the rustling of their
silks, the clack of their pretty tongues, tittle-tattle c like
their pattens when they walk ;' and the sound of it, fresh
as yesterday, through this long vista of Time, has become
significant, almost prophetic. Life could not hang heavy
on Diderot's hands : he is a vivid, open, all-embracing crea-
ture; could have found occupation anywhere; has occupa-
tion liere forced on him, enough and to spare. 'He had
* much to do, and did much of his own/ says Mademoiselle;
* yet three-fourths of his life were employed in helping who
DIDEROT, 279
5 soever liad need of his purse, of Ms talents, of Ins manage-
' ment : his study, for the five-and-twenty years I knew it,
* was like a well-frequented shop, where, as one customer
* went, another came.' He could not find in his heart to
refuse any one. He has reconciled Brothers, sought out Tu-
torages, settled Lawsuits ; solicited Pensions ; advised, and
refreshed hungry Authors, instructed ignorant ones : he has
written advertisements for incipient helpless Grocers; he
once wrote the dedication (to a pious Due d'Orl^ans) of a
lampoon against himself, and so raised some five-and-
twenty gold louis for the famishing lampooner. For all
these things, let not the light Diderot want his reward with
us! Other reward, except from himself he got none; but
often the reverse ; as in his little Drama, La Piece et le Pro-
logue, may be seen humorously and good-humouredly set
forth under his own hand. Indeed, his clients, by a vast
majority, were of the scoundrel species; in any case, Denis
knew well, that to expect gratitude, is to deserve ingrati-
tude. * Riviere well contented' (hear Mademoiselle) *now
6 thanks my father, both for his services and his advices ;
6 sits chatting another quarter of an hour, and then takes
6 leave ; my father shows him down. As they are on the
* stairs, Riviere stops, turns round, and asks : " M. Diderot,
* are you acquainted with Natural History T " Why, a little ;
* 1 know an aloe from a sago, a pigeon from a colibri" "Do
* you know the history of the Formica-leo T "No.* 1 **It is a
* little insect of great industry : it digs a hole in the groujid
c like a reversed funnel ; covers the top with fine light sand ;
* entices foolish insects to it ; takes them, sucks them, theii
* says to them : M. Diderot, I have tlie honour to wish you
* good-day.'* My father stood laughing Hke to split at this
* adventure.'
Thus, amid labour and recreation; questionable
280 MISCELLANIES.
ture, unquestionable Loves; eating and digesting, better or
worse ; in gladness and vexation of spirit, in laughter ending
in sighs, does Diderot pass his days. He has been hard
toiled, but then well flattered, and is nothing of a hypochon-
driac. What little service renown can do him, may now be
considered as done: he is in the centre of the literature,
science, art, of his nation; not numbered among the Aca-
demical Forty, yet in his heterodox heart entitled to be
almost proud of the exclusion ; successful in Criticism, suc-
cessful in Philosophism, nay, highest of sublunary glories,
successful in the Theatre ; vanity may whisper, if she please,
that, excepting the unattainable Voltaire alone, he is the
first of Frenchmen. High heads are in correspondence with
him the low-born ; from Catherine the Empress to Philidor
the Chess-player, he is in honoured relation with all manner
of men ; with scientific Buffons, Eulers, D'Alemberts ; with
artistic Falconnets, Vanloos, Eiccobonis, Garricks. He was
ambitious of being a Philosophe ; and now the whole fast-
growing sect of Philosophes look up to him as their head
and mystagogue. To Denis Diderot, when he stept out of
the Langres Diligence at the College d'Harcoxirt ; or after-
wards, when he walked in the subterranean shades of Ras-
caldom, with uneasy s,teps over the burning marl, a much
smaller destiny would have seemed desirable.
Within doors, again, matters stand rather disjointed, as
surely they might well do: however, Madame Diderot is
always true and assiduous ; if one Daughter talk enthusi-
astically, and at length (though her father has written the
Religieuse) die mad in a convent, the other, a quick, intelligent,
graceful girl, is waxing into womanhood, and takes after
the father's Philosophism, leaving the mother's Piety far
enough aside. To which elements of mixed good and $vil
from without, add this so incalculably favourable one from
DIDEROT. 281
within, that of all literary men Diderot is the least a self-
listener ; none of your puzzling, repenting, forecasting, ear-
nest-bilious temperaments, but sanguineous-lymphatic every
fibre of him, living lightly from hand to mouth, in a world
mostly painted rose-colour.
The JUncyclopddie, after nigh thirty years of endeavour, to
which only the Siege of Troy may offer some faint parallel,
is finished. Scattered Compositions of all sorts, printed or
manuscript, making many Volumes, lie also finished; the
Philosophe has reaped no golden harvest from them. He is
getting old : can live out of debt, but is still poor. Thinking
to settle his daughter in marriage, he must resolve to sell
his Library; money is not otherwise to be raised. Here,
however, the Northern Cleopatra steps imperially forward ;
purchases his Library for its full value ; gives him a hand-
some pension, as Librarian to keep it for her ; and pays him
moreover fifty years thereof by advance in ready-money.
This we call imperial (in a world so necessitous as ours),
though the whole munificence did not, we find, cost above
three thousand pounds ; a trifle to the Empress of All the
Russias. In fact, it is about the sum your first-rate king
eats, as board-wages, in one day ; who, however, has seldom
sufficient ; not to speak of charitable overplus. In admira-
tion of his Empress, the vivid Philosophe is now louder than
ever ; he even breaks forth into rather husky singing. Who
shall blame him 1 The Northern Cleopatra (whom, in any
case, he must regard with other eyes than we) has stretched
out a generous helping hand to him, where otherwise there
was no help, but only hindrance and injury : all men will,
and should, more or less, obey the proverb, to praise the fair
as their own market goes in it.
One of the last great scenes in Diderot's Life is his per-
sonal visit to this Benefactress. There is but one Lettei
282 MISCELLANIES.
from liim with. Petersburg for date, and that of ominous
brevity. The Philosophe was of open, unheedful, free-and-
easy disposition ; Prince and Polisson were singularly alike
to him; it was 'hail fellow well met,* with every Son of
Adam, be his clothes of one stuff or the other. Such a man
could be no court-sycophant, was ill-calculated to succeed at
court. We can imagine that the Neva-colic, and the cha-
racter of the Neva-water, were not the only things hurtful
to his nerves there. For King Denis, who had dictated such
wonderful anti-regalities in the Abbe Eaynal's History ; 4 and
himself, in a moment of sibylism, emitted that surprising
announcement, surpassing all yet uttered or utterable in the
Tyrtaean way, how
SGS mains (the freeman's) ourderaient les entrailles du prfitre,
Au defaut d t un cordon, pour etr angler les rois;
for such a one, the climate of the Neva must have had
something oppressive in it. The entrailles du prtre were,
indeed, much at his service here, could he get clutch of
them ; but only for musical phflosophe fiddle-strings ; nowise
for a eordon t
Nevertheless, Cleopatra is an uncommon woman (or ra-
ther an uncommon man), and can put-up with many things ;
4 " But who dare stand for this ?" would Diderot exclaim. " I will, 1 1*' eagerly
responded fclie Abbe: " do but proceed." (A la Memoirs de Diderot, by De Meister.)
Was the following one of the passages?
'Hapjnly these perverse instructors' of Kings 'are chastised, sooner or later, by
* the ingratitude and contempt of their pupils. Happily, these pupils too, miserable
* in the bosom of grandeur, are tormented all their life by a deep ennui, which they
* cannot banish from their palaces. Happily, the religious prejudices, which, have
* been planted in their souls, return on them to affright them. Happily, the
* ttMffanfrdl sHuee of their people teaches them, from time to time, the deep hatred
* thai is borne them. Happily, they are too cowardly to despise that hatred.
* 'Happily '(AaNraffftMi) 'after a life which no mortal, not even the meanest of
1 thair ttdbjeota, would accept, if he knew all its wretchedness, they find black in-
* qpaetadti, tabror tad despair* seated on the pillow of their death-bed (Us novre
* MgwMftutet ,te torewr # le dSmpew* ams au <tee de teur lit de ww2).' Surely,
1 Mugs few* p-ooir fenes of It, to be juii foul of by the like of thee' I
DIDEROT. 2S
and, in a gentle skilful way, make tlie crooked straight.
As her Philosophe presents Mmself in common apparel, she
sends him a splendid court-suit; and as he can now enter
in a civilised manner, she sees him often, confers with him
largely : by happy chance, Grimm too at length arrives ;
and the winter passes without accident. Eeturning home
in triumph, he can express himself contented, charmed
with his reception; has mineral specimens, and all manner
of hyperborean memorials for friends; unheard-of things
to tell ; how he crossed the bottomless half-thawed Dwiiia,
with the water boiling up round his wheels, the ice bend-
ing like leather, yet crackling like mere ice, and slmd-
dered, and got through safe ; how he was carried, coach and
all, into the ferry-boat at Mittau, on thirty wild men's backs,
who floundered in the mud, and nigh broke his shoulder-
blade ; how he investigated Holland, and had conversed
with Empresses, and High Mightinesses, and principalities
and powers ; and so seen and conquered, for his own spixitual
behoof, several of the Seven Wonders.
But, alas ! his health is broken ; old age is knocking at
the gate, like an importunate creditor, who has warrant for
entering. The radiant lightly-bounding soul is now getting
all dim and stiff, and heavy with sleep ; Diderot too must
adjust himself, for the hour draws nigh. These last years
he passes retired and private, not idle or miserable. Philo-
sophy or Philosophism has nowise lost its charm; whatso-
ever so much as calls itself Philosopher can interest him.
Thus poor Seneca, on occasion of some new Version of his
Works, having come before the public, and been roughly
dealt with, Diderot, with a long, last, concentrated effort,
writes his Vie de Slneque; straggling to make the hollow
solid. Which, alas, after all his tinkering still sounds hol-
low ; and notable Seneca, so wistfully desirous to stand well
284 MISCELLAXIES*
with Truth, and yet not ill with Nero, is and remains only
our perhaps niceliest-proportioned Half-and-half, the plausi-
blest Plausible on record; no great man, no true man, no
man at all ; yet how much lovelier than such, as the mild-
spoken, tolerating, charity -sermoning, immaculate Bishop
Dogbolt to some rude, self-helping, sharp-tongued Apostle
Paul! Under which view, indeed, Seneca (though surely
erroneously, for the origin of the thing was different) has
been called, in this generation, * the father of all such as
wear shovel-hats.'
The Vie de Senegite, as we said, was Diderot's last effort.
It remains only to be added of him, that he too died; a
lingering but quiet death, which took place on the 30th of
July 1784. He once quotes from Montaigne the following,
as Sceptic's viaticum: I plunge stupidly, head foremost,
* into this dumb Deep, which swallows me, and chokes me,
* in a moment, Ml of insipidity and indolence. Death,
* which is but a quarter of an hour's suffering, without con-
* sequence and without injury, does not require peculiar
* precepts.' It was Diderot's allotment to die with all due
* stupidity;' he was leaning on his elbows; had eaten an
apricot two minutes before, and answered his wife's remon-
strances with: "Mais que diaUe de mal veux-tu que cela me
fosse? (How the deuce can that hurt me?)" She spoke
again, and he answered not. His House, which the curious
will visit when they go to Paris, was in the Eue Taranne,
at the intersection thereof with the Rue Saint-Benoit. The
dust that was once his Body went to mingle with the com-
mon earth, in the church of Saint-Eoch ; his Life, the won-
cbtyqs manifold Force that was in him, that was He,
resumed to ETERNITY, and is there, and continues there !
Two things, as we saw, are celebrated of Diderot First,
DIDEROT. 285
that Le had the most encyclopedical head ever seen in this
world : second, that he talked as never man talked ; pro-
perly, as never man his admirers had heard, or as no man
living in Paris then. That is to say, his was at once the
widest, fertilest, and readiest of minds.
With regard to the Encyclopedical Head, suppose it to
mean that he was of such vivacity as to admit, and look
upon with interest, almost all things which the circle of
Existence could offer him; in which sense, this exaggerated
laudation, of Encyclopedism, is not without its fraction of
meaning. Of extraordinary openness and compass we must
grant the mind of Diderot to be$ of a susceptibility, quick
activity; even naturally of a depth, and in its practical
realised shape, of a universality, which bring it into kindred
with the highest order of minds. On all forms of this won-
drous Creation he can look with loving wonder ; whatsoever
thing stands there, has some brotherhood with him, some
beauty and meaning for him. Neither is the faculty iv see
and interpret wanting; as, indeed, this faculty to see is in-
separable from that other faculty to look, from that true wish
to look; moreover (under another figure), Intellect is not a
tool, but a hand that can handle any tool. Nay, in Diderot
we may discern a far deeper universality than that shown,
or showable, in Lebreton's EmydopMie ; namely, a poetical ;
for, in slight gleams, this too manifests itself. A universality
less of the head than of the character; such, we say, is trace-
able in this man, at lowest the power to have acquired such.
Your true Encyclopedical is the Homer, the Shakspeare;
every genuine Poet is a living embodied, real Encyclopedia,
in more or fewer volumes ; were his experience, his in-
sight of details, never so limited, the whole world lies imaged
as a whole within him ; whosoever has not seized the whole
cannot yet speak truly (much less can he speak musically,
286 MISCELLANIES.
which is harmoniously, concordantly) of any part, but will
perpetually need new guidance, rectification. The fit use
of suck a mart is as hodman; not feeling the plan of the
edifice, let him carry stones to it ; if he build the smallest
stone, it is likeliest to be wrong, and cannot continue there.
But the truth is, as regards Diderot, this saying of the
encyclopedical head comes mainly from his having edited
a Bookseller's Encyclopedia, and can afford us little direc-
tion. Looking into the man, and omitting his trade, we
find him by nature gifted in a high degree with openness
and versatility, yet nowise in the highest degree; alas, hi
quite another degree than that. Nay, if it be meant farther
that in practice, as a writer and thinker, he has taken-in the
Appearances of Life and the World, and images them back
with such freedom, clearness, fidelity, as we have not many
times witnessed elsewhere, as we have not various times
seen infinitely surpassed elsewhere, this same encyclo-
pedical praise must altogether be denied him. Diderot's
habitual world, we must, on the contrary, say, is a half-
world, distorted into looking like a whole ; it is properly, a
poor, "fractional, insignificant world ; partial, inaccurate, per-
verted from end to end. Alas, it was the destiny of the
man to live as a Polemic ; to be born also in the morning-
tide and first splendour of the Mechanical Era ; not to know,
with the smallest assurance or continuance, that in the Uni-
verse other than a mechanical meaning could exist; which
force of destiny acting on him through his whole course,
we have obtained what now stands before us : no Seer, but
only possibilities of a Seer, transient irradiations of a Seer,
looking through the organs of a Philosophe.
These two considerations, which indeed are properly but
one (for a thinker, especially of French birth, in the Mecha-
uical Era, could not be other than a Polemic), must never for
DIDEROT. 287
a moment be left out of view in judging the works of Dide-
rot. It is a great truth, one side of a great truth, that the
Man makes the Circumstances, and spiritually as well as eco-
nomically is the artificer of his own fortune. But there is
another side of the same truth, that the man's circumstances
are the element he is appointed to live and work in $ that he
"by necessity takes his complexion, vesture, embodiment, from
these, and is in all practical manifestations modified by them
almost without limit; so that in another no less genuine
sense, it can be said Circumstances make the Man. Now,
if it continually behoves us to insist on the former truth
towards ourselves, it equally behoves us to bear in mind the
latter when we judge of other men. The most gifted soul,
appearing in France in the Eighteenth Century, can as little
embody himself in the intellectual vesture of an Athenian
Plato, as in the grammatical one ; his thoughts can no more
be Greek, than his language can. He thinks of the things
belonging to the French eighteenth century, and in the
dialect he has learned there; in the light, and under the
conditions prescribed there. Thus, as the most original,
resolute and self-directing of all the Moderns has written :
6 Let a man be but born ten years sooner, or ten years later,
* his whole aspect and performance shall be different.*
Grant, doubtless, that a certain perennial Spirit, true for all
times and all countries, can and must look through the think-
ing of certain men, be it in what dialect soever: understand
meanwhile that strictly this holds only of the highest order
of men, and cannot be exacted of inferior orders ; among
whom, if the most sedulous, loving inspection disclose any
even secondary symptoms of such a Spirit, it ought to seem
enough. Let us remember well that the high-gifted, high-
striving Diderot was Lorn in the point of Time and of Space,
when of all uses he could turn himself to, of all dialects
288 MISCELLANIES.
speak In, this of Polemical Philosophism, and no other,
seemed the most promising and fittest. Let us remember
too, that no earnest Man, in any Time, ever spoke what
was wholly meaningless ; that, in all human convictions,
much more In all human practices, there was a true side,
a fraction of truth; which fraction is precisely the thing we
want to extract from them, if we want anything at all to
do with them.
Such palliative considerations (which, for the rest, con-
cern not Diderot, now departed, and indifferent to them, but
only ourselves who could wish to see him, and not to mis-
see him) are essential, we say, through our whole survey of
his Opinions and Proceedings, generally so alien to our own ;
but most of all in reference to his head Opinion, properly
the source of all the rest, and more shocking, even horrible,
to us than all the rest : we mean his Atheism. David Hume,
dining once in company where Diderot was, remarked that
he did not think there were any Atheists. " Count us," said
a certain Monsieur : they were eighteen. " Well," said
the Monsieur , " it is pretty fair if you have fislied-out
fifteen at the first cast; and three others who know not
what to think of it." In fact, the case was common: your
Philosophe of the first water had grown to reckon Atheism
a necessary accomplishment. Gowktlirapple Naigeon, as
we saw, had made himself very perfect therein.
Diderot was an Atheist, then; stranger still, a prose-
lytising Atheist, who esteemed the creed worth earnest
reiterated preaching, and enforcement with all vigour I The
unhappy man had 'sailed through the Universe of Worlds
* and found no Maker thereof; had descended to the abysses
* where Being no longer casts its shadow, and felt only the
rain-drops trickle down; and seen only the gleaming rain-
* bow of Creation, which originated from no Sun ; and heard
DIDEROT. 289
' only the everlasting storm which no one governs ; and
* looked upwards for the DIVINE EYE, and beheld only the
* black, bottomless, glaring DEATH'S EYE-SOCKET :' such, with
all his wide voyagings, was the philosophic fortune he had
realised.
Sad enough, horrible enough: yet instead of shrieking
over it, or howling and Ernulphus'-cursing over it, let us,
as the more profitable method, keep our composure, and in-
quire a little, What possibly it may mean? The whole phe-
nomenon, as seems to us, will explain itself from the fact
above insisted on, that Diderot was a Polemic of decided
character, in the Mechanical Age. With great expenditure
of words and froth, in arguments as waste, wild- welter-
ing, delirious-dismal as the chaos they would demonstrate ;
which arguments one now knows not whether to laugh at
()}* to weep at, and almost does both, have Diderot and
his sect perhaps made this apparent to all who examine it:
That in the French System of Thought (called also the
Scotch, and still familiar enough everywhere, which for want
of a better title we have named the Mechanical), there is no
room for a Divinity; that to Mm, for whom intellect, or the
power of knowing and believing, is still synonymous with
logic, or the mere power of arranging and communicating,
there is absolutely no proof discoverable of a Divinity ; and
such a man. has nothing for it but either, if he be of half
spirit as is the frequent case, to trim despicably all his days
between two opinions ; or else, if he be of whole spirit, to
anchor himself on the rock or quagmire of Atheism, and
farther, should he see fit, proclaim to others that there is
good riding there. So much may Diderot have demonstrated :
a conclusion at which we nowise turn pale. Was it much
to know that Metaphysical Speculation, by nature, whirls
round in endless Mahlstroms, both c creating and swallow-
VOL. IX, (Misc. vol. 4.) U
290 MISCELLANIES.
ing itself? For so wonderful a self-swallowing product
of tlie Spirit of the Time, could any result to arrive at be
fitter than this of the ETERNAL No 1 We thank Heaven
that the result is finally arrived at; and so now we can
look out for something other and farther. But above all
things, proof of a God? A. probable God! The smallest of
Finites struggling to prove to itself, that is to say if we will
consider it, to picture-out and arrange as diagram, and in-
clude within itself, the Highest Infinite ; in which, by hypo-
thesis, it lives, and moves, and has its being! This, we
conjecture ? will one day seem a much more miraculous
miracle than that negative result it has arrived at, or any
other result a still absurcler chance might have led it to.
He who, in some singular Time of the World's History, were
reduced to wander about, in stooping posture, with painfully
constructed sulphur-match and farthing rushlight (as Gowk-
thrapple Naigeon), or smoky tar-link (as Denis Diderot),
searching for the Sun, and did not find it ; were he wonder-
ful and his failure; or the singular Time, and its having
put him on that search 1
Two small consequences, then, we fancy, may have fol-
lowed, or be following, from poor Diderot's Atheism. First,
that all speculations of the sort we call Natural Theology,
endeavouring to prove the beginning of all Belief by some
Belief earlier than the beginning, are barren, ineffectual,
impossible ; and may, so soon as otherwise it is profitable,
be abandoned. Of final causes, man, by the nature of the
case, can prove nothing ; knows them, if he know anything
of them, not by glimmering flint-sparks of Logic, but by an
infinitely higher light of intuition ; never long, by Heaven's
mercy, wholly eclipsed in the human soul ; and (under the
name of Faith, as regards this matter) familiar to us now,
historically or in conscious possession, for upwards of four
DIDEKOT. 291
thousand years. To all open men it will indeed always
be a favourite contemplation, that of watching the ways of
Being, how animate adjusts itself to inanimate, rational to
irrational, and this that we name Nature is not a desolate
phantasm of a chaos, but a wondrous existence and reality.
If, moreover, in those same ' marks of design/ as he has
called them, the contemplative man find new evidence of a
designing Maker, be it well for him : meanwhile, surely one
would think, the still clearer evidence lay nearer home,
in the contemplative man's own head that seeks after such !
In which point of view our extant Natural Theologies, as
our innumerable Evidences of the Christian Religion, and
suchlike, may, in reference to the strange season they ap-
pear in, have a certain value, and be worth printing and
reprinting ; only let us understand for whom, and how, they
are valuable ; and be nowise wroth with the poor Atheist,
whom they have not convinced, and could not, and should
not convince.
The second consequence seems to be, that this whole
current hypothesis of the Universe being * a Machine,' and
then of an Architect, who constructed it, sitting as it were
apart, and guiding it, and seeing it go, may turn-out an
inanity and nonentity; not much longer tenable: with which
result likewise we shall, in the quietest manner, reconcile
ourselves. * Think ye/ says Goethe, * that God made the
< Universe, and then let it run round his finger (am Finger
* laufen Hesse) f On the whole, that Metaphysical hurly-
burly, of our poor jarring, self- listening Time, ought at
length to compose itself: that seeking for a God there, and
not here ; everywhere outwardly in physical Nature, and not
inwardly in our own Soul, where alone He is to be found
by ^ begins to get wearisome. Above all, that * faint
possible Theism/ which now forma our common English
292 MISCELLANIES.
creed, cannot bo too soon swept out of the world. What
is tlie nature of that individual, who with hysterical violence
theoretically asserts a God, perhaps a revealed Symbol and
Worship of God; and for the rest, in thought, word and
conduct, meet with him where you will, is found living as
if his theory were some polite figure of speech, and his
theoretical God a mere distant Simulacrum, with whom he,
for his part, had nothing farther to do? Fool ! The ETERNAL
is no Simulacrum ; God is not only There, but Here or no-
where., til that life-breath of thine, in that act and thought
of thine, and thou wert wise to look to it. If there is no
God, as the fool hath said in his heart, then live on with
thy decencies, and lip-homages, and inward greed, and false-
hood, and all the hollow cunningly- devised halfness that
recommends thee to the Mammon of this world : if there
is a God, we say, look to it! But in either case, what
art thoul The Atheist is false; yet is there, as we see,
a fraction of truth in him ; he is true compared with thee ;
thou, unhappy mortal, livest wholly in a lie, art wholly
a lie.
So that Diderot's Atheism comes, if not to much, yet to
something : we learn this from it, and from what it stands
connected with, and may represent for us, That the Me-
chanical System of Thought is, in its essence, Atheistic ;
that whosoever will admit no organ of truth but logic, and
nothing to exist but what can be argued of, must even con-
tent himself with this sad result, as the only solid one he
can arrive at; and so with the best grace he can, ' of the
4 aether make a gas, of God a force, of the second world a
'coffin-' of man an aimless nondescript, 'little better than
' a kind of vermin.' If Diderot, by bringing matters to this
parting of the roads, have enabled or helped us to strike
into the truer and better road, let him have our thanks for
DIDEROT, 293
it. As to what remains, be pity our only feeling; was not
liis creed miserable enough; nay, moreover, did not he bear
its miserableness, so to speak, in our stead, so that it need
now be no longer borne by any one ?
In this same for him unavoidable circumstance, of the
age he lived in, and the system of thought universal then,
will be found the key to Diderot's whole spiritual character
and procedure; the excuse for much 111 him that to us is
false and perverted. Beyond the meagre ^rtmhlight of closet-
logic/ Diderot recognised no guidance. That 'the Highlit
cannot be spoken of in words,' wan a truth he had not dreamt
of. Whatsoever thing he cannot debate of, we might almost
say measure and weigh, and carry off with him to be oaten
and enjoyed, is simply not there for him. lie dwelt all his
days in the * thin, rind of the Conscious ; ! the deep fathom-
less domain of the Unconscious, whereon the other rests
and has its meaning, was not, under any shape, surmised
by him. Thus must the Sanctuary of Man's Soul stand per-
ennially shut against this man; where his hand ceased to
grope, the World ended: within such strait conditions had
he to live and labour. And naturally to distort and dislo-
cate, more or less, all things he laboured on: for whosoever,
in one way or another, recognises not that * Divine Idea of
the World, which lies at the bottom of Appearances/ can
rightly interpret no Appearance ; and whatsoever spiritual
thing he does, must do it partially, do it falsely.
Mournful enough, accordingly, is the account which Dide-
rot has given himself of Man's Existence ; on the duties,
relations, possessions whereof he had been a sedulous thinker.
In every conclusion we have this fact of his Mechanical cul-
ture. Coupled too with another fact honourable to him :
that he stuck not at half measures ; but resolutely drove-on
to the result, and held by it. So that we cannot call him
294 MISCELLANIES,
a Sceptic; he lias merited tlie more decisive name of Denier.
lie may be said to have -denied that there was any the
smallest Sacreduess in Man, or in the Universe ; and to
have both speculated and lived on this singular footing.
We behold in him the notable extreme of a man guiding
himself with the lenst spiritual Belief that thinking man
perhaps ever had. Religion, in all recognisable shapes and
senses, he has done what man can do to clear out of him.
He believes that pleasure is pleasant ; that a lie is unbeliev-
able ; and there Ids credo terminates ; nay there, what per-
haps makes his ease almost unique, Ms very fancy seems to
fall silent.
For a consequent man, all possible spiritual perversions
are included under that grossest one of ( proselytising Athe-
ism ;' the rest, of what land and degree soever, cannot any
longer astonish us. Diderot has them of all kinds and de-
grees : indeed, we might say, the French Philosophe (take
him at his word, for inwardly much that was foreign adhered
to him, do what he could) has emitted a Scheme of the
World, to which all that Oriental Mullah, Bonze or Talapoin
have done in that kind is poor and feeble. Omitting his
whole unparalleled Cosmogonies and Physiologies ; coming
to Iris much milder Tables of the Moral Law, we shall glance
here but at one minor external item, the relation between
man and man ; and at only one branch of this, and with
all slightness, the relation of covenants; for example, the
most important of these, Marriage.
Diderot has convinced himself, and indeed, as above
became plain enough, acts on the conviction, that Marriage,
contract it, solemnise it in what way you will, involves a
solecism which reduces the amount of it to simple zero. It
is a suicidal covenant ; annuls itself in the very forming.
* Thou makest a vow,' says he, twice or thrice, as if tho
DIDEEOT, 295
firmament were a clench er, Hliou makest a vow of eternal
< constancy under a rock, which is even then crumbling
< away.' True, Denis! the rock crumbles away: all tilings
are changing; man changes faster than most of them. That,
in the mean while, an Unchangeable lies under all this, and
looks forth, solemn and benign, through the whole destiny
and workings of man, is another truth; which no Mechanical
Philosophc, in the dust of Ms logic-mill, can be expected
to grind-out for himself. Man changes, and will change :
the question tlien arises, Is it wise in liim to tumble forth,
in headlong obedience to this love of change ; is it so much
as possible for him! Among the dualisms of man's wholly
dualistic nature, this we might fancy was an observable
one: that along with his unceasing tendency to change,
there is a no less ineradicable tendency to persevere. Were
man only here to change, let him, far from marrying, cease
even to hedge-in fields, and plough them; before the autumn
season, he may have lost the whim of reaping them. Let
him return to the nomadic state, and set his house on
wheels; nay there too a certain restraint must curb his
love of change, or his cattle will perish by incessant driving,
without grazing in the intervals. Denis, what things thou
babblest, in thy sleep ! How, in this world of perpetual
flux, shall man secure himself the smallest foundation, ex-
cept hereby alone: that he take preassruance of his Fate;
that in this and the other high act of his life, his Will,
with all solemnity, abdicate its right to change ; voluntarily
become involuntary, and say once for all, Be there then no
farther dubitation on it 1 Nay, the ^poor unheroic craftsman,;
that very stocking -weaver, on whose loom thou now as
amateur weavest : must not even he do as much, when
he signed his apprentice-indentures? The fool! who had
Biicli a relish in himself for all things, for kingship and
296 MISCELLANIES,
emperorship ; yet made a vow (under a penalty of death
by hunger) of eternal constancy to stocking-weaving. Yet
otherwise, were no thriving craftsmen possible ; only botch-
ers, bunglers, transitory nondescripts; unfed, mostly gal-
lows-feeding. But, on the whole, what feeling it was in
the ancient devout deep soul, which of Marriage made a
Sacrament: this, of all things in the world, is what Denis
will think of for aeons, without discovering. Unless, per-
haps, it were to increase the vestry-fees ?
Indeed, it must be granted, nothing yet seen or dreamt
of can surpass the liberality of friend Denis as magister mo-
rum ; nay, often our poor Philosophe feels called on, in an
age of such Spartan rigour, to step forth into the public
Stews, and emit his inspiriting Made virtute! there. Whither
let the curious in such matters follow him : we, having work
elsewhere, wish Mm i good journey,' or rather 4 safe return.'
Of Diderot's indelicacy and indecency there is for us but
little to say. Diderot is not what we call indelicate and
indecent ; he is utterly unclean, scandalous, shameless, sans-
culottic-saraoeidic. To declare with lyric fury that this is
wrong; or with historic calmness, that a pig of sensibility
would go distracted did you accuse him of it, may, espe-
cially in countries where ' indecent exposure' is cognisable
at police-offices, be considered superfluous. The only ques-
tion is one in Natural History: Whence comes it? What
may a man, not otherwise without elevation of mind, of
kindly character, of immense professed philanthropy, and
doubtless of extraordinary insight, mean thereby 1 ? To us
it is but another illustration of the fearless, all-for-logic,
thoroughly consistent, Mechanical Thinker. It coheres well
enough with Diderot's theory of man ; that there is nothing
of sacred either in man or around man; and that chimeras
are chimerical. How shall he for whom nothing, that cannot
DIDEROT. 297
ho jargoned of in debating-clubs, exists, have any faintest
forecast of the depth, significance, divineness of SILENCE ;
of the sacredness of < Secrets known to all' 1
Nevertheless, Nature is great ; and Denis was among
her nobler productions. To a soul of his sort something
like what we call Conscience could nowise be wanting : the
feeling of Moral Relation ; of the Infinite character thereof,
as the essence and soul of all else that can be felt or known,
must needs assert itself in him. Yet how assert itself? An
Infinitude to one in whose whole Synopsis of the Universe
110 Infinite stands marked ? Wonderful enough is Diderot's
method ; and yet not wonderful, for we see it, and have
always seen it, daily. Since there is nothing sacred in the
Universe, whence this sacredness of what you call Virtue ?
Whence or how comes it that you, Denis Diderot, must not
do a wrong thing ; could not, without some qualm, speak,
for example, one Lie, to gain Mahomet's Paradise with all
its houris ? There is no resource for It, but to get into that
interminable ravelment of Reward and Approval, virtue be-
ing its own reward ; and assert louder and louder, contrary
to the stern experience of all men, from the Divine Man,
expiring with agony of bloody sweat on the accursed tree,
down to us two, reader (if we have ever done one Duty),
that Virtue is synonymous with Pleasure. Alas ! was
Paul, an Apostle of the Gentiles, virtuous; and was virtue
its own reward, when his approving conscience told him
that he was 'the chief of sinners,' and if bounded to this life
alone, * of all men the most miserable"? Or has that same so
sublime Virtue, at bottom, little to do with Pleasure, if with
far other things'? Are Eudoxia, and Eusebeia, and Eutha-
nasia, and all the rest of them, of small account to Eu-
bosia and Eupepsia; and the pains of any moderately-paced
Career of Vice, Denis himself being judge, as a drop in the
208 MISCELLANIES*
bucket to the * Career of Indigestions' ? Tins is what Denis
never in this world will grant.
But what, then, will he do ? One of two things : admit,
with Grimm, that there are ' two justices/ which may be
called by many handsome names, but properly are nothing
but the pleasant justice, and the unpleasant ; whereof only
the former is binding! Herein, however, Nature has been
unkind to Denis ; he is not a literary court-toadeater ; but a
free, genial, even poetic creature. There remains, therefore,
nothing but the second expedient: to 'assert louder and
louder; 7 in other words, to become a Philosophe-Sentimen-
talist. Most wearisome, accordingly, is the perpetual clatter
kept up here about vertu, honnetet^ grandeur, sensibilitd, dmes
nobles; how unspeakably good it is to be virtuous, how plea-
sant, how sublime: In the Devil and his grandmother's
name, le virtuous ; and let us have an end of it ! In siich
sort (we will, nevertheless, joyfully recognise) does great
Nature in spite of all contradictions, declare her royalty,
her divineness ; and, for the poor Mechanical Philosophe, has
prepared, since the substance is hidden from him, a shadow
wherewith he can be cheered.
In fine, to our ill-starred Mechanical Philosophe-Senti-
mentalist, with his loud preaching and rather poor perform-
ing, shall we not, in various respects, * thankfully stretch-out
the hand' ? In all ways ' it was necessary that the logical
side of things should likewise be made available/ On the
whole, wondrous higher developments of much, of Morality
among the rest, are visible in the course of the world's
doings, at this day. A plausible prediction were that the
Ascetic System is not to regain its exclusive dominancy.
Ever, indeed, must Self-denial, 'Annihilation ofSelffbs the
beginning of all moral action: meanwhile, he that looks
well, may discern filaments of a nobler System, wherein this
DIDEROT, 299
lies Included as one harmonious element. Who knows, for
example, what new tmfoldings and complex adjustments
await us, before the true relation of moral Greatness to moral
Correctness, and their proportional value, can be established ?
How, again, is perfect tolerance for the Wrong to coexist
with ever-present conviction that Eight stands related to it,
as a God does to a Devil, an Infinite to an opposite Infi-
nite ? How, in a word, through what tumultuous vicissitudes,
after how many false partial efforts, deepening the confu-
sion, shall it at length be made manifest, and kept continu-
ally manifest, to the hearts of men, that the Good is not
properly the highest, but the Beautiful ; that the true Beau-
tiful (differing from the false, as Heaven does from Vaux-
hall) comprehends in it the Good? In some future century,
it may be found that Denis Diderot, acting and professing,
in wholeness and with full conviction, what the immense mul-
titude act " in halfness and without conviction, has, though.
by strange inverse methods, forwarded the result. It was
long ago written, the Omnipotent * maketh the wrath of the
wicked,' the folly of the foolish, to praise Him. 7 In any
case, Diderot acted it, and not we ; Diderot bears it, and not
we : peace be with Diderot !
The other branch of his renown is excellence as a Talker.
Or in wider view, think his admirers, his philosophy was not
more surpassing than his delivery thereof. What his philo-
sophy amounts to, we have been examining: but now, that in
this other conversational province he was eminent, is easily
believed. A frank, ever-hoping, social character; a mind
full of knowledge, full of fervour ; of great compass, of great
depth, ever on the alert : such a man could not have other
than a c mouth of gold. 5 It is still plain, whatsoever thing
imaged itself before him was imaged in the most lucent clear-
ness ; was rendered back, with light labour, in corresponding
300 MISCELLANIES.
clearness. Whether, at the sama time, Diderot's conversa-
tion, relatively so superior, deserved the intrinsic character
of supreme, may admit of question. The worth of words
spoken depends, after all, on the wisdom that resides in
them; and in Diderot's words there was often too little of
this. Vivacity, far-darting brilliancy, keenness of theoretic
vision, paradoxical ingenuity, gaiety, even touches of hum-
our; all this must have been here : whosoever had preferred
sincerity, earnestness, depth of practical rather than theo-
retic insight, with not less of impetuosity, of clearness and
sureness, with humour, emphasis, or such other melody or
rhythm as that utterance demanded, must have come over
to London ; and, with forbearaiit submissiveness, listened to
our Johnson. Had we the stronger man, then? Be it
rather, as in that duel of Coeiir-de-Lion with the light, nim-
ble, yet also invincible Saladin, that each nation had the
strength which most befitted it.
Closely connected with this power of conversation is
Diderot's facility of composition. A talent much celebrated;
numerous really surprising proofs whereof are on record :
how he wrote long works within the week ; sometimes with-
in almost the four-and-twenty hours. Unhappily, enough
still remains to make such feats credible. Most of Dide-
rot's Works bear the clearest traces of extemporaneousness ;
stans pede in uno ! They are much liker printed talk, than
the concentrated well-considered utterance which, from a
man of that weight, we expect to see set in types. It is
said, 'he wrote good pages, but could not write a good
book.* Substitute did not for could not; and there is truth
in the saying. Clearness, as has been observed, comprehen-
sibility at a glance, is the character of whatever Diderot
wrote : a clearness which, in visual objects, rises into the
region of the Artistic, and resembles that of Richardson or
DIDEROT.
Defoe. Yet, grant that lie makes Ins meaning clear, what
is the nature of that meaning itself? Alas, for most part,
only a hasty, flimsy, superficial meaning, with gleams of a
deeper vision peering through. More or less of disorder
reigns in all Works that Diderot wrote ; not order, but the
plausible appearance of such : the true heart of the matter is
not found ; ' he skips deftly along the radii, and skips over
the centre, and misses it.'
Thus may Diderot's admired Universality and admired
Facility have both turned to disadvantage for him. We
speak not of his reception by the world: this indeed is the
4 age of specialties ;' yet, owing to other causes, Diderot the
Encyclopedist had success enough. But, what is of far more
importance, his inward growth was marred : the strong tree
shot not up in any one noble stem, bearing boughs, and
fruit, and shade all round ; but spread out horizontally, after
a very moderate height, into innumerable branches, not use-
less, yet of quite secondary use. Diderot could have been
an Artist ; and he was little better than an Encyclopedic
Artisan. No smatterer, indeed ; a faithful artisan ; of really
universal equipment, in his sort : he did the work of many
men ; yet nothing, or little, which many could not have done.
Accordingly, his Literary Works, now lying finished some
fifty years, have already, to the most surprising degree,
shrunk in importance. Perhaps no man so much talked
of is so little known; to the great majority he is no longer
a Reality, but a Hearsay. Such, indeed, partly is the
natural fate of Works Polemical, which almost all Diderot's
are. The Polemic annihilates his opponent; but in so doing
annihilates himself too, and both, are swept away to make
room for something other and farther. Add to this, the
slight-textured transitory character of Diderot's style ; and
the fact is well enough explained. Meanwhile, let him to
302 MISCELLANIES.
whom it applies consider it ; him among whoso gifts it waa
to rise into the Perennial, and who dwelt rather low down
in the Ephemeral, and ephemerally fought and scrambled
there! Diderot the great has contracted into Diderot the
easily-measurable : so must it be with others of the like.
In how many sentences can the net-product of all that
tumultuous Atheism, printed over many volumes, be com-
prised! Nay, the whole Encyclopedic, that world's wonder
of the eighteenth century, the Belus' Tower of an age of
refined Illumination, what has it become 1 Alas, no stone
tower, that will stand there as our strength and defence
through all times ; but, at best, a wooden Helcpolis (City-
taker), wherein stationed, the Philosophus Polieastcr has
burnt and battered- down many an old ruinous Sorbonne ;
and which now, when that work is pretty well over, may, in
turn, be taken asunder, and used as firewood. The famed
Encyclopedical Tree itself has proved an artificial one, and
borne no fruit. We mean that, in its nature, it is mechanical
only; one of those attempts to parcel-out the invisible mys-
tical Soul of Man, with its infinitude of phases and character,
into shop-lists of what are called 'faculties,' * motives,' and
suchlike ; which attempts may indeed be made with all de-
grees of insight, from that of a Doctor Spurzheim to that of
Denis Diderot or Jeremy Bentham ; and prove useful for a
day, but for a day only.
Nevertheless it were false to regard Diderot as a Me-
chanist and nothing more; as one working and grinding
blindly in the mill of mechanical Logic, joyful with his lot
there, and unconscious of any other. Call him one rather
who contributed to deliver us therefrom : both by his manful
whole spirit as a Mechanist, which drove all things to their
ultimatum and crisis ; and even by a dim -struggling faculty,
which virtually aimed beyond this. Diderot, we said, wag
DIDEROT, 303
gifted by Nature for an Artist : strangely flashing through
his mechanical encumbrances, are rays of thought, which
belong to the Poet, to the Prophet ; which, in other environ-
ment, could have revealed the deepest to us. Not to seek
far, consider this one little sentence, which he makes the
last of the dying Sanderson : ( Le temps, la matiere et Fespace
4 ne sont peut-etre quun point (Time, Matter and Space are
6 perhaps but a point) P
So too in Art, both as a speaker and a doer, he is to be
reckoned as one of those who pressed forward irresistibly
out of the artificial barren sphere of that time, into a truer
genial one. His Dramas, the Fils Naturel, the Pere de l^a-
mille, have indeed ceased to live ; yet is the attempt towards
great things visible in them ; the attempt remains to us,
and seeks otherwise, and has found, and is finding, fulfil-
ment. Not less in his Sctlons (Judgments of Art-Exhibitions),
written hastily for Grimm, and by ill chance on artists of
quite secondary character, do we find the freest recognition
of whatever excellence there is ; nay an Impetuous endea-
vour, not critically, but even creatively, towards something
more excellent. Indeed, what with their unrivalled clear-
ness, painting the picture over again for us, so that we too
see it, and can judge it ; what with their sunny fervour,
inventiveness, real artistic genius, which wants nothing
but a hand, they are, with some few exceptions in the
German tongue, the only Pictorial Criticisms we know of
worth reading. Here too, as by his own practice in the
Dramatic branch of art, Diderot stands forth as the main
originator, almost the sole one in his own country, of that
many-sided struggle towards what is called Nature, and
copying of Nature, and faithfulness to Nature ; a deep in-
dispensable truth, subversive of the old error ; yet under
that figure, only a half-truth, for Art too is Art, as surely
304 MISCELLANIES.
as Nature is Nature ; which struggle, meanwhile, either as
half-truth, or working itself into a whole truth, may be
seen, in countries that have any Art, still forming the tend-
ency of all artistic endeavour. In which sense, Diderot's
Essay on Painting has been judged worth translation by
the greatest modern Judge of Art, and greatest modern
Artist, in the highest kind of Art; and maybe read anew,
with argumentative commentary and exposition, in Goethds
Works.
Nay, let us grant, with pleasure, that for Diderot himself
the realms of Art were not wholly un visited ; that he too,
so heavily imprisoned, stole Promethean fire. Among these
multitudinous, most miscellaneous Writings of his, in great
part a manufactured farrago of Philosophism no longer sale-
able, and now looking melancholy enough, are two that
we can almost call Poems ; that have something perennially
poetic in them : Jacques le Fataliste ; in a still higher degree,
the Neveu de Rameau. The occasional blueness of both ; even
that darkest indigo in some parts of the former, shall not
altogether affright us. As it were, a loose straggling sun-
beam flies here over Man's Existence in France, now nigh a
century behind us : ' from the height of luxurious elegance
to the depths of shamelessness,' all is here. Slack, careless
seems the combination of the picture; wriggling, disjointed,
like a bundle of flails ; yet strangely united in the painter's
inward unconscious feeling. Wearisomely crackling wit gets
silent; a grim, taciturn, dare-devil, almost Hogarthian hu-
mour rises in the back-ground. Like this there is nothing
that we know of in the whole range of French literature :
La Fontaine is shallow in comparison ; the La Bruyere wit-
species not to be named. It resembles Don Quixote ra~
ther ; of somewhat similar stature ; yet of complexion alto-
gether different; through the one looks a sunny Elysium,
DJDEKUT. 305
through the other a sulphurous Erebus : both hold of the
Infinite. This Jacques^ perhaps, was not quite so hastily
put together : jet there too haste Is manifest : the Author
finishes it off, not hy working-out the figures and move-
ments, hut by dashing his brush against the canvas ; a man-
oeuvre which in this case has not succeeded. The Rameau's
NepJiew, which is the shorter, Is also the better ; may pass
for decidedly the best of all Diderot's compositions. It looks
like a Sibylline utterance from a heart all In fusion: no
ephemeral thing (for it was written as a Satire on Palissot)
was ever more perennially treated. Strangely enough too,
it lay some fifty years in German and Russian Libraries;
came out first in the masterly version of Goethe, in 1805 :
and only (after a deceptive ^-translation by a M. Saur. a
courageous mystifier otherwise) reached the Paris public in
1821, when perhaps all for whom and against whom It
was written were no more ! It is a farce-tragedy ; and its
fate has corresponded to its purport. One day It must also
be translated into English; but will require to be done by
head; the common steam-machineiy will not properly suffice
for it
We here (con la locca dolce) take leave of Diderot in his
intellectual aspect, as Artist and Thinker: a richly endowed,
unfavourably situated nature; whose effort, much marred,
yet not without fidelity of aim, can triumph, on rare occa-
sions; and is perhaps nowhere utterly fruitless. In the
moral aspect, as Man, he makes a somewhat similar figure ;
as indeed, in all men, In him especially, the Opinion and
the Practice stand closely united ; and as a wise man has
remarked, < the speculative principles are often but a supple-
ment (or excuse) to the practical manner of life.' In con-
duct, Diderot can nowise seem admirable to us ; yet neither
VOL. IX. (Misc. vol. 4 ) X
SOB
inexcusable; on tho whole, not at all quite worthies?. La-
vater traced in his physiognomy 'something timorous;'
which reading his friends admitted to be a correct one.
Diderot, in truth, is no hero : the earnest soul, wayfaring
and warfarin g in the complexities of a World like to over-
whelm him, yet wherein he by Heaven's grace will keep
faithfully war faring, prevailing or not, can derive small
solaceinent from this light, fluctuating, not to say flimsy
existence of Diderot: no Gospel in that kind has he left us.
The man, in fact, with all his high gifts, had rather a female
character. Susceptible, sensitive, living by impulses, which
at best lie Lad fashioned into some show of principles ; with
vehemence enough, with even a female uncontrollableiiess ;
with little of manful steadfastness, coneiderateness, invinci-
bility. Thus, too, we find him living mostly in the society
of women, or of men who, like women, flattered him, and
made life easy for him ; recoiling with horror from an earn-
est Jean Jacques, who understood not the science of walk-
ing in a vain show ; but imagined, poor man, that truth wa&
there as a thing to be told, as a tiling to be acted.
We call Diderot, then, not a coward; yet not in any
sense a brave man. Neither towards himself, nor towards
others, was he brave. All the virtues, says M. de Meister,
which require not * a great suite (sequency) of ideas' were
his ; all that do require such a suite were not his. In other
words, what duties were easy for him he did: happily Na-
ture had rendered several easy. His spiritual aim, more-
over, seemed not so much to be enforcement, exposition of
Duty, as discovery of a Duty-made-easy. Natural enough
that he should strike into that province of sentiment, cceur
nolle and so forth, Alas, to declare that the beauty of virtue
is beautiful, costs comparatively little : to win it, and wear
it, is quite another enterprise, wherein the loud braggart,
DIDEftOT. 307
we know, is not the likeliest to succeed. On tlie whole,
peace "be with sentiment, for that also lies behind us ! For
the rest, as hinted, what duties were difficult our Diderot
left undone. How should he, the COBUT sensible, front such a
monster as Pain? And now, since misgivings cannot fail in
that course, what is to be done but fill-up all asperities with
floods of sensililit^ and so voyage more or less smoothly
along? JEst-il Ion? Est-il mfohant? is his own account of
himself. At all events, lie was no voluntary hypocrite;
that great praise can be given him.. Aud thus with Me-
chanical Philosophism, and passion vioe; working, flirting;
* with more of softness than of true affection, sometimes
* with the malice and rage of a child, but on the whole an
* inexhaustible fund of goodiiatured simplicity/ has he come
down to us, for better or worse : and what can we do but
receive him ?
If now we and our reader, reinterpreting for our present
want that Life and Performance of Diderot, have brought it
clearer before us, be the hour spent thereon, were it even
more wearisome, no profitless one ! Have we not striven to
unite our own brief present moment more and more com-
pactly with the Past and with the Future; have we not
done what lay at our hand towards reducing that same
Memoirism of the Eighteenth Century into History, and
* weaving' a thread or two thereof nearer to the conditioi i
of a web I
But finally, if we rise with this matter, as we should try
to do with all matters, into the proper region of Universal
History, and look on it with the eye not of this time or
of that time, but of Time at large, perhaps 'the prediction
might stand here, That intrinsically, essentially little lies
in it; that one day when the net-result of our European
way of life comes to be summed-up, this whole as yet so
308 MISCELLANIES.
boundless concern of French Philosopliism will dwindle
into tlie thinnest of fractions, or vanish into nonentity !
Alas, while the rude History and Thoughts of those same
'Juifs nnsL'ralles, 9 the barbaric Warsong of a Deborah and
Barak, the rapt prophetic Utterance of an unkempt Isaiah,
last now, with deepest significance, say only these three
thousand years, what has the thrice-resplendent Encyclo-
pedia shrivelled into within these threescore! This is a
fact which ? explain it, express it, in what way he will, your
Encyclopedist should actually consider. Those were tones
caught from the sacred Melody of the All, and have harmony
and meaning forever; these of his are but outer discords, and
their jangling dies away without result. s The special, sole
* and deepest theme of the World's and Man's History,' says 1
the Thinker of our time, c whereto all other themes are sub-
* ordinated, remains the Conflict of UNBELIEF and BELIEF.
* All epochs wherein Belief prevails, under what form it
< may, are splendid, heart-elevating, fruitful for contempo-
* raries and posterity. All epochs, on the contrary, wherein
* Unbelief, under what form soever, maintains its sorry
* victory, should they even for a moment glitter "with, a
* sham splendour, vanish from the eyes of posterity ; be-
1 cause no one chooses to burden himself with study of the
4 unfruitful.'
COUNT CAGLTOSTRO.
COUNT CAGLIOSTBO.
IH TWO FLIGHTS. 1
[1833.]
FLIGHT FIEST.
1 THE life of every man, says our friend Serr Sauerteig,
' the life even of the meanest man, it were good to remexn-
4 ber, is a Poem; perfect in all manner of Aristotelean re-
6 qnisites; with beginning, middle and end; with perplexities,
' and solutions; with its Will -strength (Willenfmtft) and
* warfare against Fate, its elegy and battle-singing, courage
* marred by crime, everywhere the two tragic elements of
< Pity and Fear ; above all, with supernatural machinery
6 enough, for was not the man lorn out of NONENTITY ; did
* he not die, and miraculously vanishing return thither? The
4 most indubitable Poem ! Nay, whoso will, may he not
* name it a Prophecy, or whatever else is highest in his
* vocabulary | since only in Reality lies the essence and
* foundation of all that was ever fabled, visioned, sung,
* spoken, or babbled by the human species ; and the actual
' Life of Man includes in it all Revelations, true and false,
* that have been, are, or are to be. Man ! I say therefore,
* reverence thy fellow-man. He too issued from Above; is
1 ERASER'S MA.OA.ZINE, Nos. 43, 44 (July and August)*
312 MSCELLANIES.
* mystical and supernatural (as tliou namest It) : this know
* tliou of a truth. Seeing also that we ourselves are of so
'high. Authorship, is not that, in very deed, "the highest
* Reverence/' and most needful for us : " Eeverence for one-
6 Thus, to my view, is every Life, more properly is every
& Man that has life to lead, a small strophe, or occasional
* verse, composed by the Supernal Powers ; and published.,
in such type and shape, with such embellishments, em-
* blematie head-piece and tail-piece as thou seest, to the
6 thinking or unthinking Universe. Heroic strophes some
* few are ; full of force and a sacred fire, so that to latest
4 ages the hearts of those that read therein are made to
tingle. Jeremiads others seem ; mere weeping laments,
* harmonious or disharmonious Remonstrances against Des-
4 tiny; whereat we too may sometimes profitably weep.
6 Again, have we not flesh-and-blood strophes of the idyllic
* sort, though in these days rarely, owing to Poor-Laws,
4 Game-Laws, Population-Theories and the like ! Farther,
* of the comic laughter-loving sort ; yet ever with, an im-
* fathomable earnestness, as is fit, lying underneath : for,
< bethink thee, what is the mirthfulcst grinning face of any
* Grimaldi, but a transitory mask, behind which quite other-
4 wise grins the most indubitable Seatli s-Jiead ! However,
c I say farther, there are strophes of the pastoral sort (as
* in Ettrick, Afghaunistan, and elsewhere) ; of the farcio-
{ tragic, melodramatic, of all named and a thousand un-
6 namable sorts there are poetic strophes, written, as was
* said, in Heaven, printed on Earth, and published (bound
* in woollen cloth, or clothes) for the use of the studious.
< Finally, a small number seem utter Pasquils, mere ribald
libels on Humanity : these too^ however, are at times worth
6 reading.
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO, 313
* In tliis wise/ continues onr too obscure friend, ' out of
1 all imaginable elements, awakening all imaginable moods
6 of heart and soul, " barbarous enough to excite, tender
{ enough to assuage," ever contradictory yet ever coalescing,
* is that mighty world-old Ehapsodia of Existence page after
* page (generation after generation), and chapter (or epoch)
' after chapter, poetically put together ! This is what some
* one names " the grand sacred Epos, or Bible of World-
* History ; infinite in meaning as the Divine Mind it em-
* blems ; wherein he is wise that can read here a line, and
* there a line."
' Remark too^ under another aspect, whether it is not in
' this same Bible of World-History that all men, in all times,
' with or without clear consciousness, have been unwearied
( to read, what we may call read; and again to write, or
' rather to be written/ What is all History, and all Poesy,
' but a deciphering somewhat thereof, out of that mystic
6 heaven-written Sanscrit; and rendering it into the speech
4 of men? Know thyself, value thyself, is a moralist's com-
6 mandment (which I only half approve of) ; but Know others,
' value others, is the hest of Nature herself. Or again, Work
* ivhile it is called Today : is not that also the irreversible law
< of being for mortal man? And now, what is all working,
* what is all knowing, but a faint interpreting and a faint
6 showing-forth of that same Mystery of Life, which ever re-
* mains infinite. heaven-written mystic Sanscrit ? View it
< as we will, to him that lives, Life is a divine matter; felt
* to be of quite sacred significance. Consider the wretch-
' edest "straddling biped that wears breeches" of thy ao-
' quaintaiice; into whose wool-head, Thought, as tliou rashly
'supposest, never entered; who, in froth-element of busi-
4 ness, pleasure, or what else he names it, walks forever in
4 a vain show; asking not Whence, or Why, or Whither;
314 MISCELLANIES,
* looking tip to tlic Heaven above as If some upholsterer had
* made it, and down to the Hell beneath as if he had neither
* part nor lot there : yet tell me, does not he too, over and
* above his five finite senses, acknowledge some sixth infinite
i sense 3 were it only that of Vanity? For, sate him in the
* other five as you may, will this sixth sense leave him rest?
* Does he not rise early and sit late, and study impromptus,
' and (in constitutional countries) parliamentary motions, and
* bursts of eloquence, and gird himself in whalebone, and pad
6 himself and perk himself, and in all ways painfully take
6 heed to his goings ; feeling (if we must admit it) that an
altogether infinite endowment has been intrusted him also,
4 namely, a Life to lead? Thus does he too, with his whole
6 force, in his own way, proclaim that the world-old Ehap-
* sodia of Existence is divine, and an inspired Bible ; and,
* himself a wondrous verse therein (be it heroic, be it pas-
k quillic), study with his whole soul, as we said, both to
4 read and to be written I
6 Here also I will observe, that the manner in which men
* read this same Bible is, like all else, proportionate to their
* stage of culture, to the circumstances of their environment,
* First, and among the earnest Oriental nations, it was read
* wholly like a Sacred Book ; most clearly by the most
* earnest, those wondrous Hebrew Eeaders ; whose reading
* accordingly was itself sacred, has meaning for all tribes
* of mortal men; since ever, to the latest generation of the
6 world, a true utterance from the innermost of man's being
i will speak significantly to man. But, again, in how dif-
* ferent a style was that other Oriental reading of the Magi ;
* of Zerdusht, or whoever it was that first so opened the
4 matter! Gorgeous semi-sensual Grandeurs and Splendours:
* on infinite darkness, brightest-glowing light and fire ; of
* which, all defaced by Time, and turned mostly into lies,
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO, 315
* a quite late reflex, in those Arabian Tales and the like,
* still leads captive every heart. Look, thirdly, at the earn-
6 est West, and that Consecration of the Flesh, which stept
s forth life-lusty, radiant, smiling-earnest, in immortal grace,
c from under the chisel and the stylus of old Greece. Here
* too was the Infinite intelligibly proclaimed as infinite : and
the antique man walked between a Tartarus and an Ely-
' sium, his brilliant Paphos-islet of Existence embraced by
6 boundless oceans of sadness and fateful gloom. Of which
* three antique manners of reading, our modern manner., you
{ will remark, has been little more than imitation : for always,
* indeed, the West has been rifer of doers than of speakers.
i The Hebrew manner has had its echo in our Pulpits and
4 choral aisles ; the Ethnic Greek and Arabian in number-
' less mountains of Fiction, rhymed, rhymeless, published by
' subscription, by puffery, in periodicals, or by money of
' your own (durch eignes Geld). Till now at last, by dint
4 of iteration and reiteration through some ten centuries, all
* these manners have grown obsolete, wearisome, meaning-
Mess; listened to only as the monotonous moaning wind,
* while there is nothing else to listen to : and so now, well-
* nigh in total oblivion of the Infinitude of Life (except
* what small unconscious recognition the " straddling biped"
* above argued of may have), we wait, in hope and patience,
* for some fourth manner of anew convincingly announcing it'
These singular sentences from the JEsthetisclie Spring-
wurzeln we have thought right to translate and quote, by
way of proem and apology. We are here about to give
some critical account of what Herr Sauerteig would call a
* flesh-and-blood Poem of the purest Pasquil sort ;' in plain
words, to examine the biography of the most perfect scoun-
drel that in these latter ages has marked the world's history.
Pasquils too, says Sauerteig, fi are at times worth reading,"
816 MISCELLANIES.
Or quitting that mystic dialect of Ms, may we not assert
in our own way, that the history of an Original Man is
always worth knowing? So magnificent a thing is Will
incarnated in a creature of like fashion with ourselves, we
run to witness all manifestations thereof: what man soever
has marked out a peculiar path of life for himself, let it lead
this way or that way, and successfully travelled the same,
of him we specially inquire, How he travelled ; What befell
Mm on the journey? Though the man were a knave of the
first water, this hinders not the question, How he managed
his knavery? Nay it rather encourages such question; for
nothing properly is wholly despicable, at once detestable
and forgetable, but your half-knave, he who is neither true
nor false ; who never in his existence once spoke or did any
true thing (for indeed his mind lives in twilight, with cat-
vision, incapable of discerning truth) ; and yet had not the
manfulness to speak or act any decided lie; but spent his
whole life in plastering together the True and the False,
and therefrom manufacturing the Plausible. Such a one
our Transcendental^ have defined as a Moral Hybrid and
chimera ; therefore, under the moral point of view, as an
Impossibility, and mere deceptive Nonentity, put together
for commercial purposes. Of which sort, nevertheless, how
many millions, through all manner of gradations, from the
wielder of kings' sceptres to the vender of brimstone matches,
at tea-tables, council-tables, behind stop-counters, in priests'
pulpits, incessantly and everywhere, do now, in this world
of ours, in this Isle of ours, offer themselves to view !
From such, at least from this intolerable over-proportion
of such, might the merciful Heavens one day deliver us ! Glo-
rious, heroic, fruitful for his own Time, and for all Time and
all Eternity, is the constant Speaker and Doer of Truth ! If
no such again, in the present generation, is to be vouch.-
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 817
safed us, let us have at least the melancholy pleasure of
beholding a decided Liar, Wretched mortal, who with a
single eye to be 'respectable 5 forever sittest cobbling to-
gether two Inconsistencies, which stick not for an hour, but
require ever new gluten and labour, will it, by no length
of experience, no bounty of Time or Chance, be revealed
to thee that Truth is of 'Heaven, and Falsehood is of
Hell ; that if thou cast not from thee the one or the other,
thy existence is wholly an Illusion and optical and tactual
Phantasm ; that properly thou existest not at all ? Respect-
able! What, in the Devil's name, is the use of Eespecta-
bility, with never so many gigs and silver spoons, if thou
inwardly art the pitifulest of all men ? I would thou wert
either cold or hot.
One such desirable second-best, perhaps the chief of all
such, we have here found in the Count Alessandro di Cagli-
ostro, Pupil of the Sage Althotas, Foster-child of the Scherif
of Mecca, probable Son of the last King of Trebisond; named
also Acharat, and Unfortunate Child of Nature ; by profes-
sion healer of diseases, abolisher of wrinkles, friend of tho
poor and impotent, grand-master of the Egyptian Mason-
lodge of High Science, Spirit-summoner, Gold-cook, Grand
Cophta, Prophet, Priest, and thaumaturgic moralist and
swindler; really a Liar of the first magnitude, thorough-
paced in all provinces of lying, what one may call the King
of Liars. Mendez Pinto, Baron Miinchausen and others are
celebrated in this art, and not without some colour of jus-
tice ; yet must it in candour remain doubtful whether any
of these comparatively were much more than liars from the
teeth onwards: a perfect character of the species in ques-
tion, who lied not in word only, nor in act and word only,
but continually, in thought, word and act ; and, so to speak,
lived wholly in an element of lying, and from birth to death
318 MISCELLANIES.
did nothing but lie, was still a desideratum. Of which
desideratum Count Alessaadro offers, we say, if not the ful-
filment, perhaps as near an approach to it as the limited
human faculties permit. Not in the modern ages, probably
not in the ancient (though these had their Autolycus, their
Apollonius, and enough else), did any completer figure of
this sort issue out of Chaos and Old Night : a sublime kind
of figure, presenting himself with c the air of calm strength,*
of sure perfection in his art; whom the heart opens itself
to, with wonder and a sort of welcome. fi The only vice I
know/ says one, *is Inconsistency.' At lowest, answer we,
he that does his work shall have his work judged of. In-
deed, if Satan himself has in these days become a poetic
hero, why should not Cagliostro, for some short hour, be a
prose one ? ' One first question/ says a great Philosopher,
' 1 ask of every man : Has he an aim, which with undivided
soul he follows, and advances towards 1 Whether his aim
* is a right one or a wrong one, forms but my second ques-
* tion.' Here, then, is a small ' human Pasquil,' not without
poetic interest.
However, be this as it may, we apprehend the eye of
science at least cannot view him with indifference. Doubt-
ful, false as much is in Cagliostro's manner of being, of this
there is no doubt, that starting from the lowest point of
Fortune's wheel, he rose to a height universally notable ;
that, without external furtherance, money, beauty, bravery,
almost without common sense, or any discernible worth
whatever, he sumptuously supported, for a long course of
years, the wants and digestion of one of the greediest bodies,
and one of the greediest minds; outwardly in his five senses,
inwardly in his * sixth sense, that of vanity,' nothing strait-
ened. Clear enough it is, however much may be supposi*
titious, that this japanned Chariot, rushing through the
COUNT OAGLIOSTRO. 319
world, with dust-clouds and loud noise, at the speed of four
swift horses, and topheavy with luggage, has an existence.
The six Beef- eaters too, that ride prosperously heralding
his advent, honourably escorting, menially waiting on him,
are they not realities ? Ever must the purse open, paying
turnpikes, tavern-bills, drink-moneys, and the thousandfold
tear and wear of such a team ; yet ever, like a horn-of-
plenty, does it pour; and after brief rest, the chariot ceases
not to roll. Whereupon rather pressingly arises the scien-
tific question: How? Within that wonderful machinery, of
horses, wheels, top-luggage, beef- eaters, sits only a gross,
thickset Individual, evincing dulness enough; and by bis
side a Seraphina, with a look of doubtful reputation: IIOAV
comes it that means still meet ends, that the whole Engine,
like a steam -coach wanting fuel, does not stagnate, go
silent, and fall to pieces in the ditch? Such question did
the scientific curiosity of the present writer often put ; and
for many a day in vain.
Neither, indeed, as Book-readers know, was he peculiar
herein. The great Schiller, for example, struck both with
the poetic and the scientific phases of the matter, admitted
the influences of the former to shape themselves anew within
him ; and strove with his usual impetuosity to burst (since
unlocking was impossible) the secrets of the latter : and so
his unfinished Novel, the G-eisterseher, saw the light. Still
more renowned is Goethe's Drama of the Gross ~ Koplita ;
which, as himself informs us, delivered him from a state of
mind that had become alarming to certain friends ; so deep
was the hold this business, at one of its epochs, had taken
of him. A. dramatic Fiction, that of his, based on the strictest
possible historical study and inquiry ; wherein perhaps the
faithfolest image of the historical Fact, as yet extant in any
shape, lies in artistic miniature curiously unfolded. Nay
320 MISCELLANIES.
mere Newspaper-readers, of a certain age, can bethink thorn
of our London Egyptian Lodges of High Science; of the
Countess Seraptina's dazzling jewelries, nocturnal brillian-
cies, sibyllic ministrations and revelations ; of Miss Fry and
Milord Scott, and Messrs. Priddle and the other shark bailiffs;
and Lord Mansfield's judgment-seat; the Comte d'Adhemar,
the Diamond Necklace,, and Lord George Gordon, For Ca-
gliostro, hovering through unknown space, twice (perhaps
thrice) lighted on our London, and did business in the great
chaos there.
Unparalleled Cagliostro ! Looking at thy so attractively
decorated private theatre, wherein thou actedst and livedst,
what hand but itches to draw aside thy curtain; overhaul
thy paste-boards, paintpots, paper-mantles, stage-lamps, and
turning the whole inside out, find tJiee in the middle thereof!
For there of a truth wert thou : though the rest was all
foam and sham, there sattest t!iou> as large as life, and as
esurient ; warring against the world, and indeed conquering
the world* for it remained thy tributary, and yielded daily
rations. Innumerable Sheriffs-officers, Exempts, Sbirri, Al-
guazils, of every European climate, were prowling on thy
traces, their intents hostile enough ; thyself wert single
against them all; in the whole earth thou hadst no friend.
What say we, in the whole earth ? In the whole universe
thou hadst no friend ! Heaven knew nothing of thee ; could
in charity know nothing of thee ; and as for Beelzebub, his
friendship, it is ascertained, cannot count for much.
But to proceed with business. The present inquirer, in
obstinate investigation of a phenomenon so noteworthy, has
searched through the whole not inconsiderable circle which
his tether (of circumstances, geographical position, trade,
health, extent of money-capital) enables him to describe:
andj sad to say, with the most iniDerfect results. He has
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 321
read Books in various languages and jargons ; feared not to
soil his fingers, hunting through ancient dusty Magazines, to
sicken his heart in any labyrinth of iniquity and imbecility ;
nay he had not grudged to dive even into the infectious
Memoires de Casanova, for a hint or two, could lie have
found that work, which, however, most British Librarians
make a point of denying that they possess. A painful search,
as through some spiritual pest-house; and then with such
issue! The quantity of discoverable Printing about Cagli-
ostro (so much being burnt) is now not great ; nevertheless
in frightful proportion to the quantity of information given.
Except vague Newspaper rumours and surmises, the things
found written of this Quack are little more than temporary
Manifestos, by himself, by gulled or gulling disciples of his :
not true therefore ; at best only certain fractions of what
he wished or expected the blinder Public to reckon true;
misty, embroiled, for most part highly stupid; perplexing,
even provoking ; which can only be believed to be, under
such and such conditions, Lies. Of this sort emphatically
is the English c Life of the Count Cagliostro, price three shil-
lings and sixpence :' a Book indeed which one might hold
(so fatuous, inane is it) to be some mere dream-vision and
unreal eidolon, did it not now stand palpably there, as ' Sold
by T. Hookham, Bond Street, 1787 / and bear to be handled,
spurned at and torn into pipe-matches. Some human crea-
ture doubtless was at the writing of it; but of what kind,
country, trade, character or gender, you will in vain strive
to fancy. Of like fabulous stamp are the Memoires pour le
Comte de Cagliostro, emitted, with Mequete ajoindre, from the
Bastille, during that sorrowful business of the Diamond Neck-
lace, in 1786 ; no less the Lettre du Comte de Cagliostro au
Peuple Anglais, which followed shortly after, at London;
from which two indeed, that fatuous inexplicable English
VOL. IX. (Misc. vol. 4.) Y
MISCELLANIES*
Life has perhaps been mainly manufactured. Next come
the Memoires authentiques pour servir a FHistoire du Comte de
Cagliostro, twice printed in the same year 1786, at Strasburg
and at Paris ; a swaggering, lascivious Novelette, without
talent, without truth or worth, happily of small size. So fares
it with us : alas, all this is but the outside decorations of the
private-theatre, or the sounding of catcalls and applauses
from the stupid audience ; nowise the interior bare walls and
dress-room which we wanted to see ! Almost our sole even
half-genuine documents are a small barren Pamphlet, Cagli-
ostro demasque a Varsovie, enl78Q* and a small barren Volume
purporting to be Ms Life, written at Eome, of which latter
we have a French version, dated 1791. It is on this Vie de
Joseph JBalscmiQy connu sous le Nom de Comte Gagliostro, that
our main dependence must be placed; of which Work, mean-
while, whether it is wholly or only half-genuine, the reader
may judge by one fact : that it comes to us through the
medium of the Roman Inquisition, and the proofs to sub-
stantiate it lie in the Holy Office there. Alas, this reporting
Familiar of the Inquisition was too probably something of a
Liar ; and he reports lying Confessions of one who was not
so much a Liar as a Lie ! In such enigmatic duskiness, and
thrice-folded involution, after all Inquiries, does the matter
yet hang.
Nevertheless, by dint of meditation and comparison,
light-points that stand fixed, and abide scrutiny, do here
and there disclose themselves ; diffusing a fainter light over
what otherwise were dark, so that it is no longer invisible,
but only dim. Nay after all, is there not in this same un-
certainty a kind of fitness, of poetic congruity? Much that
would offend the eye stands discreetly lapped in shade.
Here too Destiny has cared for her favourite : that a pow-
der-nimbus of astonishment, mystification and uncertainty
COUNT CAGLIOSTRCK 323
should still encircle the Quack of Quacks, is right and suit-
able ; such was by Nature and Art his chosen uniform and
environment. Thus, as formerly in Life, so now in History,
it is in huge fluctuating smoke-whirlwinds, partially illumed
into a most brazen glory, yet united, coalescing with the
region of everlasting Darkness, in miraculous clear-obscure,
that he works and rides.
'Stem Accuracy in inquiring, bold Imagination in ex-
* pounding and filling-up ; these/ says friend Sauerteig,
' are the two pinions 011 which History soars,' or flutters
and wabbles. To which two pinions let us and the readers
of this Magazine now daringly commit ourselves. Or chiefly
indeed to the latter pinion, of Imagination ; which, if it be
the larger., will indeed make an unequal flight ! Meanwhile,
the style at least shall if possible be equal to the subject.
Know, then, that in the year 1743, in the city of Palermo,
in Sicily, the family of Signer Pietro Balsamo, a shopkeeper,
were exhilarated by the birth of a Boy. Such occurrences
have now become so frequent, that, miraculous as they are,
they occasion little astonishment : old Balsamo for a space,
indeed, laid down his ellwands and unjust balances ; but for
the rest, met the event with equanimity. Of the possetings,
junketings, gossipings, and other ceremonial rejoicings, trans-
acted according to the custom of the country, for welcome
to a New-comer, not the faintest tradition has survived;
enough, that the small New-comer, hitherto a mere ethnic
or heathen, is in a few days made a Christian of, or as we
vulgarly say, christened; by the name Giuseppe. A fat, red,
globular kind of fellow, not under nine pounds avoirdupois,
the bold Imagination can figure him to be : if not proofs,
there are indications that sufficiently betoken as much.
Of his teething and swaddling adventures, of his scald*
324 MISCELLANIES.
ings, squallings, pukings, purgings, the strictest search into
History can discover nothing; not so much as the epoch
when he passed out of long- clothes stands noted in the
fasti of Sicily. That same * larger pinion' of Imagination,
nevertheless, conducts him from his native blind-alley, into
the adjacent street Casaro ; descries him, with certain con-
temporaries now unknown, essaying himself in small games
of skill ; watching what phenomena, of carriage-transits, dog-
battles, street-music, or suchlike, the neighbourhood might
offer (intent above all on any windfall of chance provender) \
now, with incipient scientific spirit, puddling in the gutters ;
now, as small poet (or maker), baking mud-pies. Thus does
he tentatively coast along the outskirts of Existence, till
once he shall be strong enough to land and make a foot-
ing there.
Neither does it seem doubtful that with the earliest ex-
ercise of speech, the gifts of simulation and dissimulation
began to manifest themselves; Giuseppe, or Beppo as he
was now called, could indeed speak the truth, but only
when he saw his advantage in it. Hungry also, as above
hinted, he too-probably often was : a keen faculty of diges-
tion, a meagre larder within doors ; these two circumstances*
so frequently conjoined in this world, reduced him to his
inventions. As to the thing called Morals, and knowledge
of Bight and Wrong, it seems pretty certain that such know-
ledge, the sad fruit of Man's Pall, had in great part been
spared him ; if he ever heard the commandment, Thou shalt
not steal) he most probably could not believe in it, therefore
could not obey it. For the rest, though of quick temper,
and a ready striker where clear prospect of victory showed
itself, we fancy him vociferous rather than bellicose, not
prone to violence where stratagem will serve; almost pacific,
indeed, had not his many wants necessitated him to many
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 325
conquests. Above all tilings, a brazen impudence develops
itself; the crowning gift of one born to scoundrelism. In a
word, the fat thickset Beppo, as he skulks about there, plun-
dering, playing dog's-tricks, with his finger in every mis-
chief, already gains character; shrill housewives of the neigh-
bourhood, whose sausages he has filched, whose weaker sons
maltreated, name him Beppo Maldetto, and indignantly pro-
phesy that he will be hanged. A prediction which, as will
be seen, the issue has signally falsified.
We hinted that the household larder was in a leanish.
state ; in fact, the outlook of the Balsamo family was get-
ting troubled ; old Balsamo had, during these things, been
called away on his long journey. Poor man ! The future
eminence and preeminence of his Beppo he foresaw not, or
what a woiid's-wonder he had thoughtlessly generated ; as
indeed, which of us, by much calculating, can sum- up the
net-total (Utility, or Inutility) of any his most indifferent act,
a seed cast into the seedfield of TIME, to grow there, pro-
ducing fruits or poisons, forever ! Meanwhile Beppo himself
gazed heavily into the matter ; hung his thick lips while he
saw his mother weeping; and, for the rest, eating what fat or
sweet thing he could come at, let Destiny take its course.
The poor widow, ill-named Felicita, spinning out a pain-
ful livelihood by such means as only the poor and forsaken
know, could not but many times cast an impatient eye on
her brass-faced, voracious Beppo; and ask him, If he never
meant to turn, himself to anything? A maternal uncle, of
the moneyed sort (for he has uncles not without influence),
has already placed him in the Seminary of Saint Koch, to
gain some tincture of schooling there : but Beppo feels him-
self misplaced in that sphere; 'more than once runs away;'
is flogged, snubbed, tyrannically checked on all sides ; and
finally, with such slender stock of schooling as had pleased
326 MISCELLANIES.
to offer itself, returns to the street. Tlie widow, as we said,
urges him, the uncles urge : Beppo, wilt thou never turn
thyself to anything? Beppo, with such speculative faculty,
from such low watchtower as he commands, is in truth,
being forced to it, from time to time, looking abroad into
the world ; siu'veying the conditions of mankind, therewith
contrasting his own wishes and capabilities. Alas, his wishes
are manifold; a most hot Hunger (in all kinds), as above
hinted; but on the other hand, his leading capability seemed
only the Power to Eat. What profession or condition, then ?
Choose ; for it is time. Of all the terrestrial professions, that
of Gentleman, it seemed to Beppo, had, under these circum-
stances, been most suited to his feelings : but then the out-
fit ? the apprentice-fee ? Failing which, he, with perhaps as
much sagacity as one could expect, decides for the Eccle-
siastical.
Behold him then, once more by the uncle's management,
journeying, a chubby brass-faced boy of thirteen, beside the
Reverend Father-General of the Benfratelli, to their neigh-
bouring Convent of Cartegirone, with intent to enter him-
self novice there. He has donned the novice-habit ; is
6 intrusted to the keeping of the Convent -Apothecary,' on
whose gallipots and crucibles he looks round with wonder.
Were it by accident that he found himself Apothecary's
Famulus, were it by choice of his own nay was it not, in
either case, by design of Destiny, intent on perfecting her
work? Enough, in this Cartegirone Laboratory there awaited
him, though as yet he knew it not, life -guidance and de-
termination ; the great want of every genius, even of the
scoundrel-genius. He himself confesses that he here learned
some (or, as he calls it, the) * principles of chemistry and
medicine.' Natural enough : new books of the Chemists lay
here, old books of the Alchemists ; distillations, sublimations
COUNT CAGLIOSTBO. 327
visibly went on ; discussions there were, oral and written, of
gold-making, salve-making, treasure-digging, divining-rods,
projection, and the alcahest : besides, had he not among his
fingers calxes, acids, Ley den-jars ? Some first elements of
medico-chemical conjurorship, so far as phosphorescent mix-
tures, aqua-tofFana, ipecacuanha, cantharides tincture, and
suchlike would go, were now attainable ; sufficient when the
hour came, to set-up any average Quack, much more the
Quack of Quacks. It is here, in this unpromising environ-
ment, that the seeds, therapeutic, thaumaturgic, of the Grand
Cophta's stupendous workings and renown were sown.
Meanwhile, as observed, the environment looked unpro-
mising enough. Beppo with his two endowments, of Hunger
and of Power to Eat, had made the best choice he could ;
yet, as it soon proved, a rash and disappointing one. To
his astonishment, he finds that even here he ' is in a condi-
tional world ;' and, if he will employ his capability of eating
or enjoying, must first, in some measure, work and suffer.
Contention enough hereupon : but now dimly arises or repro-
duces itself, the question, Whether there were not a shorter
road, that of stealing ? Stealing under which, generically
taken, you may include the whole art of scoundrelism ; for
what is Lying itself but a theft of my belief? stealing,
we say, is properly the North- West Passage to Enjoyment :
while common Navigators sail painfully along torrid shores,
laboriously doubling this or the other Cape of Hope, your
adroit Thief-Parry, drawn on smooth dog-sledges, is already
there and back again. The misfortune is, that stealing re-
quires a talent ; and failure in that North- West voyage is
more fatal than in any other. We hear that Beppo was
* often punished :' painful experiences of the fate of genius ;
for all genius, by its nature, comes to disturb somebody in his
ease, and your thief-genius more so than most I
328 MISCELLANIES,,
Headers can now fancy tlie sensitive skin of Beppo mor-
tified witli prickly cilices, wealed by knotted thongs ; Ms soul
afflicted "by vigils and forced fasts ; no eye turned kindly on
him ; everywhere the bent of his genius rudely contravened.
However, it is the first property of genius to grow in spite
of contradiction, and even by means thereof; as the vital
germ pushes itself through the dull soil, and lives by what
strove to bury it ! Beppo, waxing into strength of bone
and character, sets his face stiffly against persecution, and
is not a whit disheartened. On such chastisements and
chastisers he can look with a certain genial disdain. Be-
yond convent-walls, with their sour stupid shavelings, lies
Palermo, lies the world ; here too is he, still alive, though
worse off than he wished; and feels that the world is his
oyster, which he (by chemical or other means) will one day
open. Nay, we find there is a touch of grim Humour un-
folds itself in the youth ; the surest sign, as is often said, of
a character naturally great. Witness, for example, how he
acts on this to his ardent temperament so trying occasion.
While the monks sit at meat, the impetuous voracious Beppo
(that stupid Inquisition-Biographer records it as a thing of
course) is set not to eat with them, not to pick up the
crumbs that fall from them, but to stand 4 reading the Mar-
tyrology' for their pastime ! The brave adjusts himself to
the inevitable. Beppo reads that dullest Martyrology of
theirs ; but reads out of it not what is printed there, but
what his own vivid brain on the spur of the moment de-
vises : instead of the names of Saints, all heartily indiffer-
ent to him, he reads out the names of the most notable
Palermo 4 unfortunate -females, 5 now beginning to interest
him a little. What a * deep world-irony,' as the Germans
call it, lies here ! The Monks, of course, felled him to the
earth, and flayed him with scourges; but what did it avail 1
COUNT OAGLIOSTRO. 329
This only became apparent, to himself and them, that he had
now outgrown their monk-discipline ; as the psyche does its
chrysalis-shell, and bursts it. Giuseppe Balsamo bids fare-
well to Cartegirone forever and a day.
So now, by consent or not of the ghostly Benfratelli
(Friars of Mercy, as they were named I), our Beppo has again
returned to the maternal uncle at Palermo, The uncle natu-
rally asked him, What he next meant to do ? Beppo, after
stammering and hesitating for some length of weeks, makes
answer: Try Painting. Well and good! So Beppo gets
him colours, brushes, fit tackle, and addicts himself for some
space of time to the study of what is innocently called De-
sign. Alas, if we consider Beppo's great Hunger, now that
new senses were unfolding in him, how inadequate are the
exiguous resources of Design; how necessary to attempt
quite another deeper species of Design, of Designs ! It is
true, he lives with his uncle, has culinary meat ; but where
is the pocket-money for other costlier sorts of meats to come
from? As the Kaiser Joseph was wont to say: From my
head alone (De ma tete seule) !
The Roman Biographer, though a most wooden man, has
incidentally thrown some light on Beppo's position at this
juncture : both on his wants and his resources. As to the
first, it appears (using the wooden man's phraseology) that
he kept the i worst company/ led the loosest life ;' was hand-
in-glove with all the swindlers, gamblers, idle apprentices,
unfortunate-females, of Palermo : in the study and practice
of Scoundrelisni diligent beyond most. The genius which
has burst asunder convent-walls, and other rubbish of im-
pediments, now flames upward towards its mature splen-
dour. Wheresoever a stroke of mischief is to be done, a
slush of so-called vicious enjoyment to be swallowed, there
with hand and throat is Beppo Balsamo seen. He will be a
330 MISCELLANIES.
Master, one day, in Ms profession. Not indeed that lie has
yet quitted Painting, or even purposes so much: for the
present, it is useful, indispensable, as a stalking-horse to
the maternal uncle and neighbours ; nay to himself, for
with all the ebullient impulses of scoundrel-genius restlessly
seething in him, irrepressibly bursting through, he has the
noble unconsciousness of genius; guesses not, dare not
guess, that he is a born scoundrel, much less a born world-
scoundrel.
But as for the other question, of his resources, these we
perceive were several-fold, and continually extending. Not
to mention any pictorial exiguities, which indeed existed
chiefly in expectance, there had almost accidentally arisen
for him, in the first place, the resource of Pandering. He
has a fair cousin living in the house with him, and she again
has a lover; Beppo stations himself as go-between; delivers
letters; fails not to drop hints that a lady, to be won or
kept, must be generously treated; that such and such a pair
of earrings, watch, necklace, or even sum of money, would
work wonders; which valuables, adds the wooden Eoman
Biographer, ' he then appropriated furtively.' Like enough !
Next, however, as another more lasting resource, he forges ;
at first in a small Avay, and trying his apprentice-hand:
tickets for the theatre, and such trifles. Erelong, however,
we see him fly at higher quarry ; by practice he has acquired
perfection in the great art of counterfeiting hands ; and will
exercise it on the large or on the narrow scale, for a con-
sideration. Among his relatives is a Notary, with whom he
can insinuate himself; for purpose of study, or even of prac-
tice. In the presses of this Notary lies a Will, which Beppo
contrives to come at, and falsify ' for the benefit of a certain
Religious House/ Much good may it do them ! Many years
afterwards the fraud was detected; but Beppo's benefit in
COUNT CA&LIOSTRO. 331
it was spent and safe long before. Thus again the stolid
Biographer expresses horror or wonder that he should have
forged leave-of-absence for a monk, ' counterfeiting the sig-
nature of the Superior/ Why not ? A forger must forge
what is wanted of him : the Lion truly preys not on mice ;
yet shall he refuse such, If they jump Into his mouth ?
Enough, the indefatigable Beppo has here opened a quite
boundless mine; wherein through his whole life he will, as
occasion calls, dig, at his convenience. Finally, he can pre-
dict fortunes and show visions, by phosphorus and leger-
demain. This, however, only as a dilettantism ; to take-up
the earnest profession of Magician does not yet enter into
lus views. Thus perfecting himself in all branches of his
art, does our Balsamo live and grow. Stupid, pudding-faced
as he looks and is, there is a vulpine astucity in him ; and
then a wholeness, a heartiness, a land of blubbery impetu-
osity, an oiliness so plausible-looking : give him. only length
of life, he will rise to the top of his profession.
Consistent enough with such blubbery impetuosity in
Beppo is another fact we find recorded of him, that at this
time he was found ' in most brawls/ whether in street or
tavern. The way of his business led him into liability to
such; neither as yet had he learned prudence by age. Of
choleric temper, with all Hs obesity ; a square-built, burly,
vociferous fellow ; ever ready with his stroke (if victory
seemed sure) ; nay, at bottom, not without a certain pig-like
defensive-ferocity, perhaps even something more. Thus,
when you find him making a point to attack, if possible, all
officers of justice/ and deforce them; delivering the wretched
from their talons : was not this, we say, a kind of dog-faith-
fulness, and public spirit, either of the mastiff or of the cur
species 1 Perhaps too there was a touch of that old Humour
and < world-irony' in It. One still more unquestionable feat
332 MISCELLANIES,
lie is recorded (we fear, on Imperfect evidence) to have done*
* assassinated a canon.'
Remonstrances from growling maternal uncles could
not fail ; threats, disdains from ill-affected neighbours ; tears
from an expostulating widowed mother: these he shakes
from him like dewdrops from the lion's mane. Still less
could the Police neglect him; him the visibly rising Pro-
fessor of Swindleiy ; the swashbuckler, to boot, and deforcer
of bailiffs: he has often been captured, haled to their bar;
yet hitherto, by defect of evidence, by good luck, interces-
sion of friends, been dismissed with admonition. Two things,
nevertheless, might now be growing clear: first, that the
die was cast with Beppo, and he a scoundrel for life ; second,
that such a mixed, composite, crypto-scoundrel life could not
endure, but must unfold itself into a pure, declared one. The
Tree that is planted stands not still ; must pass through all
its stages and phases, from the state of acorn to that of
green leafy oak, of withered leafless oak ; to the state of
felled timber, finally to that of firewood and ashes. Not
less (though less visibly to dull eyes) the Act that is done,
the condition that has realised itself; above all things, the
Man, with his Fortunes, that has been born. Beppo, every-
way in vigorous vitality, cannot continue half-painting half-
swindling in Palermo ; must develop himself into whole
swindler; and, unless hanged there, seek his bread else-
where. What the proximate cause, or signal, of such crisis
and development might be, no man could say; yet most
men would have confidently guessed, The Police. Never-
theless it proved otherwise; not by the flaming sword of
Justice, but by the rusty dirk of a foolish private individual,
is Beppo driven forth.
Walking one day in the fields (as the bold historic Ima-
gination will figure) with a certain ninny of a * Goldsmith
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 333
named Marano,' as they pass one of those rock-chasms fire*
quent in the fair Island of Sicily, Beppo begins, in his oily,
voluble way, to hint, That treasures often lay hid; that a
Treasure lay hid there, as he knew by some pricking of his
thumbs, divining-rod, or other talismanic monition: which
Treasure might, by aid of science, courage, secrecy and a
small judicious advance of money, be fortunately lifted. The
gudgeon takes ; advances, by degrees, to the length of * sixty
gold Ounces ;' 2 sees magic circles drawn in the wane or in
the full of the moon, blue (phosphorus) flames arise, split
twigs auspiciously quiver ; and at length demands peremp-
torily that the Treasure be dug. A night is fixed on : the
ninny Goldsmith, trembling with rapture and terror, breaks
ground; digs, with thick breath and cold sweat, fiercely
clown, down, Beppo relieving him : the work advances ;
when, ah ! at a certain stage of it (before fruition) hideous
yells arise, a jingle like the emptying of Birmingham ; six
Devils pounce upon the poor sheep Goldsmith, and beat him
almost to mutton ; mercifully sparing Balsamo, who indeed
has himself summoned them thither, and as it were created
them (with goatskins and burnt cork). Marano, though a
ninny, now knew how it lay ; and furthermore that he had
a stiletto. One of the grand drawbacks of swindler-genius !
You accomplish the Problem; and then the Elementary
Quantities, Algebraic Symbols you worked on, will fly in
your face !
Hearing of stilettos, our Algebraist begins to look around
him, and view his empire of Palermo in the concrete. An
empire now much exhausted ; much infested, too, with sor-
rows of all kinds, and every day the more ; nigh ruinous, in
short ; not worth being stabbed for. There is a world else-
where. In any case, the young Eaven has now shed his
2 The Sici ian Ounce (Owza] is worth about ten shillings sterling*
334 MISCELLANIES.
pens, and got fledged for flying. Shall he not spurn the
whole from Mm, and soar off? Resolved, performed ! Our
Beppo quits Palermo ; and, as it proved, on a long voyage :
or, as the Inquisition-Biographer has it, c he fled from Pa-
lermo, and overran the whole Earth.'
Here, then, ends the First Act of Count Alessandro Ca-
gliostro's Life-drama. Let the curtain drop ; and hang
unrent, before an audience of mixed feeling, till the First
of August*
COUNT CAGLIOSTIUX 335
FLIGHT LAST.
BEFOBE entering on tlio second Section of Count Beppo's
History, the Editor will indulge in a philosophical reflection.
This Beppic Hegira, or Flight from Palermo, we have
now arrived at, brings us down, in European History, to
somewhere about the epoch of the Peace of Paris. Old
Feudal Europe, while Beppo flies forth into the whole Earth,
has just finished the last of her 'tavern-brawls,' or wars ; and
lain down to doze, and yawn, and disconsolately wear-off
the headaches, bruises, nervous prostration and flaccidity
consequent thereon: for the brawl had been a long one,
Seven Tears long ; and there had been many such, begotten,
as is usual, of intoxication from Pride or other Devil's-drink,
and foul humours in the constitution. Alas, it was not so
much a disconsolate doze, after ebriety and quarrel, that
poor old Feudal Europe had now to undergo, and then on
awakening to drink anew, and quarrel anew: old Feudal
Europe has fallen a-dozing to die! Her next awakening
will be with no tavern-brawl, at the King's Head or Prime
Minister tavern; but with the stern Avatar of DEMOOEACY,
hymning its world -thrilling birth- and battle-song in the
distant West ; therefrom to go out conquering and to con-
quer, till it have made the circuit of all the Earth, and old
dead Feudal Europe is born again (after infinite pangs !)
into a new Industrial one. At Beppo's Hegira, as we said,
Europe was in the last languor and stertorous fever-sleep of
Dissolution : alas, with us, and with our sons for a genera-
tion or two, it is almost still worse, were it not that in
336 MISCELLANIES.
Birth-throes there is ever hope, in Death-throes the final
departure of hope.
Now the philosophic reflection we were to indulge In,
was no other than this, most germane to our subject: the
portentous extent of Quackery, the multitudinous variety of
Quacks that, along with our Beppo, and under him each in
his degree, overran all Europe during that same period, the
latter half of last century. It was the very age of impos-
tors, cut-purses, swindlers, double-goers, enthusiasts, ambi-
guous persons; quacks simple, quacks compound; crack-
brained, or with deceit prepense ; quacks and quackeries of
all colours and kinds. How many Mesmerists, Magicians,
Cabalists, Swedenborgians, Illuminati, Crucified Nuns, and
Devils of Loudun! To which the Inquisition -Biographer
adds Vampires, Sylphs, Kosicrucians, Freemasons, and an
Etcetera. Consider your Schropfers, Cagliostros, Casanovas,
Saint-Germaiiis, Dr. Grahams; the Chevalier d'Eon, Psal-
manazar, Abbe Paris and the Ghost of Cock-lane ! As if
Bedlam had broken loose; as if, rather, in that ' spiritual
Twelfth-hour of the night,' the everlasting Pit had opened
itself, and from its still blacker bosom had issued Madness
and all manner of shapeless Misbirths, to masquerade and
chatter there.
But indeed, if we consider, how could it be otherwise ?
In that stertorous last fever-sleep of our European world,
must not Phantasms enough, born of the Pit, as all such are,
flit past, in ghastly masquerading and chattering? A low
scarce-audible moan (in Parliamentary Petitions, Meal-mobs,
Popish Eiots, Treatises on Atheism) struggles from the mori-
bund sleeper; frees him not from his hellish guests and
saturnalia : Phantasms these ' of a dying brain.' So too,
when the old Roman world, the measure of its iniquities
being full, was to expire, and (in still bitterer agonies) be
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 3o7
born again, had they not VeneficsB, Mathematici, Apolloniuses
with the Golden Thigh, Apollonius' Asses, and False Clnists
enough, before a REDEEMER arose !
For, in truth, and altogether apart from such half-figura-
tive language, Putrescence is not more naturally the scone
of unclean creatures in the world physical, than Social De-
cay is of quacks in the world moral. Nay, look at it with
the eye of the mere Logician, of the Political Economist.
In such periods of Social Decay, what is called an overflow-
ing Population, that is a Population which, under the old
Captains of Industry (named Higher Classes, Ricos ffomlres,
Aristocracies and the like), can no longer find work and
wages, increases the number of Unprofessional, Lackalls,
Social Nondescripts; with appetite of utmost keenness,
which there is no known method of satisfying. Nay more,
and perversely enough, ever as Population augments, your
Captains of Industry can and do dwindle more and more into
Captains of Idleness ; whereby the more and more overflow-
ing Population is worse and worse governed (shown what
to do, for that is the only government) : thus is the candle
lighted at both ends ; and the number of social Nondescripts
increases in double-quick ratio. Whoso is alive, it is said,
f must live ;' at all events, will live ; a task which daily gets
harder, reduces to stranger shifts.
And now furthermore, with general economic distress, in
such a Period, there is usually conjoined the utmost decay of
moral principle: indeed, so universal is this conjunction,
many men have seen it to be a concatenation and causation ;
justly enough, except that such have very generally, ever
since a certain religious-repentant feeling went out of date,
committed one sore mistake : what is vulgarly called putting
the cart before the horse. Politico-economical benefactor of the
species ! deceive not thyself with barren sophisms : National
VOL. IX, (Misc. vol. 4.) z
338 MISCELLANIES.
suffering is, if tliou wilt understand the words, verily a 'judg-
ment of God;' lias ever been preceded by national crime.
'Be it here once more maintained before the world/ cries
Sauerteig, in one of his Springwurzeln, * that temporal Dis-
' tress, that Misery of any kind, is not the came of Immor-
6 ality, but the effect thereof! Among individuals, it is true,
6 so wide is the empire of Chance, poverty and wealth go
< all at hap-hazard ; a St. Paul is making tents at Corinth,
4 while a Kaiser Nero fiddles, in ivory palaces, over a burn-
* ing Rome. Nevertheless here too, if nowise wealth and
4 poverty, yet well-being and ill-being, even in the temporal
economic sense, go commonly in respective partnership
* with Wisdom and with Folly : no man can, for a length of
* time, be wholly wretched, if there is not a disharmony (a
* folly and wickedness) within himself; neither can the rich-
* est Croesus and never so eupeptic (for he too has his indi-
c gestions, and dies at last of surfeit), be other than discon-
6 tented, perplexed, unhappy, if he be a Fool/ This we
apprehend is true, Sauerteig, yet not the whole truth:
for there is more than day's-work and day's- wages in this
world of ours : which, as thou knowest, is itself quite other
than a * Workshop and Fancy-Bazaar/ is also a ' Mystic
Temple and Hall of Doom/ Thus we have heard of such
things as good men struggling with adversity, and offering
a spectacle for the very gods.
4 But with a nation/ continues he, f where the multitude
* of the chances covers, in great measure, the uncertainty of
* Chance, it may be said to hold always that general Suffer-
* ing is the fruit of general Misbehaviour, general Dishonesty.
* Consider it well ; had all men stood faithfully to their posts,
* the Evil, when it first rose, had been manfully fronted, and
* abolished, not lazily blinked, and left to grow, with the foul
* sluggard's comfort : " It will last my time/* Thou foul slug-
COUNT OAGLIOSTBO. 339
* gard, and even thief (Faulenzer, ja DieV) I For art tliou not a
6 thief, to pocket thy day Vwages (be they counted in groschen
' or in gold thousands) for this, if it be for anything, for
4 watching on thy special watch-tower that God's City (which
4 this His World is, where His children dwell) suffer no dam-
* age ; and, all the while, to watch only that thy own ease
' be not invaded, let otherwise hard come to hard as
4 it will and can ? Unhappy ! It will last thy time : thy
* worthless sham of an existence, wherein nothing but the
6 Digestion was real, will have evaporated in the interim ; it
* will last thy time : but will it last thy Eternity ? Or what
* if it should not last thy time (mark that also, for that also
1 will be the fate of some such lying sluggard), but take fire,
* and explode, and consume thee like the moth F
The sum of the matter, in any case, is, that national
Poverty and national Dishonesty go together ; that con-
tinually increasing social Nondescripts get ever the hungrier,
ever the falser. Now say, have wo not here the very making
of Quackery; raw-material, plastic -energy, both in full ac-
tion? Dishonesty the raw-material, Hunger the plastic-
energy : what will not the two realise ? Nay observe farther
how Dishonesty is the raw-material not of Quacks only, but
also in great part of Dupes. In Goodness, were it never so
simple, there is the surest instinct for the Good ; the tm-
easiest unconquerable repulsion for the False and Bad. The
very Devil Mephistopheles cannot deceive poor guileless
Margaret: *it stands written on his brow that he never
loved a living soul f The like too has many a human in-
ferior Quack painfully experienced ; the like lies in store for
our hero Beppo. But now with such abundant raw-material
not only to make Quacks of, but to feed and occupy them
on, if the plastic -energy of Hunger fail not, what a world
shall we have ! The wonder is not that the eighteenth can-
340 MISCELLANIES.
tiuy liad very numerous Quacks, but rather that they were
not innumerable.
In that same French Eevolution alone, which burnt-up
so much, what unmeasured masses of Quackism were set fire
to ; nay, as foul mephitic fire-damp in that case, were made
to flame in a fierce, sublime splendour; coruscating, even
illuminating ! The Count Saint-Germain, some twenty years
later, had found a quite new element, of Fraternisation,
Sacred right of Insurrection, Oratorship of the Human
Species, wherefrom to body himself forth quite otherwise :
Scliropfer needed not now, as Blackguard undeterred, have
solemnly shot himself in the Rosentlial; might have solemnly
sacrificed himself, as Jacobin half-heroic, in the Place de la
Revolution. For your quack-genius is indeed born, but also
made ; circumstances shape him or stunt him. Beppo Bal-
samo, born British in these new days, could have conjured
fewer Spirits; yet had found a living and glory, as Cas-
tlereagh Spy, Irish Associationist, Blacking-Manufacturer,
Book-Publisher, Able Editor. Withal too the reader will
observe that Quacks, in every time, are of two sorts : the
Declared Quack; and the Undeclared, who, if you question
him, will deny stormfully, both to others and to himself; of
which two quack-species the proportions vary with the vary-
ing capacity of the age. If Beppo's was the age of the De-
clared, therein, after all French Revolutions, we will grant,
lay one of its main distinctions from oiirs ; which is it not
yet, and for a generation or two, the age of the Undeclared ?
Alas, almost a still more detestable age- yet now (by
God's grace), with Prophecy, with irreversible Enactment,
registered in Heaven's chancery, where thou too, if thou
wilt look) mayst read and know, That its death-doom shall
not linger. Be it speedy, be it sure! And so herewith
were our philosophical reflection, on the nature, causes,
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 341
prevalence, decline and expected temporary destruction of
Quackery, concluded ; and now the Beppic poetic Narrative
can once more take its course*
Beppo, then, like a Noah's Eaven, Is out upon that
watery waste of dissolute, beduped, distracted European
Life, to see if there is any carrion there. One unguided
little Eaven, in the wide-weltering * Mother of dead Dogs :'
will he not come to harm; will he not be siiapt-up, drowned,
starved and washed to the Devil there 1 No fear of him,
for a time. His eye (or scientific judgment), it is true, as
yet takes-in only a small section of it ; but then his scent
(instinct of genius) is prodigious : several endowments, for-
gery and others, he has unfolded into talents; the two
sources of all quack -talent, Cunning and Impudence, are
his in richest measure.
As to his immediate course of action and adventure, the
foolish Inquisition-Biographer, it must be owned, shows him-
self a fool, and can give us next to 110 insight. Like enough,
Beppo 'fled to Messina;' simply as to the nearest city, and
to get across to the mainland : but as to this c certain Altho-
tas' whom he met there, and voyaged with to Alexandria in
Egypt, and how they made hemp into silk, and realised much
money, and came to Malta, and studied in the Laboratory
there, and then the certain Althotas died, of all this what
shall be said? The foolish Inquisition-Biographer is uncer-
tain whether the certain Althotas was a Greek or a Spaniard :
but unhappily the prior question is not settled, whether he
was at all. Superfluous it seems to put down Beppo's own
account of his procedure ; he gave multifarious accounts, as
the exigencies of the case demanded : this of the ' certain
Althotas,' and hemp made into false silk, is as verisimilar as
that other of the 'sage Althotas, 5 the heirship-apparent of
342 MISCELLANIES,
Trebisoncl, and the Sclierif of Mecca's a Adieu, unfortunate
Child of Nature." Nay the guesses of the ignorant world ;
how Count Cagliostro had been travelling-tutor to a Prince
(name not given), whom he murdered and took the money
from; with others of the like, were perhaps still more
absurd. Beppo, we can see, was cut and away, the Devil
knew whither. Far, variegated, painful might his roamings
be, A plausible-looking shadow of him shows itself hovering
over Naples and Calabria ; thither, as to a famed high-school
of Laziness and Scoundrelism, he may likely enough -have
gone to graduate. Of the Malta Laboratory, and Alexan-
drian hemp-silk, the less we say the better. This only is
clear: That Beppo dived deep down into the lugubrious-
obscure regions of Rascaldom ; like a Knight to the palace
of his Fairy; remained unseen there, and returned thence
armed at all points.
If we fancy, meanwhile, that Beppo already meditated
becoming Grand Coplita, and riding at Strasburg in the
Cardinal's carriage, we mistake much. Gift of Prophecy has
been wisely denied to man. Did a man foresee his life, and
not merely hope it, and grope it, and so, by Necessity and
Freewill, make and fabricate it into a reality, he were no
man, but some other kind of creature, superhuman or subter-
human. No man sees far; the most see no farther than their
noses. From the quite dim uncertain mass of the future,
' which lies there/ says a Scottish Humorist, < uncombed,
' uncorded, like a mass of tarry wool proverbially ill to spin'
they spin out, better or worse, their rumply, infirm thread
of Existence, and wind it up, up, till the spool is full;
seeing but some little half-yard of it at once; exclaiming,
as they look into the betaired entangled mass of Futurity,
We shall see !
The first authentic fact with regard to Beppo is, that
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 343
Lis swart squat figure becomes visible iii the Corso and
Campo Vaccine of Borne ; that he < lodges at the Sign of the
Sun in the Botonda, 9 and sells pen-drawings there. Properly
they are not pen-drawings ; but printed engravings or etch-
ings, to which Beppo, with a pen and a little Indian ink, has
added the degree of scratching to give them the air of such.
Thereby mainly does lie realise a thin livelihood. From which
we infer that his transactions in Naples and Calabria, with
Althotas and hemp-silk, or whatever else, had not turned to
much.
Forged pen-drawings are no mine of wealth: neither was
Beppo Balsamo anything of an Adonis ; on the contrary, a
most dusky, bull-necked, mastiff-faced, sinister-looking in-
dividual : nevertheless, on applying for the favour of the
hand of Lorenza Feliciani, a beautiful Roman donzella,
* dwelling near the Trinity of the Pilgrims/ the unfortunate
child of Nature prospers beyond our hopes. Authorities
differ as to the rank and status of this fair Lorenza : one
account says, she was the daughter of a Girdle-maker ; but
adds erroneously that it was in Calabria. The matter must
remain suspended. Certain enough, she was a handsome
buxom creature ; ' both pretty and lady-like,' it is presum-
able; but having no offer, in a country too prone to celibacy,
took-up with the bull-necked forger of pen-drawings, whose
suit too was doubtless pressed with the most flowing rhe-
toric. She gave herself in marriage to him; and the parents
admitted him to quarter in their house, till it should appear
what was next to be done.
Two kitchen-fires, says the Proverb, bum not on one
hearth: here, moreover, might be quite special causes of
discord. Pen-drawing, at best a hungry concern, has now
exhausted itself, and must be given up ; but Beppo's house-
hold prospects brighten, on the other side : in the charms
344 MISCELLANIES.
of his Lorenza lie sees before Mm what the French call ' a
Future confused and immense/ The hint was given ; and,
with reluctance, or without reluctance (for the evidence
leans both ways), was taken and reduced to practice : Signer
and Signora Balsamo are forth from the old Girdler's house,
into the wide world, seeking and finding adventures,
The foolish Inquisition-Biographer, with painful scientific
accuracy, furnishes a descriptive catalogue of all the succes-
sive Cullies (Italian Counts, French Envoys, Spanish Mar-
quises, Dukes and Drakes) in various quarters of the known
world, whom this accomplished pair took-in ; with the sums
each yielded, and the methods employed to bewitch him.
Into which descriptive catalogue, why should we here ^o
inuch as cast a glance? Cullies, the easy cushions on which
knaves and knavesses repose and fatten, have at all times
existed, in considerable profusion: neither can the fact of a
clothed animal, Marquis or other, having acted in that capa-
city to never such lengths, entitle him to mention in History.
We pass over these. Beppo, or as we must now learn to call
him, the Count, appears at Venice, at Marseilles, at Madrid,
Cadiz, Lisbon, Brussels; makes scientific pilgrimage to Quack
Saint-Germain in Westphalia, religious-commercial to Saint
Saint-James in Compostella, to Our Lady in Loretto : south,
north, east, west, he shows himself; finds everywhere Lu-
bricity arid Stupidity (better or worse provided with cash),
the two elements on which he thaumaturgically can work
and live. Practice makes perfection ; Beppo too was an apt
scholar. By all methods he can awaken the stagnant ima-
gination ; cast maddening powder in the eyes.
Already in Rome he has cultivated whiskers, and put-on
the uniform of a Prussian Colonel : dame Lorenza is fair to
look upon; but how much fairer, if by the air of distance and
dignity you lend enchantment to her! In other places, the
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO.
345
Count appears as real Count ; as Marquis Pellegrini (lately
from foreign parts) ; as Count this and Count that, Count
Proteus-Incognito; finally as Count Alessandro Cagliostro. 1
Figure him shooting through the world with utmost rapidity ;
ducldng-under here, when the sword-fishes of Justice make
a dart at him ; ducking-up yonder, in new shape, at the
distance of a thousand miles ; not unprovided with forged
vouchers of respectability ; above all, with that best voucher
of respectability, a four-horse carriage, beef-eaters, and open
purse, for Count Cagliostro has ready-money and pays his
way. At some Hotel of the Sun, Hotel of the Angel, Gold
Lion, or Green Goose, or whatever Hotel it is, in whatever
world-famous capital City, his chariot-wheels hate rested;
sleep and food have refreshed his live-stock, chiefly the pearl
and soul thereof, his indispensable Lorenza, now no longer
.Dame Lorenza, but Countess Seraphina, looking seraphic
enough! Moneyed Donothings, whereof in this vexed Earth
there are many, ever lounging about such places, scan and
comment on the foreign coat-of-arms ; ogle the fair foreign
woman ; who timidly recoils from their gaze, timidly re-
sponds to their reverences, as in halls and passages, they
obsequiously throw themselves in her way: erelong one
moneyed Donothing, from amid his tags and tassels, sword-
belts, fop-tackle, frizzled hair without brains beneath it, is
heard speaking to another : " Seen the Countess ? Divine
creature that !" and so the game is begun.
Let not the too sanguine reader, meanwhile, fancy that
it is all holiday and heyday with his Lordship. The course
of scoundrelism, any more than that of true love, never did
run smooth. Seasons there may be when Count Proteus-
Incognito has his epaulettes torn from his shoulders ; his
1 Not altogether an invention tMs lastj for his granduncle (a bellfonnder at
Messina?) was actually surnamed Caffliostro, as well as named Giuseppe* 0. Y t
346 MISCELLANIES.
garment - skirts dipt dose by the buttocks ; and is bid
sternly tarry at Jericlio till Ills beard be grown. Harpies
of Law defile Ms solemn feasts ; Ms light burns languid ;
for a space seems utterly snuffed out, and dead in malodor-
ous vapour. Dead only to blaze up the brighter! There is
scoundrel-life in Beppo Cagliostro ; cast him among the
mud, tread Mm out of sight there, the miasmata do but
stimulate and refresh him, he rises sneezing, is strong and
young again.
Behold him, for example, again in Palermo, after having
seen many men and many lands ; and how he again escapes
thence. Why did he return to Palermo? Perhaps to astonish
old friends by new grandeur ; or for temporary shelter, if the
Continent were getting hot for him ; or perhaps in the mere
way of general trade. He is seized there, and clapt in prison,
for those foolish old businesses of the treasure-digging Gold-
smith, of the forged Will.
'The manner of his escape/ says one, whose few words on this
obscure matter are so many light-points for us, ( deserves to be de-
scribed. The Son of one of the first Sicilian Princes, and great
landed Proprietors (who moreover had filled important stations at the
Neapolitan Court), was a person that united with a strong body and
ungovernable temper all the tyrannical caprice, which the rich and
great, without cultivation, think themselves entitled to exhibit.
Donna Lorenza had contrived to gain this man ; and on him the
fictitious Marchese Pellegrini founded his security. The Prince testi-
fied openly that he was the protector of this stranger pair : but what
was his fury when Joseph Balsamo, at the instance of those whom he
had cheated, was cast into prison ! He tried various means to deliver
him ; and as these would not prosper, he publicly, in the President's
antechamber, threatened the plaintiffs' Advocate with the frightfulest
misusage if the suit were not dropt, and Balsamo forthwith set at
liberty. As the Advocate declined such proposal, he clutched him,
beat him, threw Mm on the floor, trampled him with his feet, and
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 347
could hardly be restrained from still farther outrages, when the Presi-
dent himself came running out at the tumult, and commanded peace.
& This latter, a weak, dependent man, made no attempt to punish
the injurer; the plaintiffs and their Advocate grew fainthearted;
and Balsamo was let go ; not so much as a registration in the Court-
Books specifying his dismissal, who occasioned it, or how it took
place.' 2
Tims sometimes, a friend in the court is better than a
penny in the purse ! Mavohese Pellegrini ' quickly there-
after left Palermo, and performed various travels, whereof
6 my author could impart no clear information/ Whether,
or how far, the Game-chicken Prince went with him is not
hinted.
So it might, at times, be quite otherwise than in coach-
and-four that our Cagliostro journeyed. Occasionally we
find him as outrider journeying on horseback; only Sera-
phina and her sop (whom she is to suck and eat) lolling on
carriage-cushions; the hardy Count glad that hereby he can
have the shot paid. Nay sometimes he looks utterly po-
verty-struck, and has to journey one knows not how. Thus
one briefest but authentic-looking glimpse of him presents
itself in England, in the year 1772 : no Count is he here,
but mere Signor Balsamo again ; engaged in house-painting,
for which he has a most peculiar talent. Was it true that
he painted the country-house of <a Doctor Benemore;' and
having not painted, but only smeared it, was refused pay-
ment, and got a lawsuit with expenses instead? If Doctor
Benemore have left any representatives in this Earth, they
are desired to speak out. We add only, that if young Beppo
had one of the prettiest wives, old Benemore had one of the
ugliest daughters; and so, putting one thing to another,
matters might not be so bad.
8 Goethe's Wer&e, b. xxviii. 132.
348 MISCELLANIES.
For it is to be observed, that the Count, on his own side,
even in his days of highest splendour, is not idle. Faded
dames of quality have many wants : the Count has not
studied in the convent Laboratory, or pilgrimed to the Count
Saint-Germain, in Westphalia, to no purpose. With loftiest
condescension he stoops to impart somewhat of his super-
natural secrets, for a consideration. Rowland's Kalydor
is valuable ; but what to the Beautify ing-water of Count
Alessandro! He that will undertake to smooth wrinkles,
and make withered green parchment into a fair carnation
skin, is he not one whom faded dames of quality will delight
to honour? Or again, let the Beautifying -water succeed
or not, have not such dames, if calumny may be in aught
believed, another want? This want, too, the indefatigable
Cagliostro will supply, for a consideration. For faded gen-
tlemen of quality the Count likewise has help. Not a charm-
ing Countess alone ; but a * Wine of Egypt' (cantharides not
being unknown to him), sold in drops, more precious than
nectar ; which what faded gentleman of quality would not
purchase with anything short of life? Consider now what
may be done with potions, washes, charms, love-philtres,
among a class of mortals, idle from the mother's womb ; re-
joicing to be taught the Ionic dances, and meditating of
love from their tender nails !
Thus waxing, waning, broad-shining, or extinct, an in-
constant but unwearied Moon, rides on its course the Cagli-
ostrio star. Thus are Count and Countess busy in their -
vocation ; thus do they spend the golden season of their
youth, shall we say, 'for the Greatest Happiness of the
greatest number' ? Happy enough, had there been no sump-
tuary or adultery or swindlery Law-acts ; no Heaven above,
no Hell beneath; no flight of Time, and gloomy land of
Eld and Destitution and Desperation, towards which, by
COUNT OAGLIOSTRQ. 349
!aw of Fate, they see themselves, at all moments, with fright-
ful regularity, unaidably drifting.
The prudent man provides against the inevitable. Al-
ready Count Cagiiost.ro, with his love-philtres, his cantliari-
dic Wine of Egypt ; nay far earlier, by his blue-flames and
divining-rods, as with the poor sheep Goldsmith of Palermo;
and ever since, by many a significant hint thrown out where
the scene suited, has dabbled in the Supernatural. As his
seraphic Countess gives signs of withering, and one luxu-
riant branch of industry will die and drop off, others must
be pushed into budding. Whether it was in England dining
what he called his * first visit' in the year 1776 (for the be-
fore-first, house-smearing visit was, reason or none, to go
for nothing) that he first thought of Prophecy as a trade,
is unknown: certain enough, he had begun to practise it
then ; and this indeed not without a glimpse of insight into
the English national character. Various, truly, are the pur-
suits of mankind; whereon they would fain, unfolding the
future, take Destiny by surprise : with us, however, as a
nation of shopkeepers, they may be all said to centre in this
one, Put money in tliy purse ! for a Fortunatus'-Pocket,
with its ever-new coined gold ; if, indeed, the true prayer
were not rather: for a Crassus'- Drink, of liquid gold,
that so the accursed throat of Avarice might for once have
enough and to spare! Meanwhile whoso should engage,
keeping clear of the gallows, to teach men the secret of
making money, were not he a Professor sure of audience?
Strong were the general Scepticism ; still stronger the gene-
ral Need and Greed. Count Cagliostro, from his residence
in Whitcombe Street, it is clear, had looked into the mys-
teries of the Little-go ; by occult science knew the lucky
number. Bish as yet was not; but Lotteries were; gulls
also were. The Count has his Language-master, his Portu-
350 MISCELLANIES.
guese Jew, bis nondescript Ex- Jesuits, whom lie puts forth
as antennae, into coffee-houses, to stir-up the minds of
men. 'Lord' Scott (a swindler swindled), and Miss Fry,
and many others, were they here, could tell what it cost
them: nay, the very Lawbooks, and Lord Mansfield and
Mr. Howarth speak of hundreds, and jewel-boxes, and
quite handsome booties. Thus can the bustard pluck
geese, and, if Law do get the carcass, live upon their gib-
lets; now and then, however, finds a vulture, too tough
to pluck.
The attentive reader is no doubt curious to understand
all the What and the How of Cagliostro's procedure while
England was the scene. As we too are, and have been but
unhappily all in vain. To that English Life of uncertain
gender none, as was said, need in their utmost extremity
repair. Scarcely the very lodging of Cagliostro can be
ascertained; except incidentally that it was once in Whit-
combe Street ; for a few days, in Warwick Court, Holborn ;
finally, for some space, in the King's Bench Jail. Vain
were it, meanwhile, for any reverencer of genius to pilgrim
thither, seeking memorials of a great man. Cagliostro is
clean gone : on the strictest search, no token never so faint
discloses itself. He went, and left nothing behind him ;
except perhaps a few cast-clothes, and other inevitable
exuviae, long since, not indeed annihilated (this nothing can
be), yet beaten into mud, and spread as new soil over the
general surface of Middlesex and Surrey ; floated by the
Thames into old Ocean; or flitting, the gaseous parts of
them, in the universal Atmosphere, borne thereby to re-
motest corners of the Earth, or beyond the limits of the
Solar System! So fleeting is the track and habitation of
man ; so wondrous the stuff he builds of; his house, his very
house of houses (what we call his body), were he the first of
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO, 251
geniuses, will evaporate in the strangest manner, and vanish
even whither we have said.
To us on our side, however, it is cheering to discover,
for one thing, that Cagliostro found antagonists worthy of
him: the bustard plucking geese, and living 011 their gib-
lets, found not our whole Island peopled with geese, but
here and there, as above hinted, with, vultures, with hawks
of still sharper quality than his. Priddle, Aylett, Saunders,
O'Reilly : let these stand forth as the vindicators of English
national character. By whom Count Alessandro Cagliostro,
as in dim fluctuating outline indubitably appears, was be-
writted, arrested, fleeced, Iiatchelled, bewildered and be-
devilled, till the very Jail of King's Bench seemed a refuge
from them. A wholly obscure contest, as was natural ;
wherein, however, to all candid eyes the vulturous and fal-
conish character of our Isle fully asserts itself; and the
foreign Quack of Quacks, with all Ms thaumaturgic Hemp-
silks, Lottery -numbers, Beauty -waters, Seductions, Phos-
phorus-boxes, and Wines of Egypt, is seen matched, and
nigh throttled, by the natural unassisted cunning of Eng-
lish Attorneys. Whereupon the bustard, feeling himself so
pecked and plucked, takes wing, and flies to foreign parts.
One good thing he has carried with him, notwithstand-
ing : initiation into some primary arcana of Freemasonry.
The Quack of Quacks, with his primitive bias towards the
supernatural-mystificatory, must long have had his eye on
Masonry ; which, with its blazonry and mummery, sashes,
drawn sabres, brothers Terrible, brothers Venerable (the
whole so imposing by candle-light), offered the choicest ele-
ment for him. All men profit by Union with men; the
quack as much as another; nay in these two words, Sworn
Secrecy, alone has he not found a very talisman ! Cagli-
ostro* then, determines on Masonship. It was afterwards
852 MISCELLANIES,
urged that the Lodge to which he and his Seraphlna got
admission, for she also was made a Mason, or Masoness, and
had a riband-garter solemnly bound on, with order to sleep
in it for a night, was a Lodge of low rank in the social
scale ; numbering not a few of the pastrycook and hair-
dresser species. To which it could only be replied, that
these alone spoke French ; that a man and mason, though
he cooked pastry, was still a man and mason. Be this as
it might, the apt Eecipiendary is rapidly promoted through
the three grades of Apprentice, Companion, Master; at the
cost of five guineas. That of his being first raised into the
air, by means of a rope and pulley fixed in the ceiling, 4 dur-
& ing which the heavy mass of his body must assuredly have
* caused him a dolorous sensation ;' and then being forced
blindfold to shoot himself (though with privily &loaded
pistol), in sign of courage and obedience : all this we can
esteem an apocrypha, palmed on the Eoman Inquisition,
otherwise prone to delusion. Five guineas, and some foolish
froth-speeches, delivered over liquor and otherwise, was the
cost. If you ask now, In what London Lodge was it? Alas,
we know not, and shall never know. Certain only that
Count Alessandro is a master- mason ; that having once
crossed the threshold, his plastic genius will not stop there.
Behold, accordingly, he has bought from a ' Bookseller' certain
manuscripts belonging to ' one George Cofton, a man ab-
solutely unknown to him.' and to us, which treat of the
' Egyptian Masonry'! In other words, Count Alessandro
will How with his new five-guinea bellows ; having always
occasion to raise the wind.
With regard specially to that huge soap-bubble of an
Egyptian Masonry which he blew, and as conjuror caught
many flies with, it is our painful duty to say a little ; not
much. The Inquisition -Biographer, with deadly fear of
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO*
heretical and democratical and black-magical Freemasons
before his eyes, has gone Into the matter to boundless
depths; commenting, elucidating, even confuting: a certain
expository masonic Order-Book of Cagliostro's, which, he has
laid hand on, opens the whole mystery to him. The ideas
he declares to be Cagliostro's; the composition all a Dis-
ciple's, for the Count had no gift that way. What, then,
does the Disciple set forth, or, at lowest, the Inquisition-
Biographer say that he sets forth ? Much, much that is not
to the point.
Understand, however, that once inspired, by the abso-
lutely unknown George Cofton, with the notion of Egyptian
Masonry, wherein as yet lay much 'magic and superstition/
Count Alessandro resolves to free it of these impious In-
gredients, and make it a kind of Last Evangel, or Keno-
vator of the Universe, which so needed renovation. < As
he did not believe anything in matter of Faith,' says our
wooden Familiar, * nothing could arrest him.' True enough :
how did he move along, then; to what length did he go?
e In Ms system lie promises his followers to conduct them to per-
fection, by means of a physical and moral regeneration; to enable
them by the former (or physical) to find the prime matter, or Philo-
sopher's Stone, and the acacia which consolidates in man the forces
of the most vigorous youth, and renders him immortal ; and by the
latter (or moral) to procure them a Pentagon, which shall restore man.
to Ms primitive state of innocence, lost by original sin. The Founder
supposes that this Egyptian Masonry was instituted by Enoch and
Elias, who propagated it in different parts of the world : however, in.
time, It lost much of its purity and splendour. And so, by degrees,
the Masonry of men had been reduced to pure buf oonery ; and that
of women been almost entirely destroyed, having now for most part
no place in common Masonry. Till at last, the zeal of the Grand
Cophta (so are the High-priests of Egypt named) bad signalised itself
by restoring the Masonry of both sexes to its pristine lustre.'
VOL. IX. (Misc. vol. 4.7 AA
854 MISCELLANIES.
With, regard to the great question of constructing this
Invaluable Pentagon, which is to abolish Original Sin : how
you have to choose a solitary mountain, and call it Sinai;
and "build a Pavilion on it to be named Sion, with twelve
sides, in every side a window, and three stories, one of
which is named Ararat; and there, with Twelve Masters,
each at a window, yourself in the middle of them, to go
through unspeakable formalities, vigils, removals, fasts, toils,
distresses, and hardly get your Pentagon after all, with
regard to this great question and construction, we shall say
not! ling. As little concerning the still grander and pain-
fuller process of Physical Regeneration, or growing young
again; a thing not to be accomplished without a forty-days
course of medicine, purgations, sweating-baths, fainting-fits,
root-diet, phlebotomy, starvation and desperation, more per-
haps than it is all worth. Leaving these interior solemnities,
and many high moral precepts of union, virtue, wisdom, and
doctrines of immortality and what not, will the reader care
to cast an indifferent glance on certain esoteric ceremonial
parts of this Egyptian Masonry, as the Inquisition-Bio-
grapher, if we miscellaneously cull from him, may enable us ?
* In all these ceremonial parts, 7 huskily avers the wooden Bio-
grapher, 'you iind as much sacrilege, profanation, superstition and
idolatry, as in common Masonry : invocations of the holy Name, pro-
sternations, adorations lavished on the Venerable, or head of the Lodge;
aspirations, insufflations, incense-burnings, fumigations, exorcisms of
the Candidates and the garments they are to take emblems of the
sacrosanct Triad, of the Moon, of the Sun, of the Compass, Square,
and a thousand-thousand other iniquities and ineptitudes, which are
now well known in the world.*
c We above made mention of the Grand Cophta. By this title
has been designated the founder or restorer of Egyptian Masonry.
Cagliostro made no difficulty in admitting' (to me the Inquisitor)
* that under such name he was himself meant : now in this system
COUNT OAGLIOSTRO. 355
Ihe Grand Cophfca is compared to the Highest : the most solemn acts
of worship are paid him ; he has authority over the Angels ; he is
invoked on all occasions; everything is done in virtue of his power;
which you are assured he derives immediately from God. ISTay more :
among the various rites observed in this exercise of Masonry, you are
ordered to recite the Veni Creator sjriritus, the Te Deum, and some
Psalms of David : to such an excess is impudence and audacity car-
ried, that in the Psalm, Memento, Domine, David et omnis mansue-
tudinis fjus, every time the name David occurs, that of the Grand
Cophta is to be substituted.
' ~No Eeligion is excluded from the Egyptian Society : the Jew,
the Calvinist, the Lutheran, can be admitted equally well with the
Catholic, if so be they admit the existence of God and the immor-
tality of the soul.' 4 The men elevated to the rank of master take the
names of the ancient Prophets ; the women those of the Sibyls/
* * 'Then the grand Mistress blows on the face of the
female Eecipiendary, all along from brow to chin, and says : " I give
you this breath, to cause to germinate and become alive in your heart
the Truth which we possess; to fortify in you the" &c. <fec. " Guardian
of the new Knowledge which we prepare to make you partake of, by
the sacred names of Helios, Mene, Tetragrammaton"
* In the Essai sur les Illumiiws, printed at Paris in 1789, I read
that these latter words were suggested to Cagliostro as Arabic or
Sacred ones by a Sleight-of-hand Man, who said that he was assisted
by a spirit, and added that this spirit was the Soul of a Cabalist Jew,
who by art-magic had killed his pig before the Christian Advent/
* * 4 They take a young lad, or a girl who is in the state
of innocence, such they call the Pupil or the Oolumb; the Venerable
communicates to him the power he would have had before the Fall of
Man ; which power consists mainly in commanding the pure Spirits ;
these Spirits are to the number of seven : it is said they surround the
Throne ; and that they govern the Seven Planets : their names are
Anael, Michael, Eaphael, Gabriel, Uriel, Zobiachel, AnachieU
Or would the reader wish to see this Columb in action?
She can act in two ways; either behind a curtain, "behind
a hieroglyphically-painted Screen with 'table and three
candles; 5 or as here 'before the Caraffe/ an( i showing face.
356 MISCELLANIES.
If the miracle fail, it can only be because she is not ' in the
state of innocence/ an accident much to be guarded against.
This scene is at Mittau in Comiand; we find, indeed, that
it is a Pupil affair, not a Columb one ; but for the rest, that
is perfectly indifferent :
6 Cagliostro accordingly (it is his own story still) brought a little
Boy into the Lodge ; son of a nobleman there. He placed him on
his knees before a table, whereon stood a Bottle of pure water, and
"behind this some lighted candles : he made an exorcism round the
Boy, put his hand on his head : and both, in this attitude, addressed
their prayers to God for the happy accomplishment of the work.
Having then hid the child look into the Bottle, directly the child
cried that he saw a garden. Knowing hereby that Heaven assisted
him, Cagliostro took courage, and bade the child ask of God the grace
to see the Angel Michael. At first the child said : " I see something
white ; I know not what it is." Then he began jumping, stamping
like a possessed creature, and cried : " There now ! I see a child, like
myself, that seems to have something angelical." All the assembly,
and Cagliostro himself, remained speechless with emotion. * * *
The child being anew exorcised, with the hands of the Venerable on
his head, and the customary prayers addressed to Heaven, he looked
into the Bottle, and said, he saw his Sister at that moment coming
down stairs, and embracing one of her brothers. That appeared im-
possible, the "brother in question being then hundreds of miles off:
however, Cagliostro felt not disconcerted ; said they might send to the
counti y-house where the sister was, and see.' 3
Wonderful enough. Here, however, a fact rather sud-
denly transpires, which, as the Inquisition-Biographer well
urges, must serve to undeceive all believers in Cagliostro |
at least, call a blush into their cheeks. It seems: 'The
* Grand Cophta, the restorer, the propagator of Egyptian
6 Masonry, Count Cagliostro himself, testifies, in most part
* of his System, the profoundest respect for the Patriarch
9 Vie de Joseph Bcdmmo, traduite tfaprte Poriyinal Italian, eh, ii iii. (Paris, 1791.)
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 357
* Moses : and yet this same Cagliostro affirmed before his
* judges that he had always felt the insurmountablest anti-
fc pathj to Moses ; and attributes this hatred to his constant
* opinion, that Moses was a thief for having carriod-off the
6 Egyptian vessels ; which opinion, in spite of all the hirain-
' ons arguments that were opposed to him to show how
6 erroneous it was, he has continued to hold with an in-
& vincible obstinacy !' How reconcile these two inconsist-
encies ? Ay, how ?
But to finish-off this Egyptian Masonic business, and
bring it all to a focus, we shall now, for the first and for
the last time, peep one moment through the spyglass of
Monsieur de Luchet, in that Essai sur les Illumines of his.
The whole matter being so much of a chimera, how can it
be painted otherwise than chimerically ? Of the following
passage one thing is true, that a creature of the seed of
Adam believed it to be true. List, list, then ; list !
* The Eecipiendary is led by a darksome path, into an immense
hall, the ceiling, the walls, the floor of which are covered by a black
cloth, sprinkled over with red flames and menacing serpents : three
sepulchral lamps emit, from time to time, a dying glimmer ; and the
eye half distinguishes, in this lugubrious den, certain wrecks of mor-
tality suspended by funereal crapes : a heap of skeletons forms in the
centre a sort of altar; on both sides of it are piled books; some con-
tain menaces against the perjured ; others the deadly narrative of the
vengeances which the Invisible Spirit has exacted; of the infernal
evocations for a long time pronounced in vain.
' Eight hours elapse. Then Phantoms, trailing mortuary veils,
slowly cross the hall, and sink in caverns, without audible noise of
trapdoors or of falling. You notice only that they are gone, by a fetid
odour exhaled from them.
* The Novice remains four-and-twenty hours in this gloomy abode,
in the midst of a freezing silence. A rigorous fast has already weak-
ened Ms thinking faculties. Liquors, prepared for the purpose, first
358 MISCELLANIES.
weary, and at length wear-out Ms senses. At his feet arc placed three
cups, filled with a drink of greenish colour. IsTecessity lifts them to-
wards his lips ; involuntary fear repels them.
& At last appear two men ; looked upon as the ministers of death.
These gird the pale brow of the Eecipiendaiy with an auroral-coloured
riband, dipt in blood, and full of silvered characters mixed with the
figure of Our Lady of Loretto. He receives a copper crucifix, of two
inches length; to Ms neck are hung a sort of amulets, wrapped in
violet cloth. He is stript of his clothes; which two ministering
brethren deposit on a funeral pile, erected at the other end of the
hall. With blood, on his naked body, are traced crosses. In this
state of suffering and humiliation, he sees approaching with large
strides five Phantoms, armed with swords, and clad in garments drop-
ping blood. Their faces are veiled : they spread a carpet on the floor;
3meel there; pray; and remain with outstretched hands crossed on
their breast, and face fixed on the ground, in deep silence. An hour
passes in this painful attitude. After which fatiguing trial, plaintive
cries are heard ; the funeral pile takes fire, yet casts only a pale light ;
the garments are thrown on it and burnt. A colossal and almost
transparent Figure rises from the very bosom of the pile. At sight
of it, the five prostrated men fall into convulsions insupportable to
look on ; the too faithful image of those foaming struggles wherein a
mortal, at handgrips with a sudden pain, ends by sinking under it.
f Then a trembling voice pierces the vault, and articulates the for-
mula of those execrable oaths that are to be sworn : my pen falters ;
I think myself almost guilty to retrace them/
Luchet, -what a taking! Is there no hope left, thinkest
thou? Thy brain is all gone to addled albumen; help seems
none, if not in that last mother's-bosom of all the ruined :
Brandy-and-water ! An unfeeling world may laugh; but
ought to recollect that, forty years ago, these things were
sad realities, in the heads of many men.
As to the execrable oaths, this seems the main one:
t Honour and respect Aqua To/ana 9 as a sure, prompt and
* necessary means of purging the Globe, by the death or
COUNT CAGLIOSTBO, 359
6 the liebetaiion of such as endeavour to debase the Truth,
6 or snatch it from our hands.' And so the catastrophe ends
by bathing our poor half-dead Recipiendary first in blood,
then, after some genuflexions; in water; and 'serving him
a repast composed of roots/ we grieve to say, mere pota-
toes-and-point 1
Figure now all this boundless cunningly devised Agglo-
merate of royal-arches, death's-heads, hieroglyphically painted
screens, Columbs in the state of innocence ; with spacious
masonic halls, dark, or in the favourablest theatrical light-
and-dark ; Kircher's magic-lantern, Belshazzar hand-writings,
of phosphorus: ( plaintive tones/ gong-beatings; hoary beard
of a supernatural Grand Cophta emerging from the gloom;
and how it acts, not only indirectly through the foolish
senses of men, but directly on their Imagination ; connect-
ing itself with Enoch and Elias, with Philanthropy, Immor-
tality, Eleutheromania, and Adam Weisshaupt's Illuminati,
and so downwards to the infinite Deep : figure all this ; and
in the centre of it, sitting eager and alert, the skilfulest
Panourgos, working the mighty chaos, into a creation of
ready-money. In such a wide plastic ocean of sham and foam
had the Archquack now happily begun to envelop himself.
Accordingly he goes forth prospering and to prosper.
Arrived in any City, he has but by masonic grip to accredit
himself with the Venerable of the place ; and, not by de-
grees as formerly, but in a single night, is introduced in
Grand Lodge to all that is fattest and foolishest far or
near; and in the fittest arena, a gilt-pasteboard Masonic
hall. There between the two pillars of Jachin and Boaz,
can the great Sheepstealer see his whole flock of Dupeables
assembled in one penfold; affectionately blatant, licking the
hand they are to bleed by. Victorious Acharat-Beppo ! The
360 MISCELLANIES.
genius of Amazement, moreover, lias now shed her glory
round him ; he is radiant-headed, a supernatural by his very
gait. Behold him everywhere welcomed with vivats, or in
awestruck silence: gilt-pasteboard Freemasons receive him
under the Steel- Arch of crossed sabres; he mounts to the
Seat of the Venerable ; holds high discourse hours long, on
Masonry, Morality, Universal Science, Divinity, and Things
in general, with ' a sublimity, an emphasis and unction/ pro-
ceeding, it appears, * from the special inspiration of the Holy
Ghost.' Then there are Egyptian Lodges to be founded,
corresponded with, a thing involving expense ; elementary
fractions of many a priceless arcanum, nay if the place will
stand it, of the Pentagon itself, can be given to the purified
in life: how gladly would he give them, but they have to
be brought from the uttermost ends of the world, and cost
money. Now too, with what tenfold impetuosity do all the
old trades of Egyptian Drops, Beauty-waters, Secret-favours,
expand themselves, and rise in price ! Life-weary moneyed
Donothing, this seraphic Countess is Grand Priestess of the
Egyptian Female Lodges; has a touch of the supraniundane
Undine in her : among all thy intrigues, hadst thou ever yet
Endymion-like an intrigue with the lunar Diana, called also
Hecate? And thou, antique, much-loving faded Dowager,
this Squire-of-dames can, it appears probable, command the
Seven Angels, Uriel, Anacliiel and Company; at lowest, has
the eyes of all Europe fixed on him! The dog pockets
money enough, and can seem to despise money.
To us, much meditating on the matter, it seemed per-
haps strangest of all, how Count Cagliostro, received under
the Steel Arch, could hold Discourses, of from one to three
hours long, on Universal Science, of such unction, we do
not say as to seem inspired by the Holy Spirit, but as not
to get him lugged out of doors directly after his first head
COUNT OAGLIOSTRO. 361
of method, and drowned in whole oceans of salt-and-water.
The man could not speak ; only babble in long-winded dif-
fusions, chaotic circumvolutions tending nowhither. He had
no thought for speaking with ; he had not even a language.
His Sicilian Italian, and Laquais-de-place French, garnished
with shreds from all European dialects, was wholly intelli-
gible to 110 mortal ; a Tower-of-Babel jargon, which made
many think him a kind of Jew. But indeed, with the lan-
guage of Greeks, or of Angels, what better were it ? The
man, once for all, has no articulate utterance; that tongue
of his emits noises enough, but no speech. Let him begin
the plainest story, his stream stagnates at the first stage ;
chafes, " ahem I ahem !" loses itself in the earth $ or, bursting
over, flies abroad without bank or channel, into separate
plashes. Not a stream, but a lake, a wide-spread indefinite
marsh. His whole thought is confused, inextricable; what
thought, what resemblance of thought he has, cannot deliver
itself, except in gasps, blustering gushes, spasmodic reflu-
ences, which make bad worse. Bubble, bubble, toil and
trouble : how thou bubblest, foolish 4 Bubblyjock' ! Hear him
once, and on a dead-lift occasion, as the Inquisition Gurney
reports it :
^ " I mean and I wish to mean, that even as those who honour
their father and mother, and respect the sovereign Pontiff, are blessed
of God; even so all that I did, I did it by the order of God, with the
power which he vouchsafed me, and to the advantage of God and of
Holy Church; and I mean to give the proofs of all that I have done
and said, not only physically but morally, hy showing that as I have
served God for God and by the power of God, he has given me at
last the counterpoison to confound and combat Hell; for I know no
other enemies than those that are in Hell, and if I am wrong, the
Holy Father will punish me ; if I am right, he will reward me / an
if the Holy Father could get into his hands tonight these answers
of mine, I predict to all brethren, believers and unbelievers, that I
362 MISCELLANIES.
should be at liberty tonionow morning.*' Being desired to give tlieso
proofs then, lie answered : " To prove that I have been chosen of
God as an apostle to defend and propagate religion, I say that as the
Holy Church has instituted pastors to demonstrate in face of the
world that she is the true Catholic faith, even so, having operated
with approbation and by the counsel of pastois of the Holy Church,
I am, as I said, fully justified in regard to all my operations ; and
those pastors have assured me that my Egyptian Order was divine,
and deserved to be formed into an Order sanctioned by the Holy
Father, as I said in another interrogatory." ?
How then, in the name of wonder, said we, could such a
babbling, bubbling Turkey-cock speak 4 with, unction' ?
Two tilings here are to be taken into account. First,
the difference between speaking and public speaking; a dif-
ference altogether generic. Secondly, the wonderful power
of a certain audacity, often named impudence. Was it never
thy hard fortune, good Reader, to attend any Meeting con-
vened for Public purposes; any Bible-Society, Reform, Con-
servative, Thatched -Tavern, Hogg Dinner, or other such
Meeting? Thou hast seen some full-fed Long-ear, by free
determination or on sweet constraint, start to his legs, and
give voice. Well aware wert thou that there was not, had
not been, could not be, in that entire ass -cranium of his
any fraction of an idea : nevertheless mark him. If at first
an ominous haze flit round, and nothing, not even nonsense,
dwell in his recollection, heed it not; let him but plunge
desperately on, the spell is broken. Commonplaces enough
are at hand: labour of love/ * rights of suffering millions/
( throne and altar/ * divine gift of song/ or what else it may
be; the Meeting, by its very name, has environed itself in a
given element of Commonplace. But anon, behold how his
talking-organs get heated, and the friction vanishes ; cheers,
applauses, with the previous dinner and strong drink, raise
COUNT CAGLIOSTBO. 303
Mm to height of noblest temper. And now, as for your voci-
ferous Dullard is easiest of all, let him keep 011 the soft, safe
parallel course ; parallel to the Truth, or nearly so ; for Hea-
ven's sake, not in contact with it : no obstacle "will meet him ;
on the favouring given element of Commonplace he trium-
phantly careers,
He is as the ass, "whom you took and cast headlong into
the water: the water at first threatens to swallow him;
but he finds, to his astonishment, that he can swim therein,
that it is buoyant and bears him along. One sole condi-
tion is indispensable : audacity, vulgarly called impudence.
Our ass must commit himself to his watery ( element;' in
free daring, strike-forth his four limbs from him : then
shall he not drown and sink, but shoot gloriously forward,
and swim, to the admiration of bystanders. The ass, safe
landed on the other bank, shakes his rough hide, wonder-
struck himself at the faculty that lay in him, and waves
joyfully his long ears : so too the public speaker. Cagliostro,
as we know him of old, is not without a certain blubbery
oiliness of soul as of body, with vehemence lying under it ;
has the volublest, noisiest tongue ; and in the audacity vul-
garly called impudence is without a fellow. The Common-
places of such Steel-Arch Meetings are soon at his finger-ends :
that same blubbery oiliness, and vehemence lying under it,
once give them an element and stimulus, are the very gift
of a fluent public speaker to Dupeables.
Here too let us mention a circumstance, not insignificant,
if true, which it may readily enough be. In younger years,
Beppo Balsamo once, it is recorded, took some pains to pro-
cure, < from a country vicar,' under quite false pretences, ' a
bit of cotton steeped in holy oils.' What could such bit of
cotton steeped in holy oils do for him ? An Unbeliever from
any basis of conviction the imbelieving Beppo could never
864 MISCELLANIES.
be ; "but solely frcm stupidity and bad morals. Might there
not lie in that chaotic blubbery nature of his, at the bot-
tom of all, a certain musk-grain of real Superstitious Belief?
How wonderfully such a musk-grain of Belief will flavour,
and impregnate with seductive odour, a whole inward world
of Quackery, so that every fibre thereof shall smell musk, is
well known. No Quack can persuade like him who has him-
self some persuasion. Nay, so wondrous is the act of Be-
lieving, Deception and Self-deception must, rigorously speak-
ing, coexist in all Quacks ; and he perhaps were definable as
the best Quack, in whom the smallest musk-grain of the latter
would sufficiently flavour the largest mass of the former.
But indeed, as we know otherwise, was there not in
Cagliostro a certain pinchbeck counterfeit of all that is
golden and good in man, of somewhat even that is best?
Cheers, and illuminated hieroglyphs, and the ravishment
of thronging audiences, can make him maudlin; his very
wickedness of practice will render him louder in eloquence
of theory; and 'philanthropy/ ' divine science,' 6 depth of un-
known worlds,' ' finer feelings of the heart/ and suchlike
shall draw tears from most asses of sensibility. Neither,
indeed, is it of moment how few his elementary Common-
places are, how empty his head is, so he but agitate it well :
thus a lead-drop or two, put into the emptiest dry-bladder,
and jingled to and fro, will make noise enough ; and even,
if skilfully jingled, a kind of martial music.
Such is the Oagliostric palaver, that bewitches all man-
ner of believing souls. If the ancient Father was named
Chrysostom, or Mouth-of-Gold, be the modern Quack named
Pinchbeckostom, or Mouth-of-Pinchbeck ; in an Age of Bronze
such metal finds elective affinities. On the whole, too, it is
worth considering what element your Quack specially works
in : the element of Wonder 1 The Genuine, be lie artist or
COUNT OAGLIOSTRO. 365
artisan, works in the finltnde of the Known; the Quack in
the infinitude of the Unknown. And then how, in rapidest
progression, he grows and advances, once start him ! Your
name is up, says the adage ; yon may lie in bed. A nimbns
of renown and preternatural astonishment envelops Cagli-
ostro; enchants the general eye. The few reasoning mor-
tals scattered here and there who see through him. deafened
in the universal hubbub, shut their lips in sorrowful disdain ;
confident in the grand remedy, Time. The Enchanter mean-
while rolls on his way; what boundless materials of De-
ceptibility, what greediness and ignorance, especially what
prurient brate-mindedness, exist over Europe in this the
most deceivable of modern ages, are stirred up, fermenting
in his behoof. He careers onward as a Comet ; his nucleus,
of paying and praising Dupes, embraces, in long radius,
what city and province he rests over; his thinner tail, of
wondering and curious Dupes, stretches into remotest lands.
Good Lavater, from amid his Swiss Mountains, could say
of him : 4 Cagliostro, a man and a man such as few are ;
6 in whom, however, I am not a believer. that he were
6 simple of heart and humble, like a child; that he had feel-
4 ing for the simplicity of the Gospel, and the majesty of
* the Lord (HoJieit des Herrn) I Who were so great as he I
* Cagliostro often tells what is not true, and promises what
- < he does not perform. Yet do I nowise hold his operations
6 as deception, though they are not what he calls them.' 4
If good Lavater could so say of him, what must others have
been saying !
Comet-wise, progressing with loud flourish of kettle-
drams, everywhere under the Steel-Arch, evoking spirits,
transmuting metals (to such, as could stand it), the Arch-
quack has traversed Saxony; at Leipzig has run athwart
4 Lettre du Comte Mirabeau sur Oagliostro et Lavater 7 p. 42. (Berlin, 1786.)
366 MISCELLANIES.
the hawser of a brother quack (poor Schropfer, hero scarcely
recognisable as * Scieffert}, and wrecked him. Through East-
ern Germany, Prussian Poland, he progresses ; and so now
at length, in the spring of 1780, has arrived at Petersburg.
His pavilion is erected here, his flag prosperously hoisted :
Mason-lodges have long ears ; he is distributing, as has now
become his wont, Spagiric Food, medicine for the poor; a
train-oil Prince, Potemkin or something like him, for ac-
counts are dubious, feels his chops water over a seraphic
Seraphina: all goes merry, and promises the best. But in
those despotic countries, the Police is so arbitrary I Cagli-
ostro's thaumattirgy must be overhauled by the Empress's
Physician (Mouncey, a hard Annandale Scot) ; is found
nought, the Spagiric Food unfit for a dog : and so, the
whole particulars of his Lordship's conduct being put to-
gether, the result is, that he must leave Petersburg, in a
given brief term of hours. Happy for him that it was so
brief: scarcely is he gone, till the Prussian Ambassador ap-
pears with a complaint, that he has falsely assumed the
Prussian uniform at Kome; the Spanish Ambassador with
a still graver complaint, that he has forged bills at Cadiz.
However, he is safe over the marches: let them complain
their fill
In Courland, and in Poland, great things await him ; yet
not unalloyed by two small reverses. The famed Countess
von der Recke, a born Fair Saint, what the Germans call
Sclione Seele, as yet quite young in heart and experience,
but broken down with grief for departed friends, seeks to
question the world-famous Spirit-summoner on the secrets
of the Invisible Kingdoms; whither, with fond strained eyes,
she is incessantly looking. The galimathias of Pinchbeckostom
cannot impose on this pure-minded simple woman : she re-
cognises the Quack in him, and in a printed Book makes
COUNT CAaLIOSTRO, 367
known the same : Mephisto's mortifying experience with
Margaret, as above foretold, renews itself for Cagliostro. 5
At Warsaw too, though he discourses on Egyptian Masonry,
on Medical Philosophy, and the ignorance of Doctors, and
performs successfully with Pupil and Columl, a certain
6 Count M.' cherishes more than doubt; which ends in cer-
tainty, in a written Cagliostro Unmasked. The Archquack,
triumphant, sumptuously feasted in the city, has retired
with a chosen set of believers, with whom, however, was
this unbelieving <M.,* into the country; to transmute metals,
to prepare perhaps the Pentagon itself. All that night,
before leaving Warsaw, 'our dear Master' had spent con-
versing with spirits. Spirits? cries C M. ;' Not he; but melt-
ing ducats: he has a melted mass of them in this crucible,
which now, by sleight of hand, he would fain substitute for
that other, filled, as you all saw, with red-lead, carefully
luted down, smelted, set to cool, smuggled from among our
hands, and now (look at it, ye asses !) found broken and
hidden among these bushes !
Neither does the Pentagon, or Elixir of Life, or whatever
it was, prosper better. ( Our sweet Master enters into
fi expostulation :' ' swears by his great God, and his honour,
tf that he will finish the work and make us happy. He
6 carries his modesty so far as to propose that he shall
6 work with chains on his feet; and consents to lose his
6 life, by the hands of his disciples, if before the end of
4 the fourth passage, his word be not made good. He lays
* his hand on the ground, and kisses it ; holds it up to Hea-
6 ven, and again takes God to witness that he speaks true ;
* calls on Him to exterminate him if he lies.' A vision
of the hoary-bearded Grand Cophta himself makes night
solemn. In vain 1 The sherds of that broken red-lead cru-
5 Zettgenossen, No. 15. Frau von der HecJce.
S68 MISCELLANIES.
cible, which pretends to stand hero unbroken half-full of
silver, lie there* before your eyes : that ' resemblance of a
sleeping child/ grown visible in the magic cooking of our
Elixir, proves to be an inserted rosemary-leaf; the Grand
Cophta cannot be gone too soon.
Count * M.,' balancing towards the opposite extreme, even
thinks him inadequate as a Quack :
* Far from "being modest/ says this Unmasker, * lie brags beyond
expression, in anybody's presence, especially in women's, of the grand
faculties lie possesses. Every word is an exaggeration, or a statement
you feel to be improbable. The smallest contradiction puts him in
fury : Ms vanity breaks through on all sides ; he lets you give him a
festival that sets the whole city a- talking. Most impostors are supple,
and endeavour to gain friends. This one, you might say, studies to
appear arrogant, to make all men enemies, by his rude injurious
speeches, by the squabbles and grudges he introduces among friends.'
* He quarrels with his coadjutors for trifl.es; fancies that a simple giving
of the lie will persuade the public that they are liars.' * Schro'pfer
at Leipzig was far cleverer/ < He should get some ventriloquist for
assistant : should read some Books of Chemistry; study the Tricks of
Philadelphia and Conius/ 6
Fair advices, good 4 M.;* but do not you yourself admit
that he has a ' natural genius for deception ;' above all things
* a forehead of brass (front d'airaiii), which nothing can dis-
concert' ? To such a genius, and such a brow, Comus and
Philadelphia, and all the ventriloquists in Nature, can add
little. Give the Archquack his due. These arrogancies of
his prove only that he is mounted on his high horse, and has
now the world under him.
Such reverses, which will occur in the lot of every man,
are, for our Cagliostro, but as specks in the blaze of the
meridian Sun. With undimmed lustre he is, as heretofore,
9 Cagliostro dmasque a Yarsowie, en 1780, pp. 35 bt seq. (Paris, 7.786.)
COUNT OAGLIOSTRO. 3(JD
banded-over from this * Prince P.' to that Prince Q. ; among
which high believing potentates, what is an incredulous
< Count M.'? His pockets are distended with ducats and
diamonds : he is off to Vienna, to Frankfort, to Strasburg,
by extra-post; and there also will work miracles. 'The
< train he commonly took witli him,' says the Inquisition-
Biographer, ' corresponded to the rest ; he always travelled
* post, with a considerable suite : couriers, lackeys, bocly-
6 servants, domestics of all sorts, sumptuously dressed, gave
4 an air of reality to the high birth he vaunted. The very
* liveries he got made at Paris cost twenty louis each. Apart-
*ments furnished in the height of the mode; a magnificent
6 table, open to numerous guests ; rich dresses for himself and
* his wife, corresponded to this luxurious way of life. His
* feigned generosity likewise made a great noise. Often he
6 gratuitously doctored the poor, and even gave them alms.' 7
In the inside of all this splendid travelling and lodging
economy are to be seen, as we know, two suspicious -look-
ing rouged or unrouged figures, of a Count and a Countess;
lolling on their cushions there, with a jaded, haggard kind
of aspect ; they eye one another sullenly, in silence, with a
scarce -suppressed indignation; for each thinks the other
does not work enough and eats too much. Whether Dame
Lorenza followed her peculiar side of the business with re-
luctance or with free alacrity, is a moot-point among Bio-
graphers : not so that, with her choleric adipose Archquack,
she had a sour life of it, and brawling abounded. If we
look still farther inwards, and try to penetrate the inmost
self-consciousness, what in another man would be called the
conscience, of the Archquack himself, the view gets most
uncertain ; little or nothing to be seen but a thick fallacious
haze. Which indeed was the main thing extant there. Much
7 Vie de Joseph, alsamo t p. 41,
VOL. IX. (Misc. voL 4.) BB
370 MISCELLANIES.
In the Count Front-d'airain remains dubious; yet hardly this:
his want of clear insight into anything, most of all into his
own inner man. Cunning in the supreme degree he has-
intellect next to none. Nay, is not cunning (couple it with
an esurient character) the natural consequence of defective
intellect? It is properly the vehement exercise of a short
poor vision ; of an intellect sunk, bemired ; which can attain
to no free vision, otherwise it would lead the esnrient man
to be honest.
Meanwhile gleams of muddy light will occasionally visit
all mortals ; every living creature (according to Milton, the
very Devil) has some more or less faint resemblance of a
Conscience; must make inwardly certain auricular confes-
sions, absolutions, professions of faith, were it only that he
does not yet quite loathe, and so proceed to hang himself.
What such a Porous as Cagliostro might specially feel, and
think, and be, were difficult in any case to say ; much more
when contradiction and mystification, designed and unavoid-
able, so involve the matter. One of the most authentic
documents preserved of him is the Picture of his Visage.
An Effigies once universally diffused ; in oil-paint, aquatint,
marble, stucco, and perhaps gingerbread, decorating millions
of apartments : of which remarkable Effigies one copy, en-
graved in the line-manner, happily still lies here. Fittest of
visages ; worthy to be worn by the Quack of Quacks ! A
most portentous face of scoundrelism : a fat, snub, abomin-
able face; dew-lapped, flat-nosed, greasy, full of greediness,
sensuality, oxlike obstinacy ; a forehead impudent, refusing
to be ashamed ; and then two eyes turned up seraphically
languishing, as in divine contemplation and adoration ; a
touch of quiz too : on the whole, perhaps the most perfect
quack-face produced by the eighteenth century. There he
sits, and seraphically languishes, with this epigraph :
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 371
DC} TAmi des Ilumains reconnalssez Ics trails :
Tons ses jours sont marques par de no^weaux lienfaits,
II prolong e la vie, il secouft T 1 indigence;
Le plaisir d-etre utile est seul sa recompense.
A probable conjecture were, that this same Theosophy,
Theophilanthropy, Solacement of tlie Poor, to whicli our
Archquack now more and more betook himself, might serve,
not only as bird-lime for external game, but also half-uncoil-
sciously as salve for assuaging his own spiritual sores. Am
not I a charitable man? could the Archquack say : if I have
erred myself, have I not, by theosophic unctuous discourses,
removed much cause of error ? The lying, the quackery,
what are these but the method of accommodating yourself
to the temper of men ; of getting their ear, their dull long
ear, which Honesty had no chance to catch ? Way, at worst,
is not this an unjust world; full of nothing but beasts of
prey, four-footed or two-footed? Nature has commanded,
saying: Man, help thyself. Ought not the man of my
genius, since he was not born a Prince, since in these scan-
dalous times he has not been elected a Prince, to make him-
self one ? If not by open violence, for which he wants mili-
tary force, then surely by superior science, exercised in a
private way. Heal the diseases of the Poor, the far deeper
diseases of the Ignorant ; in a word, found Egyptian Lodges,
and get the means of founding them. By such soliloquies
can Count Front-of-brass Pinchbeckostom, in rare atrabiliar
hours of self-questioning, compose himself. For the rest*
such hours are rare : the Count is a man of action and di-
gestion, not of self-questioning ; usually the day brings its
abundant task; there is no time for abstractions, of the
metaphysical sort.
Be this as it may, the Count has arrived at Strasburg;
is working higher wonders than ever. At Straslmrg, indeed,
872 MISCELLANIES.
iii the year 1783, occurs his apotheosis ; what we can call
the culmination and Fourth Act of his Life-drama. He was
here for a number of months ; in full blossom and radiance,
the envy and admiration of the world. In large hired hos-
pitals, he with open drug-box containing c Extract of Saturn,'
and even with open purse, relieves the suffering poor ; un-
folds himself lamb-like, angelic to a believing few, of the '
rich classes ; turns a silent minatory lion-face to unbelievers,
were they of the richest. Medical miracles have in all times
been common : but what miracle is this of an Oriental or
Occidental Serene-Excellence, who, ' regardless of expense,'
employs himself not in preserving game, but in curing sick-
ness, in illuminating ignorance 1 Behold how he dives, at
noonday, into the infectious hovels of the mean ; and on the
equipages, haughtinesses, and even dinner-invitations of the
great, turns only his negatory front-of-brass ! The Prince
Cardinal de Rohan, Archbishop of Strasburg, first-class Peer
of France, of the Blood-royal of Brittany, intimates a wish
to see him ; he answers : " If Monseigneur the Cardinal is
sick, let him come, and I will cure him ; if he is well, he has
no need of me, I none of him. 5 ' 8
Heaven meanwhile has sent him a few disciples : by a nice
tact, he knows his man; to one speaks only of Spagiric Medi-
cine, Downfall of Tyranny, and the Egyptian Lodge ; to an-
other., of quite high matters, beyond this diurnal sphere, of
visits from the Angel of Light, visits from him of Darkness;
passing a Statue of Christ, he will pause with a wondrously
accented plaintive " Ha 1" as of recognition, as of thousand-
years remembrance; and when questioned, sink into mysteri-
ous silence. Is he the Wandering Jew, then 1 Heaven knows !
At Strasburg, in a word, Fortune not only smiles but laughs
upon him : as crowning favour, he finds here the richest, in-
8 Mtmoires de VAbU George?, ii. 48.
COUNT OAGLIOSTRO. 373
fl.'imm ablest, most open-handed Dupe ever yet youclisafed
him; no other than that same many-titled Louis de Eohan;
strong in whose favour, he can laugh again at Fortune.
Let the curious reader look at him, for an instant or two,
through the eyes of two eye-witnesses : the AbM Georgel,
Prince Louis's diplomatic Factotum, and Herr Meiners, the
Gottingen Professor :
' Admitted at length/ says our too-prosing Jesuit Abbe, i to the
sanctuary of tlxis .ZEsculapius, Prince Louis saw, according to his own
account, in the incommunicative man's physiognomy, something so
dignified, so imposing, that he felt penetrated with a religious awe,
and reverence dictated his address. Their interview, which was brief,
excited more keenly than ever Ms desire of farther acquaintance. He
attained it at length : and the crafty empiric graduated so cunningly
his words and procedure, that he gained, without appearing to court
it, the Cardinal's entire confidence, and the greatest ascendency over
his will. " Your soul," said he one day to the Prince, " is worthy of
mine ; you deserve to be made participator of all my secrets." Such
an avowal captivated the whole faculties, intellectual and moral, of a
man who at all times had hunted after secrets of alchymy and botany.
Prom this moment their union became intimate and public : Cagliostro
went and established himself at Saverne, while his Eminency was re-
siding there ; their solitary interviews were long and frequent. 5 * *
' I remember once, having learnt, by a sure way, that Baron de Planta
(his Eminency's man of affairs) had frequent, most expensive orgies,
in the Archiepiscopal Palace, where Tokay wine ran like water, to
regale Cagliostro and his pretended wife, I thought it my duty to
inform the Cardinal : his answer was, " I know it ; I have even au-
thorised him to commit abuses, if he judge fit. 1 ' ' * * < He came at
last to have no other will than Cagliostro's : and to such a length had
it gone, that this sham Egyptian, finding it good to quit Strasburg
for a time, and retire into Switzerland, the Cardinal, apprised thereof,
despatched Ms Secretary as well to attend Mm, as to obtain Predic-
tions from Mm ; such were transmitted in cipher to the Cardinal on
every point he needed to consult of.' 9
8 George], ubi supra.
374 MISCELLANIES.
' Before ever I arrived in Stras"burg s (hear now the as prosing Pro-
testant Professor), ' I knew almost to a certainty that I should not
see Count Cagliostro; at least, not get to speak with Mm. Prom
many persons I had heard that he, on no account, received visits from
curious Travellers, in a state of health ; that such as, without being
sick, appeared in his audiences were sure to be treated by him, in the
brutalest way, as spies.' * * ' ^Nevertheless, though I saw not this
new god of Physio near at hand and deliberately, but only for a mo-
ment as he rolled on in a rapid carriage, I fancy myself to be better
acquainted with Mm than many that have lived in his society for
months.' * My unavoidable conviction is, that Count Cagliostro, from
of old, has been more of a cheat than an enthusiast ; and also that he
continues a cheat to this day.
< As to his country I have ascertained nothing. Some make him
a Spaniard, others a Jew, or an Italian, or a Eagusan; or even an
Arab, who had persuaded some Asiatic Prince to send his son to travel
in Europe, and then murdered the youth, and taken possession of his
treasures. As the self-styled Count speaks badly all the languages
you hear from him, and has most likely spent the greater part of his
life under feigned names far from home, it is probable enough no sure
trace of his origin may ever be discovered.'
* On Ms first appearance in Strasburg he connected himself with
the Freemasons ; but only till he felt strong enough to stand on Ms
own feet : he soon gained the favour of the Prcetor and the Cardinal ;
and through these the favour of the Court, to such a degree that his
adversaries cannot so much as think of overthrowing him. With the
Prsetor and Cardinal he is said to demean himself as with persons
who were under boundless obligation to him, to whom he was under
none : the equipage of the Cardinal he seems to use as freely as Ms
own. He pretends that he can recognise Atheists or Blasphemers by
the smell ; that the vapour from such throws Mm into epileptic fits ;
into which sacred disorder he, like a true juggler, has the art of fall-
ing when he likes. In public he no longer vaunts of rule over spirits,
or other magical arts ; but I know, even as certainly, that he still
pretends to evoke spirits, and by their help and apparition to heal
diseases, as I know this other fact, that he understands no more of
the human system, or the nature of its diseases, or the use of the
commonest therapeutic methods, than any other quack. 1
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 375
1 According to the crcdiblest accounts of persons who have long
observed him, he is a man to an inconceivable degree choleric (liefticf)^
heedless, inconstant ; and therefore doubtless it was the happiest idea
he ever in his whole life came upon, this of maldng himself inacces-
sible ; of raising the most obstinate reserve as a "bulwark round him ;
without which precaution he must long ago have "been caught at fault.
4 For his own labour he takes neither payment nor present : when
presents are made him of such a sort as cannot without offence he-
refused, he forthwith returns some counter-present, of equal or still
higher value. Kay he not only takes nothing from his patients, but
frequently admits them, months long, to his house and his table, and
will not consent to the smallest recompense. "With all this disin-
terestedness (conspicuous enough, as you may suppose), he lives in an
expensive way, plays deep, loses almost constantly to ladies ; so that,
according to the very lowest estimate, he must require at least 20,000
livres a-year. The darkness which Cagliostro has, on purpose, spread
over the sources of Ms income and outlay, contributes even more than
his munificence and miraculous cures to the notion that he is a divine
extraordinary man, who has watched Nature in her deepest opera-
tions, and ainong other secrets stolen that of Gold-making from her.'
* * * With a mixture of sorrow and indignation over our age, I have
to record that this man has found acceptance, not only among the
great, who from of old have been the easiest bewitched by such, but
also with many of the learned, and even physicians and naturalists.' 10
Halcyon days ; only too good to continue ! All glory
runs its course ; has its culmination, and then its often pre-
cipitous decline. Eminency Rohan, with fervid temper and
small instruction, perhaps of dissolute, certainly of dishonest
manners, in whom the faculty of Wonder had attained such,
prodigious development, was indeed the very stranded whale
for jackals to feed on : unhappily, however, no one jackal
could long "be left in solitary possession of Mm. A sharper-
toothed she-jackal now strikes-in; bites infinitely deeper;
stranded whale and lie-jackal "both are like to become her
10 Meineis : Briefe uber dit Schweiz (as quoted in Mirabeau),
876 MISCELLANIES*
prey. A young French. Mantua -maker, ' Countess de La
Motte-Valois, descended from Henri II. by the bastard line/
without Extract of Saturn, Egyptian Masonry, or any verbal
conference with Dark Angels, has genius enough to get her
finger in the Archquack's rich Hermetic Projection, appro-
priate the golden proceeds, and even finally break the cru-
cible. Prince Cardinal Louis de Rohan is off to Paris, under
her guidance, to see the long-invisible Queen, or Queen's
Apparition ; to pick up the Rose in the Garden of Trianon,
dropt by her fair sham-royal hand; and then descend
rapidly to the Devil, and drag Cagliostro along with him.
The intelligent reader observes, we have now arrived at
that stupendous business of the Diamond Necklace : into the
dark complexities of which we need not here do more than
glance : who knows but, next month, our Historical Chapter,
written specially on this subject, may itself see the light I
Enough, for the present, if we fancy vividly the poor whale
Cardinal, so deep in the adventure that Grand-Cophtic 'pre-
dictions transmitted in cipher' will no longer illuminate him ;
but the Grand Cophta must leave all masonic or other busi-
ness, happily begun in Naples, Bourdeaux, Lyons, and come
personally to Paris with predictions at first hand. 'The
* new Calchas/ says poor Abb6 Georgel, * must have read
* the entrails of his victim ill ; for, on issuing from these
' communications with the Angel of Light and of Darkness,
6 he prophesied to the Cardinal that this happy correspond-
* once,' with the Queen's Similitude, ' would place him at the
* highest point of favour ; that his influence in the Govern-
4 ment would soon become paramount ; that he would use it
* for the propagation of good principles, the glory of the
* Supreme Being, and the happiness of Frenchmen/ The
new Calchas was indeed at fault : but how could he be other-
wise 1 Let these high Queen's -favours, and all terrestrial
COUNT OAGUOSTRO. 877
shiftings of the wind, turn as they will. Jiis reign, he can
well see, is appointed to "be temporary ; in the mean while,
Tokay flows like water ; prophecies of good, not of evil, are
the method to keep it flowing. Thus if, for Circe de La
Motte-Valois, the Egyptian Masonry is but a foolish enchanted
cup wherewith to turn her fat Cardinal into a quadruped,
she herself converse-wise, for the Grand Cophta, is one who
must ever fodder said quadruped with Court hopes, and
stall-feed him fatter and fatter, it is expected, for the knife
of both parties. They are mutually useful ; live in peace,
and Tokay festivity, though mutually suspicious, mutually
contemptuous. So stand matters through the spring and
summer months of the year 1785.
But fancy next that, while Tokay is flowing within
doors, and abroad Egyptian Lodges are getting founded^
and gold and glory, from Paris as from other cities, super-
naturally coming in, the latter end of August has arrived,
and with it Commissary Chesnon, to lodge the whole unholy
Brotherhood, from Cardinal down to Sham- queen, in sepa-
rate cells of the Bastille ! There, for nine long months, let
them howl and wail, in bass or in treble; and emit the
falsest of false Memoires ; among which that Mdmoire pour le
Comte de Cagliostro, en presence des autres Co- Accuses, with its
Trebisond Acharats, Scherifs of Mecca, and Nature's unfor-
tunate Child, all gravely printed with French types in the
year 1786, may well bear the palm. Fancy that Necklace
or Diamonds will nowhere unearth themselves; that the
Tuileries Palace sits struck with astonishment and speech-
less chagrin ; that Paris, that all Europe, is ringing with the
wonder. That Count Front-of-brass Pinchbeckostom, con-
fronted, at the judgment-bar, with a shrill glib Circe de La
Motte, has need of all his eloquence ; that nevertheless the
Front-of-brass prevails, and exasperated Circe throws a
78 MISCELLANIES.
candlestick at him.' Finally, that on the 31st of May 1786,
the assembled Parliament of Paris, < at nine in the evening,
after a sitting of eighteen hours,' has solemnly pronounced
judgment: and now that Cardinal Louis is gone 'to his
estates;' Countess de La Motte is shaven on the head,
branded, with red-hot iron, <T (Voleuse) on both shoulders,
and confined for life to the Salpetriere; her Count wan-
dering uncertain, with diamonds for sale, over the British
Empire ; that the Sieur de Villette, for handling a queen's
pen, is banished forever; the too-queenlike Demoiselle Gay
cTOliva (with her unfathered infant) < put out of Court;'
and Grand Cophta Cagliostro liberated indeed, but pillaged,
and ordered forthwith to take himself away. His disciples
illuminate their windows; but what does that avail? Com-
missary Chesnon, Bastille-Governor De Launay cannot re-
collect the least particular of those priceless effects, those
gold-rouleaus, repeating watches of his : he must even retire
to Passy that very night; and two days afterwards, sees
nothing for it but Boulogne and England. Thus does the
miserable pickleherring tragedy of the Diamond Necklace
wind itself up, and wind Cagliostro once more to inhos-
pitable shores.
Arrived here, and lodged tolerably in * Sloane Street,
Knightsbridge,' by the aid of a certain Mr. Swinton, whilom
broken Wine-merchant, now Apothecary, to whom he carries
introductions, he can drive a small trade in Egyptian pills,
such as one 'sells in Paris at thirty-shillings the dram;' in
unctuously discoursing to Egyptian Lodges; in e giving pub-
lic audiences as at Strasbourg/ if so be any one will bite,
At all events, he can, by the aid of amanuensis-disciples,
compose and publish his Lettre au Peitple Anglais; setting
forth his unheard-of generosities, unheard-of injustices suf-
fered, in a world not worthy of him, at the hands of English
COUNT OAGIIOSTRO. 879
Lawyers, Bastille-Governors, French Counts, and others; his
Lettre aux Frangais, singing to the same tune, predicting too,
what many inspired Editors had already boded, that * the
* Bastille would be destroyed/ and a King would come who
6 should govern by States-General.' But, alas, the shafts of
Criticism are busy with him ; so many hostile eyes look to-
wards him : the world, in short, is getting too hot for him.
Mark, nevertheless, how the brow of brass quails not ; nay
a touch of his old poetic Humour, even in this sad crisis,
unexpectedly unfolds itself.
One De Morande, Editor of a Courrier de ? Europe published
here at that period, has for some time made it his distinction
to be the foremost of Cagliostro's enemies. Cagliostro, en-
during much in silence, happens once, in some * public audi-
ence,' to mention a practice he had witnessed in Arabia the
Stony: the people there, it seems, are in the habit of fattening
a few pigs annually, on provender mixed with arsenic, whereby
the whole pig-carcass by and by becomes, so to speak, arse-
nical; the arsenical pigs are then let loose into the woods;
eaten by lions, leopards and other ferocious creatures ; which
latter naturally all die in consequence, and so the woods
are cleared of them. This adroit practice the Sieur Morande
thought a proper subject for banter; and accordingly, in
his Seventeenth and two following Numbers, made merry
enough with it. Whereupon Count Front-of-brass, whose
patience has limits, writes as Advertisement (still to be read
in old files of the Public Advertiser, under date September 3,
1786), a French Letter, not without causticity and aristo-
cratic disdain; challenging the witty Sieur to breakfast with
him, for the 9th of November next, in the face of the world,
on an actual Sucking Pig, fattened by Cagliostro, but cooked,
carved and selected from by the Sieur Morande, under bet
of Five Thousand Guineas sterling that, next morning there-
380 MISCELLANIES.
after, ho the Sieur Morande shall be dead, and Count Cagli*
ostro be alive I The poor Sieur durst not cry, Done; and
backed-out of the transaction, making wry faces. Thus does
a kind of red coppery splendour encircle our Archquack's
decline; thus with brow of brass, grim smiling, does he meet
his destiny.
But suppose we should now, from these foreign scenes
turn homewards, for a moment, into the native alley in
Palermo! Palermo, with its dinginess, its mud or dust, the
old black Balsaruo House, the very beds and chairs, all are
still standing there; and Beppo has altered so strangely,
has wandered so far away. Let us look; for happily we
have the fairest opportunity.
In April 1787, Palermo contained a Traveller of a thou-
sand; no other than the great Goethe from Weimar, At
his Table-d'hote he heard much of Cagliostro ; at length also
of a certain Palermo Lawyer, who had been engaged by
the French Government to draw up an authentic genealogy
and memoir of him. This Lawyer, and even the rude draft
of his Memoir, he with little difficulty gets to see; inquires
next whether it were not possible to see the actual Balsamo
Family, whereof it appears the mother and a widowed sister
still survive. For this matter, however, the Lawyer can do
nothing ; only refer him to his Clerk ; who again starts diffi-
culties : To get at those genealogic Documents he has been
obliged to invent some story of a Government-Pension being
in the wind for those poor Balsamos; and now that the whole
matter is finished, and the Paper sent off to France, has no-
thing so much at heart as to keep out of their way :
* So said the Clerk. However, as I could not abandon my pur-
pose, we after some study concerted that I should give myself out
for an Englishman, and bring the family news of Cagliostro, who had
lately got out of the Bastille, and gone to London.
COUNT OAGLIOSTRO. 381
6 At the appointed hour, It might Tbe three in the afternoon, we
set forth. The house lay in the corner of an Alley, not far from the
main-street named II Casaro. We ascended a miserable staircase,
and came straight into the kitchen. A woman of middle stature,
broad and stout, yet not corpulent, stood busy washing the kitchen-
dishes. She was decently dressed ; and, on our entrance, turned-up
the one end of her apron, to hide the soiled side from us. She joy-
fully recognised my conductor, and said : " Signer Giovanni, do you
bring us good news ? Have you made out anything 1"
( He answered : "In our affair, nothing yet; but here is a Stranger
that brings a salutation from your Brother, and can tell you how he
is at present."
' The salutation I was to bring stood not in our agreement : mean-
while, one way or other, the introduction was accomplished. " You
know my Brother T inquired she. " All Europe knows him," ans-
wered I ; " and I fancied it would gratify you to hear that he is now
in safety and well ; as, of late, no doubt you have been anxious about
him." "Step in," said she; " I will follow you directly;" and with
the Clerk I entered the room.
* It was large and high ; and might, with us, have passed for a
saloon ; it seemed, indeed, to be almost the sole lodging of the family.
A single window lighted the large walls, which had once had colour ;
and on which were black pictures of saints, in gilt frames, hanging
round. Two large beds, without curtains, stood at one wall ; a brown
press, in the form of a writing-desk, at the other. Old rush-bottomed
chairs, the backs of which had once been gilt, stood by ; and the tiles
of the floor were in many places worn deep into hollows. For the
rest, all was cleanly; and we approached the family, which sat assem-
bled at the one window, in the other end of the apartment.
4 Whilst my guide was explaining, to the old Widow Balsamo, the
purpose of our visit, and by reason of her deafness had to repeat his
words several times aloud, I had time to observe the chamber and the
other persons in it. A girl of about sixteen, well formed, whose
features had become uncertain by small-pox, stood at the window
beside her a young man, whose disagreeable look, deformed by the
same disease, also struck me. In an easy-chair, right before the win-
dow, sat or rather lay a sick, much disshapen person, who appeared
to labour under a sort of lethargy.
382 MISCELLANIES.
* My guide Laving made himself understood, -we were invited to
take seats. The old woman put some questions to me ; which, how-
ever, I had to get interpreted before I could answer them, the Sicilian
dialect not being quite at my command.
6 Meanwhile I looked at the aged widow with satisfaction. She
was of middle stature, but well shaped ; over her regular features,
which age had not deformed, lay that sort of peace usual with people
that have lost their hearing ; the tone of her voice was soft and agree-
able.
< I answered her questions ; and my answers also had again to be
interpreted for her.
' The slowness of our conversation gave me leisure to measure my
words. I told her that her son had been acquitted in Prance, and was
at present in England, where he met with good reception. Her joy,
which she testified at these tidings, was mixed with expressions of a
heartfelt piety ; and as she now spoke a little louder and slower I
could the better understand her.
* In the mean time, the daughter had entered ; and taken her seat
beside my conductor, who repeated to her faithfully what I had been
narrating. She had put- on a clean apron ; had set her hair in order
under the net-cap. The more I looked at her, and compared her with
her mother, the more striking became the difference of the two figures.
A vivacious, healthy Sensualism (SiwrilicliMt) beamed forth from the
whole structure of the daughter : she might be a woman of about
forty. With brisk blue eyes, she looked sharply round ; yet in her
look I could trace no suspicion. "When she sat, her figure promised
more height than it showed when she rose : her posture was deter-
minate, she sat with her body leaned forwards, the hands resting on
the knees. For the rest, her physiognomy, more of the snubby than
the sharp sort, reminded me of her Brother's Portrait, familiar to us
in engravings. She asked me several things about my journey, my
purpose to see Sicily ; and was sure I would come back, and celebrate
the Feast of Saint Eosalia with them.
* As the grandmother, meanwhile, had again put some questions
to me, and I was busy answering her, the daughter kept speaking to
my companion half-aloud, yet so that I could take occasion to ask
what it was. He answered : Signora Capitummino was telling him
that her Brother owed her fourteen gold Ounces; on his sudden de-
COUNT OAGHIOSTIMX 383
partnre from Palermo, she had redeemed several things for him that
were in pawn ; but never since that day had either heard from him,
or got money or any other help, though it was said he had great
riches, and made a princely outlay. Now would not I perhaps under-
take on my return, to remind him, in a handsome way, of the debt,
and procure some assistance for her ; nay would I not carry a Letter
with me, or at all events get it carried 1 I offered to do so. She asked
where I lodged, whither she must send the Letter to me ? I avoided
naming my abode, and offered to call next day towards night, and
receive the Letter myself.
* She thereupon described to me her untoward situation : how she
was a widow with three children, of whom the one girl was getting
educated in a convent, the other was here present, and her son just
gone out to his lesson. How, beside these three children, she had her
mother to maintain ; and moreover out of Christian love had taken
the unhappy sick person there to her house, whereby the burden was
heavier : how all her industry would scarcely suffice to get necessaries
for herself and hers. She knew indeed that God did not leave good
works unrewarded ; yet must sigh very sore under the load she had
long borne.
* The young people mixed in the dialogue, and our conversation
grew livelier. While speaking with the others, I could hear the good
old widow ask her daughter : If I belonged, then, to their holy Be-
ligion 1 I remarked also that the daughter strove, in a prudent way,
to avoid an answer ; signifying to her mother, so far as I could take
it up: That the Stranger seemed to have a kind feeling towards them;
and that it was not well-bred to question any one straightway on
that point.
4 As they heard that I was soon to leave Palermo, they became
more pressing, and importuned me to come back ; especially vaunting
the paradisaic days of the Rosalia Festival, the like of which was not
to be seen and tasted in all the world.
* My attendant, who had long been anxious to get off, at last put
an end to the interview by his gestures j and I promised to return on
the morrow evening, and take the Letter. My attendant expressed
his joy that all had gone off so well, and we parted mutually content.
1 You may fancy the impression this poor and pious, well-dispo-
sitioned family had made on me. My curiosity was satisfied; but
384 MISCELLANIES.
their natural and worthy bearing had raised an interest in me, which
reflection did but increase.
6 Forthwith, however, there arose for me anxieties about the fol-
lowing day. It was natural that this appearance of mine, which, at
the first moment, had taken them by surprise, should, after my de-
parture, awaken many reflections. By the Genealogy I knew that
several others of the family were in life : it was natural that they
should call their friends together, and in the presence of all, get those
things repeated which, the day before, they had heard from me with
admiration. My object was attained ; there remained nothing more
than, in some good fashion, to end the adventure. I accordingly re-
paired next day, directly after dinner, alone to their house. They
expressed surprise as I entered. The Letter was not ready yet, they
said ; and some of their relations wished to make my acquaintance,
who towards night would be there,
* I answered, that having to set off tomorrow morning, and visits
still to pay, and packing to transact, I had thought it better to come
early than not at all.
1 Meanwhile the son entered, whom yesterday I had not seen. He
resembled his sister in size and figure. He brought the Letter they
were to give me ; he had, as is common in those parts, got it written
out of doors, by one of their Notaries that sit publicly to do such
things. The young man had a still, melancholy and modest aspect ;
inquired after his Uncle, asked about his riches and outlays, and
added sorrowfully, Why had he so forgotten his kindred? " It were
our greatest fortune/' continued he, " should he once return hither,
and take notice of us : but," continued he, "how came he to let you
know that he had relatives in Palermo ? It is said, he everywhere
denies us, and gives himself out for a man of great birth." I answered
this question, which had now arisen by the imprudence of my Guide
at our first entrance, in such sort as to make it seem that the Uncle,
though he might have reasons for concealing his birth from the public,
did yet, towards his friends and acquaintance, keep it no secret.
' The sister, who had come up during this dialogue, and by the
presence of her brother, perhaps also by the absence of her yesterday's
friend, had got more courage, began also to speak with much grace
and liveliness. They begged me earnestly to recommend them to
their Uncle, if I wrote to him ; and not kss earnestly, when once I
COUNT GAULIOSTRO. 385
should have made this journey through the Island, to come back and
pass the Eosalia Festival with them.
* The mother spoke in accordance with her children. " Sir," said
she, " though it is not seemly, as I have a grown daughter, to see
stranger gentlemen in my house, and one has cause to guard against
both danger and evil-speaking, yet shall you ever be welcome to us,
when you return to this city."
* "0 yes," answered the young ones, " we will lead the Gentleman
all round the Festival ; we will show him everything, get a place on
the scaffolds, where the grand sights are seen best. What will he
say to the great Chariot, and more than all, to the glorious Illumi-
nation f
* Meanwhile the Grandmother had read the Letter and again read
it. Hearing that I was about to take leave, she arose, and gave me
the folded sheet. " Tell my son," began she with a noble vivacity,
nay with a sort of inspiration, " Tell my son how happy the news
have made me, which you brought from him ! Tell Mm that I clasp
him to my heart" here she stretched out her arms asunder, and
pressed them again together on her breast "that I daily beseech
God and our Holy Virgin for him in prayer ; that I give him and his
wife my blessing ; and that I wish before my end to see him again
with these eyes, which have shed so many tears for him."
* The peculiar grace of the Italian tongue favoured the choice and
noble arrangement of these words, which moreover were accompanied
with lively gestures, wherewith that nation can add such a charm fco
spoken words.
6 1 took my leave, not without emotion. They all gave me their
hands ; the children showed me out ; and as I went down stairs, they
jumped to the balcony of the kitchen-window, which projected over
the street; called after me, threw me salutes, and repeated, that I
must in no wise forget to come back. I saw them still on the balcony,
when I turned the corner.' 11
Poor old Felicita, and must thy pious prayers, thy
motherly blessings, and so many tears shed by those old
eyes, be all in vain! To thyself, in any case, they were
11 Goethe's W&rke (Italidnische jRefe), xiviii. H6.
TOL. IX. (Misc. vol. 4.) CO
38(5 MISCELLANIES.
blessed, As for the Signora Capitummino, with her three
fatherless children, shall we not hope at least, that the four-
teen gold Ounces were paid, by a sure hand, and so her
heavy burden, for some space, lightened a little? Alas, no,
it would seem ; owing to accidents, not even that ! 32
Count Cagliostro, all this while, is rapidly proceeding
with his Fifth Act ; the red coppery splendour darkens more
and more into final gloom. Some boiling muddleheads of a
dupeable sort there still are in England : Popish-Eiot Lord
George, for instance, will walk with him to Count Barth&emy's
or D'Adliemar's ; and, in bad French and worse rhetoric,
abuse the Queen of France : but what does it profit? Lord
George must one day (after noise enough) revisit Newgate
for it; and in the mean while, hard words pay no scores.
Apothecary Swinton begins to get wearisome ; French spies
look ominously in ; Egyptian Pills are slack of sale j the old
vulturous Attorney-host anew scents carrion, is bestirring
itself anew : Count Cagliostro, in the May of 1787, must
once more leave England. But whither ? Ah, whither 1 At
Bale, at Bienne, over Switzerland, the game is up. At Aix
in Savoy, there are baths, but no gudgeons in them: at
Turin, his Majesty of Sardinia meets you with an order to
begone on the instant. A like fate from the Emperor Joseph
at Eoveredo j before the Liber memorialis de Caleostro dum
esset Roboretti could extend to many pages I Count Front-
of-brass begins confessing himself to priests : yet * at Trent
paints a new hieroglyphic Screen/ touching last flicker of a
light that once burnt so high ! He pawns diamond buckles ;
wanders necessitous hither and thither ; repents, unrepents ;
knows not what to do. For Destiny has her nets round
him ; they are straitening, straitening ; too soon he will be
ginned!
12 Goethe's Werkt (Italianiscke Eeise), xxviii, 146,
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 387
Driven out from Trent, what shall he make of the new
hieroglyphic Screen, what of himself? The wayworn Grand-
Cophtess has begun to blab family secrets ; she longs to be
in Rome, by her mother's hearth, by her mother's grave ; in
any nook, where so much as the shadow of refuge waits
her. To the desperate Count Front-of-brass all places are
nearly alike : urged by female babble, he will go to Rome,
then; why not? On a May-day, of the year 1789 (when
such glorious work had just begun in France, to him all
forbidden I), he enters the Eternal City ; it was his doom-
summons that called him thither. On the 29th of next De-
cember, the Holy Inquisition, long watchful enough, detects
him founding some feeble moneyless ghost of an Egyptian
Lodge; *picks him off,' as the military say, and locks him
hard and fast in the Castle of St. Angelo :
Lasciate ogni speranza, voi die titrate !
Count Cagliostro did not lose all hope : nevertheless a
few words will now suffice for him. In vain, with his mouth
of pinchbeck and his front of brass, does he heap chimera
on chimera ; demand religious Books (which are freely given
him) ; demand clean Linen, and an interview with his Wife
(which are refused him) ; assert now that the Egyptian
Masonry is a divine system, accommodated to erring and
gullible men, which the Holy Father, when he knows it, will
patronise ; anon that there are some four millions of Free-
masons, spread over Europe, all sworn to exterminate Priest
and King, wherever met with : in vain 1 they will not acquit
him, as misunderstood Theophilanthropist ; will not emit him,
in Pope's pay, as renegade Masonic Spy : * he can't get out.'
Donna Lorenza languishes, invisible to him, in a neighbour-
ing cell ; begins at length to confess I Whereupon he too, in
torrents, will emit confessions and forestall her: these the
388 MISCELLANIES.
Inquisition pocket and sift (whence this Life ofBalsamo);
but will not let him out. In fine, after some eighteen
months of the weariest hounding, doubling, worrying, and
standing at bay, His Holiness gives sentence : The Manu-
script of Egyptian Masonry is to be burnt by hand of the
common Hangman, and all that intermeddle with such Ma-
sonry are accursed ; Giuseppe Balsamo, justly forfeited of
life for being a Freemason, shall nevertheless in mercy be
forgiven ; instructed in the duties of penitence, and even
kept safe thenceforth and till death, in ward of Holy
Church. Ill-starred Acharat, must it so end with thee t This
was in April 17 91.
He addressed (how vainly!) an appeal to the French
Constituent Assembly. As was said, in Heaven, in Earth,
or in Hell there was no Assembly that could well take his
part. For four years more, spent one knows not how,
most probably in the furor of edacity, with insufficient
cookery, and the stupor of indigestion, the curtain lazily
falls. There rotted and gave way the cordage of a tough
heart. One summer morning of the year 1795, the Body of
Cagliostro is still found in the prison of St. Leo ; but Cagli-
ostro's Self has escaped, whither no man yet knows. The
brow of brass, behold how it has got all unlacquered ; these
pinckbeck lips can lie no more : Cagliostro's work is ended,
and now only his account to present. As the Scherif of Mecca
said, " Nature's unfortunate child, adieu I"
Such, according to our comprehension thereof, is the rise,
progress, grandeur and decadence of the Quack of Quacks*
Does the reader ask, What good was in it ; Why occupy hi
time and hours with the biography of such a miscreant ?
We answer, It was stated on the very threshold of this
matter* in the loftiest terms, by Herr Sauerteig, that the
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO. 389
Lives of all Eminent Persons, miscreant or creant, ought
to be written. Thus has not the very Devil his Life, de-
servedly written not by Daniel Defoe only, but by quite
other hands than Daniel's ? For the rest, the Thing repre-
sented on these pages is no Sham, but a Reality ; thou hast
it, reader, as we have it : Nature was pleased to produce
even such a man, even so, not otherwise ; and the Editor
of this Magazine is here mainly to record, in an adequate
manner, what she, of her thousandfold mysterious richness
and greatness, produces.
But the moral lesson? Where is the moral lesson?
Foolish reader, in every Reality, nay in every genuine Sha-
dow of a Reality (what we call Poem), there lie a hundred
such, or a million such, according as thou hast the eye to
read them I Of which hundred or million lying here in
the present Reality, couldst not thou, for example, be ad-
vised to take this one, to thee worth all the rest : " Behold,
" I too have attained that immeasurable, mysterious glory of
" being alive ; to me also a Capability has been intrusted ;
" shall I strive to work it out, manlike, into Faithfulness, and
" Doing ; or, quacklike, into Eatableness, and Similitude of
" Doing ? Or why not rather, gigman-like, and following the
" * respectable' countless multitude, into loth T The deci-
sion is of quite infinite moment ; see thou make it aright.
But in fine, look at this matter of Cagliostro, as at all
matters, with thy heart, with thy whole mind ; no longer
merely squint at it with the poor side-glance of thy calcu-
lative faculty. Look at it not logically only, but mystically.
Thou shalt in sober truth see it (as Sauerteig asserted) to be
a Pasquillant verse, of most inspired writing in its kind, in
that same ' Grand Bible of Universal History ; J wondrously
and even indispensably connected with the Heroic portions
that stand there; even as the all -showing Light is with
3<K) MISCELLANIES.
tlio Darkness wliercin nothing can be seen; as the hideous
taloned roots are with the fair boughs, and their leaves and
flowers and fruit; both of which, and not one of which,
make the Tree. Think also whether tliou hast known no
Public Quacks, on far higher scale than this, whom a Castle
of St. Angolo never could get hold of; and how, as Em-
perors, Chancellors (having found much fitter machinery),
they could run their Quack-career; and make whole king-
doms, whole continents, into one huge Egyptian Lodge,
and squeeze supplies of money or of blood from it at dis-
cretion? Also, whether thou even now knowest not Pri-
vate Quacks, innumerable as the sea-sands, toiling as mere
7/G/f-Cagliostros ; imperfect, hybrid-quacks, of whom Cagli-
ostro is as the unattainable ideal and type-specimen ! Such
is the world. Understand it, despise it, love it ; cheerfully
hold on thy way through it, with thy eye on higher load-
stars 1
DEATH OF EDWARD IRVING.
DEATH OP EDWARD IETING. 1
[1835.]
EDWARD IRVINQ'S warfare has closed; if not in victory, yet
in invincibility, and faithful endurance to the end. The
Spirit of the Time, which could not enlist him as its soldier,
must needs, in all ways, fight against him as its enemy : it
has done its part, and he has done his. One of the noblest
natures ; a man of antique heroic nature, in questionable
modern garniture, which he could not wear ! Around him
a distracted society, vacant, prurient ; heat and darkness,
and what these two may breed : mad extremes of flattery,
followed by madder contumely, by indifference and neglect !
These were the conflicting elements ; this is the result they
have made out among them. The voice of our e son of thun-
der/ with its deep tone of wisdom that belonged to all
articulate-speaking ages, never inaudible amid wildest dis-
sonances that belong to this inarticulate age, which slumbers
and somnambulates, which cannot speak, but only screech
and gibber, has gone silent so soon. Closed are those lips.
The large heart, with its large bounty, where wretchedness
found solacement, and they that were wandering in dark-
ness the light as of a home, has paused. The strong man
can no more ; beaten -on from without, undermined from
a FBASEK'S MAGAZINE, No, 6L
394 MISCELLANIES.
within, lie has had to sink overwearied, as at nightfall, -when
it was yet but the mid-season of day. Irving was forty-
two years and some months old: Scotland sent him forth
a Herculean man ; our mad Babylon wore him and wasted
him, with all her engines ; and it took her twelve years.
He sleeps with his fathers, in that loved birth-land : Babylon
with its deafening inanity rages on ; but to him henceforth
innocuous, unheeded forever.
Header, thou hast seen and heard the man, as who has
not, with wise or unwise wonder; thou shalt not see or
hear him again. The work, be what it might, is done ; dark
2urtains sink over it, enclose it ever deeper into the un-
changeable Past. Think, for perhaps thou art one of a
thousand, and worthy so to think, That here once more
was a gennine man sent into this our twigenuine phantas-
magory of a world, which would go to ruin without such ;
that here once more, under thy own eyes, in this last de-
cade, was enacted the old Tragedy, and has had its fifth-
act now, of The Messenger of Truth in the Age of Shams, and
what relation thou thyself mayest have to that. Whether
any ? Beyond question, thou thyself art here ; either a
dreamer or awake ; and one day shalt cease to dream.
This man was appointed a Christian Priest ; and strove
with the whole force that was in him to be ifc. To be it : in
a time of Tithe Controversy, Encyclopedism, Catholic Rent,
Philaathropism, and the Eevohition of Three Days ! He
might have been so many things ; not a speaker only, but
a doer; the leader of hosts of men. For his head, when
the Fog-Babylon had not yet obscured it, was of strong
far- searching insight ; his very enthusiasm was sanguine,
not atrabiliar ; he was so loving, fall of hope, so simple-
hearted, and made all that approached him his. A giant
DEATH OF EDWARD IRVING. 395
force of activity was in the man ; speculation was accident,
not nature. Chivalry, adventurous field-life of the old Bor-
der,, and a far nobler sort than that, ran in his blood. There
was in him a courage, dauntless not pugnacious, hardly
fierce, by no possibility ferocious ; as of the generous war-
horse, gentle in its strength, yet that laughs at the shaking
of the spear. But, above all, be what he might, to be a
reality was indispensable for him. In his simple Scottish cir-
cle, the highest form of manhood attainable or known was
that of Christian ; the highest Christian was the Teacher
of such. Irving's lot was cast. For the foray-spears were
all rusted into earth there; Annan Castle had become a
Townhall ; and Prophetic Knox had sent tidings thither :
Prophetic Knox; and, alas, also Sceptic Hume; and, as the
natural consequence, Diplomatic Dundas ! In such mixed
incongruous element had the young soul to grow.
Grow, nevertheless, he did, with that strong vitality
of his ; grow and ripen. What the Scottish uncelebrated
Irving was, they that have only seen the London celebrated
and distorted one can never know. Bodily and spiritually,
perhaps there was not, in that November 1822, when he first
arrived here, a man more full of genial energetic life in all
these Islands.
By a fatal chance, Fashion cast her eye on him, as on
some impersonation of Novel-Cameronianisni, some wild Pro-
duct of Nature from the wild mountains ; Fashion crowded
round him, with her meteor lights and Bacchic dances;
breathed her foul incense on. him; intoxicating, poisoning.
One may say, it was his own nobleness that forwarded such
ruin; the excess of his sociability and sympathy, of his value
for the suffrages and sympathies of men. Siren songs, as
of a new Moral Reformation (sons of Mammon, and high
sons of Belial and Beelzebub, to become sons of God, and
396 MISCELLANIES.
the gumflowers of Almack's to be made living roses in a new
Eden), sound in the inexperienced ear and heart. Most se-
ductive, most delusive ! Fashion went her idle way, to gaze
on Egyptian Crocodiles, Iroquois Hunters, or what else there
might be ; forgot this man, who unhappily could not in his
turn forget. The intoxicating poison had been swallowed ;
no force of natural health could cast it out. Unconsciously,
for most part in deep unconsciousness, there was now the
impossibility to live neglected ; to walk on the quiet paths,
where alone it is well with us. Singularity must henceforth
succeed Singularity. foulest Circeaii draught, thou poison
of Popular Applause ! madness is in thee, and death ; thy
end is Bedlam and the Grave. For the last seven years,
Irving, forsaken by the world, strove either to recall it, or
to forsake it ; shut himself up in a lesser world of ideas and
persons, and lived isolated there. Neither in this was there
health : for this man such isolation was not fit, such ideas,
such persons.
One light still shone on him; alas, through a medium
more and more turbid : the light from Heaven. His Bible
was there, wherein must lie healing for all sorrows. To the
Bible he more and more exclusively addressed himself. If
it is the written Word of God, shall it not be the acted
Word toot Is it mere sound, then; black printer's-ink on
white rag-paper? A half-man could have passed on with-
out answering; a whole man must answer. Hence Prophe-
cies of Millenniums, Gifts of Tongues, whereat Orthodoxy
prims herself into decent wonder, and waves her, Avaunt !
Irving clave to his Belief, as to his soul's soul ; followed it
whithersoever, through earth or air, it might lead him ; toil-
ing as never man toiled to spread it, to gain the world's ear
for it, in vain. Ever wilder waxed the confusion without
and within* The misguided noble-minded had now nothing
DEATH OF EDWAKD IRVING. 397
left to do but die. He died the death of the true and brave.
His last words, they say, were : " In life and in death I am
the Lord's." Amen ! Amen !
One who knew him well, and may with good cause love
Mm, has said : " But for Irving, I had never known what the
communion of man with man means. His was the freest,
brotherliest, bravest human soul mine ever came in contact
with : I call him, on the whole, the best man I have ever,
after trial enough, found in this world, or now hope to find.
" The first time I saw Irving was six-and-twenty years
ago, in his native town, Annan. He was fresh from Edin-
burgh, with College prizes, high character and promise ;
he had come to see our Schoolmaster, who had also been
his. We heard of famed Professors, of high matters classi-
cal, mathematical, a whole Wonderland of Knowledge : no-
thing but joy, health, hopefulness without end, looked out
from the blooming young man. The last time I saw him
was three months ago, in London. Friendliness still beamed
in his eyes, but now from amid unquiet fire ; his face was
flaccid, wasted, unsound ; hoary as with extreme age : he
was trembling over the brink of the grave. Adieu, thou
first Friend ; adieu, while this confused Twilight of Exist-
ence lasts I Might we meet where Twilight has become
Dayf
APPENDIX.
No.l.
THE TALE. 1
BY GOETHE.
[1832.]
THAT Goethe, many years ago, wrote a piece named Das
(The Tale) ; which, the admiring critics of Germany contrived to cri-
ticise by a stroke of the pen; declaring that it was indeed The Tale,
and worthy to be called the Tale of Tales (das Mahrchen otter M<ilwr-
ehen), may appear certain to most English readers, for they have
repeatedly seen as much in print. To some English readers it may
appear certain, furthermore, that they personally Imow this Tale of
Tales; and can even pronounce it to deserve no such epithet, and
the admiring critics of Germany to be little other than blockheads.
English readers ! the first certainty is altogether indubitable ; the
second certainty is not worth a rush.
That same MdhrcJien oiler Mahr&lien you may see with your own
eyes, at this hour, in the Eifteenth Volume of Goethes Werke ; and
seeing is believing. On the other hand, that English 4 Tale of Talcs,'
put forth some years ago as the Translation thereof, by an individual
connected with the Periodical Press of London (his Periodical vehicle,
if we remember, broke down soon after, and was rebuilt, and still
runs, under the name of Court Journal)^ was a Translation, miser-
able enough, of a quite different thing ; a thing, not a Mahrchen (Fa-
bulous Tale) at all, but an Erziihlwng or common fictitious Narrative ;
having no manner of relation to the real piece (beyond standing in
the same Volume) ; not so much as Milton's Tetradwrdon of Divorce
has to his Allegro and Penseroso ! In this way do individuals cou-
1 FBASER'S MAGAZINE, No. 33.
VOL. IX. (Misc. vol. 4.) DD
402 APPENDIX, No. 1.
nectcd with the Periodical Press of London play their part, and com-
modiously befool thee, Public of English readers, and can serve
thee with a mass of roasted grass, and name it stewed venison ; and
will continue to do so, till thou open thy eyes, and from a blind
monster become a seeing one.
This mistake we did not publicly note at the time of Its occur-
rence ; for two good reasons : first, that while mistakes are increas-
ing, like Population, at the rate of Twelve Hundred a-day, the benefit
of seizing one, and throttling it, would be perfectly inconsiderable :
second, that we were not then in existence. The highly composite
astonishing Entity, which here as '0. Y.' addresses mankind for a
season, still slumbered (his elements scattered over Infinitude, and
working under other shapes) in the womb of JSTo thing ! Meditate
on us a little, reader : if thou wilt consider who and what we are ;
what Powers, of Cash, Esurience, Intelligence, Stupidity and Mystery
created us, and what work we do and will do, there shall be no end
to thy amazement.
This mistake, however, we do now note j induced thereto by oc-
casion. By the fact, namely, that a genuine English Translation of
that Mcikrchen has been handed-in to us for judgment ; and now (such
judgment having proved merciful) comes out from us in the way of
publication. Of the Translation we cannot say much ; by the colour
of the paper, it may be some seven years old, and have lain perhaps in
smoky repositories : it is not a good Translation ; yet also not wholly
bad \ faithful to the original (as we can vouch, after strict trial) ; con-
veys the real meaning, though with an effort : here and there our pen
lias striven to help it, but could not do much. The poor Translator,
who signs himself 'D. T./ and affects to carry matters with a high
hand, though, as we have ground to surmise, he is probably in straits
for the necessaries of life, has, at a more recent date, appended nu-
merous Notes ; wherein he will convince himself that more meaning
lies in his Miihrcfien ' than in all the Literature of our century :' some
of these we have retained, now and then with an explanatory or excul-
patory word of our own ; the most we have cut away, as superfluous
and even absurd. Superfluous and even absurd, we say : D. T. can
take this of us as he likes ; we know him, and what is in him, and
what; is not in him ; believe that he will prove reasonable ; can do
either way. At all events, let one of the notablest Performances pro-
THE TALE. 403
duced for tlie List thousand years be now, through Ins organs (since
no other, in this elapsed half -century, have offered themselves), set
before an undiscerning public.
"We too will premise our conviction that this MahrcJten presents
a phantasmagoric Adumbration, pregnant with deepest significance j
though nowise that D. T. has so accurately evolved the same. Listen
notwithstanding to a remark or two, extracted from his immeasurable
Proem :
' Dull men of this country/ says he, ' who pretend to admire
* Goethe, smiled on me when I first asked the meaning of this Tale.
4 " Meaning !" answered they : " it is a wild arabesque, without mean-
* ing or purpose at all, except to dash together, copiously enough,
* confused hues of Imagination, and see what will corne of them."
' Such is still the persuasion of several heads ; which nevertheless
' would perhaps grudge to be considered wigblocks.' Not impos-
sible : the first Sin in our Universe was Lucifer's, that of Self-conceit.
But hear again ; what is more to the point :
'The difficulties of interpretation are exceedingly enhanced by one
* circumstance, not unusual in other such writings of Goethe's; namely,
' that this is no Allegory ; which, as in the Pilgrim's Progress, you
* have only once for all to find the key of, and so go on unlocking :
* it is a Phantasmagory, rather ; wherein things the most heterogene-
* ous are, with homogeneity of figure, emblemed forth ; which would
* require not one key to unlock it, but, at different stages of the
* business, a dozen successive keys. Here you have Epochs of Time
* shadowed forth, there Qualities of the Human Soul ; now it is In-
stitutions, Historical Events, now Doctrines, Philosophic Truths :
1 thus are all manner of " entities and quiddities and ghosts of de-
4 funct bodies" set flying; you have the whole Tour Elements chaotico-
' creatively jumbled together, and spirits enough embodying them-
selves, and roguishly peering through, in the confused wild-working
6 mass 1 * * *
* So much, however, I will stake my whole money-capital and lite-
6 rary character upon : that here is a wonderful EMBLEM OF UNIVERSAL
1 HISTOEY set forth; more especially a wonderful Emblem of this our
< wonderful and woful "Age of Transition ;" what men have been and
* done, what they are to be and do, is, in this Tale of Tales, poetico-
* prophetically typified, in such a style of grandeur and celestial brilli-
404 APPENDIX, No. 1.
* ancy and life, as the "Western Imagination has not elsewhere reached ;
* as only the Oriental Imagination, and in the primeval ages, was wont
* to attempt.' Here surely is good wine, with a big hush ! Study the
Tale of Tales, reader : even in the bald version of D. T., there will
ho moaning found. He continues in this triumphant style :
' Can any mortal head (not a wigblock) doubt that the Giant of
* this Poem means SUPERSTITION? That the Ferryman has something
4 to do with the PRIESTHOOD j Ms Hut with the CHURCH ?
' Again, might it not be presumed that the River were TIME ; and
* that it flowed (as Time does) between two worlds 1 Call the world,
or country on this side, where the fair Lily dwells, the world of
* SuPERNATtiRALiSM ; the counti y on that side, NATURALISM, the work-
* ing week-day world where we all dwell and toil : whosoever or what-
6 soever introduces itself, and appears, in the firm-earth of human
4 business, or as we well say, comes into Existence, must proceed from
* Lily's supernatural country ; whatsoever of a material sort deceases
* and disappears might be expected to go thither. Let the reader con-
e sider this, and note what comes of it.
c To get a free solid communication established over this same won-
* drous River of Time, so that the Natural and Supernatural may stand
in friendliest neighbourhood and union, forms the grand action of
* this Phantasmagoric Poem : is not such also, lot me ask thee, the
' grand action and summary of Universal History ; the one problem
* of Human Culture ; the thing which Mankind (once the three daily
* meals of victual were moderately secured) has ever striven after, and
' must ever strive after 1 ? Alas ! we observe very soon, matters stand on
( a most distressful footing, in this of Natural and Supernatural : there
* are three conveyances across, and all bad, all incidental, temporary,
i uncertain : the worst of the three, one would think, and the worst
* conceivable, were the Giant's Shadow, at sunrise and sunset ; the
' best that Snake-bridge at noon, yet still only a bad-best. Consider
* again our trustless, rotten, revolutionary " age of transition/' and see
* whether this too does not fit it !
' If you ask next, Who these other strange characters are, tfte
* Snake, the Will-o'- wisps, the Man with the Lamp 1 I will answer,
* in general and afar off, that Light must signify human Insight, Cul-
tivation, in one sort or other. As for the Snake, I know not well
* what name to call it by ; nay perhaps, in our scanty vocabularies,
THE TALK 405
* there is no name for it, though that does not hinder its being a
* thing, genuine enough. Meditation ; Intellectual Research ; Under-
* standing ; in the most general acceptation, Thought : all these come
1 near designating it ; none actually designates it. "Were I hound,
{ under legal penalties, to give the creature a name, I should say,
4 THOUGHT rather than another.
6 But what if our Snake, and so much else that worts here be'side
' it, were neither a quality, nor a reality ', nor a state, nor an action, in
1 any kind ; none of these things purely and alone, but something
' intermediate and partaking of them all ! In which case, to name,
it, in vulgar speech, were a still more frantic attempt : it is unname-
* able in speech ; and remains only the allegorical Figure known in
6 this Tale by the name of Snake, and more or less resembling and
* shadowing-forth somewhat that speech has named, or might name.
* It is this heterogeneity of nature, pitching your solid est Predicables
' heels-over-head, throwing you half-a-dozen Categories into the melt-
* ing-pot at once, that so unspeakably bewilders a Commentator, and
* for moments is nigh reducing him to delirium saltans.
' The Will-o'-wisps, that laugh and jig, and compliment the ladies,
* and eat gold and shake it from them, I for my own share take the
* liberty of viewing as some shadow of ELEGANT CULTURE, or modern
' Fine Literature ; which by and by became so sceptical-destructive ;
1 and did, as French Philosophy, eat Gold (or Wisdom) enough, and
* shake it out again. In which sense, their coming (into Existence) by
' the old Ferryman's (by the Priesthood's) a c sistance, and almost ovor-
c setting his boat, and then laughing at him, and trying to skip-off
( from him, yet being obliged to stop till they had satisfied him : all
* this, to the discerning eye, has its significance.
* As to the Man with the Lamp, in him and his goldL-giving, jewel-
forming and otherwise so miraculous Light," which " casts no shadow/*
* and " cannot illuminate what is wholly otherwise in darkness," I
' see what you might name the celestial REASON of Man (Reason as
i contrasted with Understanding., and superordinated to it), the purest
( essence of his seeing Faculty ; which manifests itself as the Spirit
* of Poetry, of Prophecy, or whatever else of highest in the intellec,
* tual sort man's mind can do. "We behold this respectable, venerable
* Lamp-bearer everywhere present in time of need ; directing, accom-
plishing, working, wonder-working, finally victorious; as, in strict
40G APPENDIX, No, 1.
4 reality. It is ever (if we will study it) the Poetic Vision that lies at
* the bottom of all other Knowledge or Action ; and is the source and
' creative fountain of whatsoever mortals ken or can, and mystically
* and miraculously guides them forward whither they are to go. Be
' the Man with the Lamp, then, named BEASON ; mankind's noblest
< inspired Insight and Light ; whereof all the other lights are hut
* effluences, and more or less discoloured emanations.
* His Wife, poor old woman, we shall call PBAOTIGAL ENDEAVOUR ;
6 which as married to Eeason, to spiritual Yision and Belief, first
c makes-up man's heing here below. Unhappily the ancient couple,
* we find, are but in a decayed condition : the "better emblems are they
' of Eeason and Endeavour in this our " transitionary age" ! The Man
' presents himself in the garb of a peasant, the Woman has grown old,
c garrulous, querulous ; both live nevertheless in their " ancient cot-
f tage," better or worse, the roof-tree of which still holds together over
* them. And then those mischievous Will-o'-wisps, who pay the old
' lady such court, and eat all the old gold (all that was wise and beau-
' tiful and desirable) off her walls ; and show the old stones, quite
' ugly and bare, as they had not been for ages ! Besides they have
* killed poor Mops, the plaything, and joy and fondling of the house ;
1 as has not that same Elegant Culture, or French Philosophy done,
' wheresoever it has arrived ? Mark, notwithstanding, how the Man
( with the Lamp puts it all right again, reconciles everything, and
' makes the finest business out of what seemed the worst.
* With regard to the Four Kings, and the Temple which lies
c fashioned underground, please to consider all this as the Future
f lying prepared and certain under the Present ; you observe, not
1 only inspired Eeason (or the Man with the Lamp), but scientific
4 Thought (or the Snake), can discern it lying there : nevertheless
1 much work must be done, innumerable difficulties fronted and con-
* quered, before it can rise out of the depths (of the Future), and
* realise itself as the actual worshipping-place of man, and " the most
frequented Temple in the whole Earth."
* As for the fair Lily and her ambulatory necessitous Prince, these
* are objects that I shall admit myself incapable of naming : yet no
wise admit myself incapable of attaching meaning to. Consider
* them as the two disjointed Halves of this singular Dualistic Being
* of ours; a Being, I must say, the most utterly Dualistic; fashioned,
THE TALE. 407
( from the very heart of it, out of Positive and Negative (what we
i happily call Light and Darkness, Necessity and Freewill, Good and
( Evil, and the like) ; everywhere out of two mortally opposed things,
c which yet must he united in vital love, if there is to he any Life;
' a Being, I repeat, Dualistic heyond expressing ; which will split
1 in two, strike it in any direction, on any of its six sides ; and does
' of itself split in two (into Contradiction), every hour of the day,
' were not Life perpetually there, perpetually knitting it together
' again ! But as to that cutting-up, and parcelling, and labelling of
c the indivisible Human Soul into what are called " Faculties," it is
6 a thing I have from of old eschewed, and even hated. A thing
* which you must sometimes do (or you cannot spea?c) ; yet which is
< never done without Error hovering near you ; for most part, without
* her pouncing on you, and quite blindfolding you.
* Let not us, therefore, in looking at Lily and her Prince bo
6 tempted to that practice : why should we try to name them at all 1
* Enough, if we do feel that man's whole Being is riven, asunder every
* way (in this " transitionary age"), and yawning in hostile, irrecon-
* cilable contradiction with itself : what good were it to know farther
in what direction the rift (as our Poet here pleased to represent it)
* had taken effect 1 Fancy, however, that these two HALVES of Man's
* Soul and Being are separated, in pain and enchanted obstruction,
* from one another. The better, fairer Half sits in the Supernatural
6 country, deadening and killing ; alas, not permitted to come across
6 into the Natural visible country, and there make all blessed and
4 alive ! The rugged stronger Half, in such separation, is quite lamed
* and paralytic ; wretched, forlorn, in a state of death-life, must he
* wander to and fro over the River of Time ; all that is dear and
* essential to him, imprisoned there ; which if he look at, he grows
* still weaker, which if he touch, he dies. Poor Prince ! And let the
* judicious reader, who has read the Era he lives in, or even, spelt
* the alphabet thereof, say whether, with the paralytic-lamed Activity
< of man (hampered and hamstrung in a " transitionary ago" of Seep-
* ticism, Methodism ; atheistic Sarcasm, hysteric Orgasm ; brazen-faced
' Delusion, Puffery, Hypocrisy, Stupidity, and the whole Bill and
1 nothing but the Bill), it is not even so ? Must not poor man's
* Activity (like this poor Prince) wander from Natural to Super-
1 natural, and back again, disconsolate enough ; unable to do any*
408 APPENDIX, No. 1.
* tiling, except merely wring its hands, and, whimpering and blubber-
4 ing, lamentably inquire : What shall I do 1
* But Courage ! Courage ! The Temple is built (though, under-
' ground) ; the Bridge shall arch itself, the divided Two shall clasp
( each other as flames do, rushing into one ; and all that ends well
* shall be well ! Mark only how, in this inimitable Poem, worthy of
( an Olympic crown, or prize of the Literary Society, it is represented
* as proceeding !'
So far D. T. ; a commentator who at least does not want confi-
dence in himself: whom we shall only caution not to be too con-
fident ; to remember always that, as he once says, * Phantasmagory is
not Allegory ;' that much exists, under our very noses, which has no
* name, 5 and can get none ; that the c Elver of Time' and so forth
may be one thing, or more than one, or none ; that, in short, there
is risk of the too valiant D. T.'s bamboozling himself in this matter ;
being led from puddle to pool ; and so left standing at last, like a
foolish mystified nose-of-wax, wondering where the devil he is.
To the simpler sort of readers we shall also extend an advice; or
be It rather, proffer a petition. It is to fancy themselves, for the time
being, delivered altogether from D. T.'s company; and to read this
Mdhrchen, as if it were there only for its own sake, and those tag-rag
Kotes of his were so much blank paper. Let the simpler sort of
readers say now how they like it ! If unhappily, on looking back,
some spasm of * the malady of thought' begin afflicting them, let such
Kotes be then inquired of, but not till then, and then also with dis-
trust. Pin thy faith to no man's sleeve ; hast thou not two eyes of
thy own ?
The Commentator himself cannot, it is to be hoped, imagine that
lie has exhausted the matter. To decipher and represent the genesis
of this extraordinary Production, and what was the Author's state of
mind in producing it ; to see, with dim common eyes, what the great
Goethe, with inspired poetic eyes, then saw ; and paint to oneself the
thick-coming shapes and many-coloured splendours of his ( Prosperous
Grotto/ at that hour : this were what we could call complete criticism
and commentary ; what D. T. is far from having done, and ought to
fall on his face, and confess that he can never do.
"We shall conclude with remarking two things. Pirst, that D. T.
does not appear to have set eye on any of those German Commentaries
THE TALE. 409
on this Tale of Tales ; or even to have heard, credently, that such
exist : an omission, in a professed Translator, which he himself may
answer for. Secondly, that with all his boundless preluding, he has
forgotten to insert the Author's own prelude ; the passage, namely, by
which this Mahrchen is specially ushered in, and the key-note of it
struck by the Composer himself, and the tone of the whole prescribed !
This latter altogether glaring omission we now charitably supply ;
and then let D. T., and his illustrious Original, and the Eeaders of
this Magazine take it among them. Turn to the latter part of the
Deutsclien Ausgewanderten (page 208, Volume xv, of the last Edition
of GoetJies WerJce) ; it is written there, as we render it :
* " The Imagination," said Karl, " is a fine faculty ; yet I like not
6 when she works on what has actually happened : the airy forms she
* creates are welcome as things of their own kind \ biit uniting with
* Truth she produces oftenest nothing but monsters ; and seems to me,
f in such cases, to fly into direct variance with Eeason and Common
1 Sense. She ought, you might say, to hang upon no object, to force
< no object on us ; she must, if she is to produce "Works of Art, play
* like a sort of music upon us ; move us within ourselves, and this in
* such a way that we forget there is anything without us producing the
4 movement."
< "Proceed no farther," said the old man, "with your condition-
' ings ! To enjoy a product of Imagination, this also is a condition,
1 that we enjoy it unconditionally ; for Imagination herself cannot
* condition and bargain ; she must wait what shall be given her. She
* forms no plans, prescribes for herself no path ; but is borne and
4 guided by her own pinions ; and hovering hither and thither, marks
* out the strangest courses ; which, in their direction are ever altering.
* Let me but, on my evening walk, call up again to life within me,
' some wondrous figures I was wont to play with in earlier years. This
* night I promise you a Tale, which shall remind you of Nothing and
* of AH." J
And now for it. (X Y.
410 APPENDIX, No. 1.
THE TALE ('DAS MAHRCHEN'), BY GOETHE.
IN his little Hut, by the great River, which a heavy rain had swoln to
overflowing, lay the ancient Ferryman, asleep, wearied by the toil of the
day. In the middle of the night, 2 loud voices awoke him ; he heard that
it was travellers wishing to be carried over.
Stepping out, he saw two large "Will-o'-wisps, hovering to and fro on his
boat, which lay moored : they said, they were in violent haste, and should
have been already on the other side. The old Ferryman made no loiter-
ing; pushed off, and steered with his usual skill obliquely through the
stream; while the two strangers whiffled and hissed together, in an un-
known very rapid tongue, and every now and then broke out in loud
laughter, hopping about, at one time on the gunwale and the seats, at an-
other on the bottom of the boat.
"The boat is heeling!" cried the old man; "if you don't be quiet, it
will overset; be seated, gentlemen of the wisp !"
At this advice they burst into a lit of laughter, mocked the old man,
and were more unquiet than ever. He bore their mischief with patience,
and soon reached the farther shore.
" Here is for your labour!" cried the travellers; and as they shook them-
selves, a heap of glittering gold-pieces jingled down into the wet boat.
tk For Heaven's sake, what are you about ?" cried the old man ; " you will
ruin me forever ! Had a single piece of gold got into the water, the stream,
which cannot suffer gold, would have risen in horrid waves, and swallowed
both my skiff and me ; and who knows how it might have fared with you
in that case? here, take back your gold."
" We can take nothing back, which we have once shaken from us," said
the Lights.
" Then you give me the trouble," said the old man, stooping down, and
gathering the pieces into his cap, " of raking them together, and carrying
them ashore and burying them."
The Lights had leaped from the boat, but the old man cried: " Stay;
where is my fare ?"
" If you take no gold, you may work for nothing," cried the Will-o'-
wisps. "You must know that I am only to be paid with fruits of the earth."
" Fruits of the earth ? we despise them, and have never tasted them.*'
" And yet I cannot let you go, till you have promised that you will deliver
me three Cabbages, three Artichokes, and three large Onions."
2 In the middle of the night, truly 1 In the nuddle of the Dark Ages, when
what with Mah.omedan Conquests, what with Christian Crusadings, Destructions
of Constantinople, Discoveries of America, the TiME-Eiver was indeed swoln to
overflowing ; and the Ignes Fatui (of Elegant Culture, of Literature) must needs
feel in haste to get over into Existence, being much wanted ; and apply to the
Priesthood (respectable old Ferryman, roused out of sleep thereby I), who willingly
introduced them, mischievous ungrateful imps as they were. D. T.
THE TALE. 411
The Lights were making-off with jests ; but they felt themselves, in
some inexplicable manner, fastened to the ground : it was the unpleasantest
feeling they had ever had. They engaged to pay him his demand as soon as
possible : he let them go, and pushed away. He was gone a good distance,
when they called to him : " Old man ! Holla, old man ! the main point is
forgotten I" 3 He was off, however, and did not hear them. He had fallen
quietly down that side of the River, where, in a rocky spot, which the water
never reached, he meant to bury the pernicious gold. Here, between two
liigh crags, he found a monstrous chasm; shook the metal into it, and
steered back to his cottage.
Now in this chasm lay the fair green Snake, who was roused from her
sleep by the gold coming chinking down.* No sooner did she fix her eye
on the glittering coins, than she ate them all up, with the greatest relish,
on the spot ; and carefully picked out such pieces as were scattered in the
chinks of the rock.
Scarcely had she swallowed them, when, with extreme delight, she began
to feel the metal melting in her inwards, and spreading all over her body;
and soon, to her lively joy, she observed that she was grown transparent
and luminous. Long ago she had been told that this was possible ; but
now being doubtful whether such a light could last, her curiosity and the
desire to be secure against the future, drove her from her cell, that she
might see who it was that had shaken-in this precious metal. She found
no one. The more delightful was it to admire her own appearance, and
her graceful brightness, as she crawled along through roots and bushes,
and spread out her light among the grass. Every leaf seemed of emerald,
every flower was dyed with new glory. It was in vain that she crossed the
solitary thickets; but her hopes rose high, when, on reaching the open
country, she perceived from afar a brilliancy resembling her own. " Shall
I find my like at last, then ?" cried she, and hastened to the spot. The
toil of crawling through bog and reeds gave her little thought ; for though
she lilted best to live in dry grassy spots of the mountains, among the clefts
of rocks, and for most part fed on spicy herbs, and slaked her thirst with
mild dew and fresh spring-water, yet for the sake of this dear gold, and in
the hope of this glorious light, she would have undertaken anything you
could propose to her.
At last, with much fatigue, she reached a wet rushy spot in the swamp,
where our two Will-o'-wisps were frisking to and fro. She shoved herself
along to them; saluted them, was happy to meet such pleasant gentlemen
related to her family. The Lights glided towards her, skipped up over her,
and laughed in their fashion, "Lady Cousin/' said they, " you. are of the
horizontal line, yet what of that? It is true we are related only by the
3 What could this be? To ask whither their next road lay? It was useless to
a&k there : the respectable old Priesthood * did not hear them.' D. T.
4 THOUGHT, Understanding, roused from her long sleep by tlie first produce of
modern Belles Letfcres ; which she eagerly devours. D. T,
112 APPENDIX, No. 1.
look ; for, observe you," Lore both the Flames, compressing their whole
breadth, made themselves as high and peaked as possible, " how prettily
this taper length beseems us gentlemen of the vertical line ! Take it not
amiss of us, good Lady; what family can boast of such a thing? Since
there ever was a Jack-o'-lantern in the world, no one of them has either
sat or lain."
The Snake felt exceedingly uncomfortable in the company of these re-
lations ; for, let her hold her head as high as possible, she found that she
must bend it to the eaith again, would she stir from the spot; 5 and if in
the dark thicket she had been extremely satisfied with her appearance, her
splendour in the presence of these cousins seemed to lessen every moment,
nay she was afraid that at last it would go out entirely.
In this embarrassment she hastily asked : If the gentlemen could not
inform her, whence the glittering gold came, that had fallen a short while
ago into the cleft of the rock ; her own opinion was, that it had been a
golden shower, and had trickled clown direct from the sky. The Will-o'-
wisps laughed, and shook themselves, and a multitude of gold-pieces came
clinking down about them. The Snake pushed nimbly forwards to eat the
coin. " Much good may it do you, Mistress," said the dapper gentlemen :
" we can help you to a little more." They shook themselves again several
times with great quickness, so that the Snake could scarcely gulp the pre-
cious victuals fast enough. Her splendour visibly began increasing ; she
was really shining beautifully, while the Lights had in the mean time grown
rather lean and short of stature, without however in the smallest losing
their good-humour.
" I am obliged to you forever," said the Snake, having got her wind again
after the repast ; " ask of me what you will ; all that I can I will do."
" Very good !" cried the Lights. " Then tell us where the fair Lily
dwells ? Lead us to the fair Lily's palace and garden ; and do not lose a
moment, we are dying of impatience to fall down at her feet."
" This service," said the Snake with a deep sigh, " I cannot now do for
you. The fair Lily dwells, alas, on the other side of the water." " Other
side of the water ? And we have come across it, this stormy night ! How
cruel is the Biver to divide us 1 Would it not be possible to call the old
man back ?"
" It would be useless," said the Snake ; " for if you found him ready on
the bank, he would not take you in ; he can carry any one to this side, none
to yonder,"
" Here is a pretty kettle of fish !" cried the Lights : " are there no other
means of getting through the water ?" " There are other means, but not at
this moment I myself could take you over, gentlemen, but not till noon/*
5 True enoxigh : Thought cannot fly and dance, as your wildfire of Belles Lettres
may ; she proceeds in the systole- diastole, up-and-down method j and must ever
*bend lier head to the earth again' (in the way of Baconian Experiment), or she
will not stir from the spot. D. T,
THE TALE. 413
" That is an hour we do not like to travel in." " Then .you may go
across in the evening, on the great Giant's shadow." " How is that?"
" The great Giant lives not far from this ; with his body he has no power ;
his hands cannot lift a straw, Ms shoulders could not bear a faggot of
twigs ; but with his shadow he has power over much, nay all. 6 At sunrise
and sunset therefore he is strongest ; so at evening you merely put yourself
upon the back of his shadow, the Giant walks softly to the bank, and the
shadow carries you across the water. But if you please, about the hour
of noon, to be in waiting at that corner of the wood where the bushes
overhang the bank, I myself will take you over and present you to the fair
Lily : or on the other hand, if you dislike the noontide, you have just to
go at nightfall to that bend of the rocks, and pay a visit to the Giant ; he
will certainly receive you like a gentleman."
With a slight btw% the Flames went off; and the Snake at bottom was
not discontented to get rid of them; partly that she might enjoy the bright-
ness of her own light, partly satisfy a curiosity with which, for a long time,
she had been agitated in a singular way,
In the chasm, where she often crawled hither and thither, she had made
a strange discovery. For although in creeping up and down this abyss,
she had never had a ray of light, she could well enough discriminate the
objects in it, by her sense of touch. Generally she met with, nothing but
irregular productions of Nature ; at one time she would wind between the
teeth of large crystals, at another she would feel the barbs and hairs of
native silver, and now and then cany out with her to the light some strag-
gling jewels. 7 But to her no small wonder, in a rock which was closed on
every side, she had come on certain objects which betrayed the shaping
hand of man. Smooth walls on which she could not climb, sharp regular
corners, well-formed pillars ; and what seemed strangest of all, human
figures which she had entwined more than once, and which appeared to
her to be of brass, or of the finest polished marble. All these experiences
she now wished to combine by the sense of sight, thereby to confirm what
as yet she only guessed. She believed she could illuminate the whole of
that subterranean vault by her own light ; and hoped to get acquainted
with these curious things at once. She hastened back ; and soon found, by
the usual way, the cleft by which she used to penetrate the Sanctuary.
On reaching the place, she gazed around with eager curiosity; and
though her shining could not enlighten every object in the rotunda, yet
those nearest her were plain enough. With astonishment and reverence
she looked up into a glancing niche, where the image of an august King
stood formed of pure G old. In size the figure was beyond the stature of
6 Is not SUPERSTITION strongest when the sun is low ? with body, powerless ;
with shadow, omnipotent? I). T.
7 Primitive employments, and attainments, of Thought, in this dark den whither
ifc is sent to dwell. For many long ages, it discerns * nothing but irregular produc-
tions of Nature ; J having indeed to pick material bed and board out of Nature and
her irregular productions* D. T,
414 APPENDIX, No t.
man, but by its shape it seemed the likeness of a little rather than a tall
person. His handsome body was encircled with an unadorned mantle;
and a garland of oak bound his hair together.
No sooner had the Snake beheld this reverend figure, than the Kin<*
Ibegan to speak, and asked: "Whence comost thou?" " From the chasms
where the gold dwells," said the Snake. "What is grander than gold?"
inquired the King. " Light," replied the Snake " What is more refresh-
ing than light?" said he. " Speech," answered she.
During this conversation, she had squinted to a side, and in the nearest
niche perceived another glorious image. It was a Silver King in a sit-
ting posture ; Ms shape was long and rather languid ; he was covered with
a decorated robe; crown, girdle and sceptre were adorned with precious
stones: the cheerfulness of pride was in his countenance; he seemed about
to speak, when a vein which ran dimly-coloured over the marble wall, on a
sudden became bright, and diffused a cheerful light throughout the whole
Temple. By this brilliancy the Snake perceived a third King, made of
Brass, and sitting mighty in shape, leaning on his club, adorned with a
laurel garland, and more like a rock than a man. She was looking for the
fourth, which was standing at the greatest distance from her ; but the wall
opened, while the glittering vein started and split, as lightning does, and
disappeared.
A Man of middle stature, entering through the cleft, attracted the atten-
tion of the Snake. He was dressed like a peasant, and carried in his hand
a little Lamp, on whose still flame you liked to look, and which in a strange
manner, without casting any shadow, enlightened the whole dome. 8
" Why comest thou, since we have light ?" said the golden King.
" You know that I may not enlighten what is dark."9 " Will my Kingdom
end?" said the silver King. " Late or never," said the old Man.
With a stronger voice the brazen King began to ask : " When shall I
arise?" " Soon," replied the Man. " With whom shall I combine?" said
the King. " With thy elder brothers," said the Man, " What will the
youngest do ?" inquired the King. ** He will sit down," replied the Man.
" I am not tired," cried the fourth King, with a rough faltering voice. 1(>
"While this speech was going on, the Snake had glided softly round the
Temple, viewing everything; she was now looking at the fourth King close
by him. He stood leaning on a pillar ; Ms considerable form was heavy
lather than beautiful. But what metal it was made of could not be deter-
8 Poetic Light, celestial Reason ! D. T.
Let the reader, in one word, attend well to these four Kings : much annotation
from D. T* is here necessarily swept out 0. Y.
s What is wholly dark. Understanding precedes Reason : modern Science is
come ; modem Poesy is still but coming, -in Goethe (and whom else?).- D, T.
10 Consider these Kings as Eras of the World's History ; no, not as Bras, but as
Principles which jointly or severally rule Eras. Alas, poor we, in this chaotic, soft-
soldered * transitionaiy age, 1 are so unfortunate as to live under the Fourth King.
D.T.
THE TALE. 415
mined. Closely inspected, it seemed a mixture of the tliree metals which
iU brothers had been formed of. But in the founding, these materials did
not seem to have combined together fully; gold and silver veins ran irregu-
larly through a brazen mass, and gave the iigure an unpleasant aspect.
Meanwhile the gold King was asking of the Man, " How many secrets
luiowcst thou?" " Tliree," replied the Man. " Which is the most import-
ant?" said the silver King. "The open one," replied the other. 11 "Wilt
thou open it to us also?" said the brass King. "When I know the fourth,"
replied the Man. "What care I?" grumbled the composite King, in an
undertone.
" I know the fourth," said the Snake ; approached the old Man, and
hissed somewhat in his ear. "The time is at hand!" cried the old Man,
-\\ith a strong voice. The temple reechoed, the metal statues sounded;
and that instant the old Man sank away to the westward, and the Snake
to the eastward ; and both of them passed through the clefts of the rock,
with the greatest speed.
All the passages, through which the old Man travelled, filled them-
selves, immediately behind him, with gold ; for his Lamp had the strange
property of changing stone into gold, wood into silver, dead animals into
precious stones, and of annihilating all metals. But to display this power,
it must shine alone. If another light were beside it, the Lamp only cast
from it a pure clear brightness, and all livings things were refreshed
by it. 12
The old Man entered his cottage, which was built on the slope of the
hill. He found his Wife in extreme distress. She was sitting at the lire
weeping, and refusing to be consoled " How unhappy am I !" cried she :
"Did not I entreat thee not to go away tonight?" u What is the matter,
then ?" inquired the husband, quite composed.
** Scarcely wort thou gone," said she, sobbing, " when there came two
noisy Travellers to the door : unthinkingly I let them in ; they seemed to
be a couple of genteel, very honourable people ; they were dressed in flames,
you would have taken them for Will-o' -wisps. But no sooner were they
in the house, than they began, like impudent varlets, to compliment me, 13
and grew so forward that I feel ashamed to think of it."
" No doubt," said the husband with a smile, " the gentlemen were jest-
ing : considering thy age, they might have held by general politeness."
"Age! what age?" cried the Wife: "wilt thou always be talking of
my age ? How old am I, then ? General politeness I But I know what I
11 Keader, hast thou any glimpse of the 'open secret'? I fear, not. D. T.
Writer, art thou a goose ? I fear, yes. O. Y.
12 In Illuminated Ages, the Age of Miracles is said to cease ; but it is only we
that cease to see it, for we are still 'refreshed by it,' D. T.
13 Poor old Practical Endeavour ! Listen to many an encyclopedic Diderot,
humanised Pkilosophe, didactic singer, march-of -intellect man, and other 'impu-
dent varlets' (who would never put their own finger to the work) ; and hear what
* compliments'* they uttered, D. T.
41(5 APPENDIX, No. L
know. Look round there what a face the walls have; look at the old stones,
which I have not seen these hundred years ; every film of gold have they
licked away, thou couldst not think how fast ; and still they kept assuring
me that it tasted far beyond common gold. Once they had swept the walls,
the fellows seemed to be in high spirits, and truly in that little while they
had grown much broader and brighter. They now began to be impertinent
again, they patted me, and called me their queen, they shook themselves,
and a shower of gold-pieces sprang from them ; see how they are shining
there under the bench ! But ah, what misery ! Poor Mops ate a coin or
two; and look, he is lying in the chimney, dead. Poor Pug! well-a-
day I I did not see it till they were gone ; else I had never promised to
pay the Ferryman the debt they owe him." "What do they owe him?"
said the Man.-" Three Cabbages," replied the Wife, " three Artichokes
and three Onions : I engaged to go when it was day, and take them to the
River."
" Thou mayest do them that civility," said the old Man ; " they may
chance to be of use to us again."
" Whether they will be of use to us I know not ; but they promised and
vowed that they would."
Meantime the fire on the hearth had burnt low ; the old Man covered-
Tip the embers with a heap of ashes, and put the glittering gold-pieces
aside; so that his little Lamp now gleamed alone, in the fairest brightness.
The walls again coated themselves with gold, and Mops changed into the
prettiest onyx that could be imagined. The alternation of the brown and
black in this precious stone made it the most curious piece of workman-
ship.
" Take thy basket," said the Man, " and put the onyx into it; then take
the three Cabbages, the three Artichokes and the three Onions; place them
round little Mops, and carry them to the River. At noon the Snake will
take thee over; visit the fair Lily, give her the onyx, she will make it alive
by her touch, as by her touch she kills whatever is alive already. She will
have a true companion in the little dog. Tell her, Not to mourn ; her
deliverance is near; the greatest misfortune she may look upon as the
greatest happiness ; for the time is at hand."
The old Woman filled her basket, and set out as soon as it was day.
The rising sun shone clear from the other side of the River, which was
glittering in the distance : the old Woman walked with slow steps, for the
basket pressed upon her head, and it was not the onyx that so burdened
her. Whatever lifeless tiling she might be carrying, she did not feel the
weight of it ; on the other hand, in those cases the basket rose aloft, and
hovered along above her head. But to cany any fresh herbage, or any
little living animal, she found exceedingly laborious. 14 She had travelled
14 Why so? Is ifc because with 'lifeless things' (with inanimate machinery) aE
goes like clock-work, which it is, and 'the basket hovers aloft;' while with, living
things (were ifc but the culture of forest-trees) poor Endeavour has more difficulty ?
D. T. Oi' is it cbien> because a Tale mast be a Tale?- O. Y.
THE TALE, 417
cn for some time, in a sullen humour, when she halted suddenly In fright,
for she had almost trod upon the "Giant's shadow, which was stretching
towards her across the plain. And now, lifting up her eyes, she saw the
monster of a Giant himself, who had been bathing in the Elver, and was
just come out, 15 and she knew not how she should avoid him. The moment
he perceived her, he began saluting her in sport, and the hands of his
shadow soon caught hold of the basket. With dexterous ease they picked
away from it a Cabbage, an Artichoke and an Onion, and brought them to
the Giant's mouth, who then went Ms way up the Elver, and let the Woman
go in peace.
She considered whether it would not be better to return, and supply
from her garden the pieces she had lost ; and amid these doubts, she still
kept walking on, so that in a little w T hile she was at the bank of the River,
She sat long waiting for the Ferryman, whom she perceived at last, steer-
ing over with a very singular traveller. A young, noble-looking, handsome
man, whom she could not gaze upon enougli, stept out of the boat.
" What is it you bring?" cried the old Man. " The greens which those
two Will-o'-wisps owe you," said the Woman, pointing to her ware. As the
Ferryman found only two of each sort, he grew angry, and declared he
would have none of them. The Woman earnestly entreated him to take
them ; told him that she could not now go home, and that her burden for
the way which still remained was very heavy. He stood by Ms refusal,
and assured her that it did not rest with him. " What belongs to me,"
said he, 4 ' I must leave lying nine hours in a heap, touching none of it, till
I have given the River its third." After much higgling, the old Man at last
replied : " There is still another way. If you like to pledge yourself to the
River, and declare yourself its debtor, I will take the six pieces ; but there
is some risk in it." " If I keep my word, I shall run no risk ?" " Not the
smallest. Put your hand into the stream," continued he, " and promise
that within four-and-twenty hours you will pay the debt."
The old Woman did so ; but what was her affright, when on drawing
out her hand, she found it black as coal ! She loudly scolded the old Ferry-
man; declared that her hands had always been the fairest part of her;
that in spite of her hard work, she had all along contrived to keep these
noble members wliite and dainty. She looked at the hand with indig-
nation, and exclaimed in a despairing tone : " Worse and worse ! Look, it
is vanishing entirely ; it is grown far smaller than the other." 16
" For the present it but seenis so," said the old Man ; " if you do not
keep your word, however, it may prove so in earnest. The hand will gra-
dually diminish, and at length disappear altogether, though you have the
use of it as formerly. Everything as usual you will be able to perform
is y ery pr0 per j n the huge Loggerhead Superstition", to bathe himself in the ele-
ment of TIME, and get refreshment thereby. D. T.
16 A dangerous thing to pledge yourself to the Time-Kiver ; as many a National
Bobt, and the like, blackening, bewitching the 4 beautiful hand' of Endeavour, can
witness. D. T. Heavens ! O. Y.
VOL. IX. (Misc. vol. 4.) EB
418 APPENDIX, No. 1.
with It, only nobody will see it." " I had rather that I could not use It,
and no one could observe the want," cried she : " but what of that, I will
keep my word, and rid myself of this black skin, and all anxieties about
it," Thereupon she hastily took up her basket, which mounted of itself
over her head, and hovered free above her in the air, as she hurried after
the Youth, who was walking softly and thoughtfully down the bank. His
noble form and strange dress had made a deep impression on her.
His breast was covered with a glittering coat of mail; in whose wavings
might be traced every motion of his fair body. From his shoulders hung
a purple cloak ; around his uncovered head flowed abundant brown hair
in beautiful locks : his graceful face, and Iris well-formed feet were exposed
to the scorching of the sun. With bare soles, he walked composedly over
the hot sand ; and a deep inward sorrow seemed to blunt him against all
external things.
The garrulous old Woman tried to lead him. into conversation ; but
with Ms short answers, he gave her small encouragement or information ;
so that in the end, notwithstanding the beauty of his eyes, she grew tired
of speaking with him to no purpose, and took leave of him with these
words : "You walk too slow for me, worthy sir; I must not lose a moment,
for I have to pass the River on the green Snake, and carry this fine present
from my husband to the fair Lily." So saying she stept faster forward ;
but the fair Youth pushed on. with equal speed, and hastened to keep up
with her. " You are going to the fair Lily !" cried he ; " then our roads
are the same. But what present is this you are bringing her ?"
" Sir," said the Woman, " it is hardly fair, after so briefly dismissing
the questions I put to you, to inquire with such vivacity about my secrets.
But if you like to barter, and tell me your adventures, I will not conceal
from yon how it stands with me and my presents." They soon made a
bargain ; the dame disclosed her circumstances to him ; told the histoiy
of the Pug, and let him see the singular gift.
He lifted this natural curiosity from the basket, and took Mops, who
seemed as if sleeping softly, into his arms. " Happy beast !" cried he ;
" thou wilt be touched by her hands, thou wilt be made alive by her; while
the living are obliged to fly from her presence to escape a mournful doom.
Yet why say I mournful ? Is it not far sadder and more frightful to be
injured by her look, than it would be to die by her hand? Behold me,"
said he to the Woman ; " at my years, what a miserable fate have I to
undergo ! This mail which. I have honourably borne in war, tin's purple
which I sought to merit by a wise reign, Destiny has left me ; the one as
a useless burden, the other as an empty ornament. Crown, and sceptre,
and sword are gone ; and I am as bare and needy as any other son of
earth; for so unblessed are her bright eyes, that they take from every
living creature they look-on all its force, and those whom the touch of her
hand does not kill are changed to the state of shadows wandering alive,"
Thus did he continue to bewail, nowise contenting the old Woman's
curiosity, wlio wished for information not so much of Ms internal as of Ms
THE TALE. 419
external situation. She learned neither the name of his father, nor of Ms
kingdom. He stroked the hard Mops, whom the sunbeams and the bosom
of the youth had warmed as if he had been living. He inquired narrowly
about the Man with the Lamp, about the influences of the sacred light,
appearing to expect much good from it in Ms melancholy case.
Amid such conversation, they descried from afar the majestic arch of
the Bridge, which extended from the one bank to the other, glittering
with the strangest colours in the splendours of the sun. Both were
astonished; for until now they had never seen this edifice so grand.
" How !" cried the Prince, " was it not beautiful enough, as it stood before
our eyes, piled out of jasper and agate ? Shall we not fear to tread it, now
that it appears combined, in graceful complexity of emerald and chryso-
pras and chrysolite ?" Neither of them knew the alteration that had taken
place upon the Snake : for it was indeed the Snake, who every day at noon
curved herself over the Elver, and stood forth in the form of a bold-swell-
ing bridge. 17 The travellers stept upon it with a reverential feeling, and
passed over it in silence.
No sooner had they reached the other shore, than the bridge began to
heave and stir ; in a little while, it touched the surface of the water, and
the green Snake in her proper form came gliding after the wanderers.
They had scarcely thanked her for the privilege of crossing on her back,
when they found that, besides them three, there must be other persons in
the company, whom their eyes could not discern. They heard a hissing,
which the Snake also answered with a Mssing ; they listened, and at length
caught what follows : " We shall first look about us in the fair Lily's
Park," said a pair of alternating voices ; " and then request you at night-
fall, so soon as we are anywise presentable, to introduce us to this paragon
of beauty. At the shore of the great Lake you will find us." " Be it so,"
replied the Snake ; and a hissing sound died away in the air.
Our tliree travellers now consulted in what order they should intro-
duce themselves to the fair Lady ; for however many people might be in
her company, they were obliged to enter and depart singly, tinder pain of
suffering very hard severities.
The Woman with the metamorphosed Pug in the basket first ap-
proached the garden, looking round for her Patroness; who was not .diffi-
cult to find, being just engaged in singing to her harp. The finest tones
proceeded from her, first like circles on the surface of the still lake, then
like a light breath they set the grass and the bushes in* motion. In a
green enclosure, under the shadow of a stately group of many diverse
trees, was she seated ; and again did she enchant the eyes, the ears ancl
the heart of the Woman, who approached with rapture, and swore within
herself that since she saw her last, the fair one had grown fairer than ever.
With eager gladness, from a distance, she expressed her reverence and
37 If aught can overspan the Time-River, then what but Understanding, but
Thought, in its moment of plenitude, in its favourable noon-moment ?-~D, T,
420 APPENDIX, No. 1.
admiration for the lovely maiden. "What a happiness to see you! what
a Heaven does your presence spread around you ! How charmingly the
harp is leaning on your bosom, how softly your arms surround it, how it
seems as if longing to be near you, and how it sounds so meekly under the
touch of your shin fingers! Thrice-happy youth, to whom it were per-
mitted to be there !"
So speaking she approached ; the fair Lily raised her eyes ; let her
hands drop from the harp, and answered : u Trouble me not with untimely
praise ; I feel my misery but the more deeply. Look here, at my feet lies
the poor Canary-bird, which used so beautifully to accompany my singing ;
it would sit upon my harp, and was trained not to touch me ; but today,
while I, refreshed by sleep, was raising a peaceful morning hymn, and my
little singer was pouring forth Ms harmonious tones more gaily than ever,
a Hawk darts over my head; the poor little creature, in affright, takes
refuge in my bosom, and I feel the last palpitations of its departing life.
The plundering Hawk indeed was caught by my look, and fluttered faint-
ing down into the water; but what can his punishment avail me? my
darling is dead, and his grave will but increase the mournful bushes of
my garden."
** Take courage, fairest Lily !" cried the Woman, wiping off a tear,
which the story of the hapless maiden had called into her eyes ; " com-
pose yourself; my old man bids me tell you to moderate your lamenting,
to look upon, the greatest misfortune as a forerunner of the greatest hap-
piness, for the time is at hand ; and truly," continued she, " the world is
going strangely on of late. Do but look at my hand, how black it is ! As
I live and breathe, it is grown far smaller : I must hasten, before it vanish
altogether ! Why did I engage to do the Will-o'-wisps a service, why did
I meet the Giant's shadow, and dip my hand in the River ? Could you
not afford me a single cabbage, an artichoke and an onion ? I would give
"them to the Eiver, and my hand were white as ever, so that I could almost
show it with one of yours."
" Cabbages and onions thou mayest still find ; but artichokes thou wilt
search for in vain. No plant in my garden bears either flowers or fruit ;
but every twig that I break, and plant upon the grave of a favourite, grows
green straightway, and shoots up in fair boughs. All these groups, these
bushes, these groves my hard destiny has so raised around me. These
pines stretching out like parasols, these obelisks of cypresses, these colossal
oaks and beeches, were all little twigs planted by my hand, as mournful
memorials in a soil that otherwise is barren." 18
To this speech the old Woman had paid little heel ; she was looking
at her hand, which, in presence of the fair Lily, seemed every moment
growing blacker and smaller. She was about to snatch her basket and
38 In SUPEENATURALISM, truly, what is there either of flower or of fruit? No-
thing that "will (altogether) content the greedy Time-River. Stupendotis, funereal
sacred groves, * in a soil that otherwise is barren !' D. T.
THE TALE. 421
hasten off, when she noticed that the best part of her errand had been for-
gotten. She lifted out the onyx Pug, and set him down, not far from the
fair one, in the grass. " My husband," said she, " sends you this memo-
rial; you know that you can make a jewel live by touching it. This pretty
faithful dog wiH certainly afford you much enjoyment ; and my grief at
losing him is brightened only by the thought that he will be in your pos-
session."
The fair Lily viewed the dainty creature with a pleased and, as it
seemed, with an astonished look. "Many signs combine," said she, "that
breathe some hope into me : but ah ! is it not a natural deception which
makes us fancy, when misfortunes crowd upon us, that a better day is near?
* 4 What can these many signs avail me?
My Singer's Deaih, thy coal-black Hand?
This Bog of Onyx that can never fail me?
And coming at the Lamp's command ?
From human joys removed forever,
"With sorrows compassed round I sit j
Is there a Temple at the River ?
Is there a Bridge? Alas, not yet !"
The good old dame had listened with impatience to this singing, which
the fair Lily accompanied with her harp, in a way that would have charmed
any other. She was on the point of taking leave, when the arrival of the
green Snake again detained her. The Snake had caught the last lines of
the song, and on this matter forthwith began to speak comfort to the fair
Lily.
" The prophecy of the Bridge is fulfilled !" cried the Snake : " you may
ask this worthy daine how royally the arch looks now. "What formerly was
untransparent jasper, or agate, allowing but a gleam of light to pass about
its edges, is now become transparent precious stone. No beryl is so clear,
no emerald so beautiful of hue."
** I wish you joy of it," said Lily ; " but you \vill pardon me if I regard
the prophecy as yet unaccomplished. The lofty arch of your bridge can
still but admit foot-passengers ; and it is promised us that horses and car-
riages and travellers of every sort shall, at the same moment, cross this
bridge in both directions. Is there not something said, too, about pillars,
which are to arise of themselves from the waters of the River ?'*
The old Woman still kept her eyes fixed on her hand ; she here inter-
rupted their dialogue, and was taking leave. " Wait a moment," said the
fair Lily, " and carry my little bird with you. Bid the Lamp change it
into topaz ; I will enliven it by my touch ; with your good Mops it shall
form my dearest pastime : but hasten, hasten ; for, at sunset, intolerable
putrefaction will fasten on the hapless bird, and tear asunder the fair com-
bination of its form forever.' 1
The old Woman laid the little corpse, wrapped in soft leaves, into her
basket, and hastened away.
422 APPENDIX, No. 1.
" However It may be," said the Snake, recommencing their interrupted
dialogue, " the Temple is built."
" But it is not at the River," said the fair one.
" It is yet resting in the depths of the Earth," said the Snake ; *' I have
seen the Kings and conversed with them."
" But when will they arise ?" inquired Lily.
The Snake replied : "I heard resounding in the Temple these deep
words, TJi& time is at hand."
A pleasing cheerfulness spread over the fair Lily's face : " 'Tis the
second time," said she, " that I have heard these happy words today : when
will the day come for me to hear them thrice ?"
She arose, and immediately there came a lovely maiden from the grove,
and took away her harp. Another followed her, and folded-up the fine
carved ivory stool, on which the fair one had been sitting, and put the sil-
very cushion under her arm. A third then made her appearance, with a
large parasol worked with pearls ; and looked whether Lily would require
her in walking. These three maidens were beyond expression beautiful ;
and yet their beauty but exalted that of Lily, for it was plain to every one
that they could never be compared to her. 1 **
Meanwhile the fair one had been looking, with a satisfied aspect, at the
strange onyx Mops. She bent down and touched him, and that instant he
staiied up. Gaily he looked around, ran hither and thither, and at last, in
Ms kindest manner, hastened to salute his benefactress. She took him in
her arms, and pressed him to her. ** Cold as thou art," cried she, " and
though but a half-life works in thee, thou art welcome to me ; tenderly will
I love thee, prettily will I play with thee, softly caress thce, and firmly
press thee to nay bosom." She then let him go, chased him from her,
called him back, and played so daintily with him, and ran about so gaily
and so innocently with him on the grass, that with new rapture you viewed
and participated in her joy, as a little while ago her sorrow had attuned
every heart to sympathy.
This cheerfulness, these graceful sports were interrupted by the entrance
of the woful Youth. He stepped forward, in his former guise and aspect;
save that the heat of the clay appeared to have fatigued him still more, and
in the presence of his mistress he grew paler every moment. He bore
upon Ms hand a Hawk, which was sitting quiet as a dove, with its body
shrunk, and its wings drooping.
" It is not kind in thee," cried Lily to him, " to bring that hateful thing
before my eyes, the monster, which today has lulled my little singer."
"Blame not the unhappy bird!" replied the Youth; "rather blame
thyself and thy destiny ; and leave me to keep beside me the companion
of my woe."
Meanwhile Mops ceased not teasing the fair Lily ; and she replied to
39 Who are these three? Faith, Hope and Charity, or others of that kin? D. T*
Faith, Hope and Fiddlestick ! 0, Y.
THE TALE. 423
her transparent favourite, with friendly gestures. She clapped her hands
to scare him off; then ran, to entice him after her. She tried to get him
when he fled, and she chased Mm away when he attempted to press near
her. The Youth looked on in silence, with increasing anger ; but at last,
when she took the odious beast, which seemed to him unutterably ugly, on
her arm, pressed it to her white bosom, and kissed its black snout with her
heavenly lips, his patience altogether failed him, and full of desperation he
exclaimed : " Must I, who by a baleful fate exist beside thee, perhaps to
the end, in an absent presence ; who by thee have lost my aU, iny very
self; must I see before my eyes, that so unnatural a monster can charm
thee into gladness, can awaken thy attachment, and enjoy thy embrace '?
Shall I any longer keep wandering to and fro, measuring my dreary course
to that side of the River and to this ? No, there is still a spark of the old
heroic spirit sleeping in my bosom ; let it start this instant into its ex-
piring flame! If stones may rest in thy bosom, let me be changed to
stone ; if thy touch kills, I will die by thy hands."
So saying he made a violent movement ; the Hawk flew from his finger,
but he himself rushed towards the fair one ; she held out her hands to keep
him off, and touched him only the sooner. Consciousness forsook him ;
and she felt with horror the beloved burden lying on her bosom. With a
shriek she started back, and the gentle Youth sank lifeless from her arms
upon the ground.
The misery had happened ! The sweet Lily stood motionless gazing on.
the corpse. Her heart seemed to pause in her bosom ; and her eyes were
without tears. In vain did Mops try to gain from her any kindly gesture ;
with her friend, the world for her was all dead as the grave. Her silent
despair did not look round for help ; she knew not of any help.
On the other hand, the Snake bestirred herself the more actively ; she
seemed to meditate deliverance ; and in fact her strange movements served
at least to keep away, for a little, the immediate consequences of the mis-
chief. With her limber body, she formed a wide circle round the corpse,
and seizing the end of her tail between her teeth, she lay quite still.
Ere long one of Lily's fair waiting-maids appeared ; brought the ivory
folding-stool, and with friendly beckoning constrained her mistress to sit
down on it. Soon afterwards there came a second ; she had in her hand
a fire-coloured veil, with which she rather decorated than concealed the
fair Lily's head. The third handed her the harp, and scarcely had she
drawn the gorgeous instrument towards her, and struck some tones from
its strings, when the first maid returned with a clear round mirror ; took
her station opposite the fair one ; caught her looks in the glass, and threw
back to her the loveliest image that was to be found in Nature. 20 Sorrow
20 Does not man's soul rest by Faith, and look in the mirror of Faith? Does
not Hope * decorate rather than conceal' ? Is not Charity (Love) the beginning of
music? Behold too, how the Serpent, in this great hour, has made herself a
Serpont-of -Eternity; and (even as genuine THOUGHT, in our age, has to do for &o
424 APPENDIX, No. 1,
heightened her "beauty, the veil her charms, the harp her grace,* and
deeply as you wished to see her mournful situation altered, not less deeply
did you wish to keep her image, as she now looked, forever present with
you.
With a still look at the mirror, she touched the harp; now melting
tones proceeded from the strings, now her pain seemed to mount, and the
music in strong notes responded to her woe ; sometimes she opened her
lips to sing, "but her voice failed her ; and ere long her sorrow melted into
tears, two maidens caught her helpfully in their arms, the harp sank from
her bosom, scarcely could the quick servant snatch the instrument and
carry it aside.
"Who gets us the Man with the Lamp, before the Sun set?" hissed
the Snake, faintly, but audibly: the maids looked at one another, and
Lily's tears fell faster. At this moment came the Woman with the Basket,
panting and altogether breathless. "I am lost, and maimed for life!"
cried she ; " see how my hand is almost vanished ; neither Ferryman nor
Giant would take me over, because I am the River's debtor ; in vain did
I promise hundreds of cabbages and hundreds of onions ; they will take no
more than three ; and no artichoke is now to be found in all this quarter."
" Forget your own care," said the Snake, " and try to bring help here ;
perhaps it may come to yourself also. Haste with your utmost speed to
seek the Will-o'-wisps ; it is too light for you to see them, but perhaps you
will hear them laughing and hopping to and fro. If they be speedy, they
may cross upon the Giant's shadow, and seek the Man with the Lamp, and
send him to us."
The Woman hurried off at her quickest pace, and the Snake seemed
expecting as impatiently as Lily the return of the Flames. Alas! the
beam of the sinking Sun was already gilding only the highest summits of
the trees in the thicket, and long shadows were stretching over lake and
meadow; the Snake hitched up and down impatiently, and Lily dissolved
in tears.
In this extreme need, the Snake kept looking round on all sides ; for
she was afraid every moment that the Sun would set, and corruption pene-
trate the magic circle, and the fair youth immediately moulder away. At
last she noticed sailing high in the air, with purple-red feathers, the
Prince's Hawk, whose breast was catching the last beams of the Sun.
She shook herself for joy at tins good omen ; nor was she deceived ; for
shortly afterwards the Man with the Lamp was seen gliding towards them
across the Lake, fast and smoothly, as if he had been traveling on skates.
The Snake did not change her posture; but Lily rose and called to
Mm ; " What good spirit sends thee, at the moment when we were desiring
thee, and needing thee, so much ?"
*' The spirit of ray Lamp," replied the Man, " lias impelled me, and the
DI tush) preserves tlie seeming-dead wifclim lier folds, tfcat suspended animation issue
not ia noisome, horrible, ii revocable dissolution !--D* T
THE TALE. 425
Hawk lias conducted me. My Lamp sparkles when I am needed, and I
just look about me in the sky for a signal; some bird or meteor points
to the quarter towards which I am to turn. Be calm, fairest Maiden!
Whether I can help, I know not; an individual helps not, but he who
combines himself with many at the proper hour. We will postpone the
evil, and keep hoping. Hold thy circle fast," continued he, turning to
the Snake; then set himself upon a hillock beside her, and illuminated
the deacl body. "Bring the little Bird 21 hither too, and lay it in the
circle !" The maidens took the little corpse from the basket, which the
old Woman had left standing, and did as he directed.
Meanwhile the Sun had set ; and as the darkness increased, not only
the Snake and the old Man's Lamp began shining in their fashion, but
also Lily's veil gave-out a soft light, winch gracefully tinged, as with a
meek dawning red, her pale cheeks and her white robe. The party looked
at one another, silently reflecting; care and sorrow were mitigated by a
sure hope.
It was no unpleasing entrance, therefore, that the Woman made, at-
tended by the two gay Flames, which in truth appeared to have been very
lavish in the interim, for they had again become extremely meagre ; yet
they only bore themselves the more prettily for that, towards Lily and the
other ladies. With great tact and expressiveness, they said a multitude of
rather common things to these fair persons ; and declared themselves par-
ticularly ravibhed by the charm which the gleaming veil 22 spread over
Lily and her attendants. The ladies modestly cast down their eyes, and
the praise of their beauty made them really beautiful. All were peaceful
and calm, except the old W T oman. In spite of the assurance of her hus-
band, that her hand could diminish no farther, while the Lamp shone on
it, she asserted more than once, that if things went on thus, before midnight
this noble member would have utterly vanished.
The Man with the Lamp had listened attentively to the conversation of
the Lights ; and was gratified that Lily had been cheered, in some mea-
sure, and amused by it. And, in truth, midnight had arrived they knew
not how. The old Man looked to the stars, and then began speaking :
" We are assembled at the propitious hour ; let each perform his task, let
each do his duty ; and a universal happiness will swallow-up our individual
sorrows, as a universal grief consumes individual joys."
At these words arose a wondrous hubbub ; 23 for all the persons in the
21 "What are tlie Hawk and this Canary-bird, wMch here prove so destructive to
one another? Ministering servants, implements, of th^se two divided Halves of the
Human Soul; name them I will not ; more is not written.- D. T.
aj Have not your march-of-intellect Literators always expressed themselves
particularly ravished with any glitter from a veil of Hope; with * progress of the
species,' and the like? D. T.
23 Too true : dost thou not hear it, reader? In this our Revolutionary c twelfth
hour of the night,' all perbons speak aloud (some of them by cannon and drums !),
* declaring what they have to do ;' and Faith, Hope and Charity (after a few j>as-
426 APPENDIX, No. 1.
party spoke aloud, each for himself, declaring what they had to do ; only
the three maids were silent ; one of them had fallen asleep beside the harp,
another near the parasol, the third by the stool ; and you could not blame
them much, for it was late. The Fiery Youths, after some passing com-
pliments which they devoted to the waiting-maids, had turned their sole
attention to the Princess, as alone worthy of exclusive homage.
" Take the mirror," said the Man to the Hawk ; " and with the first
sunbeam illuminate the three sleepers, and awake them, with light reflected
from above."
The Snake now began to move ; she loosened her circle, and rolled
slowly, in large rings, forward to the River. The two Will-o'-wisps fol-
lowed with a solemn air : you would have taken them for the most serious
Flames in Nature. The old Woman and her husband seized the Basket,
whose mild light they had scarcely observed till now ; they lifted it at both
sides, and it grew still larger and more luminous ; they lifted the body of
the Youth into it, laying the Canary-bird upon Ms breast ; the Basket rose
into the air and hovered above the old Woman's head, and she followed
the Will-o'-wisps on foot. The fair Lily took Mops on her arm, and fol-
lowed the Woman ; the Man with the Lamp concluded the procession ;
and the scene was curiously illuminated by these many lights.
But it was with no small wonder that the party saw, when they ap-
proached the River, a glorious arch mount over it, by which the helpful
Snake was affording them a glittering path. If by day they had admired
the beautiful transparent precious stones, of which the Bridge seemed
formed ; by night they were astonished at its gleaming brilliancy. On the
upper side the clear circle marked itself sharp against the dark sky, but
below, vivid beams were darting to the centre, and exliibiting the airy
firmness of the edifico. The procession slowly moved across it ; and the
Ferryman, who saw it from his hut afar off, considered with astonishment
the gleaming circle, and the strange lights which were passing over it. 24
No sooner had they reached the other shore, than the arch began, in
its usual way, to swag up and down, and with a wavy motion to approach
the water. The Snake then came on land, the Basket placed itself upon
the ground, and the Snake again drew her circle round it. The old Man
stooped towards her, and said : " What hast thou resolved on ?"
" To sacrifice myself rather than be sacrificed," replied the Snake ;
" promise me that thou wilt leave no stone on shore."
The old Man promised; then, addressing Lily: "Touch the Snake,"
said he, " with thy left hand, and thy lover with thy right." Lily knelt,
and touched the Snake and the Prince's body. The latter in the instant
ing compliments from the Belles-Lettres Department), thou seest, have fallen
ow?eep/-D. T.
34 Well he might, worthy old man ; as Pope Pius, for example, did, when he
lived in Fontainebleau! D. T. As our Bishops, when voting for the Reform Bill?
O.Y.
THE TALE* 427
seemed to come to life ; lie moved in the Basket, nay lie raised himself into
a sitting posture ; Lily was about to clasp him ; but the old Man held her
back, and himself assisted the Youth to rise, and led him forth from the
Basket and the circle.
The Prince was standing ; the Canary-bird was fluttering on Ms shoul-
der ; there was life again in both of them, but the spirit had not yet re-
turned ; the fair Youth's eyes were open, yet he did not see, at least he
seemed to look on all without participation. Scarcely had their admiration
of this incident a little calmed, when they observed how strangely it had
fared in the mean while with the Snake. Her fair taper body had crum-
bled into thousands and thousands of shining jewels: the old Woman
reacliing at her Basket had chanced to come against the circle ; and of the
shape or structure of the Snake there was now nothing to be seen, only
a bright ring of luminous jewels was lying in the grass. 25
The old Man forthwith set himself to gather the stones into the Basket;
a task in which his wife assisted Mm, They next carried the Basket to an
elevated point on the bank ; and here the man threw its whole lading, not
without contradiction from the fair one and his wife, who would gladly
have retained some part of it, down into the River. Like gleaming twink-
ling stars the stones floated down with the waves ; and you could not say
whether they lost themselves in the distance, or sank to the bottom.
" Gentlemen," said he with the Lamp, in a respectful tone to the Lights,
" I will now show you the way, and open you the passage ; but you will
do us an essential service, if you please to unbolt the door, by which the
Sanctuary must be entered at present, and wMch none but you can un-
fasten."
The Lights made a stately bow of assent, and kept their place. The
old Man of the Lamp went foremost into the rock, wliich opened at Ms
presence ; the Youth followed him, as if mechanically ; silent and uncer-
tain, Lily kept at some distance from him ; the old Woman would not be
left, and stretched-out her hand, that the light of her husband's Lamp
might still fall upon it. The rear was closed by the two Will-o'-wisps, who
bent the peaks of their flames towards one another, and appeared to be
engaged in conversation.
They had not gone far till the procession halted in front of a large
brazen door, the leaves of which were bolted with a golden lock The
Man now called upon the Lights to advance ; who required small entreaty,
and with their pointed flames soon ate both bar and lock.
The brass gave a loud clang, as the doors sprang suddenly asunder ;
and the stately figures of the Kings appeared within the Sanctuary, illumi-
25 So ! Your Logics, Mechanical Philosophies, Politics, Sciences, your whole
modem System of THOUGHT, is to decease j and old ENDEAVOUR, * grasping at her
basket,' shall * come against" the inanimate remains, and ' only a bright ring of
luminous jewels' shall be left there I Mark well, however, what next becomes of
it D. T.
4.28 APPENDIX, No. 1.
nated by the entering Lights. All bowed before these dread sovereigns,
especially the Flames made a profusion of the daintiest reverences.
After a pause, the gold King asked : " Whence come ye ?" " From the
world," said the old Man. " "Whither go ye?" said the silver King. " Into
the world," replied the Man. " What would ye with us ?" cried the brazen
King. "Accompany you," replied the Man.
The composite King was about to speak, when the gold one addressed
the Lights, who had got too near him: " Take yourselves away from me,
my metal was not made for you." Thereupon they turned to the silver
King, and clasped themselves about him ; and his robe glittered beautifully
in their yellow brightness. " You are welcome," said he, " but I cannot
feed you ; satisfy yourselves elsewhere, and bring me your light." They
removed ; and gliding past the brazen King, who did not seem to notice
them, they fixed on the compounded King. " Who will govern the world?"
cried he, with a broken voice. " He who stands upon his feet," replied
the old Man, " I am he," said the mixed King. " We shall see," replied
the Man ; " for the time is at hand."
The fair Lily fell upon the old Man's neck, and Idssed him cordially.
" Holy Sage !" cried she, " a thousand times I thank thec ; for I hear that
fateful word the third time." She had scarcely spoken, when she clasped
the old Man still faster ; for the ground began to move beneath them ; the
Youth and the old Woman also held by one another ; the Lights alone did
not regard it.
You could feel plainly that the whole temple was in motion ; as a ship
that softly glides away from the harbour, when her anchors are lifted ; the
depths of the Earth seemed to open for the Building as it went along. It
struck on nothing ; no rock came in its way.
For a few instants, a small rain seemed to drizzle from the opening of
the dome ; the old Man held the fair Lily fast, and said to her : " We are
now beneath the River ; we shall soon be at the mark." Ere long they
thought the Temple made a halt ; but they were in an error ; it was mount-
ing upwards.
And now a strange uproar rose above their heads. Planks and beams
in disordered combination now came pressing and crashing in at the open-
ing of the dome. Lily and the Woman started to a side ; the Man with
the Lamp laid hold of the Youth, and kept standing still. The little cot-
tage of the Ferryman, for it was this which the Temple in ascending had
severed from the ground and carried up with it, sank gradually down,
and covered the old Man and the Youth.
The women screamed aloud, and the Temple shook, like a ship running
unexpectedly aground. In sorrowful perplexity, the Princess and her old
attendant wandered round the cottage in the dawn ; the door was bolted,
and to their knocking no one answered. They knocked more loudly, and
were not a little struck, when at length the wood began to ring. By virtue
of the Lamp locked up in it, the hut had been converted from the inside to
the outside into solid silver. Ere long too its form changed ; for the ndble;
THE TALE. 421*
metal shook aside the accidental shape of planks, posts and beams, and
stretched itself out into a noble case of beaten ornamented workmanship.
Thus a fair little temple stood erected in the middle of the large one ; or if
you will, an Altar worthy of the Temple. 26
By a staircase which ascended from within, the noble Youth now
mounted aloft, lighted by the old Man with the Lamp ; and, as it seemed,
supported by another, who advanced in a white short robe, with a silver
rudder in his hand ; and was soon recognised as the Ferryman, the former
possessor of the cottage.
The fair Lily mounted the outer steps, which led from the floor of the
Temple to the Altar ; but she was still obliged to keep herself apart from
her Lover. The old "Woman, whose hand in the absence of the Lamp had
grown still smaller, cried: "Am I, then, to be unhappy after all? Among
so many miracles, can there be nothing done to save niy hand?" Her
husband pointed to the open door, and said to her : " See, the day is break-
ing; haste, bathe thyself in the River." "What an advice!" cried she;
" it will make me all black ; it will make me vanish altogether ; for my
debt is not yet paid." " Go," said the Man, " and do as I advise thee ; all
debts are now paid."
The old Woman hastened away ; and at that moment appeared the
rising Sun, upon the rim of the dome. The old Man stept between the
Virgin and the Youth, and cried with a loud voice : " There are three
winch have rule on Earth ; Wisdom, Appearance and Strength." At the
first word, the gold King rose; at the second, the silver one; and at the
third, the brass King slowly rose, while the mixed King on a sudden very
awkwardly plumped down. 27
Whoever noticed him could scarcely keep from laughing, solemn as the
moment was ; for he was not sitting, he was not lying, he was not loaning,
but shapelessly sunk together. 28
The Lights, 2 9 who till now had been employed upon him, drew to a
side ; they appeared, although pale in the morning radiance, yet once more
well-fed, and in good burning condition ; with their peaked tongues, they
26 Good! The old Clmrch, shaken down *in disordered combination,* is ad-
mitted, in this way, into the new perennial Temple of the Future ; and, clarified
into enduring silver by the Lamp, becomes an Altar worthy to stand there. The
Ferryman too is not forgotten.!). T.
27 Dost thou note this, reader ; and look back with new clearness on former
things? A gold King, a silver and a brazen King: "WISDOM, dignified APPEABANOE,
STKENGTH ; these three harmoniously united "bear rule : (^harmoniously cobbled
together in sham union (as in the foolLh composite King of our foolish * transition
era'}, they, once the gold (or wisdom) is all out of them, * vtry awkwardly plump
down/- D. T.
28 As, for example, does not Charles X. (one of the poor fractional composite
Realities emblemed herein) rest, even now, * shapelessly enough sunk together, 'at
Hoi v rood, in the city of Edinburgh ?~-D. T.
28 March-of-iiitellect Lights were well capable of such a thing. D. T.
430 APPENDIX, No. 1.
had dexterously licked-out the gold veins of the colossal figure to its very
heart. The irregular vacuities which this occasioned had continued empty
for a time, and the figure had maintained its standing posture. But when
at, last the very tenderest filaments were eaten out, the image crashed sud-
denly together ; and that, alas, in the very parts which continue unaltered
when one sits down ; whereas the limbs, which should have bent, sprawled
themselves out unbowed and stiff. Whoever could not laugh was obliged
to turn away his eyes ; this miserable shape and no-shape was offensive
to behold.
The Man with the Lamp now led the handsome Youth, who still kept
gazing vacantly before him, down from the Altar, and straight to the brazen
King. At the feet of this mighty Potentate lay a sword in a brazen sheath.
The young man girt it round him. " The sword on the left, the right
free !" cried the brazen voice. They next proceeded to the silver King ;
he bent his sceptre to the Youth ; the latter seized it with Ms left hand,
and the King in a pleasing voice said: "Peed the sheep!" On turning
to the golden King, he stooped with gestures of paternal blessing, and
pressing his oaken garland on the young man's head, said : " Understand
what is highest!"
During this progress, the old Man had carefully observed the Prince.
After girding-on the sword, his breast swelled, his arms waved, and Ms feet
trod firmer ; when he took the sceptre in his hand, his strength appeared
to soften, and by an unspeakable charm to become still more subduing ;
but as the oaken garland came to deck his hair, his features kindled, Ms
eyes gleamed with inexpressible spirit, and the first word of Ms mouth was
"Lily!"
" Dearest Lily !" cried he, hastening up the silver stairs to her, for she
had viewed Ms progress from the pinnacle of the Altar ; " Dearest Lily !
what more precious can a man, equipt with all, desire for himself than
innocence and the still affection which thy bosom brings me ? O my
friend!" continued he, turning to the old Man, and looking at the three
statues ; " glorious and secure is the kingdom of our fathers ; but tliou
hast forgotten the fourth power, w r hich rules the world, earlier, more uni-
versally, more certainly, the power of Love." With these words, he fell
upon the lovely maiden's neck ; she had cast away her veil, and her cheeks
were tinged with the fairest, most imperishable red.
Here the old Man said with a smile: "Love does not rule; but it
trains, 30 and that is more."
Amid this solemnity, this happiness and rapture, no one had observed
that it was now broad day ; and all at once, on looking through the open
portal, a crowd of altogether unexpected objects met the eye. A large
space surrounded with pillars formed the fore-court, at the end of which
was seen a broad and stately Bridge stretching with many arches across
the Biver. It was furnished, on both sides, with commodious and magnifi-
80 It fasMons (l&det), or educates. O. Y.
THE TALE* 431
cent colonnades for foot-travellers, many thousands of whom were already
there, busily passing this way or that. The broad pavement in the centre
was thronged with herds and mules, with horsemen and carriages, flowing
like two streams, on their several sides, and neither interrupting the other.
All admired the splendour and convenience of the structure ; and the new
King and his Spouse were delighted with the motion and activity of this
great people, as they were already happy in their own mutual love.
" Uemember the Snake in honour," said the Man with the Lamp ;
"thou owest her thy life; thy 'people owe her the Bridge, by which these
neighbouring banks are now animated and combined into one land. Those
swimming and shining jewels, the remains of her sacrificed body, are the
piers of this royal bridge ; upon these she has built and will maintain
herself." 31
The party were about to ask some explanation of this strange mystery,
when there entered four lovely maidens at the portal of the Temple. By
the Harp, the Parasol, and the Folding-stool, it was not difficult to recog-
nise the waiting-maids of Lily; but the fourth, more beautiful than any of
the rest, was an unknown fair one, and in sisterly sportfulness she hastened
with them through the Temple, and mounted the steps of the Altar. 32
" Wilt thou have better trust in me another time, good wife?" said the
Man with the Lamp to the fair one : " Well for thee, and every Hving thing
that bathes this morning in the River!"
The renewed and beautified old Woman, of whose former shape no
trace remained, embraced with young eager arms the Man with the Lamp,
who Mndly received her caresses. " If I am too old for thee," said he,
smiling, " thou mayest choose another husband today ; from this hour no
marriage is of force, which is not contracted anew."
"Dost thou not know, then," answered she, "that thou too art grown
younger?" "It delights me if to thy young eyes I seem a handsome
youth : I take thy hand anew, and am well content to live with thee an-
other thousand years." 33
The Queen welcomed her new friend, and went down with her into the
interior of the Altar, while the King stood between his two men, looking
towards the Bridge, and attentively contemplating the busy tumult of the
people.
But Ms satisfaction did not last ; for ere long he saw an object which
excited his displeasure. The great Giant, who appeared not yet to have
awoke completely from Ms morning sleep, came stumbling along the
81 Honour to her indeed ! Tlie Mechanical Philosophy, though dead, has not
died and lived in vain ; but her works are there : * upon these she 1 (THOUGHT, new-
bom, in glorified shape) 'has built htnself and will maintain her&elf ;' and the
Natural and Supernatural shall henceforth, thereby, he one. D. T,
32 Mark what comes of bathing in the TiME-Biver, at the entrance of a New
Era!-D. T,
33 And so EEASON and ENDEAVOUB being once more married, and in the iwmey^
moon, need we wish them joy?~D. T.
432 APPENDIX, No. 1.
Bridge, producing great confusion all around him. As usual, lie had
risen stupefied with sleep, and had meant to bathe in the well-known
"bay of the River; instead of which he found firm land, and plunged upon
the broad pavement of the Bridge. Yet although he reeled into the rniclbt
of men and cattle in the clumsiest way, Ms presence, wondered at by all,
was felt by none ; but as the sunshine came into his eyes, and he raised
his hands to rub them, the shadows of his monstrous fists moved to and
fro behind him with such force and awkwardness, that men and beasts
were heaped together in great masses, were hurt by such rude contact,
and in danger of being pitched into the River. 3 *
The King, as he saw this mischief, grasped with an involuntary move-
ment at his sword ; but he bethought himself, and looked calmly at his
sceptre, then at the Lamp and the Rudder of his attendants. " I guess thy
thoughts," said the Man with the Lamp ; " but we and our gifts are power-
less against this powerless monster. Be calm ! He is doing hurt for the
last time, and happily his shadow is not turned to us."
Meanwhile the Giant was approaching nearer; in astonishment at
what lie saw with open eyes, he had dropt his hands ; he was now doing
no injury, and came staring and agape into the fore-court.
He was walking straight to the door of the Temple, when all at once in
the middle of the court, he halted, and was fixed to the ground. He stood
there like a strong colossal statue, of reddish glittering stone, and his sha-
dow pointed out the hours, 35 which were marked in a circle on the floor
around him, not in numbers, but in noble and expressive emblems.
Much delighted was the King to see the monster's shadow turned to
some useful purpose ; much astonished was the Queen, who, on, mounting
from within the Altar, decked in royal pomp, with her virgins, first noticed
the huge figure, which almost closed the prospect from the Temple to the
Bridge.
Meanwhile the people had crowded after the Giant, as he ceased to
move ; they were walking round him, wondering at Ms metamorphosis.
From him they turned to the Temple, which they now first appeared to
notice, 116 and pressed towards the door.
At this instant the Hawk with the mirror soared aloft above the dome ;
caught the light of the Sun, and reflected it upon the group, which was
standing on the Altar. The King, the Queen, ancl their attendants, in the
dusky concave of the Temple, seemed illuminated by a heavenly splendour,
and the people fell upon their faces. When the crowd had recovered and
risen, the King with his followers had descended into the Altar, to proceed
34 Thou rememherest the Catholic Relief Bill; witnesses* the Irish Education
Hast heard, five hundred times, that the * Church' was c in Banger,' and now
at length believesfc it? D. T. Is D. T. of the Fourth Estate, and Popish-Infidel
fchen?-O.Y.
85 Bravo !-D. T.
88 Now first; when the beast of a SUPEESTITION- Giant has got his quietus.
Bight I-D.T.
THE TALE. 433
by secret passages into his palace ; and the multitude dispersed about the
Temple to content their curiosity. The three Kings that were standing
erect they viewed with astonishment and reverence ; but the more eager
were they to discover what mass it could be that was liicl behind the hang-
ings, in the fourth niche ; for by some hand or another, charitable decency
had spread over the resting-place of the fallen King a gorgeous curtain,
which no eye can penetrate, and no hand may dare to draw aside.
The people would have found no end to their gazing and their admira-
tion, and the crowding multitude would have even suffocated one another
in the Temple, had not their attention been again attracted to the open
Unexpectedly some gold-pieces, as if falling from the air, came tinkling
down upon the marble flags ; the nearest passers-by rushed thither to pick
them up ; the wonder was repeated several times, now here, now there.
It is easy to conceive that the shower proceeded from our two retiring
Flames, who wished to have a little sport here once more, and were thus
gaily spending, ere they went away, the gold which they had licked from
the members of the sunken. King. The people still ran eagerly about,
pressing and pulling one another, even when the gold had ceased to fall.
At length they gradually dispersed, and went their way ; and to the present
hour the Bridge is swarming with travellers, and the Temple is the most
frequented on the whole Earth.. 3 ?
37 It is the Temple of the whole civilised Earth. Finally, may I take leave to
consider this Hahrchen as the deepest Poem of its sort in existence ; as the only
fcrae Prophecy emitted for who knows how many centuries?- I). T. Certainly:
England is a free country. O. Y.
VOL. IX. (Misc. vol. 4.)
No. 2.
NOVELLE.*
BY GOETHE.
[1832.]
THE spacious courts of the Prince's Castle were still veiled in thick mists
of an autumnal morning ; through which veil, meanwhile, as it melted into
clearness, you could more or less discern the whole Hunter-company, on
horseback and on foot, all busily astir. The hasty occupations of the
nearest were distinguishable ; there was lengthening, shortening of stirrup-
leathers ; there was handing of rifles and shot-pouches, there was putting
of game-bags to rights; while the hounds, impatient in their leashes,
threatened to drag their keepers off with them. Here and there, too, a
horse showed spirit more than enough ; driven- on by its fiery nature, or
excited by the spur of its rider, who even now in the half-dusk could not
repress a certain self-complacent wish to exhibit himself. All waited,
however, on the Prince, who, taking leave of his young Consort, was now
delaying too long.
"United a short while ago, they already felt the happiness of consentane-
ous dispositions ; both were of active vivid character ; each willingly par-
ticipated in the tastes and endeavours of the other. The Prince's father
had already, in Ms time, discerned and improved the season when, it be-
came evident that all members of the commonwealth should pass their
days in equal industry ; should all, in equal working and producing, each
in his kind, first earn, and then enjoy.
How well this had prospered was visible in these very days, when the
chief market was a-holding, which you might well enough have named a
fair. The Piince yestereven. had led Ms Princess on horseback through
the tumult of the heaped-up wares ; and pointed out to her how, on this
spot, the Mountain region met the Plain country in profitable barter : he
could here, with the objects before him., awaken her attention to the various
industry of his Land.
If the Prince at this time occupied himself and Ms servants almost
exclusively with these pressing concerns, and in particular worked inces-
santly with his Finance-minister, yet would the Huntmaster too have his
right; oa whose pleading, the temptation could not be resisted to under*
1 FRASEB'S MAGAZINE, No. 34.
NOYELLK 435
take, in this choice autumn weather, a Hunt that had already been post-
poned ; and so for the household itself, and for the many stranger visitants,
prepare a peculiar and singular festivity.
The Princess stayed behind with reluctance: but it was proposed to
push far into the Mountains, and stir-up the peaceable inhabitants of the
forests there with an unexpected invasion.
At parting, her lord failed not to propose a ride for her, with Friedrich,
the Prince-Uncle, as escort: "I will leave thee," said he, " our Honorio
too, as Equerry and Page, who will manage all." In pursuance of which
words, he, in descending, gave to a handsome young man the needful in-
junctions ; and soon thereafter disappeared with guests and train.
The Princess, who had waved her handkerchief to her husband while
still down in the court, now retired to the back apartments, which com
manded a free prospect towards the Mountains ; and so much the lovelier,
as the Castle itself stood on a sort of elevation, and thus, behind as well as
before, afforded manifold magnificent views. She found the fine telescope
still in the position where they had left it yestereven, when amusing them-
selves over bush and Mil and forest-summit, with the lofty ruins of the
primeval Stammburg, or Family Tower; which in the clearness of evening
stood out noteworthy, as at that hour with its great light-and-shade masses,
the best aspect of so venerable a memorial of old time was to be had. This
morning too, with the approximating glasses, might be beautifully seen the
autumnal tinge of the trees, many in kind and number, which had struggled
up through the masonry, unhindered and undisturbed during long years.
The fair dame, however, directed the tube somewhat lower, to a waste
stony flat, over which the Hunting-train was to pass : she waited the mo-
ment with patience, and was not disappointed ; for with the clearness and
magnifying power of the instrument her glancing eyes plainly distinguished
the Prince and the Head-Equerry ; nay she forbore not again to wave her
handkerchief, as some momentary pause and looking-back was fancied per-
haps, rather than observed.
Prince-Uncle, Friedrich by name, now with announcement entered, at-
tended by Ms Painter, who carried a large portfolio under his arm. "Bear
Cousin," said the hale old gentleman, " we here present you with the Views
of the Stammburg, taken on various sides to show how the mighty Pile,
warred-on and warring, has from old time fronted the year and its weather;
how here and there its wall had to yield, here and there rush down into
waste ruins. However, we have now done much to make the wild mass
accessible ; for more there wants not to set every traveller, every visitor,
into astonishment, into admiration."
As the Prince now exhibited the separate leaves, he continued : " Here
where, advancing up the hollow-way, through the outer ring-walls, you
reach the Fortress proper, rises against us a rock, the firmest of the whole
mountain; on ibis there stands a tower built, yet where Nature leaves
off, and Art and Handicraft begin, no one can distinguish. Farther you
perceive, sidewards, walls abutting on it, and donjons terrace-wise stretch-
436 APPENDIX, No. 2.
ing down. But I speak wrong ; for, to the eye, it is "but a wood that en-
circles that old summit : these hundred-and-fifty years no axe has sounded
there, and the niassiest stems have on all sides sprung up ; wherever you
press inwards to the walls, the smooth maple, the rough oak, the taper
pine, with trunk and roots oppose you ; round these we have to wind, and
pick our footsteps with skill. Do hut look how artfully our Master has
brought the character of it on paper ; how the roots and stems, the species
of each distinguishable, twist themselves among the masonry, and the huge
"boughs come looping through the holes. It is a wilderness like no other ;
an accidentally unique locality, where ancient traces of the long- vanished
power of Man, and the ever-living, ever-working power of Nature show
themselves in the most earnest conflict."
Exhibiting another leaf, he went on: " What say you now to the Castle-
court, which, become inaccessible by the falling-in of the old gate-tower,
had for immemorial time been trodden by no foot ? "We sought to get at
it by a side ; have pierced through w r alls, blasted vaults asunder, and so
provided a convenient but secret way. Inside it needed no clearance ; here
stretches a flat rock- summit, smoothed by Nature : but yet strong trees
have, in spots, found luck and opportunity for rooting themselves there ;
they have softly but decidedly grown up, and now stretch out their boughs
into the galleries where the knights once walked to and fro ; nay through
the doors and windows into the vaulted halls ; out of which we would not
drive them : they have even got the mastery, and may keep it. Sweeping
away deep strata of leaves, we have found the notablest place, all smoothed,
the like of which were perhaps not to be met with in the world.
"After all this, however, it is still to be remarked, and on the spot itself
well worth examining, how on the steps that lead up to the main tower,
a maple has struck root and fashioned itself to a stout tree, so that yon
hardly can "with difficulty press by it, to mount the battlements and gaze
over the unbounded prospect Yet here too, you linger pleased in the
shade ; for that tree is it which, high over tho whole, wondrously lifts itself
into the air.
"Let us thank the brave Artist, then, who so deservingly in variotis
pictures teaches us the whole, even as if we saw it : he has spent the
fairest hours of the clay and of the season therein, and for weeks long kept
moving about these scenes. Here in this corner has there been, for him
and the warder we gave him, a pleasant little dwelling fitted up. You
could not think, my Best, what a lovely outlook into the country, into court
and walls, he has got there. But now when all is once in outline, so pure,
so characteristic, he may finish it down here at Ms ease. With these pic-
tures we will decorate our garden-hall ; and no one shall recreate Ins eyes
over our regular parterres, our groves and shady walks, without wishing
himself up there, to follow, in actual sight of the old and of the new, of
the stubborn, inflexible, indestructible, and of the fresh, pliant, irresistible,
what reflections and comparisons would rise for Mm."
Honorio entered, with notice that the horses were brought out; then
NOVELLE. 437
said tlie Princess, turning to the Uncle : u Let us ride up ; and you will
show me in reality what you have here set before me in image. Ever since
I came among you, I have heard of this undertaking ; and now should
like, of all things, to see with my own eyes what in the narrative seemed
impossible, and in the depicting remains improbable. 5 * " Not yet, my Love,"
answered the Prince : " What you here saw is what it can become and is
becoming; for the present, much in the enterprise stands still amid im-
pediments ; Art must first be complete, if Nature is not to shame it."
" Then let us ride at least upwards, were it only to the foot : I have the
greatest wish today to look about me far in the world " " Altogether as
you will," replied the Prince. " Let us ride through the Town, however,"
continued the Lady, " over the great marketplace, where stands the innu-
merable crowd of booths, looking like a little city, like a camp. It is as
if the wants and occupations of all the families in the land were turned
outwards, assembled in this centre; and brought into the light of day : for
the attentive observer can descry whatsoever it is that man performs and
needs ; you fancy, for the moment, there is no money necessary, that all
business could here be managed by barter, and so at bottom it is. Since
the Prince, last night, set me on these reflections, it is pleasant to consider
how here, where Mountain and Plain meet together, both so clearly speak
out what they require and wish. For as the highlander can fashion the
timber of his woods into a hundred shapes, and mould his iron for all
manner of uses, so these others from below come to meet him with most
manifold wares, in which often you can hardly discover the material or
recognise the aim."
" I am aware," answered the Prince, " that my Nephew turns his ut-
most care to these things ; for specially, on the present occasion, this main
point comes to be considered, that one receive more than one gives out :
which to manage is, in the long-run, the sum of all Political Economy, as
of the smallest private housekeeping. Pardon me, however, my Best : I
never like to ride through markets ; at every step you are hindered and
kept back ; and then flames-up in my imagination the monstrous misery
which, as it were, burnt itself into my eyes, when I witnessed one such
world of wares go off in fire. I had scarcely got to '*
" Let us not lose the bright hours," interrupted the Princess ; fot the
worthy man had already more than, once afflicted her with the minute de-
scription of that mischance : how he, being on a long journey, resting in
the best inn, on the marketplace which was just then swarming with a
fair, had gone to bed exceedingly fatigued ; and in the night-time been, by
shrieks, and flames rolling up against his, lodging, hideously awakened.
The Princess hastened to mount her favourite horse: and led, not
through the backgate upwards, but through the foregate downwards, her
reluctant-willing attendant ; for who but would gladly have ridden by her
side, who but would gladly have followed after her? And so Honorio too
had, without regret, stayed back from the otherwise so wished-for Hunt, to
be exclusively at her service.
438 xiPPENDIX, No. 2.
As was to be anticipated, they could only ride tlircmgli the market step
by step : but tlie fair Lovely one enlivened every stoppage by some sprightly
remark ; " I repeat my lesson of yesternight," said she, " since Necessity is
trying our patience." And in truth, the whole mass of men so crowded
about the riders, that their progress was slow. The people gazed with joy
at the young dame; and on so many smiling countenances might be read
the pleasure they felt to see that the first woman in the land was also the
fairest and gracefulest.
Promiscuously mingled stood Mountaineers, who had built their still
dwellings amid rocks, firs and spruces ; Lowlanders from hills, meadows
and leas ; craftsmen of the little towns ; and what else had all assembled
there. After a quiet glance, the Princess remarked to her attendant, how
all these, whencesoever they came, had taken more stuff than necessary
for their clothes, more cloth and linen, more ribands for trimming. It is
as if the women could not be bushy enough, the men not puffy enough, to
please themselves.
"We will leave them that," answered the Uncle: "spend his super-
fluity on what he will, a man is happy in it ; happiest when lie therewith
decks and dizens himself." The fair dame nodded assent.
So had they, by degrees, got upon a clear space, which led out to the
suburbs; when, at the end of many small booths and stands, a larger
edifice of boards showed itself, which was scarcely glanced at till an ear-
lacerating bellow sounded forth from it. The feeding-hour of the wild-
beasts, there exhibited, seemed to have come : the Lion let his forest- and
desert- voice be heard in all vigour ; the horses shuddered, and all had to
remark how, in the peaceful ways and workings of the cultivated world,
the king of the wilderness so fearfully announced himself. Coming nearer
the booth, you could not overlook the variegated colossal pictures repre-
senting with violent colours and strong emblems those foreign beasts ,* to
a sight of which the peaceful burgher was to be irresistibly enticed. The
grim monstrous tiger was pouncing on a blackamoor, on the point of tear-
ing him in shreds; a lion stood earnest and majestic, as if he saw no prey
worthy of him ; other wondrous particoloured creatures, beside these mighty
ones, deserved less attention.
"As we come back," said the Piincess, "we will alight and take a
nearer view of these gentry." " It is strange," observed the Prince, *' that
man always seeks excitement by Terror. Inside, there, the Tiger lies quite
quiet in his cage ; and here must he ferociously dart upon a black, that
the people may fancy the like is to be seen within : of murder and sudden
death, of burning and destruction, there is not enough, but balladsingers
must at every comer keep repeating it. Good man will have himself
frightened a little ; to feel the better, in secret, how beautiful and laudable
it is to draw breath in freedom."
Whatever of apprehensiveness from such bugbear images might have
remained, was soon all and wholly effaced, as, issuing through the gate,
our party entered on the cheerfulest of scenes. The road led first up the
NOVBLLE. 439
Eiver, as yet but a small current, and bearing only light boats, but which
by and by, as a renowned world-stream, would carry forth its name and
waters, and enliven distant lands. They proceeded next through well-cul-
tivated fruit-gardens and pleasure-grounds, softly ascending; and by de-
grees you could look about you, in the now disclosed, much-peopled region ;
till first a thicket, then a little wood admitted our riders, and the grace-
fulest localities refreshed and limited their view. A meadow-vale leading
upwards, shortly before mown for the second time, velvet-like to look upon,
and watered by a brook rushing briskly out copious at once from the uplands
above, received them as with welcome ; and so they approached a higher
freer station ; which, on issuing from the wood, after a stiff ascent, they
gained ; and could now descry, over new clumps of trees, the old Castle,
the goal of their pilgrimage, rising in the distance, as pinnacle of the rock
and forest. Backwards, again (for never did one mount hither without
turning round), they caught, through accidental openings of the high trees,
the Prince's Castle, on the left, lightened by the morning sun ; the well-
built higher quarter of the Town, softened under light smoke-clouds : and
so on, rightwards, the under Town, the Eiver in several bendings, with its
meadows and mills ; on the farther side, an extensive fertile region.
Having satisfied themselves with the prospect, or rather, as usually
happens when we look round from so high a station, become doubly eager
for a wider, less limited view, they rode on, over a broad stony flat, where
the mighty Ruin stood fronting them, as a green-crowned summit, a few
old trees far down about its foot: they rode along; and so arrived there,
just at the steepest, most inaccessible side. Great rocks jutting out from
of old, insensible of every change, firm, well-founded, stood clenched toge-
ther there ; and so it towered upwards ; what had fallen at intervals lay
in huge plates and fragments confusedly heaped, and seemed to forbid the
boldest any attempt. But the steep, the precipitous is inviting to youth ;
to undertake it, to storm and conquer it, is for young limbs an enjoyment.
The Princess testified desire for an attempt ; Honorio was at her hand ;
the Prince-Uncle, if easier to satisfy, took it cheerfully, and would show
that he too had strength : the horses were to wait below among the trees ;
our climbers make for a certain point, where a huge projecting rock affords
standing-room, and a prospect, which indeed is already passing over into
the bird's-eye kind, yet folds itself together there picturesquely enough.
The sun, almost at its meridian, lent the clearest light; the Prince's
Castle, with its compartments, main buildings, wings, domes and towers,
lay clear and stately; the upper Town in its whole extent; into the lower
also you could conveniently look, nay by the telescope distinguish the
booths in the marketplace. So furthersome an instrument Honorio would
never leave behind : they looked at the River upwards and downwards ; on
this side, the mountainous, terrace-like, interrupted expanse, on ^ that the
upifwelling, fruitful land, alternating in level and low hill ; places innumer-
able ; for it was long customary to dispute how many of them were here
to be seen.
440 APPENDIX, No. 2.
Over the great expanse lay a cheerful stillness, as is common at noon ;
when, as the Ancients were wont to say, Pan is asleep, and all Nature
holds her breath not to awaken him.
"It is not the first time," said the Princess, " that I, on some such
high far-seeing spot, have reflected how Nature, all clear, looks so pure
and peaceful, and gives you the impression as if there were nothing con-
tradictory in the world ; and yet when you return back into the habitation
of ma% be it lofty or low, wide or narrow, there is ever somewhat to con-
tend with, to battle with, to smooth and put to rights."
Honorio, who meanwhile was looking through the glass at the Town,
exclaimed, " See ! see ! There is fire in the market !" They looked, and
could observe some smoke ; the flames were smothered in the daylight.
** The lire spreads !" cried he, still looking through the glass : the mischief
indeed now became noticeable to the good eyes of the Princess ; from time
to time you observed a red burst of flame, the smoke mounted aloft ; and
Prince-Uncle said : " Let us return ; that is not good ; I always feared
I should see that misery a second time." They descended, got back to
their horses. " Fade," said the Princess to the Uncle, " fast, but not with-
out a groom : leave me Honorio ; we will follow without delay." The
Uncle felt the reasonableness, nay necessity of this ; and started off down
the waste stony slope, at the quickest pace the ground allowed.
As the Princess mounted, Honorio said: "Please your Excellency to
ride slow ! In the Town as in the Castle, the fire-apparatus is in perfect
order; the people, in this unexpected accident, will not lose their presence
of mind. Here, moreover, we have bad ground, little stones and short
grass ; quick riding is unsafe ; in any case, before we arrive, the fire will
be got under." The Princess did not think so ; she observed the smoke
spreading, she fancied that she saw a flame flash up, that she heard an
explosion ; and now in her imagination all the terrific things awoke, which
the worthy Uncle's repeated narrative of his experiences in that market-
conflagration had too deeply implanted there.
Frightful doubtless had that business been ; alarming and impressive
enough to leave behind it, painfully through life long, a boding and image
of its recurrence, when in the night-season, on the great booth-covered
market-space, a sudden fire had seized booth after booth, before the sleepers
in these light huts could be shaken out of deep dreams : the Prince him-
self, as a wearied stranger arriving only for rest, started from his sleep,
sprang to the window, saw all fearfully illuminated; flame after flame,
from the right, from the left, darting through each other, rolls quivering
towards him. The houses of the marketplace, reddened in the shine,
seemed already glowing; threatened every moment to kindle, and burst
forth in fire. Below, the element raged without let ; planks cracked, laths
crackled ; the canvas flew abroad, and its dusky fire-peaked tatters whirled
themselves round and aloft, as if bad spirits, in their own element, with
perpetual change of shape, were in capricious dance, devouring one another,
and there and yonder, would dart-up out from their penal fire. And then.
NOVELLE. 441
with wild howls, each saved what was at hand : servants and masters
laboured to drag forth bales already seized by the fames; to snatch away
yet somewhat from the burning shelves, and pack it into the chests, which
too they must at last leave *a prey to the hastening flame. How many a
one could have prayed but for a moment's pause to the loud-advancing
fire ; as he looked round for the possibility of some device, and was with
all his possessions already seized ! On the one side, there burnt and
glowed already what, on the other, still stood in dark night. Obstinate
characters, will-strong men, grimly fronted the grim foe ; and saved much,
with loss of their eyebrows and hair. Alas, all this waste confusion now
arose anew before the fair spirit of the Princess ; the gay morning prospect
was all overclouded, and her eyes darkened ; wood and meadow had put
on a look of strangeness, of danger.
Entering the peaceful vale, heeding little its refreshing coolness, they
were but a few steps onwards from the copious fountain of the brook which
flowed by them, when the Princess descried, quite down, in the thickets,
something singular, which she soon recognised for the tiger : springing on,
as she a short while ago had seen him painted, he came towards her ; and
this image, added to the frightful ones she was already busy with, made
the strangest impression. " Fly, your Grace !" cried Honorio, " fly !" She
turned her horse towards the steep Mil they had just descended. The
young man, rushing on towards the monster, drew Ms pistol and fired when
he thought himself near enough ; but, alas, without effect ; the tiger sprang
to a side, the horse faltered, the provoked wild-beast followed his course,
upwards straight after the Princess. She galloped, what her horse could, up
the steep stony space ; scarcely apprehending that so delicate a creature,
unused to sucli exertion, could not hold out. It overdid itself, driven on
by the necessitated Princess ; it stumbled on the loose gravel of the steep,
and again stumbled ; and at last fell, after violent efforts, powerless to the
ground. The fair dame, resolute and dexterous, failed not instantly to get
upon her feet ; the horse too rose, but the tiger was approaching ; though
not with vehement speed ; the uneven ground, the sharp stones seemed to
damp his impetuosity; and only Honorio flying after him, riding with
checked speed along with him, appeared to stimulate and provoke Ms force
anew. Both runners, at the same instant, reached" the spot where the
Princess was standing by her horse : the Knight bent himself, fired, and
with this second pistol hit the monster through the head, so that it rushed
down; and now, stretched out in full length, first clearly disclosed the
might and terror whereof only the bodily hull was left lying. Honorio had
sprung from his horse ; was already kneeling on the beast, quenching its
last movements, and held Ms drawn hanger in Ms right hand. The youth
was beautiful ; he had come dashing on, as, in sports of the lance and the
ring, the Princess had often seen him do. Even so in the riding-course
would his bullet, as he darted by, hit the, Turk's-heacl on the pole, right
under the turban in the brow ; even so would he, lightly prancing up,
prick Ms naked sabre into the fallen mass, and lift it from the ground. In
442 APPENDIX, No. 2.
all such, arts lie was dexterous and felicitous ; "botli now stood Mm in good
stead.
" Give Mm the rest," said the Princess : " I fear he will hurt you with
Ms claws." " Pardon !" answered the youth : " he is already dead enough ;
and I would not hurt the skin, wMch next winter shall shine upon your
sledge." "Sport not," said the Princess: "whatsoever of pious feeling
dwells in the depth of the heart unfolds itself in such a moment." " 1
too," cried Honorio, " was never more pious than even now ; and therefore
do I tMnk of what is joyfulest : I look at the tiger's fell only as it can
attend you to do you pleasure." " It would forever remind me," said she,
" of this fearful moment." " Yet is it," replied the youth with glowing
cheeks, <{ a more harmless spoil than when the weapons of slain, enemies
are carried for show before the victor." ** I shall bethink me, at sight of
it, of your boldness and cleverness ; and need not add, that you may reckon
on my thanks and the Prince's favour for your life long. But rise ; the
beast is clean dead ; let us consider what is next : before all things rise 1"
" As I am once on my knees," replied the youth, " once in a posture which
in other circumstances would have been forbid, let me beg at this moment
to receive assurance of the favour, of the grace which you vouchsafe me.
I have already asked so often of your high Consort for leave and promo-
tion to go on my travels. He who has the happiness to sit at your table,
whom you honour with the privilege to entertain your company, should
have seen the world. Travellers stream-in on us from all parts ; and when
a town, an important spot in any quarter of the world comes in course, the
question is sure to be asked of us, "Were we ever there ? Nobody allows
one sense, till one has seen all that : it is as if you had to instruct yourself
only for the sake of others."
*' Rise !" repeated the Princess : " I were loath to wish or request aught
that went against the will of my Husband ; however, if I mistake not, the
cause why he has restrained you hitherto will soon be at an end. His
intention was to see you ripened into a complete self-guided nobleman, to
do yourself and him credit in foreign parts, as Mtherto at court; and I
should think this deed of yours was as good a recommendatory passport
as a young man could wish for, to take abroad with him."
That, instead of a youthful joy, a certain niournfulness came over Ms
face, the Princess had not time to observe, nor had he to indulge Ms emo-
tion ; for, in hot' haste, up the steep, came a woman, with a boy at her
hand, straight to the group so well known to us ; and scarcely had Honorio,
bethinking him, arisen, when they howling and shrieking cast themselves
on the carcass ; by which action, as well as by their cleanly, decent, yet
particoloured and unusual dress, might be gathered that it was the mistress
of this slain creature, and the black-eyed, black-locked boy, holding a flute
in Ms liand, her son; weeping like his mother, less violent, but deeply
moved, kneeling beside her.
Now came strong outbreaMngs of passion rom this woman ; interrupted
indeed, and pulse-wise ; a stream of words, leaping like a stream in gushes
ffOVELLE. 443
fiom rock to rock. A natural language, snort and discontinuous, made
Itself impressive and pathetic : in vain should we attempt translating it
into our dialects ; the approximate purport of it we must not omit. " They
have murdered thee, poor beast ! murdered without need ! Thou wert tame,
and \vouldst fain have lain down at rest and waited our coming ; for thy
foot-balls were sore, thy claws had no force left. The hot sun to ripen
them was wanting. Thou wert the beautifulest of thy kind : who ever
saw a kingly tiger so gloriously stretchecl-out in sleep, as tliou here liesfc,
dead, never to rise more ? When tliou awokest in the early dawn of morn-
ing, and openedst thy throat, stretching out thy red tongue, tliou wert as
if smiling on us ; and even when bellowing, thou tookest thy food from the
hands of a woman, from the fingers of a child. How long have we gone
with thee on thy journeys; how long has thy company been useful and
fruitful to us ! To us, to us of a very truth, meat came from the eater, and
sweetness out of the strong. So will it be no more. Woe ! woe !"
She had not done lamenting, when over the smoother part of the Castle
Mountain came riders rushing down; soon recognised as the Prince's
Hunting-train, himself the foremost. Following their sport, in the back-
ward hills, they had observed the fire-vapours ; and fast through dale and
ravine, as in fierce chase, taken the shortest path towards this mournful
sign. Galloping along the stony vacancy, they stopped and stared at sight
of the unexpected group, which in that empty expanse stood out so mark-
worthy. After the first recognition, there was silence ; some pause of
breathing -time, and then what the view itself did not impart, was with
brief words explained. So stood the Prince, contemplating the strange
" unheard-of incident ; a circle round him of riders, and followers that had
run on foot. What to do was still undetermined ; the Prince intent on
ordering, executing ; when a man pressed forward into the circle ; large of
stature, particoloured, wondrously apparelled, like wife and child. And now
the family, in union, testified their sorrow and astonishment. The man,
however, soon restrained himself; bowed in reverent distance before the
Prince, and said: "It is not the time for lamenting; alas, my lord and
mighty hunter, the Lion too is loose ; hither towards the mountains is he
gone: but spare him, have mercy, that he perish not like this good beast."
"The Lion!" said the Prince : "Hast tliou the trace of him?" "Yes,
Lord ! A peasant down there, who had heedlessly taken shelter on a tree,
directed me farther up tins way, to the left ; but I saw the crowd of men
and horses here ; anxious for tidings of assistance, I hastened hither."
" So then," commanded the Prince, " draw to the left, Huntsmen ; you
will load your pieces, go softly to work ; if you drive him into the deep
woods, it is no matter : but in the end, good man, we shall be obliged to
kill your animal : why were you improvident enough to let him loose ?"
" The fire broke out," replied he ; ** we kept quiet and attentive ; it spread
fast, but at a distance from us ; we had water enough for our defence ; but
a heap of powder blew up, and threw the brands on to us, and over our
heads ; we were too hasty, and are now ruined people."
444 APPENDIX, No. Sf.
The Prince was still busy directing ; but for a moment all seemed to
pause, as a man was observed hastily springing down from tlie heights of
the old Castle ; whom the troop soon recognised for the watchman that
had been stationed there to keep the Painter's apartment, while he lodged
there and took charge of the workmen. He came running, out of breath,
yet in few words soon made known, That the Lion had laid himself down,
within the high ring-wall, in the sunshine, at the foot of a large beech, and
was behaving quite quietly. With an air of vexation, however, the man
concluded ; " Why did I take my rifle to town yesternight, to have it
cleaned? he had never risen again, the skin had been mine, and I might
all my life have had the credit of the thing."
The Prince, whom his military experiences here also stood in stead, for
he had before now been in situations where from various sides inevitable
evil seemed to threaten, said hereupon : " What surety do you give me that
if we spare your Lion, he will not work destruction among us, among my
people ?"
" This woman and this child," answered the father hastily, " engage to
tame him, to keep Mm peaceable, till I bring up the cage, and then we can
carry him back unharmed and without harming any one."
The boy put his flute to his lips ; an instrument of the kind once named
soft, or sweet flutes ; short-beaked like pipes : he, who understood the art,
could bring out of it the gracefulest tones. Meanwhile the Prince had
inquired of the watchman how the lion came up. "By the hollow-way,"
answered he, " which is walled-in on both sides, and was formerly the only
entrance, and is to be the only one still : two footpaths, which led in else-
where, we have so blocked-up and destroyed that no human being, except
by that lirst narrow passage, can reach the Magic Castle which Prince
Friedrich's talent and taste is making of it."
After a little thought, during which the Prince looked round at the boy,
who still continued as if softly preluding, he turned to Honorio, and said :
" Thou, hast done much today, complete thy task. Secure that narrow
path ; keep your rifles in readiness, but do not shoot till the creature can
no otherwise be driven back : in any case, kindle a fire, which will frighten
Mm if he make downwards. The man and woman take charge of the rest."
Honorio rapidly bestirred himself to execute these orders.
The child continued his tune, which was no tune ; a series of notes
without law, and perhaps even on that account so heart-touching : the by-
standers seemed as if enchanted by the movement of a song-like melody,
when the father with dignified enthusiasm began to speak in this sort :
" God has given the Prince wisdom, and also knowledge to discern that
all God's works are wise, each after its kind. Behold the rock, how he
stands fast and stirs not, defies the weather and the sunshine ; primeval
trees adorn Ms head, and so crowned he looks abroad ; neither if a mass
rash away, will this continue what it was, but lalls broken into many pieces
and covers the side of the descent. But there too they will not tarry,
capriciously they leap far down, the brook receives them, to the river h@
NOVELLE. 445
bears them. Not resisting, not contradictory, angular; no, smooth and
rounded they travel now quicker on their way, arrive, from river to river,
finally at the ocean, whither march the giants in, hosts, and in the depths
whereof dwarfs are busy.
" But who shall exalt the glory of the Lord, whom the stars praise from
Eternity to Eternity! Why look ye far into the distance? Consider here
the bee : late at the end of harvest she still busily gathers ; builds her a
house, tight of corner, straight of wall, herself the architect and mason.
Behold the ant: she knows her way, and loses it not; she piles her a
dwelling of grass-halms, earth-crumbs, and needles of the fir ; she piles it
aloft and arches it in ; but she has laboured in vain, for the horse stamps,
and scrapes it all in pieces: lo ! he has trodden -down her beams, and
scattered her planks ; impatiently he snorts, and cannot rest ; for the Lord
has made the horse comrade of the wind and companion of the storm, to
carry man whither he wills, and woman whither she desires. But in the
Wood of Palms arose he, the Lion ; with earnest step traversed the wilder-
nesses ; there rules he over all creatures ; his might who shall withstand ?
Yet man can tame him ; and the fiercest of living things has reverence
for the image of God, in which too the angels are made, who serve the
Lord and his servants. For in the den of Lions Daniel was not afraid ;
he remained fast and faithful, and the wild bellowing interrupted not his
song of praise."
This speech, delivered with expression of a natural enthusiasm, the
child accompanied here and there with graceful tones ; but now, the father
having ended, he, with clear melodious voice and skilful passaging, struck-
up his warble ; whereupon the father took the flute, and gave note in uni-
son, while the child sang :
From the Dens, I, in a deeper,
Prophet's song of praise can hear ;
Angel-host he hath for keeper,
Needs the good man there to fear ?
Lion, Lioness, agazing,
Mildly pressing round him came ;
Yea, that humble, holy praising,
It hath made them tame.
The father continued, accompanying this strophe with his flute ; tlie mother
here and here touched-in as second voice.
Impressive, however, in a quite peculiar degree, it was, when the child
now began to shuffle the lines of the strophe into other arrangement ; and
thereby if not bring out a new sense, yet heighten the feeling by leading it
into self-excitement :
Angel-host around doth hover,
Us in heavenly tones to cheer ;
In the Dens our head doth cover,
Needs the poor child there to fear?
448 APPENDIX, No. 2.
For ttiat humble holy praising
Will permit no evil nigh :
Angels hover, watching, gazing ;
Who so safe as I?
Hereupon with, emphasis and elevation began all three :
For th' Eternal rules above us.
Lands and oceans rules his will ;
Lions even as lambs shall love us,
And the proudest; waves be still.
Whetted sword to scabbard cleaving,
Faith and Hope victorious see :
Strong, who, loving and believing,
Prays, O Lord, to thee.
All were silent, hearing, hearkening ; and only when the tones ceased
could you remark and distinguish, the impression they had made. All
was as if appeased ; each affected in Ms way. The Prince, as if he now
first saw the misery that a little ago had threatened him, looked down on
his spouse, who leaning on him forbore not to draw out the little em-
broidered handkerchief, and therewith covered her eyes. It was blessed-
ness for her to feel her young bosom, relieved from the pressure with which
the preceding minutes had loaded it. A perfect silence reigned over the
crowd ; they seemed to have forgotten the dangers : the conflagration
below ; and above, the rising-up of a dubiously-reposing Lion.
By a sign to bring the horses, the Prince first restored the group to
motion ; he turned to the woman, and said : " You think, then, that, once
find the Lion, you could, by your singing, by the singing of this child, with
help of these flute-tones, appease him, and carry Mm back to his prison,
unhurt and hurting no one ?" They answered Yes, assuring and afiirming ;
the castellan was given them as guide. And now the Prince started off in
all speed with a few ; the Princess followed slower, with the rest of the
train : mother and son, on their side, under conduct of the warder, who
had got himself a musket, mounted up the steeper part of the height.
Before the entrance of the hollow- way which opened their access to the
Castle, they found the hunters busy heaping-up dry brushwood, to have,
in any case, a large fire ready for kindling. " There is no need," said the
woman : "it will all go well and peaceably, without that."
Farther on, sitting on a wall, Ms double-barrel resting in his lap, Ho-
norio appeared ; at his post, as if ready for every occurrence. However, he
seemed hardly to notice our party; he sat as if sunk in deep thoughts, he
looked round like one whose mind was not there. The woman addressed
him with a prayer not to let the fire be lit ; he appeared not to heed her
words ; she spoke on with vivacity, and cried : " Handsome young man,
thou , hast killed my tiger, I do not curse thee ; spare my lion, good young
man, I will bless thee,"
JTOVELLE. 447
Honorio was looking straight out before Mia, to where the sun on his
course began to sink. " Thou lookest to the west," cried the woman ;
** thou dost well, there is much to do there ; hasten, delay not, thou wilt
conquer. But first conquer thyself." At this he appeared to give a smile ;
the woman stept on ; could not, however, but look back once more at him :
a ruddy sun was irradiating Ms face ; she thought she had never seen a
handsomer youth.
" If your child," said the warder now, " with his fluting and singing,
can, as you are persuaded, entice and pacify the Lion, we shall soon get
mastery of him after, for the creature has lain down quite close to the per-
forated vaults through which, as the main passage was blocked up with
ruins, we had to bore ourselves an entrance into the Castle-court. If the
child entice him into this latter, I can close the opening with little diffi-
culty ; then the boy, if he like, can glide out by one of the little spiral
stairs he will find in the corner. We must conceal ourselves ; but I shall
so take my place that a rifle-ball can, at any moment, help the poor child
in case of extremity."
" All these precautions are unnecessary ; God and skill, piety and a
blessing, must do the work" " May be," replied the warder; "however, I
know my duties. First. I must lead you, by a difficult path, to the top of
the wall, right opposite the vaults and opening I have mentioned : the child
may then go down, as into the arena of the show, and lead away the animal,
if it will follow Mm." TMs was done : warder and mother looked down in
conceahnent, as the cMld descending the screw-stairs, showed himself in
the open space of the Court, and disappeared opposite them in the gloomy
opening ; but forthwith gave Ms flute voice, wMch by and by grew weaker,
and at last sank dumb. The pause was bodeful enough ; the old hunter,
familiar with danger, felt heart-sick at the singular conjuncture ; the mother,
however, with cheerful face, bending over to listen, showed not the smallest
discomposure.
At last the flute was again heard ; the child stept forth from the cavern
with glittering satisfied eyes, the Lion after Mm, but slowly, and as it
seemed with difficulty. He showed here and there desire to lie down ; yet
the boy led him in a half-circle through the few disleaved many -tinted
trees, till at length, in the last rays of the sun, wMch poured-in through
a hole in the ruins, he set him down, as if transfigured in the bright red
light ; and again commenced Ms pacifying song, lie repetition of wMch
v\ e also cannot forbear :
From, the Bens, I, in a deeper,
Prophet's song of praise can hear ;
Angel-host ae hath for keeper,
Needs the good man there to fear?
Lion, Lioness, agazing,
Mildly pressing round him came ;
Yea, that humble, holy praising,
It hath made them tame.
448 APPENDIX, No. 2.
Meanwhile the Lion had laid itself down quite close to the child, and
lifted its heavy right fore-paw into his bosom ; the "boy as he sung grace-
fully stroked it; but was not long in observing that a sharp thorn had
stuck itself between the balls. He carefully pulled it out; with a smile,
took the particoloured silk-handkerchief from his neck, and bound up the
frightful paw of the monster ; so that Ms mother for joy bent herself back
with outstretched arms ; and perhaps, according to custom, would have
shouted and clapped applause, had not a hard hand -grip of the warder
reminded her that the danger was not yet over.
Triumphantly the child sang on, having with a few tones preluded :
For tb.* Eternal rules above us,
Lands and oceans rules his will ;
Lions even as lambs shall love us s
And the proudest waves be still.
"Whetted sword to scabbard cleaving,
Faith and Hope victorious see :
Strong, who, loving and believing,
Prays, O Lord, to thee.
Were it possible to fancy that in the countenance of so grim a creature,
the tyrant of the woods, the despot of the animal kingdom, an expression
of friendliness, of thankful contentment could be traced, then here was
such traceable; and truly the child, in Ms illuminated look, had the air as
of a mighty triumphant victor ; the other figure, indeed, not that of one
vanquished, for Ms strength lay concealed in him ; but yet of one tamed,
of one given up to his own peaceful will. The* child fluted and sang on,
changing the lines according to Ms way, and adding new :
And so to good children bringeth
Blessed Angel help in need ;
Fetters o'er the cruel flingeth,
Worthy act with wings doth speed.
So have tamed, and firmly iron'd
To a poor child's feeble knee,
Him the forest's lordly tyrant,
Pious Thought and Melody.
SUMMARY OF VOL. IV.
VOL, IX. (Mfeo, vol. 4.)
SUMMARY.
BIOGRAPHY.
B[OGBAPHY, or human insight into human personality, the "basis of all
that can interest a human creature, (p. 3.) Conversation, almost wholly
biographic and autobiographic. Even in Art and highest Art, we can no-
wise forget the Artist; the biographic interest inevitably comprising its
deepest and noblest meaning. History, in its best and truest form, the
essence of innumerable Biographies. Modern ' Histories* of the Philoso-
phic kind ; and their dreary interminable vacuity. Fictitious Narratives,
or mimic Biographies : The inspired Speaker, and the uninspired Babbler.
The Foolishest of existing mortals. (4 ) Sauerteig on the indispensability
and significance nf Reality. The old Mythologies were once Philosophies,
and the old Epics believed Histories. Imagination but a poor affair when
it has to part company with Understanding. Belief, the first condition of
all spiritual Force whatsoever. Dreary modern Epics ; and their uncre-
dited, incredible Supernatural 4 Machinery/ Even the probable, however
skilfully wrought, is but the Shadow of some half-seen Reality. A whole
epitome of the Infinite lies enfolded in the Life of every Man. Not the
material, only the Seer and Poet wanting. Great is Invention, but that is
but a poor sort with which Belief is not concerned : Its highest exercise,
not to invent Fiction ; but to invent or bring forth new Truth. Interest of
the smallest historical fact, as contrasted with the grandest fictitious event:
Momentary glimpse of an actual, living Peasant of the year 1651 : The
Past all holy to us : The poorest adventure of some poorest Outcast, after
seventy years are come and gone, has meaning and unfathomable instruc-
tion for us. (9.) Secret for being graphic : An open loving Heart the
beginning of all knowledge. Literary froth, and literary substance : The
multitudinous men, women and children, that make up the Army of British
Authors. James BosweU: White of Selborne. One good Biography in
England, BoswelVs Johnson. (17.)
BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON.
Mr. Croker's editorial peculiarities and deficiencies, (p. 25.) Boswell,
a man whose bad qualities lay open to the general eye : What great and
genuine good was in him, nowise so self-evident. His true Hero-worship
for poor rusty-coated, rough old Samuel Johnson. His uncouth symbolic
452 SUMMARY.
relation to his decrepit, cleath-sick Era. That loose-flowing, careless-look-
ing Work of Ids, a picture "by one of Nature's own Artists. His grand intel-
lectual talent an unconscious one, of far higher reach and significance than
Logic. Poor Bozzy an ill-assorted, glaring mixture of the highest and the
lowest. Johnson's own Writings stand on a quite inferior level to this
Johnsoniad of Boswell : It shows us objects that in very deed existed ; it is
all true. (32.) What a pathetic, sacred, in every sense poetic meaning is
implied in that one word, Past ! This Book of Boswell's will give us more
real insight into the History of England during those days, than any book
taking upon itself that special aim. Robertson's 'History of Scotland.'
How ' Histories' are written. Bo swell's conversational jottings, no in-
fringement of social privacy. Man properly an incarnated Word: Out of
Silence comes strength. Thinke^t tliou that because no Boswell is there
to note thy jargon, it therefore dies and is harmless 9 (43 ) Our interest
in Biography considerably modified by the dull servile imitancy of man-
kind. Significant resemblances of Men and Sheep. Mystic power of Inii-
tsuicy and Association. Amid the dull millions are scattered here and
there leading, original natures ; with eye to see, and will to do. Such Men
properly the synopsis and epitome of the age in which they live; whose
Biographies are a hove all things worth having. Of such chosen men, al-
tluni^li of tluiir humbler ranks, was Samuel Johnson; Ms existence no
idlo Dream, but a Reality wliich lie transacted awake. As the highest
Gospel w<is a Biography, so is the Life of every good man still an indu-
bitable Gospel. (32 ) The Contradiction of Inward and Outward, which
yavuis wide enough in every Life, in Johnson's wider than in most. His
calling by nature, rather towards Active than Speculative life; as a Doer of
Work, he had shone oven more than as Speaker of the Word. His disposi-
tion for royalty in his early boyhood. College life ; proud as the proudest,
poor as the poorest: ' Mistaken' estimate of Christian Scholarship. Usher-
ship at Market Bosworth : Bread and water of affliction, so bitter that he
could not swallow them. Tries Literature. His kind, true, brave-hearted
Wife. Young gentlemen boarded, and taught. Privations and trials of
Authorship : Its transition period, from the protection of Patrons to that
of the Public. Johnson the first Author of any significance, who faithfully
li\ od by the day's work of his craft : His sturdy rebellion against the Ches-
terfield ' encumbrances.' (57.) Johnson's Era wholly divided against itself.
How was a noble man, resolute for the Truth, to act in it ? Glory to our
brave Samuel, who once more gave the world assurance of a Man ! Wrong,
not only different from Eight, but infinitely different : Johnson's Religion
n.s the light of life to liiin. His rugged literary labours : His insignificant-
looking * Parliamentary Debates,* the origin of our stupendous Fourth
Instate. So poor is ho, his Wife must leave him, and seek shelter among
other relations : Could not remember the day he had passed free from
pain : Manfully makes the best of Ms hard lot. The fantastic article called
' Fame,' of little other than a poor market value, Thy Fame ! Unhappy
mortal, where will it and thou be in some fifty years? (71.) Gradually a
SUMMARY. 453
little circle gathers round the "Wise man. In his fifty-third year, lie is "be-
neficcd by royal bounty. Real Primate of all England. The last of many
things, Johnson was the last genuine English Tory. The highest Courage
not the Courage to die decently, but to live manfully. Johnson's talent of
silence : Where there is nothing farther to be done, there shall nothing
more be said. His thorough Truthfulness, and clear hatred of every form
of Cant Few men have had a more merciful, tenderly affectionate nature
than rough old Samuel. Catherine Chambors's death-bed: The market-
place at Uttoxeter. Johnson's Politeness: His Prejudices: His culture
and sympathies wholly English. Samuel Johnson and David Hume, em-
bodiments of the two grand spiritual Antagonisms of their time : Whoso
should combine the intrepid Candour, and decisive scientific Clearness of
the one, with the Reverence, Love and devout Humility of the other, were
the whole man of a new time (80.)
GOETHE'S WORKS.
The greatest epoch in a man's life, not always his death ; yet it is
always the most noticeable. A transition, out of visible Time into invisi-
ble Eternity, (p. 109 ) The Greatness of Great Men. Hero-Worship, the
only creed which can never grow obsolete. Man never altogether a clothes-
horse ; under the clothes is always a body and a soul. Difference between
God-creation and Tailor- creation. The Great Man of an age, the most
important phenomenon therein. Women, born worshippers of Greatness,
either real or hypothetical. Of all rituals, that of Self-worship the most
faithfully observed. (112.) Greatness of Bonaparte and of Goethe con-
trasted. Parliamentary woolgathering: The great desideratum, to pro-
duce a few members worth electing. Modern funeral celebrations, little
better than solemn parodies. (123.) The summary of each man's works,
the Life he led. Goethe's Wahrheit und Diuhtuny. At no period of the
World's History can a gifted man be born when he will not find enough to
do : Goethe's peculiar perplexities and victories. His riant, joyful child-
hood ; kind plenty in every sense encircling him : A beautiful Boy ; the
picture of his early years among our most genuine poetic Idyls. His
parents. The Victory at Bergen : His Father's grim defiance and hatred
of the French. His Father, with occasional subsidiary tutors, his school-
master. Old Frankfort notabilities : The Judengasse : Von Reineck :
Hofrath Huisgen: Workmen and workshops. Beautiful Gretchen, and
Goethe's first experience of natural magic. (128.) At Leipzig University :
Interview with Goltsched: Religious perplexities ; sickness ; returns home.
The World-Poet, destined by paternal judgment for a Lawyer. To Stras-
burg. The good Frederike : Is Goethe a bad man, or not a bad man ?
Jung Stirling's testimony. His * goodness' and * badness' not quite easily
taken stock of. Intercourse with Herder. The German intellectual Chaos :
Goethe's allotted task therein. His first literary productions. Established
at "Weimar. (144.) The inward life of Goethe nobly recorded in the long
454 SUMMARY.
series of Ms Writings. Faust, the passionate cry of the world's despair,
proclaiming, as amid the wreck of Time, It is ended ! Willielm Meister,
an. emblem of warm, hearty, sunny human Endeavour ; with as yet no
recognition of Divinity: In the Wftnderjahre, melodious Reverence be-
comes once more triumphant ; and deep all-pervading Faith both speaks
and sings. A tribute of gratitude from ' Fifteen Englishmen.' Goethe the
Uniter and victorious Reconciler of the most distracted age since the In-
troduction of Christianity. What Strength actually is, and how to try
for it. Goethe's noble power of insight : For him, as for Shakspearc, the
world lies all translucent, encircled with Wonder : His figurativeness lies
in the very centre of his being : The majestic Calmness of both ; perfect
tolerance for all men and things. Excellencies of Goethe's style. If
Shakspeare were the greater nature, he was also less cultivated, and more
careless. Goethe's Spiritual History, the ideal emblem of all true men's
in these days : Lot us mark well the road he fashioned for himself, and in
the dim. weltering Chaos rejoice to find a paved way. Goethe's Political
abstinence. His Life and his Writings a possession to the world forever.
(150.)
CORN-LAW RHYMES.
Smelfungus's despair at the present condition of Poetry: The end
having come, it is fit that we end. (p 177.) And yet, if the whole welkin
hang overcast in drizzly dinginess, the feeblest speck of blue will not be
unwelcome. The Corn-Law Rhymer, one of that singular class who really
have something to say; he has believed, and therefore is again believable.
A Sheffield Worker in brass and iron ; but no ' Uneducated Poet,' such as
dilettante patronage delights to foster. A less misfortune, in these strange
clays, to be trained among the Uneducated classes, than among the Edu-
cated : Few Great Men ever nursed with any conscious eye to their voca-
tion. In the poorest cottage are Books, is One Book, with an interpreting
response to whatever is Deepest in man. Shakspeare's Learning: The
grand schoolmaster is Practice, "Work. Unspeakable advantages of un-
educated "Working classes, over educated Unworking. (178.) The Corn-
Law Rhymer's sturdy, defiant attitude : An earnest, truth-speaking, genuine
man. Strong and beautiful thoughts not wanting in him. A life of pain-
fulness, toil, insecurity, scarcity; yet he fronts it like a man: Affection
dwells with Danger, all the holier for the stern environment Not as a
rebel does he stand ; yet as a free man, spokesman of free men, not far
from rebelling against much. He feels deeply the frightful condition of
our entire Social Attains ; and sees in Bread-tax the summary of all our
evils. The black colours of his Life do not hide from him that God's
world, if made into a House of Imprisonment, can also be a House of
Prayer. The primary idea 01 all Poetry, Time resting on Eternity. Errors
and shortcomings. He has looked, unblintled, into the prophetic Book of
Existence, and read many little passages there ; The Poor Grinder ; the
SUMMARY. 455
Poacher; the Workman's SaLbath. (186.) The Workhouse, the bourne
whither all these actors and Workers are tragically bound : Must it, then,
grow worse and worse, till the last brave heart is broken in England ? All
Reform except a moral one unavailing. The Rhapsody of * Enoch Wray,'
an inarticulate, half-audible Epic ; a blind aged man, himself a ruin, en-
circled with the ruin of a whole Era. To the Working portion of the
Aristocracy, such a Yoice from their humble working Brother will be both
welcome and instructive: To the Idle portion it maybe unwelcome enough.
The case of Balaam the son of Beor : Balaam's occupation gone. A part-
ing word of admonition: Poetry, or Prose? The Socrates'-Demon, such
as dwells in every mortal. The Corn-Law Rhymer already a king, even
more than many now crowned as such. (201.)
ON HISTORY AGAIN.
Fragment of an Inaugural Discourse delivered before the * Society for
the Diffusion of Common Honesty.' (p. 215.) History the most profitable
of all studies : The Message, or Letter of Instructions, which all Mankind
delivers to each man. Immeasurable imperfection of our highest Histo-
rians : Of the thing now gone silent, called Past, how much do we know ?
Nature, however, not blamable : Man's plentiful equipment for publishing
himself, by Tongue, Pen and Printing -Press. His chief wants, want of
Honesty and of Understanding : The event worthiest to be known, like-
liest of all to be least spoken of. (215.) Threatenings of an Historic
Deluge. History, before it can become Universal History, needs of all
tilings to be compressed. Wise Memory and wise Oblivion : Oblivion the
dark page, whereon Memory writes in characters of Light. Imperfections
enough in practice : And yet only what bears fruit is at last rememberable.
Historical perspective. History the true Epic Poem, and universal Divine
Scripture. (220.)
DIDEROT.
The Acts of the Christian Apostles, and the Acts of the French Philo-
sophes : Difference in quality and in copiousness, (p. 229.) Even stupid
Memoirs better than mere Novels. The History of the Eighteenth Cen-
tury of Paris, not yet condensed into intelligibility. Whether sent of God
or of the Devil, it is on ground of their tillage that we now have to plough
and sow. (231.) End of a Social System: No one can see such results of
his labour as the Destroyer : The Slede de Louis Quinze. Denis Diderot
and his life, the significant epitome of all this. Every man contains in
himself a whole Spirit-Kingdom, and Reflex of the All; which only He
that created can rightly understand. Diderot's hasty reckless manner of
living and writing. Naigeon's Life of Diderot a foolish failure. The zeal
of the Devil's house had eaten him up. Imperfect materials for any right
biography of the Man. (232.) Diderot's birth, parentage and schooling.
456 SUMMARY.
Tlie Jesuits recognise the boy's capabilities, and entice him to join them :
Their Devil-serving sMU and zeal a melancholy admonition to better men.
The Diderot family. Young Denis's decided disinclination for any re-
cognised profession. His dashing, volatile, precarious manner of life :
Gives lessons in Mathematics; makes Sermons to order; but will settle
to nothing Walks chiefly in the subterranean shades of Rascaldom. A
French poor-devil of a writer. Denis in love : Marriage : His excellent
wife; and his scoundrel treatment of her. Translations of English:
Shaftesbuiy's Characteristics: Original authorship. The History of Lite-
rature, especially for the last two centuries, our proper Church History
In Diderot's time, the Bookselling interest not yet drowned in the putrid
leluge of Puffery. French Philosophism and French Revolution. Glimpses
of Parisian Life, as shown in Diderot's Letters : Voltaire ; D'Alembert ;
Rousseau; Grimm; Helvetius's Game-Preserves ; Philosophes and Philo-
sophesses. (288.) Struggles, warfares and persecutions of Divine Philo-
sophy : Its anomalous relations to Foreign Crowned Heads : Imbecile
meddling of Louis and Ms Government. Diderot's incredible activity,
and shrill-voiced energy. How Lebreton nefariously garbled his proof-
sheets. The Baron d'Holbach's philosophical orgies : Heyday of Unbelief,
Blasphemy and Obscenity. Diderot's free, open-handed life in Paris : His
spiteful gossiping women friends, and famishing scoundrels. "What little
service renown can do him, he now enjoys. Of all literary men Diderot
the least of a self-listener. Generous help of the Northern Cleopatra.
Visits Petersburg. Old age drawing on. His Vie de Seneque: Seneca,
our mealiest-proportioned Half-and-half; 'the father of all such as wear
shovel -hats.' Diderot's death. (268.) Diderot's mind of extraordinary
openness and versatility : a first-class literary hodman. Influence of Cir-
cumstances on character : Diderot's Polemical Philosophism and Atheism,
the fruit of the age he lived in. Inevitable Atheism of mere metaphysical
Logic-chopping. A probable God I The Universe not 'a Machine;' nor
God a mere 'Architect/ who having made it once, now sits apart and sees
it go. The Atheist false ; but not so cowardly a lie as the clamourer for
a theoretical God, whose life bears no witness to Ms Presence. The Me-
chanical System of Thought, in its essence, Atheistic. $84.) That * the
Highest cannot be spoken of in words,' a truth Diderot had not dreamt of:
To him the Sanctuary of Man's Soul stood perennially shut ; where his
hand ceased to grope, the World ended. The notable extreme of a man
guiding "himself with the least spiritual Belief thinking man perhaps ever
had. All possible spiritual perversions included under that grossest one
of * proselyting Atheism.* The Marriage Covenant, a mere self-destructive
solecism : The only ' eternal constancy,' constant change : Practical con-
sequences of such doctrine. What a feeling, in the ancient devout deep soul,
wMch, of Marriage made a Sacrament I Diderot's uncleanness and utter
shamelessness : How shall he for whom nothing, that cannot be jargoned
of in debating-clubs, exists, have any faintest forecast of the depth and
significance of SILENCE; of the sacredness of* Secrets known to all'?
SUMMARY. 457
---Diderot's tlieory of 'Virtue synonymous with Pleasure,' contradicted
by the stern experience of all men. Self-denial the beginning, if not the
end, of all moral action. Diderot's fluent and brilliant Talk : As a Writer,
hasty, flimsy, polemic; with gleams of a deeper vision peering through.
Excellence of his Pictorial Criticisms : Goethe's translation of his Essay
on Painting. The realms of Art not wholly unvisited by him : Jacques le
jfataliste : Neveu de Rameau. Diderot not a coward ; nor yet in any sense
a brave man : "What duties were easy for him, he did ; and happily Nature
had rendered several easy. French Philosophism, in the light of Universal
History ; compared with the rude Thoughts and Doings of those * Juifs
miserables ;' Omnipotence and fniitfulness of BELIEF. (297.)
COUNT CAGLIOSTRO.
FLIGHT FIBST.
The life of every man a most indubitable Poem, and Revelation of In-
finity : All named and unnamable sorts, from the highest heroic Strophe
to the lowest ribald Pasquil and libel on Humanity, (p. 311.) The grand
sacred Epos, or Bible of World-History: All working and knowing, a faint
interpreting and showing-forth of the infinite Mystery of Life. Different
manner of reading and uttering: The earnest Hebrew Readers; whose
reading is still sacred, still true : Gorgeous semi-sensual Grandeurs and
Splendours of the early Oriental Magi : Greek Consecration of the Flesh,
and revelation of the Infinite. Wearisome iteration and reiteration, grown
obsolete, of our modern readings. (313.) Even the biography of an utter
Scoundrel at times worth reading : The only thing at once wholly despic-
able and forgettable, your half -knave, he who is neither true nor false. If
we cannot have a Speaker and Doer of Truth, let us have the melancholy
pleasure of beholding a decided Liar. Cagliostro, really a Liar of the
first magnitude; thoroughpaced in all provinces, heights and depths of
lying. Scientific interest in his manner of life, and singularly prosperous
career. Inaccessibility of much accurate knowledge : As in Me, so now
in History, astonishment, mystification and uncertainty still encircle the
Quack of Quacks. (315.) Birth and Boyhood of the future Prince of
Scoundrels : Poverty, idleness and hopeful impudence of young Beppo.
Not seeing Ms way to be * a gentleman,' he decides to be * an ecclesiastic.'
Intrusted to the keeping of a Convent- Apothecary : First elements of me-
dico-chemical conjurorship. Short roads to Enjoyment, and consequent
afflictions and sore contradictions. A touch of grim Humour unfolds itself
in the youth : He had now outgrown their monk-discipline, and quits it
forever. (323.) Retains home to Palermo, and tries Painting and general
Scoundrelism. Wheresoever a stroke of mischief is to be done, a slush of
enjoyment to be swallowed, there is he with all ebullient impulses ready.
Finds a profitable and lasting resource in Forgery. Of a brawling, cho-
leric temper: Visibly rising to a perfected Professor of Swindlery. A
Treasure-digging dodge, and its catastrophe. The young Raven is now
TOL. IX. (Miac. vol. 4.) H H
458 SUMMARY,
fledged for flying, and soars off. Quits Palermo, and seeks Ms fortune in
the wide World. (329.)
FLIGHT LIST.
Old Feudal Europe fallen a-dozing to die. Her next awakening, tlie
stern Avatar of Democracy, and new-birth into a new Industrial Age.
(p. 335.) Portentous extent and variety of Quackery and Quacks in that
stertorous fever-sleep of our European world. Putrescence not more the
scene of unclean creatures in the world plrysical, than Social Decay is of
quacks in the world moral. National suffering ever preceded "by national
Crime. Dishonesty the raw material not of Quacks only, "but also of
Dupes. Irreversible death-doom. (336.) Beppo's adventurous haps and
mishaps in that wide -weltering life - in - death. Gift of Fore - knowledge
wisely denied. Small beginnings; Forges pen-drawings out of Engrav-
ings. Marries, in a country too prone to celibacy, the beautiful Lorenza
Feliciani : Domestic privations. In the charms of Ms Lorenza, * a Future
confused and immense:' They traffic accordingly, with much dexterity.
The Count, as he now styles himself, on his own side not idle. Faded
gentlemen of quality, and faded dames of ditto. Potions, washes, charms
and love-philtres: The Greatest Happiness of the greatest number. (341.)
As one luxuriant branch of industry withers and drops off, others must
be pushed into budding. Cagliostro in England : Successes and tribula-
tions. Freemasonry ; Grand - Cophtaship ; Renovator of the Universe ;
Spirit - Mediums, and Phosphoric Manifestations unutterable The dog
pockets money enough, and can seem to despise money Cagliostro's Gift
of Tongue. Generic difference between speaking and public-speaking :
How to acquire the miraculous gift of long-eared eloquence. Power of
Belief however infinitesimal. The Cagliostric nimbus of Enchantment :
Even the good Lavater could not quite see through him. (349.) Successes
and reverses : Visits Petersburg, but quickly decamps. Mephistopheles's
mortifying experience with Margaret renewed for Cagliostro : * Count M. 1
and Ms Cagliostro Unmasked: Such reverses but specks in the blaze of
the meridian Sun What the brilliant-looking Count and Countess were
to themselves, and to each other: Cagliostro's Portrait: His probable
Soliloquy, and spiritual salve for his own sores. At Strasburg, in fullest
blossom and proudest radiance : The Prince Cardinal de Rohan, the in-
flammablest, most open-handed Dupe he ever snared. Tragedy of the
Diamond NeoHace suddenly intervenes, and Dupe and Duper are flung to
the dogs. (366.) Gagliostro again in England, living as he can : A touch
of Ms old mocking Humour. Goethe's visit to his Family at Palermo.
Count Cagliostro now rapidly proceeds with his Fifth Act : Destiny has
her nets around him; they are straitening, straitening : He is ginned. Cagli-
ostro^ Workday ended ; only Ms account remains to be settled. To me
also a Capability has been intrusted ; shall I work it out, manlike, into
Faithfulness, and Doing ; or, quacklike, into Eatableneas, and Similitude
of Doing? (378.)
SUMMARY. 459
DEATH OF EDWAKD IRVlNGk
Edward living's warfare closed, if not in victory, yet in invincibility :
a man of antique lieroic nature, in questionable modern garniture, which
he could not wear. (p. 393.) "What the Scottish uncelebrated Irving was,
they that have only seen the London celebrated and distorted one can
never know : foulest Circean draught, poison of Popular Applause I
"Wasted and worn to death amid the fierce confusion : The freest, brother*
liest, bravest human soul.
APPENDIX,
No. l.
THE TALE.
Humours and mis-rumours concerning Goethe's Tale of Tales : A gen-
uine English Translation now handed-in for judgment, (p. 401.) Phan-
tasmagory not Allegory. A wonderful Emblem of our wonderful and woful
Transition Age. Clue to the significance of the several Figures in the
Poem. Imagination, in her Works of Art, should play like a sort of music
upon us : She herself cannot condition and bargain ; she must wait what
shall be given her. (403.) Metaphysical Subtilty and Audacity, the fhvt
flickerings, and audible announcement, of the New Age waiting to be born.
How they press poor old Spiritual Tradition into their service ; and the
havoc they make with him : They give him "Wisdom, which he cannot
use; but have no power to contribute the least to his wonted Nourish-
ment. (410.) The Wisdom, which toil-worn Tradition could not and
dared not appropriate, is eagerly devoured by newly-awakened Specula-
tive Thought : Glory of comprehending, and of sympathy with Nature.
How Logical Acuteness is apt to despise Experimental Philosophy ; and
how Philosophy gets the best of the bargain. How can poor Sceptical
Dexterity ever find the way, across the Time-River of stormy Human
Effort, to the unutterable repose and blessedness of Spiritual Affection ?
The proffered Shadow of Superstition: Noontide Bridge of Speculative
Science. (411.) Experimental Thought would fain decipher the forms and
intimations of the impending Future : Advent and cooperation of Poetie
Insight. The * open secret' of the Corning Change. (413.) Poetic Insight
or Intuitive Perception, wedded to Practical Endeavour now grown de-
crepit and garrulous. In the absence of Insight, poor old Practicality is
surprised and disconcerted by a visitation of Logic : Death of their foolish
little household Pet; which can now only become ' a true companion/ by
* the touch' of Spiritual Affection. (414.) Practical Endeavour, trudging
on, sullen and forlorn, is cunningly robbed by the Shadow of newly-revived
Superstition. Old Tradition doggedly insists on Ms dues ; but is not un-
460 SUMMARY.
willing the Time-Hiver should hear the loss. The individual * hand' he-
comes ' invisible,' when pledged in the World- Stream of mingled Human
Effort. (416.) The new Kingly Intellect of the new unborn Time, pain-
fully yearning for a purity and Singleness of Love, which, till it learn the
* fourth 1 and deepest ' secret,' can never belong to it. Invisible superfluity
of Logic, in the Light of noonday intelligence. Pure Spiritual Affection,
the New Love which must inspire and sanctify the New Age, as yet
only powerful to produce wretchedness and death: At such Biith-time of
the World, the greatest misery is the greatest blessing. (418.) Strange,
gathering omens: Speculative Intelligence, however brilliant and clear-
seeing, not the fulfilment of the Blessed Promise. The richest Kingly
Intellect sees itself farther from the spirit of Holiness than the lowest,
poorest, faithful affection. Voluntary self-sacrifice begins : Blessed death,
better than an outcast life. (421.) All good influences combine to succour
and sustain the One, who by Courage wins the secret of the Age. Spiritual
Contagion: Heroic Self-sacrifice the order of the Bay. (423.) Death, but
a passing from Life to Life. The Temple of the Future, and the Old-
New Altar within the Temple. Our foolish Age of Transition passes
utterly away ; and a New Universal Kingdom, of Wisdom, Majesty and
Heroic Strength, inspired by the still omnipotence of Holy Love, is ushered
into Life. AJO. individual suffices not, but He who combines with many at
the proper Hour. (426.)
No. 2.
NOYELLE.
Parable of the bright Morningtide of Life : Its joyful duties, and hope-
ful sorrows. Openness to all true influences of Nature and Art : Muta-
bility and its lessons, (p. 434.^ Manifold relationship and significance of
human Industry and Enterprise. How man delights to excite himself by
hypothetical Terror. Sunshine and aspiring effort : Noontide peace, and
fulness of content. (436.) Hypothetical Terror becomes actual Danger.
Presence of mind, readiness, personal courage : Danger averted by the
destruction of what is dangerous. Mystic intimations of deeper, wider in-
stincts. (440.) How the Dangerous may be tamed into order, and thus
into a higher than personal Security. All things obedient to the Highest
"Wisdom. The truest Courage, chijiffi^e Trust, in God: The only final
Safety, to be in the Divine Harmony <pf his omnipotent Love, (442.)
ttay <fe Sons,
