THE WORKS AND LIFE OF
WALTER B AGE HOT
VOL. III.
THE WORKS AND LIFE
OF
WALTER BAGEHOT
EDITED BY
MRS. RUSSELL HARRINGTON
THE WORKS IN NINE VOLUMES
THE LIFE IN ONE VOLUME
VOL. III. OF THE WORKS
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
FOURTH AVENUE & 30TH STREET, NEW YORK
BOMBAY, CALCUTTA, AND MADRAS
1915
103
CONTENTS OF VOLUME III.
PAGE
BERANGER (1857) i
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS (1858) 37
CHARLES DICKENS (1858) 73
PARLIAMENTARY REFORM (1859) 108
JOHN MILTON (1859) 177
THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS
(1860) 222
MR. GLADSTONE (1860) 272
MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JAMES WILSON (1860) . . . 302
THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT THE PRESENT CRISIS. Causes of the
Civil War in America. By J. Lothrop Motley Manwaring (from Na-
tional Review, October, 1861) 349
ERRATA.
Page 378, line 14, for eight read eighth
» 379> »» 7t » member read minister
BERANGER.1
(1857.)
THE invention of books has at least one great advantage. It
has half-abolished one of the worst consequences of the diver-
sity of languages. Literature enables nations to understand
one another. Oral intercourse hardly does this. In English,
a distinguished foreigner says not what he thinks, but what
he can. There is a certain intimate essence of national mean-
ing which is as untranslatable as good poetry. Dry thoughts
are cosmopolitan ; but the delicate associations of language
which express character, the traits of speech which mark the
man, differ in every tongue, so that there are not even cum-
brous circumlocutions that are equivalent in another. National
character is a deep thing — a shy thing ; you cannot exhibit
much of it to people who have a difficulty in understanding your
language ; you are in strange society, and you feel you will
not be understood. " Let an English gentleman," writes Mr.
Thackeray, " who has dwelt two, four, or ten years in Paris,
say at the end of any given period how much he knows of
French society, how many French houses he has entered, and
how many French friends he has made. Intimacy there is
none ; we see but the outsides of the people. Year by year
we live in France, and grow grey and see no more. We play
tcartf with Monsieur de Trefle every night ; but what do we
know of the heart of the man — of the inward ways, thoughts,
1 CEuvres completes de C.-J. de Beranger. Nouvelle edition, revue
par VAuteur, contenant les Dix Chansons nou-velles, le facsimile d'une
Lettre de Beranger ; illustree de cinquante-deux gravures sur acier,
tfaprls Charlet, D'Aubigny, Johannot Grenier, De Lemud, Pauquet, Pen-
guilly, Raffet, Sandoz, executees par les artistes les plus distingues, et
dun beau portrait tfapres nature par Sandoz, 3 vols., 8vo, 1855.
VOL. III. I
2 BERANGER
and customs of Trefle ? We have danced with Countess Flic-
Sac, Tuesdays and Thursdays, ever since the peace ; and how
far are we advanced in her acquaintance since we first twirled
her round a room ? We know her velvet gown and her dia-
monds ; we know her smiles and her simpers and her rouge ;
but the real, rougeless, intime Flicflac we know not." 1 Even
if our words did not stutter, as they do stutter on our tongue,
she would not tell us what she is. Literature has half mended
this. Books are exportable ; the essence of national character
lies flat on a printed page. Men of genius, with the impulses
of solitude, produce works of art, whose words can be read and
re-read and partially taken in by foreigners to whom they could
never be uttered, the very thought of whose unsympathising
faces would freeze them on the surface of the mind. Alexander
Smith has accused poetical reviewers of beginning as far as
possible from their subject. It may seem to some, though it
is not so really, that we are exemplifying this saying in com-
mencing as we have commenced an article on Beranger.
There are two kinds of poetry — which one may call poems
of this world, and poems not of this world. We see a certain
society on the earth held together by certain relations, per-
forming certain acts, exhibiting certain phenomena, calling
forth certain emotions. The millions of human beings who
compose it have their various thoughts, feelings, and desires.
They hate, act, and live. The social bond presses them
closely together; and from their proximity new sentiments
arise which are half superficial and do not touch the inmost
soul, but which nevertheless are unspeakably important in
the actual constitution of human nature, and work out their
effects for good and for evil on the characters of those who
are subjected to their influence. These sentiments of the
world, as one may speak, differ from the more primitive
impulses and emotions of our inner nature as the superficial
phenomena of the material universe from what we fancy is
its real essence. Passing hues, transient changes have their
1 We have been obliged to abridge the above extract, and in so doing
have left out the humour of it. (W. Bagehot.) [From the Part's Sketch
Book ; condensed from the section on some French fashionable novels.]
(Forrest Morgan.)
BER ANGER 3
course before our eyes ; a multiplex diorama is for ever dis-
played ; underneath it all we fancy — such is the inevitable
constitution of our thinking faculty — a primitive, immovable
essence, which is modified into all the ever-changing pheno-
mena we see, which is the grey granite whereon they lie, the
primary substance whose debris they all are. Just so from
the original and primitive emotions of man, society — the
evolving capacity of combined action — brings out desires
which seem new, in a sense are new, which have no exis-
tence out of the society itself, are coloured by its customs at
the moment, change with the fashions of the age. Such a
principle is what we may call social gaiety : the love of
combined amusement which all men feel and variously ex-
press, and which is to the higher faculties of the soul what
a gay running stream is to the everlasting mountain — a
light, altering element which beautifies while it modifies.
Poetry does not shrink from expressing such feelings ; on the
contrary, their renovating cheerfulness blends appropriately
with her inspiriting delight. Each age and each form of
the stimulating imagination has a fashion of its own. Sir
Walter sings in his modernised chivalry : —
" Waken, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day ;
All the jolly chase is here,
With hawk and horse and hunting-spear.
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling.
Merrily, merrily, mingle they :
Waken, lords and ladies gay.
" Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay ;
Tell them youth and mirth and glee
Run a course as well as we.
Time, stern huntsman, who can balk ?
Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk ;
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay." l
1 A separate lyric first published in the Edinburgh Annual Register
for 1808, and republished in the collected edition of Scott's Poetical
in 1830, under the title of " Hunting Song," vol. viii. p. 370,
I *
4 BERANGER
The poet of the people "vilain et tres vilain? sings with the
pauper Bohemian : —
" Voir, c'est avoir. Aliens courir !
Vie errante
Est chose enivrante.
Voir, c'est avoir. Aliens courir !
Car tout voir, c'est tout conque'rir.
" Nous n'avons done, exempts d'orgueil,
De lois vaines,
De lourdes chaines ;
Nous n'avons done, exempts d'orgueil,
Ni berceau, ni toit, ni cercueil.
" Mais croyez-en notre gaite,
Noble ou pretre,
Valet ou maitre ;
Mais, croyez-en notre gaite,
Le bonheur, c'est la liberte.
" Oui, croyez-en notre gaite,
Noble ou pretre,
Valet ou maitre ;
Oui, croyez-en notre gaite,
Le bonheur, c'est la liberte'. " *
The forms of those poems of social amusement are, in
truth, as various as the social amusement itself. The variety
of the world, singularly various as it everywhere is, is nowhere
so various as in that. Men have more ways of amusing them-
selves than of doing anything else they do. But the essence
— the characteristic — of these poems everywhere is, that they
express more or less well the lighter desires of human nature ;
— those that have least of unspeakable depth, partake most of
what is perishable and earthly, and least of the immortal soul.
The objects of these desires are social accidents ; excellent,
perhaps, essential, possibly — so is human nature made — in one
form and variety or another, to the well-being of the soul, yet
in themselves transitory, fleeting, and in other moods contempt-
ible. The old saying was, that to endure solitude a man must
either be a beast or a god.2 It is in the lighter play of social
1 Les Bohemiens.
2 Bacon : Essay on " Friendship," quoting from Aristotle's Pplitica,
(Forrest Morgan.)
BERANGER 5
action, in that which is neither animal nor divine, which in its
half-way character is so natural to man, that these poems of
society, which we have called poems of amusement, have their
place.
This species does not, however, exhaust the whole class.
Society gives rise to another sort of poems, differing from
this one as contemplation differs from desire. Society may
be thought of as an object. The varied scene of men, — their
hopes, fears, anxieties, maxims, actions, — presents a sight
more interesting to man than any other which has ever
existed, or which can exist ; and it may be viewed in all
moods of mind, and with the change of inward emotion as
the external object seems to change : not that it really does
so, but that some sentiments are more favourable to clear-
sightedness than others are; and some bring before us one
aspect of the subject, and fix our attention upon it, others a
different one, and bind our minds to that likewise. Among
the most remarkable of these varied views is the world's view
of itself. The world, such as it is, has made up its mind
what it is. Childishly deceivable by charlatans on every
other subject, — imposed on by pedantry, by new and
unfounded science, by ancient and unfounded reputation, a
prey to pomposity, overrun with recondite fools, ignorant of
all else, — society knows itself. The world knows a man of
the world. A certain tradition pervades it; a disciplina of
the market-place teaches what the collective society of men
has ever been, and what, so long as the nature of man is the
same, it cannot and will not cease to be. Literature, the
written expression of human nature in every variety, takes
up this variety likewise. Ancient literature exhibits it from
obvious causes in a more simple manner than modern
literature can. Those who are brought up in times like the
present necessarily hear a different set of opinions, fall in
with other words, are under the shadow of a higher creed.
In consequence, they cannot have the simple naivett of the
old world ; they cannot speak with easy equanimity of the
fugitiveness of life, the necessity of death, of goodness as a
mean, of sin as an extreme. The theory of the universe has
6 BERANGER
ceased to be an open question. Still the spirit of Horace is
alive, and as potent as that of any man. His tone is that
of prime ministers ; his easy philosophy is that of courts and
parliaments ; you may hear his words where no other foreign
words are ever heard. He is but the extreme and perfect
type of a whole class of writers, some of whom exist in every
literary age, and who give an expression to what we may call
the poetry of equanimity, that is, the world's view of itself ;
its self-satisfaction, its conviction that you must bear what
comes, not hope for much, think some evil, never be excited,
admire little, and then you will be at peace. This creed does
not sound attractive in description. Nothing, it has been
said, is so easy as to be " religious on paper " : on the other
hand, it is rather difficult to be worldly in speculation ; the
mind of man, when its daily maxims are put before it, revolts
from anything so stupid, so mean, so poor. It requires a
consummate art to reconcile men in print to that moderate
and insidious philosophy which creeps into all hearts, colours
all speech, influences all action. We may not stiffen common-
sense into a creed ; our very ambition forbids : —
" It hears a voice within us tell
Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well :
'Tis all perhaps which man acquires ;
But 'tis not what our youth desires ".l
Still a great artist may succeed in making " calm " interesting.
Equanimity has its place in literature ; the poetry of equipoise
is possible. Poems of society have, thus, two divisions : that
which we mentioned first, the expression of the feelings which
are called out by the accidents of society ; next, the harmonised
expression of that philosophy of indifference with which the
world regards the fortunes of individuals and its own.
We have said that no modern nation can produce literature
embodying this kind of cool reflection and delineation as it
was once produced. By way of compensation, however, it may
be, it no doubt is, easier now to produce the lyrical kinds of
poems of society — the light expression of its light emotions —
1 Matthew Arnold : " Youth and Calm ".
BERANGER 7
than it was in ancient times. Society itself is better. There
is something hard in paganism, which is aways felt even in
the softest traits of the most delicate society in antiquity.
The social influence of women in modern times gives an inter-
est, a little pervading excitement, to social events. Civilisation,
besides, has made comfort possible ; it has, at least in part,
created a scene in which society can be conducted. Its petty
conveniences may or may not be great benefits according to a
recondite philosophy ; but there can be no doubt that for
actual men and women in actual conversation it is of the
greatest importance that their feet should not be cold ; that
their eyes and mouths should not be troubled with smoke ;
that sofas should be good, and attractive chairs many. Modern
times have the advantage of the ancient in the scenery of
flirtation. The little boy complained that you could not find
" drawing-room " in the dictionary. Perhaps even because our
reflections are deeper, our inner life less purely pagan, our ap-
parent life is softer and easier. Some have said, that one
reason why physical science made so little progress in ancient
times was, that people were in doubt about more interesting
things ; men must have, it has been alleged, a settled creed as
to human life and human hopes, before they will attend to
shells and snails and pressure. And whether this be so or
not, perhaps a pleasant society is only possible to persons at
ease as to what is beyond society. Those only can lie on the
grass who fear no volcano underneath, and can bear to look
at the blue vault above.
Among modern nations it is not difficult to say where we
should look for success in the art of social poetry. " Wher-
ever," said Mr. Lewes the other day, "the French go, they
take what they call their civilisation — that is, a cafd and a
theatre." And though this be a trifle severe, yet in its essence its
meaning is correct. The French have in some manner or other
put their mark on all the externals of European life. The
essence of every country remains little affected by their teach-
ing ; but in all the superficial embellishments of society they
have enjoined the fashion ; and the very language in which
those embellishments are spoken of, shows at once whence
8 BERANGER
they were derived. Something of this is doubtless due to the
accidents of a central position, and an early and prolonged
political influence ; but more to a certain neatness of nature, a
certain finish of the senses, which enables them more easily
than others to touch lightly the light things of society, to see
the comme-il-faut. " I like," said a good judge, " to hear a
Frenchman talk ; he strikes a light." On a hundred topics
he gives the bright sharp edge, where others have only a blunt
approximation.
Nor is this anticipation disappointed Reviewers do not ad-
vance such theories unless they correspond with known results.
For many years the French have not been more celebrated
for memoirs which professedly describe a real society than they
have been for the light social song which embodies its senti-
ments and pours forth its spirit. The principle on which such
writings are composed is the taking some incident — not volun-
tarily (for the incident doubtless of itself takes a hold on the
poet's mind) — and out of that incident developing all which
there is in it. A grave form is of course inconsistent with
such art The spirit of such things is half-mirthful ; a very
profound meaning is rarely to be expected ; but little incidents
are not destitute of meaning, and a delicate touch will deline-
ate it in words. A profound excitement likewise such poems
cannot produce ; they do not address the passions or the intui-
tions, the heart or the soul, but a gentle pleasure, half sympathy,
half amusement, is that at which they aim. They do not please
us equally in all moods of mind : sometimes they seem nothing
and nonsense, like society itself. We must not be too active or
too inactive, to like them ; the tension of mind must not be too
great ; in our highest moods the littlenesses of life are petty ;
the mind must not be obtusely passive ; light touches will not
stimulate a sluggish inaction. This dependence on the mood
of mind of the reader makes it dangerous to elucidate this sort
of art by quotation ; Beranger has, however, the following : —
" Laideur et Beaute.
" Sa trop grande beaute m'obsede ;
C'est un masque aise"ment trompeur.
Oui, je voudrais qu'elle fut laide,
Mais laide, laide a faire peur.
BERANGER
Belle ainsi faut-il que je 1'aime !
Dieu, reprends ce don eclatant ;
Je le demande k 1'enfer meme :
Qu'elle soit laide et que je 1'aime autant.
" A ces mots m'apparait le diable ;
C'est le pere de la laideur.
* Rendons-la,' dit-il, ' effroyable,
De tes rivaux trompons 1'ardeur.
J'aime assez ces metamorphoses.
Ta belle ici vient en chantant ;
Perles, tombez ; fanez-vous roses :
La voilk laide, et tu 1'aimes autant.'
" — Laide ! moi ? dit-elle e"tonnee.
Elle s'approche d'un miroir,
Doute d'abord, puis, consternee,
Tombe en un morne de"sespoir.
* Pour moi seul tu jurais de vivre,'
Lui dis-je, k ses pieds me jetant ;
'A mon seul amour il te livre.
Plus laide encore, je t'aimerais autant.'
" Ses yeux e"teints fondent en larmes,
Alors sa douleur m'attendrit.
'Ah ! rendez, rendez-lui ses charmes.'
' — Soit ! ' re"pond Satan, qui sourit.
Ainsi que nait la fraiche aurore,
Sa beautd renait k 1'instant.
Elle est, je crois, plus belle encore :
Elle est plus belle, et moi je 1'aime autant.
Vite au miroir elle s'assure
Qu'on lui rend bien tous ses appas ;
Des pleurs restent sur sa figure,
Qu'elle essuie en grondant tout bas.
Satan s'envole, et la cruelle
Fuit et s'e'crie en me quittant :
'Jamais fille que Dieu fit belle
Ne doit aimer qui peut 1'aimer autant '. "
And this is even a more characteristic specimen : —
" La Mouche.
" Au bruit de notre gaite" folle,
Au bruit des verres, des chansons,
Quelle mouche murmure et vole,
Et revient quand nous la chassons ? (bis.}
io BER ANGER
C'est quelque dieu, je le soupc,onne,
Qu'un peu de bonheur rend jaloux.
Ne souffrons point qu'elle bourdonne, \/b-s \
Qu'elle bourdonne autour de nous. J
" Transformee en mouche hideuse,
Amis, oui, c'est, j'en suis certain,
La Raison, d6it6 grondeuse,
Qu'irrite un si joyeux festin.
L'orage approche, le ciel tonne,
Voila ce que dit son courroux.
Ne souffrons point qu'elle bourdonne,
Qu'elle bourdonne autour de nous.
" C'est la Raison qui vient me dire :
' A ton age on vit en reclus.
Ne bois plus tant, cesse de rire,
Cesse d'aimer, ne chante plus.'
Ainsi son beffroi toujours sonne
Aux lueurs des feux les plus doux.
Ne souffrons point qu'elle bourdonne,
Qu'elle bourdonne autour de nous.
" C'est la Raison, gare a Lisette !
Son dard la menace toujours.
Dieux ! il perce la collerette :
Le sang coule ! accourez, Amours !
Amours ! poursuivez la fdlonne ;
Qu'elle expire enfin sous vos coups.
Ne souffrons point qu'elle bourdonne,
Qu'elle bourdonne autour de nous.
" Victoire ! amis, elle se noie
Dans 1'a'i que Lise a verse.
Victoire ! et qu'aux mains de la Joie
Le sceptre enfin soit replace", (bis.}
Un souffle ebranle sa couronne ;
Une mouche nous troublait tous.
Ne craignons plus qu'elle bourdonne,
Qu'elle bourdonne autour de nous."
To make poetry out of a fly is a difficult operation. It
used to be said of the Lake school of criticism, in Mr.
Wordsworth's early and more rigid days, that there was no
such term as "elegant" in its nomenclature. The reason is
that, dealing, or attempting to deal, only with the essential
aboriginal principles of human nature, that school had no
BERANGER
IT
room and no occasion for those minor contrivances of thought
and language which are necessary to express the complex
accumulation of little feelings, the secondary growth of human
emotion. The underwood of nature is " elegant" ; the bare
ascending forest-tree despises what is so trivial, — it is grave
and solemn. To such verses, on the other hand, as have been
quoted, " elegance " is essential ; the delicate finish of fleeting
forms is the only excellence they can have.
The characteristic deficiencies of French literature have
no room to show themselves in this class of art. " Though
France herself denies," says a recent writer, " yet all other
nations with one voice proclaim her inferiority to her rivals
in poetry and romance, and in all the other elevated fields of
fiction. A French Dante, or Michael Angelo, or Cervantes,
or Murillo, or Goethe, or Shakespeare, or Milton, we at once
perceive to be a mere anomaly ; a supposition which may,
indeed, be proposed in terms, but which in reality is incon-
ceivable and impossible." In metaphysics, the reason seems
to be that the French character is incapable of being mastered
by an unseen idea, without being so tyrannised over by it as to
be incapable of artistic development. Such a character as
Robespierre's may explain what we mean. His entire nature
was taken up and absorbed in certain ideas ; he had almost
a vanity in them ; he was of them, and they were of him.
But they appear in his mind, in his speeches, in his life, in
their driest and barest form ; they have no motion, life, or
roundness. We are obliged to use many metaphors remotely
and with difficulty to indicate the procedure of the imagina-
tion. In one of these metaphors we figure an idea of imagina-
tion as a living thing, a kind of growing plant, with a peculiar
form, and ever preserving its identity, but absorbing from the
earth and air all kindred, suitable, and, so to say, annexable
materials. In a mind such as Robespierre's, in the type of
the fanatic mind, there is no such thing. The ideas seem a
kind of dry hard capsules, never growing, never enlarging,
never uniting. Development is denied them ; they cannot
expand, or ripen, or mellow. Dogma is a dry hard husk ;
poetry has the soft down of the real fruit. Ideas seize on the
12 BER ANGER
fanatic mind just as they do on the poetical ; they have the
same imperious ruling power. The difference is, that in the one
the impelling force is immutable, iron, tyrannical ; in the
other the rule is expansive, growing, free, taking up from all
around it moment by moment whatever is fit, as in the politi-
cal world a great constitution arises through centuries, with a
shape that does not vary, but with movement for its essence
and the fluctuation of elements for its vitality. A thin poor
mind like Robespierre's seems pressed and hampered by the
bony fingers of a skeleton hand ; a poet's is expanded and
warmed at the same time that it is impelled by a pure life-
blood of imagination. The French, as we have said, are
hardly capable of this. When great remote ideas seize upon
them at all, they become fanatics. The wild, chimerical,
revolutionary, mad Frenchman has the stiffest of human minds.
He is under the law of his creed ; he has not attained to the
higher freedom of the impelling imagination. The prosing
rhetoric of the French tragedy shows the same defect in
another form. The ideas which should have become living
realities, remain as lean abstractions. The characters are
speaking officials, jets of attenuated oratory. But exactly
on this very account the French mind has a genius for the
poetry of society. Unable to remove itself into the higher
region of imagined forms, it has the quickest detective insight
into the exact relation of surrounding superficial phenomena.
There are two ways of putting it : either being fascinated by
the present, they cannot rise to what is not present ; or being
by defect of nature unable to rise to what is not present, they
are concentrated and absorbed in that which is so. Of course
there ought not to be, but there is, a world of bonbons, of
salons, of esprit. Living in the present, they have the poetry
of the present. The English genius is just the opposite. Our
cumbrous intellect has no call to light artificialities. We do
not excel in punctuated detail or nicely-squared elaboration.
It puts us out of patience that others should. A respectable
Englishman murmured in the Caft de Paris, " I wish I had
a hunch of mutton". He could not bear the secondary
niceties with which he was surrounded. Our art has the same
BER ANGER 13
principle. We excel in strong, noble imagination, in solid
stuff. Shakespeare is tough work ; he has the play of the
rising energy, the buoyant freedom of the unbounded mind ;
but no writer is so destitute of the simplifying dexterities of
the manipulating intellect.
It is dangerous for a foreigner to give an opinion on
minuticB of style, especially on points affecting the character-
istic excellences of national style. The French language is
always neat ; all French styles somehow seem good. But
Beranger appears to have a peculiar neatness. He tells us
that all his songs are the production of a painful effort. If
so, the reader should be most grateful ; he suffers no pain.
The delicate elaboration of the writer has given a singular
currency to the words. Difficult writing is rarely easy read-
ing. It can never be so when the labour is spent in piecing
together elements not joined by an insensible touch of im-
agination. The highest praise is due to a writer whose ideas
are more delicately connected by unconscious genius than
other men's are, and yet who spends labour and toil in giving
the production a yet cunninger finish, a still smoother con-
nection. The characteristic aloofness of the Gothic mind, its
tendency to devote itself to what is not present, is represented
in composition by a want of care in the pettinesses of style.
A certain clumsiness pervades all tongues of German origin.
Instead of the language having been sharpened and improved
by the constant keenness of attentive minds, it has been
habitually used obtusely and crudely. Light, loquacious
Gaul has for ages been the contrast. If you take up a pen
just used by a good writer, for a moment you seem to write
rather well. A language long employed by a delicate and
critical society is a treasure of dexterous felicities. It is not,
according to the fine expression of Mr. Emerson, " fossil
poetry " ; * it is crystallised esprit.
A French critic has praised Beranger for having retained
the refrain, or burden, "la rime de Vair" as he calls it.
Perhaps music is more necessary as an accompaniment to
the poetry of society than it is to any other poetry. Without
1 Essay on " The Poet ",
i4 BER ANGER
a sensuous reminder, we might forget that it was poetry ;
especially in a sparkling, glittering, attenuated language, we
might be absorbed as in the defined elegances of prose. In
half-trivial compositions we easily forget the little central
fancy. The music prevents this : it gives oneness to the
parts, pieces together the shavings of the intellect, makes
audible the flow of imagination.
The poetry of society tends to the poetry of love. All
poetry tends that way. By some very subtle links, which no
metaphysician has skilfully tracked, the imagination, even in
effects and employments which seem remote, is singularly so
connected. One smiles to see the feeling recur. Half the
poets can scarcely keep away from it : in the high and dry
epic you may see the poet return to it. And perhaps this is
not unaccountable. The more delicate and stealing the sen-
suous element, the more the mind is disposed to brood upon
it ; the more we dwell on it in stillness, the more it influences
the wandering, hovering faculty which we term imagination.
The first constructive effort of imagination is beyond the
limit of consciousness ; the faculty works unseen. But we
know that it works in a certain soft leisure only : and this in
ordinary minds is almost confined to, in the highest is most
commonly accompanied by, the subtlest emotion of reverie.
So insinuating is that feeling, that no poet is alive to all its
influences ; so potent is it, that the words of a great poet, in
our complex modern time, are rarely ever free from its traces.
The phrase " stealing calm," which most naturally and gra-
phically describes the state of soul in which the imagination
works, quite equally expresses, it is said, the coming in and
continuance of the not uncommon emotion. Passing, however,
from such metaphysics, there is no difficulty in believing that
the poetry of society will tend to the most romantic part of
society, — away from aunts and uncles, antiquaries and wigs,
to younger and pleasanter elements. The talk of society does
so ; probably its literature will do so likewise. There are,
nevertheless, some limiting considerations, which make this
tendency less all-powerful than we might expect it to be. In
the first place, the poetry of society cannot deal with passion.
BER ANGER 15
Its light touch is not competent to express eager, intense
emotion. Rather, we should say, the essential nature of the
poetry of amusement is inconsistent with those rugged, firm,
aboriginal elements which passion brings to the surface. The
volcano is inconsistent with careless talk ; you cannot com-
fortably associate with lava. Such songs as those of Burns
are the very antithesis to the levity of society. A certain
explicitness pervades them : —
" Come, let me take thee to my breast,
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ;
And I shall spurn as vilest dust
The warld's wealth and grandeur ".
There is a story of his having addressed a lady in society,
some time after he came to Edinburgh, in this direct style,
and being offended that she took notice of it. The verses
were in English, and were not intended to mean anything
particular, only to be an elegant attention ; but you might as
well ask a young lady to take brandy with you as compliment
her in this intense manner. The eager peasant-poet was at
fault in the polished refinements of the half-feeling drawing-
room. Again, the poetry of society can scarcely deal with
affection. No poetry, except in hints, and for moments,
perhaps ever can. You might as well tell secrets to the town-
crier. The essence of poetry somehow is publicity. It is
very odd when one reads many of the sentiments which are
expressed there, — the brooding thought, the delicate feeling,
the high conception. What is the use of telling these to the
mass of men ? Will the grocer feel them ? — will the greasy
butcher in the blue coat feel them ? Are there not some
emphatic remarks by Lord Byron on Mr. Sanders ("the
d — d saltfish seller" of Venice),1 who could not appreciate
Don Juan ? Nevertheless, for some subtle reason or other,
poets do crave, almost more than other men, the public
approbation. To have a work of art in your imagination,
and that no one else should know of it, is a great pain. But
even this craving has its limits. Art can only deal with the
universal. Characters, sentiments, actions, must be described
1 Moore's Byron.
1 6 BER ANGER
in what in the old language might be called their conceptual
shape. There must always be an idea in them. If we com-
pare a great character in fiction, say that of Hamlet, with a
well-known character in life, we are struck almost at once by
the typical and representative nature of the former. We seem
to have a more summary conception of it, if the phrase may
be allowed, than we have of the people we know best in
reality. Indeed, our notion of the fictitious character rather
resembles a notion of actual persons of whom we know a little,
and but a little, — of a public man, suppose, of whom from
his speeches and writings we know something, but with whom
we never exchanged a word. We generalise a few traits ; we
do what the historian will have to do hereafter ; we make a
man, so to speak, resembling the real one, but more defined,
more simple and comprehensible. The objects on which
affection turns are exactly the opposite. In their essence they
are individual, peculiar. Perhaps they become known under
a kind of confidence ; but even if not, Nature has hallowed
the details of near life by an inevitable secrecy. You cannot
expect other persons to feel them ; you cannot tell your own
intellect what they are. An individuality lurks in our nature.
Each soul (as the divines speak) clings to each soul. Poetry
is impossible on such points as these : they seem too sacred,
too essential. The most that it can do is, by hints and little
marks in the interstices of a universalised delineation, to
suggest that there is something more than what is stated, and
more inward and potent than what is stated. Affection as a
settled subject is incompatible with art. And thus the poetry
of society is limited on its romantic side in two ways : first,
by the infinite, intense nature of passion, which forces the
voice of art beyond the social tone ; and by the confidential,
incomprehensible nature of affection, which will not bear to
be developed for the public by the fancy in any way.
Being so bounded within the ordinary sphere of their art,
poets of this world have contrived or found a substitute. In
every country there is a society which is no society. The
French, which is the most worldly of literatures, has devoted
itself to the delineation of this outside world. There is no
BER ANGER 17
form, comic or serious, dramatic or lyrical, in which the sub-
ject has not been treated : the burden is —
" Lisette, ma Lisette,
Tu m'as trompe' toujours ;
Mais vive la grisette !
Je veux, Lisette,
Boire a nos amours."
There is obviously no need of affection in this society. The
whole plot of the notorious novel, La Dame aux Came'lias, —
and a very remarkable one it is, — is founded on the incon-
gruity of real feeling with this world, and the singular and
inappropriate consequences which result, if, by any rare chance,
it does appear there. Passion is almost a fortiori out of the
question. The depths of human nature have nothing to do
with this life. On this account, perhaps, it is that it harmonises
so little with the English literature and character. An Eng-
lishman can scarcely live on the surface ; his passions are too
strong, his power of finesse too little. Accordingly, since
Defoe, who treated the subject with a coarse matter-of-factness,
there has been nothing in our literature of this kind — nothing
at least professedly devoted to it. How far this is due to real
excellence, how far to the bourgeois and not very outspoken
temper of our recent writers, we need not in this place discuss.
There is no occasion to quote in this country the early poetry
of Beranger, at least not the sentimental part of it. We may
take, in preference, one of his poems written in olcj, or rather
in middle age : —
" Cinquante Ans.
" Pourquoi ces fleurs ? est-ce ma fete ?
Non ; ce bouquet vient m'annoncer
Qu'un demi-siecle sur ma tete
Acheve aujourd'hui de passer.
Oh ! combien nos jours sont rapides !
Oh ! combien j'ai perdu d'instants !
Oh ! combien je me sens de rides !
He*las ! helas ! j'ai cinquante ans.
" A cet age, tout nous echappe ;
Le fruit meurt sur 1'arbre jauni.
Mais a ma porte quelqu'un frappe ;
N'ouvrons point : mon role est fini.
VOL. III. 2
1 8 BERANGER
C'est, je gage, un docteur qui jette
Sa carte, ou s'est loge* le Temps.
Jadis, j'aurais dit : C'est Lisette.
He'las ! he'las ! j'ai cinquante ans.
" En maux cuisants vieillesse abonde :
C'est la goutte qui nous meurtrit ;
La ce'cite', prison profonde ;
La surdite", dont chacun rit.
Puis la raison, lampe qui baisse,
N'a plus que des feux tremblotants.
Enfants, honorez la vieillesse !
He'las ! he'las ! j'ai cinquante ans !
" Ciel ! j'entends la Mort, qui, joyeuse,
Arrive en se frottant les mains.
A ma porte la fossoyeuse
Frappe ; adieu, messieurs les humains !
En bas, guerre, famine et peste ;
En haut, plus d'astres e*clatants.
Ouvrons, tandis que Dieu me reste.
Helas ! he'las ! j'ai cinquante ans.
" Mais non ; c'est vous ! vous, jeune amie,
Sceur de charit£ des amours !
Vous tirez mon ime endormie
Du cauchemar des mauvais jours.
Semant les roses de votre ige
Partout, comme fait le printemps,
Parfumez les reVes d'un sage.
He'las ! he'las ! j'ai cinquante ans."
This is the last scene of the grisette, of whom we read in so
many songs sparkling with youth and gaiety.
A certain intellectuality, however, pervades B6ranger's
love-songs. You seem to feel, to see, not merely the emotion,
but the mind, in the background viewing that emotion. You
are conscious of a considerateness qualifying and contrasting
with the effervescing champagne of the feelings described.
Desire is rarefied ; sense half becomes an idea. You may
trace a similar metamorphosis in the poetry of passion itself.
If we contrast such a poem as Shelley's " Epipsychidion " with
the natural language of common passion, we see how curiously
the intellect can take its share in the dizziness of sense. In
the same way, in the lightest poems of Beranger we feel that
BERANGER 19
it may be infused, may interpenetrate the most buoyant effer-
vescence.
Nothing is more odd than to contrast the luxurious and
voluptuous nature of much of Beranger' s poetry with the cir-
cumstances of his life. He never in all his productive time
had more than £80 a year ; the smallest party of pleasure
made him live, he tells us himself, most ascetically for a week ;
so far from leading the life of a Sybarite, his youth was one
of anxiety and privation. A more worldly poet has probably
never written, but no poet has shown in life so philosophic an
estimate of this world's goods. His origin is very unaristo-
cratic. He was born in August, 1780, at the house of his
grandfather, a poor old tailor. Of his mother we hear nothing.
His father was a speculative, sanguine man, who never suc-
ceeded. His principal education was given him by an aunt,
who taught him to read and to write, and perhaps generally
incited his mind. His school-teaching tells of the philosophy
of the revolutionary time. By way of primary school for the
town of Peronne, a patriotic member of the National Assembly
had founded an institut cCenfants. " It offered," we are told,
" at once the image of a club and that of a camp ; the boys
wore a military uniform ; at every public event they named
deputations, delivered orations, voted addresses : letters were
written to the citizen Robespierre and the citizen Tallien."
Naturally, amid such great affairs there was no time for mere
grammar ; they did not teach Latin. Nor did Beranger ever
acquire any knowledge of that language ; and he may be said
to be destitute of what is in the usual sense called culture.
Accordingly, it has in these days been made a matter of wonder
by critics, whom we may think pedantic, that one so destitute
should be able to produce such works. But a far keener judge
has pronounced the contrary. Goethe, who certainly did not
undervalue the most elaborate and artful cultivation, at once
pronounced Beranger to have " a nature most happily endowed,
firmly grounded in himself, purely developed from himself, and
quite in harmony with himself ".l In fact, as these words
mean, Beranger, by happiness of nature or self-attention, has
1 Conversations with Eckermann and Soret, 4th May, 1830.
20 BERANGER
that centrality of mind, which is the really valuable result of
colleges and teaching. He puts things together; he refers
things to a principle ; rather, they group themselves in his
intelligence insensibly round a principle. There is nothing
distrait in his genius ; the man has attained to be himself;
a cool oneness, a poised personality pervades him. "The
unlearned," it has been said, "judge at random." Beranger
is not unlearned in this sense. There is no one who judges
more simply, smoothly, and uniformly. His ideas refer to an
exact measure. He has mastered what comes before him.
And though doubtless unacquainted with foreign and incongru-
ous literatures, he has mastered his own literature, which was
shaped by kindred persons, and has been the expression of
analogous natures ; and this has helped him in expressing
himself.
In the same way, his poor youth and boyhood have given a
reality to his productions. He seems to have had this in mind
in praising the " practical education which I have received".
He was bred a printer ; and the highest post he attained was
a clerkship at the university, worth, as has been said, £80 per
annum. Accordingly he has everywhere a sympathy with the
common people, an unsought familiarity with them and their
life. Sybarite poetry commonly wants this. The aristocratic
nature is superficial ; it relates to a life protected from simple
wants, depending on luxurious artifices. ''Mamma," said the
simple-minded young nobleman, " when poor people have no
bread, why do not they eat buns ? they are much better." An
over-perfumed softness pervades the poetry of society. You
see this in the songs of Moore, the best of the sort we have ;
all is beautiful, soft, half-sincere. There is a little falsetto in
the tone, everything reminds you of the drawing-room and the
pianoforte ; and not only so — for all poetry of society must
in a measure do this — but it seems fit for no other scene.
Naturalness is the last word of praise that would be suitable.
In the scented air we forget that there is a pave and a multi-
tude. Perhaps France is of all countries which have ever ex-
isted the one in which we might seek an exception from this
luxurious limitation. A certain egalite may pervade its art as
BER ANGER 21
its society. There is no such difference as with us between
the shoeblack and the gentleman. A certain refinement is
very common ; an extreme refinement possibly rare. B6ranger
was able to write his poems in poverty ; they are popular with
the poor.
A success even greater than what we have described as
having been achieved by Beranger in the first class of the
poems of society — that of amusement — has been attained by
him in the second class, expressive of epicurean speculation.
Perhaps it is one of his characteristics that the two are for ever
running one into another. There is animation in his thinking ;
there is meaning in his gaiety. It requires no elaborate ex-
planation to make evident the connection between scepticism
and luxuriousness. Every one thinks of the Sadducee as in
cool halls and soft robes ; no one supposes that the Sybarite
believes. Pain not only purifies the mind, but deepens the
nature. A simple, happy life is animal ; it is pleasant, and it
perishes. All writers who have devoted themselves to the ex-
planation of this world's view of itself are necessarily in a certain
measure Sadducees. The world is Sadducee itself; it cannot
be anything else without recognising a higher creed, a more
binding law, a more solemn reality — without ceasing to be the
world. Equanimity is incredulous ; impartiality does not care ;
an indifferent politeness is sceptical. Though not a single
speculative opinion is expressed, we may feel this in " Roger
Bontemps" : —
" Roger Bontemps.
" Aux gens atrabilaires
Pour example donne,
En un temps de miseres
Roger Bontemps est ne.
Vivre obscur a sa guise,
Narguer les me"contents :
Eh gai ! c'est la devise
Du gros Roger Bontemps.
" Du chapeau de son pere
Coiffe dans les grands jours,
De roses ou de lierre
Le rajeunir toujours ;
22 BER ANGER
Mettre un manteau de bure,
Vieil ami de vingt ans :
Eh gai ! c'est la parure
Du gros Roger Bontemps.
" Possdder dans sa hutte
Une table, un vieux lit,
Des cartes, une flute,
Un broc que Dieu remplit,
Un portrait de maitresse,
Un coffre et rien dedans :
Eh gai ! c'est la richesse
Du gros Roger Bontemps.
" Aux enfants de la ville
Montrer de petits jeux ;
Etre un faiseur habile
De contes graveleux ;
Ne parler que de danse
Et d'almanachs chantants :
Eh gai ! c'est la science
Du gros Roger Bontemps.
" Faute de vin d'elite,
Sabler ceux du canton ;
Preferer Marguerite
Aux dames du grand ton ;
De joie et de tendresse
Remplir tous ses instants :
Eh gai ! c'est la sagesse
Du gros Roger Bontemps.
" Dire au Ciel : Je me fie,
Mon pere, a ta bcnte* ;
De ma philosophic
Pardonne la gaite" ;
Que ma saison derniere
Soit encore un printemps :
Eh gai ! c'est la priere
Du gros Roger Bontemps.
" Vous, pauvres pleins d'envie,
Vous, riches desireux,
Vous, dont le char devie
Apres un cours heureux ;
Vous, qui perdrez peut-etre
Des titres e'clatants,
Eh gai ! prenez pour maitre
Le gros Roger Bontemps,"
BERANGER 23
At the same time, in Beranger the scepticism is not ex-
treme. The skeleton is not paraded. That the world is a
passing show, a painted scene, is admitted ; you seem to know
that it is all acting and rouge and illusion : still the pleasantness
of the acting is dwelt on, the rouge is never rubbed off, the dream
runs lightly and easily. No nightmare haunts you, you have
no uneasy sense that you are about to awaken. Persons who
require a sense of reality may complain ; pain is perhaps
necessary to sharpen their nerves, a tough effort to harden their
consciousness : but if you pass by this objection of the thres-
hold, if you admit the possibility of a superficial and fleeting
world, you will not find a better one than Beranger's world.
Suppose all the world were a restaurant^ his is a good restaur-
ant ; admit that life is an effervescing champagne, his is the
best for the moment.
In several respects Beranger contrasts with Horace, the
poet whom in general he most resembles. The song of " Roger
Bontemps " suggests one of the most obvious differences. It
is essentially democratic. As we have said before, B6ranger
is the poet of the people; he himself says, Le peuple c'estma
muse. Throughout Horace's writings, however much he may
speak, and speak justly, of the simplicity of his tastes, you are
always conscious that his position is exceptional. Everybody
cannot be the friend of Maecenas ; every cheerful man of the
world cannot see the springs of the great world. The intellect
of most self-indulgent men must satisfy itself with small indul-
gences. Without a hard ascent you can rarely see a great view.
Horace had the almost unequalled felicity of watching the
characters and thoughts and tendencies of the governors of the
world, the nicest manipulation of the most ingenious statesmen,
the inner tastes and predilections which are the origin of the
most important transactions ; and yet had the ease and pleasant-
ness of the common and effortless life. So rare a fortune can-
not be a general model ; the gospel of Epicureanism must not
ask a close imitation of one who had such very special advan-
tages. Beranger gives the acceptors of that creed a commoner
type. Out of nothing but the most ordinary advantages — the
garret, the almost empty purse, the not over-attired grisette —
24 BERANGER
he has given them a model of the sparkling and quick exist-
ence for which their fancy is longing. You cannot imagine
commoner materials. In another respect Horace and Beranger
are remarkably contrasted. Beranger, sceptical and indifferent
as he is, has a faith in, and zeal for, liberty. It seems odd
that he should care for that sort of thing ; but he does care for
it. Horace probably had a little personal shame attaching to
such ideas. No regimental officer of our own time can have
"joined" in a state of more crass ignorance, than did the stout
little student from Athens in all probability join the army of
Brutus ; the legionaries must have taken the measure of him,
as the sergeants of our living friends. Anyhow he was not
partial to such reflections ; zeal for political institutions is quite
as foreign to him as any other zeal. A certain hope in the
future is characteristic of Beranger —
" Qui decouvrit un nouveau monde ?
Un fou qu'on raillait en tout lieu."
Modern faith colours even bystanding scepticism. Though
probably with no very accurate ideas of the nature of liberty,
Beranger believes that it is a great good, and that France will
have it.
The point in which Beranger most resembles Horace is
that which is the most essential in the characters of them both
— their geniality. This is the very essence of the poems of
society ; it springs in the verses of amusement, it harmonises
with acquiescing sympathy the poems of indifference. And
yet few qualities in writing are so rare. A certain malevolence
enters into literary ink ; the point of the pen pricks. Pope is
the very best example of this. With every desire to imitate
Horace, he cannot touch any of his subjects, or any kindred
subjects, without infusing a bitter ingredient. It is not given
to the children of men to be philosophers without envy.
Lookers-on can hardly bear the spectacle of the great world.
If you watch the carriages rolling down to the House of Lords,
you will try to depreciate the House of Lords. Idleness is
cynical. Both Beranger and Horace are exceptions to this.
Both enjoy the roll of the wheels ; both love the glitter of the
carriages ; neither is angry at the sun. Each knows that he is
BER ANGER 25
as happy as he can be — that he is all that he can be in his con-
templative philosophy. In his means of expression for the
purpose in hand, the Frenchman has the advantage. The
Latin language is clumsy. Light pleasure was an exotic in
the Roman world ; the terms in which you strive to describe
it suit rather the shrill camp and droning law-court. In Eng-
lish, as we hinted just now, we have this too. Business is in
our words ; a too heavy sense clogs our literature ; even in a
writer so apt as Pope at the 'finesse of words, you feel that the
solid Gothic roots impede him. It is difficult not to be cum-
brous. The horse may be fleet and light, but the wheels are
ponderous and the road goes heavily. Beranger certainly has
not this difficulty ; nobody ever denied that a Frenchman could
be light, that the French language was adapted for levity.
When we ascribed an absence of bitterness and male-
volence to Beranger, we were far from meaning that he is not
a satirist. Every light writer in a measure must be so. Mirth
is the imagery of society ; and mirth must make fun of some-
body. The nineteenth century has not had many shrewder
critics than its easy-natured poet. Its intense dulness parti-
cularly strikes him. He dreads the dreariness of the Academy ;
pomposity bores him ; formalism tires him ; he thinks, and
may well think, it dreary to have
" Pour grands hommes des journalistes,
Pour amusement 1'Opera ".
But skilful as is the mirth, its spirit is genial and good-natured.
" You have been laughing at me constantly, Sydney, for the last
seven years," said a friend to the late Canon of St. Paul's, " and
yet in all that time you never said a single thing to me that I
wished unsaid." l So far as its essential features are concerned,
the nineteenth century may say the same of its musical satirist.
Perhaps, however, the Bourbons might a little object. Clever
people have always a little malice against the stupid.
There is no more striking example of the degree in which
the gospel of good works has penetrated our modern society,
than that Beranger has talked of " utilising his talent ". The
1 Dudley : Lady Holland's Memoirs of Sydney Smith, chap, xl
26 BERANGER
epicurean poet considers that he has been a political missionary.
Well may others be condemned to the penal servitude of in-
dustry, if the lightest and idlest of skilful men boasts of being
subjected to it. If Beranger thinks it necessary to think that
he has been useful, others may well think so too ; let us accept
the heavy doctrine of hard labour ; there is no other way to
heave off the rubbish of this world. The mode in which
Beranger is anxious to prove that he made his genius of use,
is by diffusing a taste for liberty, and expressing an enthusiasm
for it ; and also, as we suppose, by quizzing those rulers of
France who have not shared either the taste or the enthusiasm.
Although, however, such may be the idea of the poet himself,
posterity will scarcely confirm it. Political satire is the most
ephemeral kind of literature. The circumstances to which it
applies are local and temporary; the persons to whom it
applies die. A very few months will make unintelligible what
was at first strikingly plain. Beranger has illustrated this by
an admission. There was a delay in publishing the last volume
of his poems, many of which relate to the years or months
immediately preceding the Revolution of 1830 ; the delay was
not long, as the volume appeared in the first month of 1833,
yet he says that many of the songs relate to the passing oc-
currences of a period " dtja loin de nous ". On so shifting a scene
as that of French political life, the jests of each act are forgotten
with the act itself; the eager interest of each moment withdraws
the mind from thinking of or dwelling on anything past. And
in all countries administration is ephemeral ; what relates to it
is transitory. Satires on its detail are like the jests of a public
office ; the clerks change, oblivion covers their peculiarities ;
the point of the joke is forgotten. There are some consider-
able exceptions to the saying that foreign literary opinion is
a " contemporary posterity"; but in relation to satires on
transitory transactions it is exactly expressive. No English-
man will now care for many of B6ranger's songs which were
once in the mouths of all his countrymen, which coloured the
manners of revolutions, perhaps influenced their course. The
fame of a poet may have a reference to politics ; but it will be
only to the wider species, to those social questions which never
BER ANGER 27
die, the elements of that active human nature which is the
same age after age. B6ranger can hardly hope for this. Even
the songs which relate to liberty can hardly hope for this im-
mortality. They have the vagueness which has made French
aspirations for freedom futile. So far as they express distinct
feeling, their tendency is rather anti-aristocratic than in favour
of simple real liberty. And an objection to mere rank, though
a potent, is neither a very agreeable nor a very poetical senti-
ment. Moreover, when the love of liberty is to be im-
aginatively expressed, it requires to an Englishman's ear a
sound bigger and more trumpet-tongued than the voice of
Beranger.
On a deeper view, however, an attentive student will dis-
cover a great deal that is most instructive in the political career
of the not very business-like poet. His life has been contem-
poraneous with the course of a great change ; and throughout
it the view which he has taken of the current events is that
which sensible men took at the time, and which a sensible
posterity (and these events will from their size attract attention
enough to insure their being viewed sensibly) is likely to take.
Beranger was present at the taking of the Bastille, but he was
then only nine years old ; the accuracy of opinion which we
are claiming for him did not commence so early. His mature
judgment begins with the career of Napoleon ; and no one of
the thousands who have written on that subject has viewed it
perhaps more justly. He had no love for the despotism of the
Empire, was alive to the harshness of its administration, did
not care too much for its glory, must have felt more than once
the social exhaustion. At the same time, no man was pene-
trated more profoundly, no literary man half so profoundly,
with the popular admiration for the genius of the empire. His
own verse has given the truest and most lasting expression
of it :—
" Les Souvenirs du Peuple.
" On parlera de sa gloire
Sous le chaume bien longtemps.
L'humble toit, dans cinquante ans,
Ne connaitra plus d'autre histoire,
28 BERANGER
La viendront les villageois,
Dire alors a quelque vieille :
' Par des recits d'autrefois,
Mere, abregez notre veille.
Bien, dit-on, qu'il nous ait nui,
Le peuple encor le revere,
Oui, le revere,
Parlez-nous de lui, grand'mere ;
Parlez-nous de lui.' (bis.}
" ' Mes enfants, dans ce village,
Suivi de rois, il passa.
Voila bien longtemps de ga :
Je venais d'entrer en menage.
A pied grimpant le coteau
Ou pour voir je m'etais mise,
II avait petit chapeau
Avec redingote grise.
Pres de lui je me troublai ;
II me dit: " Bonjour, ma chere,
Bonjour, ma chere ".'
— 'II vous a parle, grand'mere !
II vous a parle ! '
" ' L'an d'apres, moi, pauvre femme,
A Paris etant un jour,
Je le vis avec sa cour :
II se rendait a Notre-Dame.
Tous les coeurs etaient contents ;
On admirait son cortege.
Chacun disait: " Quel beau temps !
Le ciel toujours le protege ".
Son sourire etait bien doux,
D'un fils Dieu le rendait pere,
Le rendait pere.'
— ' Quel beau jour pour vous, grand'mere
Quel beau jour pour vous ! '
" ' Mais, quand la pauvre Champagne
Fut en proie aux Strangers,
Lui, bravant tous les dangers,
Semblait seul tenir la campagne.
Un soir, tout comme aujourd'hui,
J'entends frapper a la porte.
J'ouvre. Bon Dieu ! c'e'tait lui,
Suivi d'une faible escorte,
BERANGER 29
II s'asseoit ou me voilk,
S'e"criant : " Oh ! quelle guerre !
Oh ! quelle guerre ! " '
— ' II s'est assis Ik, grand'mere !
II s'est assis la ! '
" ' J'ai faim,' dit-il ; 'et bien vite
Je sers piquette et pain bis ;
Puis il seche ses habits,
Meme a dormir le feu 1'invite.
Au reVeil, voyant mes pleurs,
II me dit: " Bonne espeYance !
Je cours, de tous ses malheurs,
Sous Paris, venger la France ".
II part ; et, comme un tre"sor,
J'ai depuis gard£ son verre,
Garde son verre.'
' Vous 1'avez encor, grand'mere !
Vous 1'avez encor ! '
" ' Le voici. Mais a sa perte
Le he'ros fut entrame.
Lui, qu'un pape a couronne',
Est mort dans une ile de"serte.
Longtemps aucun ne 1'a cru ;
On disait : " II va paraitre ;
Par mer il est accouru ;
L'etranger va voir son maitre ".
Quand d'erreur on nous tira,
Ma douleur fut bien amere !
Fut bien amere ! '
— ' Dieu vous bdnira, grand'mere ;
Dieu vous benira.' "
This is a great exception to the transitoriness of political
poetry. Such a character as that of Napoleon displayed on
so large a stage, so great a genius amid such scenery of
action, insures an immortality. "The page of universal
history" which he was always coveting, he has attained;
and it is a page which, from its singularity and its errors, its
shame and its glory, will distract the attention from other
pages. No one who has ever had in his mind the idea of
Napoleon's character can forget it. Nothing too can be more
natural than that the French should remember it. His
30 BERANGER
character possessed the primary imagination, the elementary
conceiving power, in which they are deficient. So far from
being restricted to the poetry of society, he would not have
even appreciated it. A certain bareness marks his mind ; his
style is curt ; the imaginative product is left rude ; there is
the distinct abstraction of the military diagram. The tact
of light and passing talk, the detective imagination which is
akin to that tact, and discovers the quick essence of social
things, — he never had. In speaking of his power over popu-
lar fancies, Beranger has called him " the greatest poet of
modern times". No genius can be more unlike his own,
and therefore perhaps it is that he admires it so much.
During the Hundred Days, Beranger says he was never
under the delusion, then not rare, that the Emperor could
become a constitutional monarch. The lion, he felt, would
not change his skin. After the return of the Bourbons, he
says, doubtless with truth, that his "instinct du peuple" told
him they could never ally themselves with liberal principles,
or unite with that new order of society which, though dating
from the Revolution, had acquired in five and twenty years
a half- prescriptive right. They and their followers came in to
take possession, and it was impossible they could unite with
what was in possession. During the whole reign of the
hereditary Bourbon dynasty, Beranger was in opposition.
Representing the natural sentiments of the new Frenchman,
he could not bear the natural tendency of the ruling power
to the half-forgotten practices of old France. The legitimate
Bourbons were by their position the chieftains of the party
advocating their right by birth ; they could not be the kings
of a people; and the poet of the people was against them.
After the genius of Napoleon, all other governing minds
would seem tame and contracted ; and Charles X. was not
a man to diminish the inevitable feeling. Beranger despised
him. As the poet warred with the weapons of poetry, the
Government retorted with the penalties of State. He was
turned out of his petty clerkship, he was twice imprisoned ;
but these things only increased his popularity; and a firm
and genial mind, so far from being moved, sang songs at
BER ANGER 31
La Force itself. The Revolution of 1830 was willing to
make his fortune.
" Je 1'ai traitee," he says, " comme une puissance qui peut avoir des
caprices auxquels il faut etre en mesure de resister. Tous cm presque
tous mes amis ont passe au ministere: j'en ai meme encore un ou deux
qui restent suspendus k ce mat de cocagne. Je me plais a croire qu'ils
y sont accroche's par la basque, malgre' les efforts qu'ils font pour des-
cendre. J'aurais done pu avoir part a la distribution des emplois.
Malheureusement je n'ai pas 1'amour des sinecures, et tout travail
oblig£ m'est devenu insupportable, hors peut-etre encore celui d'ex-
pe"ditionnaire. Des me'disants ont pre"tendu que je faisais de la vertu.
Fi done ! je faisais de la paresse. Ce deTaut m'a tenu lieu de bien des
quality's ; aussi je le recommande a beaucoup de nos honn£tes gens.
II expose pourtant k de singuliers reproches. C'est a cette paresse si
douce, que des censeurs rigides ont attribue' I'e'loignement ou je me
suis tenu de ceux de mes honorables amis qui ont eu le malheur d'ar-
river au pouvoir. Faisant trop d'honneur k ce qu'ils veulent bien appeler
ma bonne tete, et oubliant trop combien il y a loin du simple bon sens a
la science des grandes affaires, ces censeurs pre*tendent que mes conseils
eussent e*clair£ plus d'un ministre. A les croire, tapi derriere le fauteuil
de velours de nos hommes d'dtat, j'aurais conjure" les vents, dissipe" les
orages, et fait nager la France dans un oce'an de devices. Nous aurions
tous de la liberte" k revendre ou plutot k donner, car nous n'en savons pas
bien encore le prix. Eh ! messieurs mes deux ou trois amis, qui prenez
un chansonnier pour un magicien, on ne vous a done pas dit que le
pouvoir est une cloche qui empeche ceux qui la mettent en branle
d'entendre aucun autre son ? Sans doute des ministres consultent quel-
quefois ceux qu'ils ont sous la main : consulter est un moyen de parler de
soi qu'on ndglige rarement. Mais il ne suffirait pas de consulter de bonne
foi des gens qui conseilleraient de me'me. II faudrait encore exe"cuter:
ceci est la part du caractere. Les intentions les plus pures, le patriotisme
le plus e*clair£ ne le donnent pas toujours. Qui n'a vu de hauts person-
nages quitter un donneur d'avis avec une pense'e < courageuse, et, 1'instant
d'apres, revenir vers lui, de je ne sais quel lieu de fascination, avec
Pembarras d'un dementi donne* aux resolutions les plus sages ? « Oh ! '
disent-ils, ' nous n'y serons plus repris ! quelle galere ! ' Le plus honteux
ajoute: 'Je voudrais bien vous voir k ma place ! ' Quand un ministre
dit cela, soyez sur qu'il n'a plus la tete k lui. Cependant il en est un,
mais un seul, qui, sans avoir perdu la tete a r6p6t6 souvent ce mot de la
meilleure foi du monde ; aussi ne l'addressait-il jamais k un ami." 1
The statesman alluded to in the last paragraph is Manuel,
his intimate friend, from whom he declares he could never have
1 Preface to Chansons.
32 BER ANGER
been separated, but whose death prevented his obtaining poli-
tical honours. Nobody can read the above passage without
feeling its tone of political sense. An enthusiasm for, yet
half distrust of, the Revolution of July seems as sound a
sentiment as could be looked for even in the most sensible
contemporary. What he has thought of the present dynasty
we do not know. He probably has as little concurred in the
silly encomiums of its mere partisans as in the wild execrations
of its disappointed enemies. His opinion could not have been
either that of the English who feted Louis Napoleon in 1855,
or of those who despised him in 1851. The political fortunes
of France during the last ten years must have been a painful
scene of observation to one who remembered the taking of
the Bastille. If there be such a thing as failure in the world,
this looks like it.
Although we are very far from thinking that Beranger' s
claims on posterity are founded on his having utilised his talent
in favour of liberty, it is very natural that he should think or
half-think himself that it is so. His power over the multitude
must have given him great pleasure ; it is something to be
able to write mottoes for a revolution ; to write words for
people to use, and hear people use those words. The same
sort of pleasure which Horace derived from his nearness
to the centre of great action, Beranger has derived from the
power which his thorough sympathy with his countrymen has
given him over them. A political satire may be ephemeral
from the rapid oblivion of its circumstances ; but it is not un-
natural that the author, inevitably proud of its effect, may
consider it of higher worth than mere verses of society.
This shrewd sense gives a solidity to the verses of Beranger
which the social and amusing sort of poetry commonly wants ;
but nothing can redeem it from the reproach of wanting "back
thought "-1 This is inevitable in such literature ; as it professes
to delineate for us the light essence of a fugitive world, it can-
not be expected to dwell on those deep and eternal principles on
which that world is based. It ignores them as light talk ignores
them. The most opposite thing to the poetry of society is the
1 Derwent Coleridge on Hartley.
BERANGER
33
poetry of inspiration. There exists, of course, a kind of imag-
ination which detects the secrets of the universe — which fills
us sometimes with dread, sometimes with hope — which awakens
the soul, which makes pure the feelings, which explains Nature,
reveals what is above Nature, chastens "the deep heart of
man ".l Our senses teach us what the world is ; our intuitions
where it is. We see the blue and gold of the world, its lively
amusements, its gorgeous if superficial splendour, its currents
of men ; we feel its light spirits, we enjoy its happiness ; we
enjoy it, and we are puzzled. What is the object of all this ?
Why do we do all this? What is the universe for ? Such a
book as Beranger's suggests this difficulty in its strongest form.
It embodies the essence of all that pleasure-loving, pleasure-
giving, unaccountable world in which men spend their lives, —
which they are compelled to live in, but which the moment
you get out of it seems so odd that you can hardly believe it
is real. On this account, as we were saying before, there is
no book the impression of which varies so much in different
moods of mind. Sometimes no reading is so pleasant ; at
others you half-despise and half-hate the idea of it ; it seems
to sum up and make clear the littleness of your own nature.
Few can bear the theory of their amusements ; it is essential
to the pride of man to believe that he is industrious. We are
irritated at literary laughter, and wroth at printed mirth. We
turn angrily away to that higher poetry which gives the out-
line within which all these light colours are painted. From
the capital of levity, and its self-amusing crowds ; from the
elastic vaudeville and the grinning actors ; from chansons and
cafes we turn away to the solemn in Nature, to the blue over-
arching sky : the one remains, the many pass ; no number of
seasons impairs the bloom of those hues, they are as soft to-
morrow as to-day. The immeasurable depth folds us in.
"Eternity," as the original thinker said, "is everlasting." We
breathe a deep breath. And perhaps we have higher moments.
We comprehend the "unintelligible world";2 we see into
" the life of things " ; 3 we fancy we know whence we come
Shelley: "Alastor".
"Wordsworth: " Tintern Abbey ". * Ibid.
VOL. III. 3
34 BERANGER
and whither we go ; words we have repeated for years have a
meaning for the first time; texts of old Scripture seem to
apply to us. . . . And — and — Mr. Thackeray would say, You
come back into the town, and order dinner at a restaurant, and
read Beranger once more.
And though this is true — though the author of " Le Dieu des
Bonnes Gens " has certainly no claim to be called a profound
divine — though we do not find in him any proper expression,
scarcely any momentary recognition, of those intuitions which
explain in a measure the scheme and idea of things, and form
the back thought and inner structure of such minds as ours, —
his sense and sympathy with the people enable him, perhaps
compel him, to delineate those essential conditions which con-
stitute the structure of exterior life, and determine with inevit-
able certainty the common life of common persons. He has
no call to deal with heaven or the universe, but he knows the
earth ; he is restricted to the boundaries of time, but he under-
stands time. He has extended his delineations beyond what
in this country would be considered correct ; " Les Cinq Etages "
can scarcely be quoted here; but a perhaps higher example
of the same kind of art may be so : —
" Le Vieux Vagabond.
" Dans ce fosse cessons de vivre ;
Je finis vieux, infirme et las ;
Les passants vont dire : * II est ivre '.
Tant mieux ! ils ne me plaindront pas.
J'en vois qui detournent la tete ;
D'autres me jettent quelques sous.
Courez vite, allez a la fete :
Vieux vagabond, je puis mourir sans vous.
" Oui, je meurs ici de vieillesse,
Parce qu'on ne meurt pas de faim.
J'esperais voir de ma detresse
L'hopital adoucir la fin ;
Mais tout est plein dans chaque hospice,
Tant le peuple est infortune.
La rue, he'las ! fut ma nourrice :
Vieux vagabond, mourons ou je suis ne.
BER ANGER 35
" Aux artisans, dans mon jeune age,
J'ai dit : 'Qu'on m'enseigne un metier'.
' Va, nous n'avons pas trop d'ouvrage,'
Repondaient-ils, ' va mendier '.
Riches, qui me disiez : « Travaille,'
J'eus bien des os de vos repas ;
J'ai bien dormi sur votre paille :
Vieux vagabond, je ne vous maudis pas.
" J'aurais pu voler, moi, pauvre homme ;
Mais non : mieux vaut tendre la main.
Au plus, j'ai derobe la pomme
Qui murit au bord du chemin.
Vingt fois pourtant on me verrouille
Dans les cachots, de par le roi.
De mon seul bien on me depouille :
Vieux vagabond, le soleil est a moi.
" Le pauvre a-t-il une patrie ?
Que me font vos vins et vos bles,
Votre gloire et votre industrie,
Et vos orateurs assembles ?
Dans vos murs ouverts a ses armes
Lorsque 1'etranger s'engraissait,
Comme un sot j'ai verse des larmes :
Vieux vagabond, sa main me nourrissait.
" Comme un insecte fait pour nuire,
Hommes, que ne m'ecrasiez-vous !
Ah ! plutot vous deviez m'instruire
A travailler au bien de tous.
Mis a 1'abri du vent contraire,
Le ver fut devenu fourmi ;
Je vous aurais cheris en frere :
Vieux vagabond, je meurs votre ennemi."
Pathos in such a song as this enters into poetry. We
sympathise with the essential lot of man. Poems of this
kind are doubtless rare in Beranger. His commoner style
is lighter and more cheerful ; but no poet who has painted
so well the light effervescence of light society can, when he
likes, paint so well the solid, stubborn forms with which it
is encompassed. The genial, firm sense of a large mind
sees and comprehends all of human life which lies within the
sphere of sense. He is an epicurean, as all merely sensible
3*
36 BERANGER
men by inevitable consequence are ; and as an epicurean, he
prefers to deal with the superficial and gay forms of life ; but
he can deal with others when he chooses to be serious. In-
deed, there is no melancholy like the melancholy of the
epicurean. He is alive to the fixed conditions of earth, but
not to that which is above earth. He muses on the temporary,
as such ; he admits the skeleton, but not the soul. It is
wonderful that Beranger is so cheerful as he is.
We may conclude as we began. In all his works, in
lyrics of levity, of politics, of worldly reflection, — Beranger,
if he had not a single object, has attained a uniform result.
He has given us an idea of the essential French character,
such as we fancy it must be, but can never for ourselves
hope to see that it is. We understand the nice tact, the
quick intelligence, the gay precision; the essence of the
drama we know — the spirit of what we have seen. We know
his feeling : —
" J'aime qu'un Russe soit Russe,
Et qu'un Anglais soit Anglais ;
Si 1'on est Prussien en Prusse,
En France soyons Frangais "-1
He has acted accordingly: he has delineated to us the es-
sential Frenchman.
1 " Le Bon Francis."
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS.1
(1858.)
IT is not commonly on the generation which was contem-
porary with the production of great works of art that they
exercise their most magical influence. Nor is it on the
distant people whom we call posterity. Contemporaries
bring to new books formed minds and stiffened creeds ;
posterity, if it regard them at all, looks at them as old sub-
jects, worn-out topics, and hears a disputation on their merits
with languid impartiality, like aged judges in a court of
appeal. Even standard authors exercise but slender influence
on the susceptible minds of a rising generation ; they are
become " papa's books " ; the walls of the library are adorned
with their regular volumes; but no hand touches them.
Their fame is itself half an obstacle to their popularity ; a
delicate fancy shrinks from employing so great a celebrity as
the companion of an idle hour. The generation which is
really most influenced by a work of genius is commonly that
which is still young when the first controversy respecting its
merits arises ; with the eagerness of youth they read and re-
1 Library Edition. Illustrated by upwards of Two Hundred En-
gravings on Steel, after Drawings by Turner, Landseer, Wilkie, Stanfield,
Roberts, etc., including Portraits of the Historical Personages described
in the Novels. 25 vols. demy 8vo.
Abbotsford Edition. With One Hundred and Twenty Engravings on
Steel, and nearly Two Thousand on Wood. 2 vols. super-royal 8vo.
Author's favourite Edition. 48 vols. post 8vo.
Cabinet Edition. 25 vols. foolscap 8vo.
Railway Edition. 25 portable volumes, large type.
People's Edition. 5 large volumes royal 8vo.
37
38 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
read ; their vanity is not unwilling to adjudicate : in the process
their imagination is formed ; the creations of the author range
themselves in the memory ; they become part of the substance
of the very mind. The works of Sir Walter Scott can hardly
be said to have gone through this exact process. Their
immediate popularity was unbounded. No one— a few most
captious critics apart — ever questioned their peculiar power.
Still they are subject to a transition, which is in principle the
same. At the time of their publication mature contem-
poraries read them with delight. Superficial the reading of
grown men in some sort must be ; it is only once in a lifetime
that we can know the passionate reading of youth ; men soon
lose its eager learning power. But from peculiarities in their
structure, which we shall try to indicate, the novels of Scott
suffered less than almost any book of equal excellence from
this inevitable superficiality of perusal. Their plain, and, so
to say, cheerful merits suit the occupied man of genial middle
life. Their appreciation was to an unusual degree coincident
with their popularity. The next generation, hearing the
praises of their fathers in their earliest reading time, seized
with avidity on the volumes ; and there is much in very many
of them which is admirably fitted for the delight of boyhood.
A third generation has now risen into at least the commence-
ment of literary life, which is quite removed from the un-
bounded enthusiasm with which the Scotch novels were
originally received, and does not always share the still more
eager partiality of those who, in the opening of their minds,
first received the tradition of their excellence. New books
have arisen to compete with these ; new interests distract us
from them. The time, therefore, is not perhaps unfavourable
for a slight criticism of these celebrated fictions ; and their
continual republication without any criticism for many years,
seems almost to demand it.
There are two kinds of fiction which, though in common
literature they may run very much into one another, are yet
in reality distinguishable and separate. One of these, which
we may call the ubiquitous, aims at describing the whole of
human life in all its spheres, in all its aspects, with all its
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 39
varied interests, aims, and objects. It searches through the
whole life of man ; his practical pursuits, his speculative
attempts, his romantic youth, and his domestic age. It gives
an entire picture of all these ; or if there be any lineaments
which it forbears to depict, they are only such as the inevitable
repression of a regulated society excludes from the admitted
province of literary art. Of this kind are the novels of
Cervantes and Le Sage, and, to a certain extent, of Smollett
or Fielding. In our own time, Mr. Dickens is an author
whom Nature intended to write to a certain extent with this
aim. He should have given us not disjointed novels, with a
vague attempt at a romantic plot, but sketches of diversified
scenes, and the obvious life of varied mankind. The literary
fates, however, if such beings there are, allotted otherwise.
By a very terrible example of the way in which in this world
great interests are postponed to little ones, the genius of
authors is habitually sacrificed to the tastes of readers. In
this age, the great readers of fiction are young people. The
" addiction " of these is to romance ; and accordingly a kind of
novel has become so familiar to us as almost to engross the
name, which deals solely with the passion of love ; and if it
uses other parts of human life for the occasions of its art, it
does so only cursorily and occasionally, and with a view of
throwing into a stronger or more delicate light those senti-
mental parts of earthly affairs which are the special objects of
delineation. All prolonged delineation of other parts of human
life is considered " dry," stupid, and distracts the mind of the
youthful generation from the "fantasies" which peculiarly
charm it. Mr. Olmstead has a story of some deputation of
the Indians, at which the American orator harangued the bar-
barian audience about the "great spirit," and "the land of
their fathers," in the style of Mr. Cooper's novels ; during a
moment's pause in the great stream, an old Indian asked the
deputation : " Why does your chief speak thus to us ? We did
not wish great instruction or fine words ; we desire brandy
and tobacco." No critic in a time of competition will speak
uncourteously of any reader of either sex ; but it is indisputable
that the old kind of novel, full of " great instruction " and
40 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
varied pictures, does not afford to some young gentlemen
and some young ladies either the peculiar stimulus or the
peculiar solace which they desire.
The Waverley Novels were published at a time when the
causes that thus limit the sphere of fiction were coming into
operation, but when they had not yet become so omnipotent
as they are now. Accordingly, these novels everywhere bear
marks of a state of transition. They are not devoted with
anything like the present exclusiveness to the sentimental part
of human life. They describe great events, singular characters,
strange accidents, strange states of society ; they dwell with a
peculiar interest — and as if for their own sake — on antiquarian
details relating to a past society. Singular customs, social
practices, even political institutions which existed once in
Scotland, and elsewhere, during the midde ages, are explained
with a careful minuteness. At the same time the sentimental
element assumes a great deal of prominence. The book is in
fact, as well as in theory, a narrative of the feelings and
fortunes of the hero and heroine. An attempt more or less
successful has been made to insert an interesting love-story in
each novel. Sir Walter was quite aware that the best delinea-
tion of the oddest characters, or the most quaint societies, or
the strangest incidents, would not in general satisfy his readers.
He has invariably attempted an account of youthful, sometimes
of decidedly juvenile, feelings and actions. The difference
between Sir Walter's novels and the specially romantic fictions
of the present day is, that in the former the love-story is always,
or nearly always, connected with some great event, or the
fortunes of some great historical character, or the peculiar
movements and incidents of some strange state of society;
and that the author did not suppose or expect that his readers
would be so absorbed in the sentimental aspect of human life
as to be unable or unwilling to be interested in, or to attend
to, any other. There is always a locus in quo, if the expres-
sion may be pardoned, in the Waverley Novels. The hero
and heroine walk among the trees of the forest according to
rule, but we are expected to take an interest in the forest as
well as in them.
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 41
No novel, therefore, of Sir Walter Scott's can be considered
to come exactly within the class which we have called the
ubiquitous. None of them in any material degree attempts
to deal with human affairs in all their spheres — to delineate as
a whole the life of man. The canvas has a large background,
in some cases too large either for artistic effect or the common
reader's interest ; but there are always real boundaries — Sir
Walter had no thesis to maintain. Scarcely any writer will
set himself to delineate the whole of human life, unless he has
a doctrine concerning human life to put forth and inculcate.
The effort is doctrinaire. Scott's imagination was strictly
conservative. He could understand (with a few exceptions)
any considerable movement of human life and action, and
could always describe with easy freshness everything which he
did understand ; but he was not obliged by stress of fanaticism
to maintain a dogma concerning them, or to show their
peculiar relation to the general sphere of life. He described
vigorously and boldly the peculiar scene and society which in
every novel he had selected as the theatre of romantic action.
Partly from their fidelity to nature, and partly from a consist-
ency in the artist's mode of representation, these pictures
group themselves from the several novels in the imagination,
and an habitual reader comes to think of and understand what
is meant by " Scott's world " ; but the writer had no such
distinct object before him. No one novel was designed to be
a delineation of the world as Scott viewed it. We have vivid
and fragmentary histories ; it is for the slow critic of after-
times to piece together their teaching.
From this intermediate position of the Waverley Novels,
or at any rate in exact accordance with its requirements, is the
special characteristic for which they are most remarkable. We
may call this in a brief phrase their romantic sense ; and perhaps
we cannot better illustrate it than by a quotation from the
novel to which the series owes its most usual name. It occurs
in the description of the Court ball which Charles Edward
is described as giving at Holyrood House the night before his
march southward on his strange adventure. The striking
interest of the scene before him, and the peculiar position of
42 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
his own sentimental career, are described as influencing the
mind of the hero.
" Under the influence of these mixed sensations, and cheered at
times by a smile of intelligence and approbation from the Prince as he
passed the group, Waverley exerted his powers of fancy, animation, and
eloquence, and attracted the general admiration of the company. The
conversation gradually assumed the line best qualified for the display of
his talents and acquisitions. The gaiety of the evening was exalted in
character, rather than checked, by the approaching dangers of the
morrow. All nerves were strung for the future, and prepared to enjoy the
present. This mood is highly favourable for the exercise of the powers
of imagination, for poetry, and for that eloquence which is allied to
poetry." l
Neither " eloquence " nor " poetry " are the exact words
with which it would be appropriate to describe the fresh
style of the Waverley Novels ; but the imagination of their
author was stimulated by a fancied mixture of sentiment
and fact, very much as he describes Waverley's to have
been by a real experience of the two at once. The second
volume of Waverley is one of the most striking illustrations
of this peculiarity. The character of Charles Edward, his
adventurous undertaking, his ancestral rights, the mixed
selfishness and enthusiasm of the Highland chiefs, the
fidelity of their hereditary followers, their striking and strange
array, the contrast with the Baron of Bradwardine and the
Lowland gentry ; the collision of the motley and half-ap-
pointed host with the formed and finished English society,
its passage by the Cumberland mountains and the blue
lake of Ullswater — are unceasingly and without effort present
to the mind of the writer, and incite with their historical
interest the susceptibility of his imagination. But at the
same time the mental struggle, or rather transition, in the
mind of Waverley — for his mind was of ,the faint order which
scarcely struggles — is never for an instant lost sight of.
In the very midst of the inroad and the conflict, the acquiescent
placidity with which the hero exchanges the service of the
imperious for the appreciation of the "nice" heroine, is kept
before us, and the imagination of Scott wandered without
1 Chap, xliii.
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 43
effort from the great scene of martial affairs to the natural
but rather unheroic sentiments of a young gentleman not very
difficult to please. There is no trace of effort in the tran-
sition, as is so common in the inferior works of later copyists.
Many historical novelists, especially those who with care and
pains have " read up " their detail, are often evidently in a
strait how to pass from their history to their sentiment. The
fancy of Sir Walter could not help connecting the two. If
he had given us the English side of the race to Derby, he
would have described the Bank of England paying'in sixpences,
and also the loves of the cashier.
It is not unremarkable in connection with this, the special
characteristic of the " Scotch novels," that their author began
his literary life by collecting the old ballads of his native
country. Ballad poetry is, in comparison at least with many
other kinds of poetry, a sensible thing. It describes not only
romantic events, but historical ones, incidents in which there
is a form and body and consistence — events which have a
result. Such a poem as " Chevy Chace," we need not ex-
plain, has its prosaic side. The latest historian of Greece1
has nowhere been more successful than in his attempt to
derive from Homer, the greatest of ballad poets, a thorough
and consistent account of the political working of the Hom-
eric state of society. The early natural imagination of men
seizes firmly on all which interests the minds and hearts of
natural men. We find in its delineations the council as well
as the marriage ; the harsh conflict as well as the deep love-
affair. Scott's own poetry is essentially a modernised edition
of the traditional poems which his early youth was occupied
in collecting. The " Lady of the Lake " is a sort of boudoir
ballad, yet it contains its element of common-sense and broad
delineation. The exact position of Lowlander and Highlander
would not be more aptly described in a set treatise than in
the well-known lines : —
" Saxon, from yonder mountain high
I marked thee send delighted eye
Far to the south and east, where lay,
1 Grote.
44 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
Extended in succession gay,
Deep waving fields and pastures green,
With gentle slopes and groves between :
These fertile plains, that softened vale,
Were once the birthright of the Gael.
The stranger came with iron hand,
And from our fathers reft the land.
Where dwell we now ! See, rudely swell
Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell.
Ask we this savage hill we tread,
For fattened steer or household bread ;
Ask we for flocks these shingles dry, —
And well the mountain might reply :
' To you, as to your sires of yore,
Belong the target and claymore ;
I give you shelter in my breast,
Your own good blades must win the rest '.
Pent in this fortress of the North,
Think'st thou we will not sally forth
To spoil the spoiler as we may,
And from the robber rend the prey ?
Ay, by my soul ! While on yon plain
The Saxon rears one shock of grain ;
While of ten thousand herds there strays
But one along yon river's maze ;
The Gael, of plain and river heir,
Shall with strong hand redeem his share."
We need not search the same poem for specimens of the
romantic element, for the whole poem is full of them. The
incident in which Ellen discovers who Fitz-James really is, is
perhaps excessively romantic. At any rate the lines,—
" To him each lady's look was lent ;
On him each courtier's eye was bent ;
Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen,
He stood in simple Lincoln green,
The centre of the glittering ring,
And Snowdoun's knight is Scotland's king," —
may be cited as very sufficient example of the sort : of senti-
mental incident which is separable from extreme feeling.
When Scott, according to his own half-jesting but half-serious
expression, was " beaten out of poetry " by Byron, he began
to express in more pliable prose the same combination which
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 45
his verse had been used to convey. As might have been ex-
pected, the sense became in the novels more free, vigorous,
and flowing, because it is less cramped by the vehicle in
which it is conveyed. The range of character which can be
adequately delineated in narrative verse is much narrower
than that which can be described in the combination of nar-
rative with dramatic prose ; and perhaps even the sentiment
of the novels is manlier and freer ; a delicate unreality hovers
over the " Lady of the Lake ".
The sensible element, if we may so express it, of the
Waverley Novels appears in various forms. One of the most
striking is in the delineation of great political events and in-
fluential political institutions. We are not by any means
about to contend that Scott is to be taken as an infallible or
an impartial authority for the parts of history which he de-
lineates. On the contrary, we believe all the world now
agrees that there are many deductions to be made from, many
exceptions to be taken to, the accuracy of his delineations.
Still, whatever period or incident we take, we shall always
find in the error a great, in one or two cases perhaps an ex-
treme, mixture of the mental element which we term common-
sense. The strongest z/#sensible feeling in Scott was perhaps
his Jacobitism, which crept out even in small incidents and
recurring prejudice throughout the whole of his active career,
and was, so to say, the emotional aspect of his habitual
Toryism. Yet no one can have given a more sensible de-
lineation, we might say a more statesmanlike analysis, of the
various causes which led to the momentary success, and to the
speedy ruin, of the enterprise of Charles Edward.1 Mr.
Lockhart says, that notwithstanding Scott's imaginative
readiness to exalt Scotland at the expense of England, no
man would have been more willing to join in emphatic op-
position to an anti-English party, if any such had presented
itself with a practical object. Similarly his Jacobitism, though
not without moments of real influence, passed away when his
mind was directed to broad masses of fact, and general con-
clusions of political reasoning. A similar observation may be
1 In Waverley.
46 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
made as to Scott's Toryism ; although it is certain that there
was an enthusiastic, and, in the malicious sense, poetical
element in Scott's Toryism, yet quite as indisputably it
partook largely of two other elements, which are in common
repute prosaic. He shared abundantly in the love of ad-
ministration and organisation, common to all men of great
active powers. He liked to contemplate method at work and
order in action. Everybody hates to hear that the Duke of
Wellington asked " how the king's government was to be
carried on". No amount of warning wisdom will bear so
fearful a repetition. Still he did say it, and Scott had a
sympathising foresight of the oracle before it was spoken.
One element of his conservatism is his sympathy with the
administrative arrangement, which is confused by the ob-
jections of a Whiggish opposition and is liable to be al-
together destroyed by uprisings of the populace. His
biographer, while pointing out the strong contrast between
Scott and the argumentative and parliamentary statesmen of
his age, avows his opinion that in other times, and with
sufficient opportunities, Scott's ability in managing men would
have enabled him to " play the part of Cecil or of Gondomar "-1
We may see how much a suppressed enthusiasm for such
abilities breaks out, not only in the description of hereditary
monarchs, where the sentiment might be ascribed to a
different origin, but also in the delineation of upstart rulers,
who could have no hereditary sanctity in the eyes of any Tory.
Roland Graeme, in The Abbot, is well described as losing in
the presence of the Regent Murray the natural impertinence
of his disposition. "He might have braved with indifference
the presence of an earl merely distinguished by his belt and
coronet ; but he felt overawed in that of the soldier and
statesman, the wielder of a nation's power, and the leader of
her armies." 2 It is easy to perceive that the author shares
the feeling of his hero by the evident pleasure with which he
1 Lockhart's Life of Scott, vol. v., chap, viii., in re Scott's manage-
ment of the Highland pageant on George IV.'s visit to Scotland. (For-
rest Morgan.)
2 Chap, xviii.
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 47
dwells on the regent's demeanour : " He then turned slowly
round toward Roland Graeme, and the marks of gaiety, real
or assumed, disappeared from his countenance as completely
as the passing bubbles leave the dark mirror of a still pro-
found lake into which the traveller has cast a stone ; in the
course of a minute his noble features had assumed their
natural expression of melancholy gravity," l etc. In real life,
Scott used to say, that he never remembered feeling abashed
in any one's presence except the Duke of Wellington's. Like
that of the hero of his novel, his imagination was very sus-
ceptible to the influence of great achievements and prolonged
success in wide-spreading affairs.
The view which Scott seems to have taken of democracy
indicates exactly the same sort of application of a plain sense
to the visible parts of the subject. His imagination was
singularly penetrated with the strange varieties and motley
composition of human life. The extraordinary multitude and
striking contrast of the characters in his novels show this at
once. And even more strikingly is the same habit of mind
indicated "by a tendency never to omit an opportunity of
describing those varied crowds and assemblages " which con-
centrate for a moment into a unity the scattered and unlike
varieties of mankind. Thus, but a page or two before the
passage which we alluded to in The Abbot, we find the
following : —
" It was indeed no common sight to Roland, the vestibule of a palace,
traversed by its various groups, — some radiant with gaiety — some pensive,
and apparently weighed down by affairs concerning the State, or concern-
ing themselves. Here the hoary statesman, with his cautious yet com-
manding look, his furred cloak and sable pantoufles ; there the soldier in
buff and steel, his long sword jarring against the pavement, and his
whiskered upper lip and frowning brow looking an habitual defiance of
danger, which perhaps was not always made good ; there again passed
my lord's serving-man, high of heart and bloody of hand, humble to his
master and his master's equals, insolent to all others. To these might be
added the poor suitor, with his anxious look and depressed mien — the
officer, full of his brief authority, elbowing his betters, and possibly his
benefactors, out of the road — the proud priest who sought a better benefice —
1 Chap, xviii.
48 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
the proud baron, who sought a grant of Church lands — the robber chief,
who came to solicit a pardon for the injuries he had inflicted on his neigh-
bours— the plundered franklin, who came to seek vengeance for that
which he had himself received. Besides, there was the mustering and
disposition of guards and soldiers — the despatching of messengers, and
the receiving them — the trampling and neighing of horses without the gate
— the flashing of arms, and rustling of plumes, and jingling of spurs within
it. In short, it was that gay and splendid confusion, in which the eye of
youth sees all that is brave and brilliant, and that of experience much that
is doubtful, deceitful, false, and hollow — hopes that will never be gratified —
promises which will never be fulfilled — pride in the disguise of humility —
and insolence in that of frank and generous bounty." 1
As in the imagination of Shakespeare, so in that of Scott,
the principal form and object were the structure — that is a
hard word — the undulation and diversified composition of
human society ; the picture of this stood in the centre, and
everything else was accessory and secondary to it. The old
" rows of books," in which Scott so peculiarly delighted, were
made to contribute their element to this varied imagination of
humanity. From old family histories, odd memoirs, old law-
trials, his fancy elicited new traits to add to the motley assem-
blage. His objection to democracy — an objection of which
we can only appreciate the emphatic force, when we remember
that his youth was contemporary with the first French Revolu-
tion, and the controversy as to the uniform and stereotyped
rights of man — was, that it would sweep away this entire
picture, level prince and peasant in a common egalite, — sub-
stitute a scientific rigidity for the irregular and picturesque
growth of centuries, — replace an abounding and genial life by
a symmetrical but lifeless mechanism. All the descriptions
of society in the novels, — whether of feudal society, of modern
Scotch society or of English society, — are largely coloured by
this feeling. It peeps out everywhere, and liberal critics have
endeavoured to show that it was a narrow Toryism ; but in
reality, it is a subtle compound of the natural instinct of the
artist with the plain sagacity of the man of the world.
It would be tedious to show how clearly the same sagacity
appears in his delineation of the various great events and
1 Chap, xviii., 3rd paragraph.
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 49
movements in society which are described in the Scotch novels.
There is scarcely one of them which does not bear it on its
surface. Objections may, as we shall show, be urged against
the delineation which Scott has given of the Puritan resistance
and rebellions, yet scarcely any one will say there is not a
worldly sense in it. On the contrary, the very objection is,
that it is too worldly, and far too exclusively sensible.
The same thoroughly well-grounded sagacity and compre-
hensive appreciation of human life is shown in the treatment
of what we may call anomalous characters. In general, mon-
strosity is no topic for art. Every one has known in real life
characters which if, apart from much experience, he had found
described in books, he would have thought unnatural and im-
possible. Scott, however, abounds in such characters. Meg
Merrilies, Edie Ochiltree, Radcliffe,1 are more or less of that
description. That of Meg Merrilies especially is as distorted
and eccentric as anything can be. Her appearance is described
as making Mannering " start " ; and well it might.
" She was full six feet high, wore a man's greatcoat over the rest of
her dress, had in her hand a goodly sloethorn cudgel, and in all points of
equipment except her petticoats seemed rather masculine than feminine.
Her dark elf-locks shot out like the snakes of the gorgon between an old-
fashioned bonnet called a bongrace, heightening the singular effect of
her strong and weather-beaten features, which they partly shadowed,
while her eye had a wild roll that indicated something of insanity." 2
Her career in the tale corresponds with the strangeness
of her exterior. " Harlot, thief, witch, and gipsy," as she
describes herself, the hero is preserved by her virtues ; half-
crazed as she is described to be, he owes his safety on more
than one occasion to her skill in stratagem, and ability in
managing those with whom she is connected, and who are
most likely to be familiar with her weakness and to detect
her craft. Yet on hardly any occasion is the natural reader
conscious of this strangeness. Something is of course attri-
butable to the skill of the artist ; for no other power of mind
could produce the effect, unless it were aided by the un-
1 In Guy Mannering, The Antiquary and The Heart of Mid-Lothian.
2 Guy Mannering, chap. iii.
VOL. III. 4
50 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
conscious tact of detailed expression. But the fundamental
explanation of this remarkable success is the distinctness
with which Scott saw how such a character as Meg Merrilies
arose and was produced out of the peculiar circumstances of
gipsy life in the localities in which he has placed his scene.
He has exhibited this to his readers not by lengthy or
elaborate description, but by chosen incidents, short com-
ments, and touches of which he scarcely foresaw the effect.
This is the only way in which the fundamental objection to
making eccentricity the subject of artistic treatment can be
obviated. Monstrosity ceases to be such when we discern
the laws of Nature which evolve it : when a real science
explains its phenomena, we find that it is in strict accord-
ance with what we call the natural type, but that some rare
adjunct or uncommon casualty has interfered and distorted
a nature which is really the same, into a phenomenon which
is altogether different. Just so with eccentricity in human
character ; it becomes a topic of literary art only when its
identity with the ordinary principles of human nature is
exhibited in the midst of, and as it were by means of, the
superficial unlikeness. Such a skill, however, requires an
easy careless familiarity with usual human life and common
human conduct. A writer must have a sympathy with health
before he can show us how, and where, and to what extent,
that which is unhealthy deviates from it ; and it is this con-
sistent acquaintance with regular life which makes the irregular
characters of Scott so happy a contrast to the uneasy distor-
tions of less sagacious novelists.
A good deal of the same criticism may be applied to the
delineation which Scott has given us of the poor. In truth,
poverty is an anomaly to rich people. It is very difficult to
make out why people who want dinner do not ring the bell.
One half of the world, according to the saying, do not know
how the other half lives. Accordingly, nothing is so rare in
fiction as a good delineation of the poor. Though perpetually
with us in reality, we rarely meet them in our reading. The
requirements of the case present an unusual difficulty to artistic
delineation. A good deal of the character of the poor is an
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 51
unfit topic for continuous art, and yet we wish to have in our
books a life-like exhibition of the whole of that character.
Mean manners and mean vices are unfit for prolonged delinea-
tion ; the every-day pressure of narrow necessities is too petty
a pain and too anxious a reality to be dwelt upon. We can
bear the mere description of the Parish Register —
" But this poor farce has neither truth nor art
To please the fancy or to touch the heart.
Dark but not awful, dismal but yet mean,
With anxious bustle moves the cumbrous scene ;
Presents no objects tender or profound,
But spreads its cold unmeaning gloom around ; " —
but who could bear to have a( long narrative of fortunes
" dismal but yet mean," with characters "dark but not awful,"
and no objects " tender or profound "? Mr. Dickens has
in various parts of his writings been led by a sort of pre-
Raphaelite cultus of reality into an error of this species. His
poor people have taken to their poverty very thoroughly ; they
are poor talkers and poor livers, and in all ways poor people
to read about. A whole array of writers have fallen into
an opposite mistake. Wishing to preserve their delineations
clear from the defects of meanness and vulgarity, they have
attributed to the poor a fancied happiness and Arcadian
simplicity. The conventional shepherd of ancient times was
scarcely displeasing : that which is by everything except ex-
; press avowal removed from the sphere of reality does not
I annoy us by its deviations from reality ; but the fictitious poor
of sentimental novelists are brought almost into contact with
real life, half claim to be copies of what actually exists at our
;very doors, are introduced in close proximity to characters
i moving in a higher rank, over whom no such ideal charm is
! diffused, and who are painted with as much truth as the
i writer's ability enables him to give. Accordingly, the contrast
!is evident and displeasing : the harsh outlines of poverty will
i not bear the artificial rose-tint ; they are seen through it, like
I high cheek-bones through the delicate colours of artificial
jyouth ; we turn away with some disgust from the false ele-
Igance and undeceiving art ; we prefer the rough poor of
4*
52 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
nature to the petted poor of the refining describer. Scott has
most felicitously avoided both these errors. His poor people
are never coarse and never vulgar ; their lineaments have the
rude traits which a life of conflict will inevitably leave on the
minds and manners of those who are to lead it ; their notions
have the narrowness which is inseparable from a contracted
experience ; their knowledge is not more extended than their
restricted means of attaining it would render possible. Al-
most alone among novelists Scott has given a thorough,
minute, life-like description of poor persons, which is at
same time genial and pleasing. The reason seems to be, ttu
the firm sagacity of his genius comprehended the industry
aspect of poor people's life thoroughly and comprehensive!]
his experience brought it before him easily and naturally, anc
his artist's mind and genial disposition enabled him to dwell
on those features which would be most pleasing to the world
in general. In fact, his own mind of itself and by its own
nature dwelt on those very peculiarities. He could not re-
move his firm and instructed genius into the domain of
Arcadian unreality, but he was equally unable to dwell prin-
cipally, peculiarly, or consecutively, on those petty, vulgar,
mean details in which such a writer as Crabbe lives and
breathes. Hazlitt said that Crabbe described a poor man's
cottage like a man who came to distrain for rent ; he cata-
logued every trivial piece of furniture, defects and cracks and
all. Scott describes it as a cheerful but most sensible land-
lord would describe a cottage on his property: he has a
pleasure in it. No detail, or few details, in the life of the
inmates escape his experienced and interested eye ; but he
dwells on those which do not displease him. He sympathises
with their rough industry and plain joys and sorrows. He
does not fatigue himself or excite their wondering smile by
theoretical plans of impossible relief. He makes the best of
the life which is given, and by a sanguine sympathy makes
it still better. A hard life many characters in Scott seem to
lead ; but he appreciates, and makes his reader appreciate,
the full value of natural feelings, plain thoughts, and applied
sagacity.
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 53
His ideas of political economy are equally characteristic
of his strong sense and genial mind. He was always sneering
at Adam Smith, and telling many legends of that philosopher's
absence of mind and inaptitude for the ordinary conduct of life.
A contact with the Edinburgh logicians had, doubtless, not
augmented his faith in the formal deductions of abstract econ-
omy ; nevertheless, with the facts before him, he could give a
very plain and satisfactory exposition of the genial consequences
of old abuses, the distinct necessity for stern reform, and the
delicate humanity requisite for introducing that reform temper-
ately and with feeling : —
" Even so the Laird of Ellangowan ruthlessly commenced his magis-
terial reform, at the expense of various established and superannuated
pickers and stealers, who had been his neighbours for half a centuiy. He
wrought his miracles like a second Duke Humphrey ; and by the influence
of the beadle's rod, caused the lame to walk, the blind to see, and the
palsied to labour. He detected poachers, black-fishers, orchard-breakers,
and pigeon-shooters ; had the applause of the bench for his reward, and
the public credit of an active magistrate.
" All this good had its rateable proportion of evil. Even an admitted
nuisance, of ancient standing, should not be abated without some caution.
The zeal of our worthy friend now involved in great distress sundry per-
sonages whose idle and mendicant habits his own Idchesse had contributed
to foster, until these habits had become irreclaimable, or whose real
incapacity for exertion rendered them fit objects, in their own phrase, for
the charity of all well-disposed Christians. The * long-remembered beggar,'
who for twenty years had made his regular rounds within the neighbour-
hood, received rather as an humble friend than as an object of charity,
was sent to the neighbouring workhouse. The decrepit dame, who tra-
velled round the parish upon a hand-barrow, circulating from house to
house like a bad shilling, which every one is in haste to pass to his neigh-
bour ; she who used to call for her bearers as loud, or louder, than a
traveller demands post-horses, even she shared the same disastrous fate.
The 'daft Jock,' who, half knave, half idiot, had been the sport of each
succeeding race of village children for a good part of a century, was re-
mitted to the county bridewell, where, secluded from free air and sunshine,
the only advantages he was capable of enjoying, he pined and died in the
course of six months. The old sailor, who had so long rejoiced the smoky
rafters of every kitchen in the country, by singing ' Captain Ward ' and
' Bold Admiral Benbow,' was banished from the county for no better reason
than that he was supposed to speak with a strong Irish accent. Even the
annual rounds of the pedlar were abolished by the Justice, in his hasty zeal
for the administration of rural police.
54 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
" These things did not pass without notice and censure. We are not
made of wood or stone, and the things which connect themselves with our
hearts and habits cannot, like bark or lichen, be rent away without our
missing them. The farmer's dame lacked her usual share of intelligence,
perhaps also the self-applause which she had felt while distributing the
aivmous (alms), in shape of a goivpen (handful) of oatmeal, to the men-
dicant who brought the news. The cottage felt inconvenience from in-
terruption of the petty trade carried on by the itinerant dealers. The
children lacked their supply of sugar-plums and toys ; the young women
wanted pins, ribbons, combs, and ballads ; and the old could no longer
barter their eggs for salt, snuff, and tobacco. All these circumstances
brought the busy Laird of Ellangowan into discredit, which was the more
general on account of his former popularity. Even his lineage was
brought up in judgment against him. They thought ' naething of what
the like of Greenside, or Burnville, or Viewforth, might do, that were
strangers in the country ; but Ellangowan ! that had been a name amang
them since the mirk Monanday, and lang before — him to be grinding the
puir at that rate ! — They ca'd his grandfather the Wicked Laird ; but,
though he was whiles fractious aneuch, when he got into roving company,
and had ta'en the drap drink, he would have scorned to gang on at this
gate. Na, na, the muckle chumley in the Auld Place reeked like a
killogie in his time, and there were as mony puir folk riving at the banes
in the court and about the door, as there were gentles in the ha'. And
the leddy, on ilka Christmas night as it came round, gae twelve siller
pennies to ilka puir body about, in honour of the twelve apostles like.
They were fond to ca' it papistrie ; but I think our great folk might take
a lesson frae the papists whiles. They gie another sort o' help to puir
folk than just dinging down a saxpence in the brod on the Sabbath, and
kilting, and scourging, and drumming them a' the sax days o' the week
besides.' " l
Many other indications of the same healthy and natural
sense, which gives so much of their characteristic charm to
the Scotch novels, might be pointed out, if it were necessary
to weary our readers by dwelling longer on a point we have
already laboured so much. One more, however, demands
notice because of its importance, and perhaps also because,
from its somewhat less obvious character, it might otherwise
escape without notice. There has been frequent controversy
as to the penal code, if we may so call it, of fiction ; that is,
as to the apportionment of reward and punishment respectively
to the good and evil personages therein delineated ; and the
1 Guy Mannering, chap. vi.
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 55
practice of authors has been as various as the legislation of
critics. One school abandons all thought on the matter, and
declares that in the real life we see around us, good people
often fail, and wicked people continually prosper ; and would
deduce the precept, that it is unwise in an art which should
" hold the mirror up to nature," 1 not to copy the uncertain and
irregular distribution of its sanctions. Another school, with an
exactness which savours at times of pedantry, apportions the
success and the failure, the pain and the pleasure of fictitious
life, to the moral qualities of those who are living in it — does
not think at all, or but little, of any other quality in those
characters, and does not at all care whether the penalty and
reward are evolved in natural sequence from the circumstances
and characters of the tale, or are owing to some monstrous
accident far removed from all relation of cause or consequence
to those facts and people. Both these classes of writers pro-
duce works which jar on the natural sense of common readers,
and are at issue with the analytic criticism of the best critics.
One school leaves an impression of an uncared-for world, in
which there is no right and no wrong ; the other, of a sort of
Governesses' Institution of a world, where all praise and all
blame, all good and all pain, are made to turn on special graces
and petty offences, pesteringly spoken of and teasingly watched
for. The manner of Scott is thoroughly different ; you can
scarcely lay down any novel of his without a strong feeling
that the world in which the fiction has been laid, and in which
your imagination has been moving, is one subject to laws of
retribution which, though not apparent on a superficial glance,
are yet in steady and consistent operation, and will be quite
sure to work their due effect, if time is only given to them.
Sagacious men know that this is in its best aspect the condi-
tion of life. Certain of the ungodly may, notwithstanding the
Psalmist, flourish even through life like a green bay-tree ; for
providence, in external appearance (far differently from the
real truth of things, as we may one day see it), works by a
scheme of averages. Most people who ought to succeed, do
succeed ; most people who do fail, ought to fail. But there is
1 " Hamlet," iii. 2.
56 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
no exact adjustment of " mark " to merit ; the competitive ex-
amination system appears to have an origin more recent than
the creation of the world; — "on the whole," "speaking gen-
erally," "looking at life as a whole," are the words in which
we must describe the providential adjustment of visible good
and evil to visible goodness and badness. And when we look
more closely, we see that these general results are the conse-
quences of certain principles which work half unseen, and which
are effectual in the main, though thwarted here and there. It
is this comprehensive though inexact distribution of good and
evil, which is suited to the novelist, and it is exactly this which
Scott instinctively adopted. Taking a firm and genial view of
the common facts of life, — seeing it as an experienced observer
and tried man of action, — he could not help giving the repre-
sentation of it which is insensibly borne in on the minds of
such persons. He delineates it as a world moving according
to laws which are always producing their effect, never have
produced it ; sometimes fall short a little ; are always nearly
successful. Good sense produces its effect, as well as good in-
tention ; ability is valuable as well as virtue. It is this pecu-
liarity which gives to his works, more than anything else, the
lifelikeness which distinguishes them ; the average of the copy
is struck on the same scale as that of reality ; an unexplained,
uncommented-on adjustment works in the one, just as a hidden,
imperceptible principle of apportionment operates in the other.
The romantic susceptibility of Scott's imagination is as ob-
vious in his novels as his matter-of-fact sagacity. We can find
much of it in the place in which we should naturally look first
for it, — his treatment of his heroines. We are no indiscrimi-
nate admirers of these young ladies, and shall shortly try to
show how much they are inferior as imaginative creations to
similar creations of the very highest artists. But the mode in
which the writer speaks of them everywhere indicates an imagi-
nation continually under the illusion which we term romance.
A gentle tone of manly admiration pervades the whole delinea-
tion of their words and actions. If we look carefully at the
narratives of some remarkable female novelists — it would be
invidious to give the instances by name — we shall be struck at
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 57
once with the absence of this ; they do not half like their
| heroines. It would be satirical to say that they were jealous
of them ; but it is certain that they analyse the mode in which
their charms produce their effects, and the minutiae of their
[ operation, much in the same way in which a slightly jealous
lady examines the claims of the heroines of society. The same
writers have invented the atrocious species of plain heroines.
Possibly none of the frauds which are now so much the topic
of common remark are so irritating, as that to which the
purchaser of a novel is a victim on finding that he has only to
peruse a narrative of the conduct and sentiments of an ugly
lady. " Two-and-sixpence to know the heart which has high
cheek-bones!" Was there ever such an imposition? Scott
would have recoiled from such a conception. Even Jeanie
Deans,1 though no heroine, like Flora Macivor,2 is described
as "comely," and capable of looking almost pretty when re-
quired, and she has a compensating set-off in her sister, who
is beautiful as well as unwise. Speaking generally, as is the
necessity of criticism, Scott makes his heroines, at least by
profession, attractive, and dwells on their attractiveness, though
not with the wild ecstasy of insane youth, yet with the
tempered and mellow admiration common to genial men of
this world. Perhaps at times we are rather displeased at his
explicitness, and disposed to hang back and carp at the admir-
able qualities displayed to us. But this is only a stronger
evidence of the peculiarity which we speak of, — of the uncon-
scious sentiments, inseparable from Scott's imagination.
The same romantic tinge undeniably shows itself in Scott's
pictures of the past. Many exceptions have been taken to the
detail of mediaeval life as it is described to us in Ivanhoe ; but
one merit will always remain to it, and will be enough to
secure to it immense popularity. It describes the middle ages
as we should have wished them to have been. We do not
mean that the delineation satisfies those accomplished admirers
of the old Church system who fancy that they have found
among the prelates and barons of the fourteenth century a
close approximation to the theocracy which they would re-
1 In The Heart of Mid- Lothian. 2 In Waverley.
58 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
commend for our adoption. On the contrary, the theological
merits of the middle ages are not prominent in Scott's delinea-
tion. "Dogma" was not in his way: a cheerful man of the
world is not anxious for a precise definition of peculiar doctrines.
The charm of Ivanhoe is addressed to a simpler sort of imagi-
nation, to that kind of boyish fancy which idolises mediaeval
society as the "fighting time". Every boy has heard of
tournaments, and has a firm persuasion that in an age of tourna-
ments, life was thoroughly well understood. A martial society,
where men fought hand to hand on good horses with large
lances, in peace for pleasure, and in war for business, seems the
very ideal of perfection to a bold and simply fanciful boy. Ivan-
hoe spreads before him the full landscape of such a realm, with
Richard Cceur-de-Lion, a black horse, and the passage of arms
at Ashby. Of course he admires it, and thinks there was never
such a writer, and will never more be such a world. And a mature
critic will share his admiration, at least to the extent of admit-
ting that nowhere else have the elements of a martial romance
been so gorgeously accumulated without becoming oppressive ;
their fanciful charm been so powerfully delineated, and yet so
constantly relieved by touches of vigorous sagacity. One
single fact shows how great the romantic illusion is. The
pressure of painful necessity is scarcely so great in this novel,
as in novels of the same writer in which the scene is laid in
modern times. Much may be said in favour of the mediaeval
system as contradistinguished from existing society ; much has
been said. But no one can maintain that general comfort was
as much diffused as it is now. A certain ease pervades the
structure of later society. Our houses may not last so long, ai
not so picturesque, will leave no such ruins behind them ; but
they are warmed with hot water, have no draughts, and coi
tain sofas instead of rushes. A slight daily unconscious luxui
is hardly ever wanting to the dwellers in civilisation ; like tl
gentle air of a genial climate, it is a perpetual minute enjoj
ment. The absence of this marks a rude barbaric time. We
may avail ourselves of rough pleasures, stirring amusemenl
exciting actions, strange rumours ; but life is hard and harsl
The cold air of the keen North may brace and invigorate, but
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 59
it cannot soothe us. All sensible people know that the
middle ages must have been very uncomfortable ; there was a
difficulty about "good food"; — almost insuperable obstacles
to the cultivation of nice detail and small enjoyment. No
one knew the abstract facts on which this conclusion rests better
than Scott ; but his delineation gives no general idea of the re-
sult. A thoughtless reader rises with the impression that the
middle ages had the same elements of happiness which we have
at present, and that they had fighting besides. We do not
assert that this tenet is explicitly taught; on the contrary,
many facts are explained, and many customs elucidated from
which a discriminating and deducing reader would infer the
meanness of poverty and the harshness of barbarism. But these
less imposing traits escape the the rapid, and still more the
boyish reader. His general impression is one of romance ;
and though, when roused, Scott was quite able to take a
distinct view of the opposing facts, he liked his own mind to
rest for the most part in the same pleasing illusion.
The same sort of historical romance is shown likewise
in Scott's picture of remarkable historical characters. His
Richard I. is the traditional Richard, with traits heightened and
ennobled in perfect conformity to the spirit of tradition. Some
illustration of the same quality might be drawn from his de-
lineations of the Puritan rebellions and the Cavalier enthusiasm.
We might show that he ever dwells on the traits and incidents
most attractive to a genial and spirited imagination. But the
most remarkable instance of the power which romantic illusion
exercised over him, is his delineation of Mary Queen of Scots.
He refused at one time of his life to write a biography of that
princess "because his opinion was contrary to his feeling".
He evidently considered her guilt to be clearly established,
and thought, with a distinguished lawyer, that he should
" direct a jury to find her guilty " ; but his fancy, like that of
most of his countrymen, took a peculiar and special interest in
the beautiful lady who, at any rate, had suffered so much and
so fatally at the hands of a queen of England. He could not
bring himself to dwell with nice accuracy on the evidence which
substantiates her criminality, or on the still clearer indications
60 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
of that unsound and over-crafty judgment, which was the fatal
inheritance of the Stuart family, and which, in spite of advan-
tages that scarcely any other family in the world has enjoyed,
has made their name a historical by-word for misfortune. The
picture in The Abbot, one of the best historical pictures which
Scott has given us, is principally the picture of. the queen as
the fond tradition of his countrymen exhibited her. Her entire
innocence, it is true, is never alleged : but the enthusiasm of her
followers is dwelt on with approving sympathy ; their confi-
dence is set forth at large ; her influence over them is skilfully de-
lineated ; the fascination of charms chastened by misfortune is
delicately indicated. We see a complete picture of the beautiful
queen, of the suffering and sorrowful, but yet not insensible
woman. Scott could not, however, as a close study will show
us, quite conceal the unfavourable nature of his fundamental
opinion. In one remarkable passage the struggle of the judg-
ment is even conspicuous, and in others the sagacity of the
practised lawyer, — the "thread of the attorney," as he used
to call it, in his nature, — qualifies and modifies the sentiment
hereditary in his countrymen, and congenial to himself.
This romantic imagination is a habit of power (as we
may choose to call it) of mind which is almost essential to
the highest success in the historical novel. The aim, at any
rate the effect, of this class of works seems to be to deepen
and confirm the received view of historical personages. A
great and acute writer may, from an accurate study of
original documents, discover that those impressions are errone-
ous, and by a process of elaborate argument substitute others
which he deems more accurate. But this can only be effected by
writing a regular history. The essence of the achievement is the
proof. If Mr. Froude had put forward his view of Henry VIII. 's
character in a professed novel, he would have been laughed
at. It is only by a rigid adherence to attested facts and authen-
tic documents, that a view so original could obtain even a hear-
ing. We start back with a little anger from a representation
which is avowedly imaginative, and which contradicts our im-
pressions. We do not like to have our opinions disturbed by
reasoning ; but it is impertinent to attempt to disturb them by
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 61
fancies. A writer of the historical novel is bound by the popu-
lar conception of his subject ; and commonly it will be found
that this popular impression is to some extent a romantic
one. An element of exaggeration clings to the popular judg-
ment : great vices are made greater, great virtues greater
also ; interesting incidents are made more interesting, soft
legends more soft. The novelist who disregards this tend-
ency will do so at the peril of his popularity. His business
is to make attraction more attractive, and not to impair the
pleasant pictures of ready-made romance by an attempt at
grim reality.
We may therefore sum up the indications of this charac-
teristic excellence of Scott's novels by saying, that more than
any novelist he has given us fresh pictures of practical human
society, with its cares and troubles, its excitements and its
pleasures ; that he has delineated more distinctly than any
one else the framework in which this society inheres, and by
the boundaries of which it is shaped and limited ; that he
has made more clear the way in which strange and eccentric
characters grow out of that ordinary and usual system of
life; that he has extended his view over several periods of
society, and given an animated description of the external
appearance of each, and a firm representation of its social
institutions ; that he has shown very graphically what we
may call the worldly laws of moral government; and that
over all these he has spread the glow of sentiment natural
to a manly mind, and an atmosphere of generosity congenial
to a cheerful one. It is from the collective effect of these
causes, and from the union of sense and sentiment which
is the principle of them all, that Scott derives the peculiar
healthiness which distinguishes him. There are no such
books as his for the sick-room, or for freshening the painful
intervals of a morbid mind. Mere sense is dull, mere senti-
ment unsubstantial ; a sensation of genial healthiness is
only given by what combines the solidity of the one and the
brightening charm of the other.
Some guide to Scott's defects, or to the limitations of
his genius, if we would employ a less ungenial and perhaps
62 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
more correct expression, is to be discovered, as usual, from
the consideration of his characteristic excellence. As it is
his merit to give bold and animated pictures of this world,
it is his defect to give but insufficient representations of
qualities which this world does not exceedingly prize, — of
such as do not thrust themselves very forward in it, — of such
as are in some sense above it. We may illustrate this in
several ways.
One of the parts of human nature which are systematically
omitted in Scott, is the searching and abstract intellect.
This did not lie in his way. No man had a stronger sagacity,
better adapted for the guidance of common men, and the
conduct of common transactions. Few could hope to form a
more correct opinion on things and subjects which were brought
before him in actual life ; no man had a more useful intellect.
But on the other hand, as will be generally observed to be the
case, no one was less inclined to that probing and seeking
and anxious inquiry into things in general which is the neces-
sity of some minds, and a sort of intellectual famine in their
nature. He had no call to investigate the theory of the universe,
and he would not have been able to comprehend those who
did. Such a mind as Shelley's would have been entirely
removed from his comprehension. He had no call to mix
"awful talk and asking looks" l with his love of the visible
scene. He could not have addressed the universe : —
" I have watched
Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps,
And my heart ever gazes on the depth
Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed
In charnels and on coffins, where black death
Keeps record of the trophies won from thee,
Hoping to still these obstinate questionings
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost,
Thy messenger, to render up the tale
Of what we are." 2
Such thoughts would have been to him "thinking withoul
an object," "abstracted speculations," "cobwebs of the un-
intelligible brain ". Above all minds, his had the Baconian
Shelley, « Alastor ". * Ibid.
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 63
propensity to work upon "stuff". At first sight, it would
not seem that this was a defect likely to be very hurtful to
the works of a novelist. The labours of the searching and
introspective intellect, however needful, absorbing, and in
some degree delicious, to the seeker himself, are not in general
very delightful to those who are not seeking. Genial men in
middle life are commonly intolerant of that philosophising
which their prototype, in old times, classed side by side with
the lisping of youth. The theological novel, which was a
few years ago so popular, and which is likely to have a recurring
influence in times when men's belief is unsettled, and persons
who cannot or will not read large treatises have thoughts in
their minds and inquiries in their hearts, suggests to those
who are accustomed to it the absence elsewhere of what is
necessarily one of its most distinctive and prominent subjects.
The desire to attain a belief, which has become one of the
most familiar sentiments of heroes and heroines, would have
seemed utterly incongruous to the plain sagacity of Scott,
and also to his old-fashioned art. Creeds are data in his
novels ; people have different creeds, but each keeps his own.
Some persons will think that this is not altogether amiss ;
nor do we particularly wish to take up the defence of the
dogmatic novel. Nevertheless, it will strike those who are
accustomed to the youthful generation of a cultivated time,
that the passion of intellectual inquiry is one of the strongest
impulses in many of them, and one of those which give the
predominant colouring to the conversation and exterior mind
of many more. And a novelist will not exercise the most
potent influence over those subject to that passion, if he en-
tirely omit the delineation of it. Scott's works have only one
merit in this relation : they are an excellent rest to those who
have felt this passion, and have had something too much of it.
The same indisposition to the abstract exercises of the
intellect shows itself in the reflective portions of Scott's
novels, and perhaps contributes to their popularity with that
immense majority of the world who strongly share in that
same indisposition : it prevents, however, their having the
most powerful intellectual influence on those who have at any
64 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
time of their lives voluntarily submitted themselves to this
acute and refining discipline. The reflections of a practised
thinker have a peculiar charm, like the last touches of the
accomplished artist. The cunning exactitude of the profes-
sional hand leaves a trace in the very language. A nice dis-
crimination of thought makes men solicitous of the most apt
expressions to diffuse their thoughts. Both words and mean-
ing gain a metallic brilliancy, like the glittering precision of
the pure Attic air. Scott's is a healthy and genial world of
reflection, but it wants the charm of delicate exactitude.
The same limitation of Scott's genius shows itself in a very
different portion of art — in his delineation of his heroines.
The same blunt sagacity of imagination which fitted him to
excel in the rough description of obvious life, rather unfitted
him for delineating the less substantial essence of the female
character. The nice minuticz of society, by means of which
female novelists have been so successful in delineating their
own sex, were rather too small for his robust and powerful
mind. Perhaps, too, a certain unworldliness of imagination
is necessary to enable men to comprehend or delineate that
essence: unworldliness of life is no doubt not requisite ; rather,
perhaps, worldliness is necessary to the acquisition of a suffi-
cient experience. But an absorption in the practical world
does not seem favourable to a comprehension of anything
which does not precisely belong to it. Its interests are too
engrossing ; its excitements too keen ; it modifies the fancy,
and in the change unfits it for everything else. Something, t<
in Scott's character and history made it more difficult for hii
to give a representation of women than of men. Goethe use
to say, that his idea of woman was not drawn from his expei
ence, but that it came to him before experience, and that
explained his experience by a reference to it.1 And thou{
this is a German, and not very happy, form of expression,
it appears to indicate a very important distinction. Soi
efforts of the imagination are made so early in life, ju«
as it were at the dawn of the conscious faculties, that we are
never able to fancy ourselves as destitute of them. They are
Conversations with Eckermann and Soret, 22nd Oct., 1828.
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 65
part of the mental constitution with which, so to speak, we
awoke to existence. These are always far more firm, vivid,
and definite, than any other images of our fancy ; and we
apply them, half unconsciously, to any facts and sentiments
and actions which may occur to us later in life, whether aris-
ing from within or thrust upon us from the outward world.
Goethe doubtless meant that the idea of the female character
was to him one of these first elements of imagination ; not a
thing puzzled out, or which he remembered having conceived,
but a part of the primitive conceptions which, being coeval
with his memory, seemed inseparable from his consciousness.
The descriptions of women likely to be given by this sort of
imagination will probably be the best descriptions. A mind
which would arrive at this idea of the female character by this
process, and so early, would be one obviously of more than
usual susceptibility. The early imagination does not com-
monly take this direction ; it thinks most of horses and lances,
tournaments and knights ; only a mind with an unusual and
instinctive tendency to this kind of thought, would be borne
thither so early or so effectually. And even independently of
this probable peculiarity of the individual, the primitive imagi-
nation in general is likely to be the most accurate which
men can form ; not, of course, of the external manifestations
and detailed manners, but of the inner sentiment and charac-
teristic feeling of women. The early imagination conceives
what it does conceive very justly ; fresh from the facts, stirred
by the new aspect of things, undimmed by the daily passage
of constantly forgotten images, not misled by the irregular
analogies of a dislocated life, — the early mind sees what
it does see with a spirit and an intentness never given to it
again. A mind like Goethe's, of very strong imagination,
aroused at the earliest age, — not of course by passions, but by an
unusual strength in that undefined longing which is the prelude
to our passions, — will form the best idea of the inmost female
nature which masculine nature can form. The difference is
evident between the characters of women formed by Goethe's
imagination or Shakespeare's, and those formed by such an
imagination as that of Scott. The latter seem so external.
VOL. in. 5
66 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
We have traits, features, manners ; we know the heroine as
she appeared in the street ; in some degree we know how she
talked, but we never know how she felt — least of all what she
was : we always feel there is a world behind, unanalysed, un-
represented, which we cannot attain to. Such a character as
Margaret in "Faust" is known to us to the very soul; so is
Imogen ; so is Ophelia. Edith Bellenden, Flora Macivor, Miss
Wardour,1 are young ladies who, we are told, were good-looking,
and well dressed (according to the old fashion), and sensible ;
but we feel we know but very little of them, and they do not
haunt our imaginations. The failure of Scott in this line of
art is more conspicuous, because he had not in any remarkable
degree the later experience of female detail, with which some
minds have endeavoured to supply the want of the early
essential imagination, and which Goethe possessed in addition
to it. It was rather late, according to his biographer, before Scott
set up for a " squire of dames " ; he was a " lame young man,
very enthusiastic about ballad poetry " ; he was deeply in love
with a young lady, supposed to be imaginatively represented
by Flora Macivor, but he was unsuccessful. It would be over-
ingenious to argue, from his failing in a single love-affair, that
he had no peculiar interest in young ladies in general ; but
the whole description of his youth shows that young ladies
exercised over him a rather more divided influence than is
usual. Other pursuits intervened, much more than is common
with persons of imaginative temperament, and he never led
the life of flirtation from which Goethe believed that he de-
rived so much instruction. Scott's heroines, therefore, are,
not unnaturally, faulty, since from a want of the very peculiar
instinctive imagination he could not give us the essence of
women, and from the habits of his life he could not delineate
to us their detailed life with the appreciative accuracy of habitual
experience. Jeanie Deans is probably the best of his heroines,
and she is so because she is the least of a heroine. The plain
matter-of-fact element in the peasant-girl's life and circum-
stances suited a robust imagination. There is little in the
part of her character that is very finely described which is
1 In Old Mortality, Waverley and The Antiquary.
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 67
characteristically feminine. She is not a masculine, but she
is an epicene heroine. Her love-affair with Butler, a single
remarkable scene excepted, is rather commonplace than
otherwise.
A similar criticism might be applied to Scott's heroes.
Every one feels how commonplace they are — Waverley ex-
cepted, whose very vacillation gives him a sort of character.
They have little personality. They are all of the same type ;
— excellent young men — rather strong — able to ride and climb
and jump. They are always said to be sensible, and bear out
the character by being not unwilling sometimes to talk
platitudes. But we know nothing of their inner life. They
are said to be in love ; but we have no special account of their
individual sentiments. People show their character in their
love more than in anything else. These young gentlemen all
love in the same way — in the vague commonplace way of this
world. We have no sketch or dramatic expression of the life
within. Their souls are quite unknown to us. If there is an
exception, it is Edgar Ravenswood. l But if we look closely,
we may observe that the notion which we obtain of his char-
acter, unusually broad as it is, is not a notion of him in his
capacity of hero, but in his capacity of distressed peer. His
proud poverty gives a distinctness which otherwise his linea-
ments would not have. We think little of his love ; we think
much of his narrow circumstances and compressed haughti-
ness.
The same exterior delineation of character shows itself in
his treatment of men's religious nature. A novelist is scarcely,
in the notion of ordinary readers, bound to deal with this at
all ; if he does, it will be one of his great difficulties to indicate
it graphically, yet without dwelling on it. Men who purchase
a novel do not wish a stone or a sermon. All lengthened
reflections must be omitted ; the whole armoury of pulpit elo-
quence. But no delineation of human nature can be considered
complete which omits to deal with man in relation to the
questions which occupy him as man, with his convictions as to
the theory of the universe and his own destiny ; the human
1 In The Bride of Lammermoor.
5*
68 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
heart throbs on few subjects with a passion so intense, so
peculiar, and so typical. From an artistic view, it is a blunder to
omit an element which is so characteristic of human life, which
contributes so much to its animation, and which is so pictu-
resque. A reader of a more simple mind, little apt to indulge
in such criticism, feels " a want of depth," as he would speak,
in delineations from which so large an element of his own
most passionate and deepest nature is omitted. It can hardly
be said that there is an omission of the religious nature in
Scott. But, at the same time, there is no adequate delineation
of it. If we refer to the facts of his life, and the view of his
character which we collect from them, we shall find that his
religion was of a qualified and double sort. He was a genial
man of the world, and had the easy faith in the kindly l Dieu
des bonnes gens, which is natural to such a person ; and he had
also a half-poetic principle of superstition in his nature,
inclining him to believe in ghosts, legends, fairies, and elves,
which did not affect his daily life, or possibly his superficial
belief, but was nevertheless very constantly present to his
fancy, and which affected, as is the constitution of human
nature, through that frequency, the undefined, half-expressed,
inexpressible feelings which are at the root of that belief.
Superstition was a kind of Jacobitism in his religion ; as a sort
of absurd reliance on the hereditary principle modified insen-
sibly his leanings in the practical world, so a belief in the
existence of unevidenced, and often absurd, supernatural
beings qualified his commonest speculations on the higher
world. Both these elements may be thought to enter into the
highest religion ; there is a principle of cheerfulness which will
justify in its measure a genial enjoyment, and also a principle
of fear which those who think only of that enjoyment will deem
superstition, and which will really become superstition in the
over-anxious and credulous acceptor of it. But in a true
religion these two elements will be combined. The character
of God images itself very imperfectly in any human soul ;
but in the highest it images itself as a whole ; it leaves an
abiding impression which will justify anxiety and allow of happi-
1 Beranger.
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 69
ness. The highest aim of the religious novelist would be to show
how this operates in human character; to exhibit in their
curious modification our religious love, and also our religious
fear. In the novels of Scott the two elements appear in a
state of separation, as they did in his own mind. We have
the superstition of the peasantry in The Antiquary, in Guy
Mannering, everywhere almost ; we have likewise a pervading
tone of genial easy reflection characteristic of the man of the
world who produced, and agreeable to the people of the world
who read, these works. But we have no picture of the two in
combination. We are scarcely led to think on the subject at
all, so much do other subjects distract our interest ; but if we
do think, we are puzzled at the contrast. We do not know
which is true, the uneasy belief of superstition, or the easy
satisfaction of the world ; we waver between the two, and have
no suggestion even hinted to us of the possibility of a recon-
ciliation. The character of the Puritans certainly did not in
general embody such a reconciliation, but it might have been
made by a sympathising artist the vehicle for a delineation of
a struggle after it The two elements of love and fear ranked
side by side in their minds with an intensity which is rare even
in minds that feel only one of them. The delineation of Scott
is amusing, but superficial. He caught the ludicrous traits
which tempt the mirthful imagination, but no other side of the
character pleased him. The man of the world was displeased
with their obstinate interfering zeal ; their intensity of faith
was an opposition force in the old Scotch polity, of which he
liked to fancy the harmonious working. They were supersti-
tious enough ; but nobody likes other people's superstitions.
Scott's were of a wholly different kind. He made no difficulty
as to the observance of Christmas Day, and would have eaten
potatoes without the faintest scruple, although their name
does not occur in Scripture. Doubtless also his residence in
the land of Puritanism did not incline him to give anything
except a satirical representation of that belief. You must not
expect from a Dissenter a faithful appreciation of the creed from
which he dissents. You cannot be impartial on the religion of
the place in which you live ; you may believe it, or you may dis-
70 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
like it ; it crosses your path in too many forms for you to be
able to look at it with equanimity. Scott had rather a rigid
form of Puritanism forced upon him in his infancy; it is
asking too much to expect him to be partial to it. The aspect
of religion which Scott delineates best is that which appears
in griefs, especially in the grief of strong characters. His
strong natural nature felt the power of death. He has given
us many pictures of rude and simple men subdued, if only for
a moment, into devotion by its presence.
On the whole, and speaking roughly, these defects in the
delineation which Scott has given us of human life are but
two. He omits to give us a delineation of the soul. We
have mind, manners, animation, but it is the stir of this
world. We miss the consecrating power ; and we miss it not
only in its own peculiar sphere, which, from the difficulty of
introducing the deepest elements into a novel, would have
been scarcely matter for a harsh criticism, but in the place in
which a novelist might most be expected to delineate it.
There are perhaps such things as the love-affairs of immortal
beings, but no one would learn it from Scott. His heroes
and heroines are well dressed for this world, but not for
another ; there is nothing even in their love which is suitable
for immortality. As has been noticed, Scott also omits any
delineation of the abstract side of unworldly intellect. This
too might not have been so severe a reproach, considering its
undramatic, unanimated nature, if it had stood alone ; but
taken in connection with the omission which we have just
spoken of, it is most important. As the union of sense and
romance makes the world of Scott so characteristically agree-
able— a fascinating picture of this world in the light in which
we like best to dwell on it ; so the deficiency in the attenuated,
striving intellect, as well as in the supernatural soul, gives to
the "world" of Scott the cumbrousness and temporality — in
short, the materialism — which is characteristic of the world.
We have dwelt so much on what we think are the char-
acteristic features of Scott's imaginative representations that
we have left ourselves no room to criticise the two most
natural points of criticism in a novelist — plot and style. This
THE WAVERLEY NOVELS 71
is not, however, so important in Scott's case as it would
commonly be. He used to say : " It is of no use having a
plot ; you cannot keep to it ". He modified and changed his
thread of story from day to day, — sometimes even from book-
selling reasons, and on the suggestion of others. An elaborate
work of narrative art could not be produced in this way, every
one will concede ; the highest imagination, able to look far over
the work, is necessary for that task. But the plots produced,
so to say, by the pen of the writer as he passes over the events,
are likely to have a freshness and a suitableness to those events,
which is not possessed by the inferior writers who make up a
mechanical plot before they commence. The procedure of the
highest genius doubtless is scarcely a procedure : the view of
the whole story comes at once upon its imagination like the
delicate end and the distinct beginning of some long vista.
But all minds do not possess the highest mode of conception ;
and among lower modes, it is doubtless better to possess the
vigorous fancy which creates each separate scene in succession
as it goes, than the pedantic intellect which designs everything
long before it is wanted. There is a play in unconscious
creation which no voluntary elaboration and preconceived
fitting of distinct ideas can ever hope to produce. If the
whole cannot be created by one bounding effort, it is better
that each part should be created separately and in detail.
The style of Scott would deserve the highest praise if
M. Thiers could establish his theory of narrative language.
He maintains that a historian's language approaches perfec-
tion in proportion as it aptly communicates what is meant to
be narrated without drawing any attention to itself. Scott's
style fulfils this condition. Nobody rises from his works
without a most vivid idea of what is related, and no one is
able to quote a single phrase in which it has been narrated.
We are inclined, however, to differ from the great French
historian, and to oppose to him a theory derived from a very
different writer. Coleridge used to maintain that all good
poetry was untranslatable into words of the same language
without injury to the sense : the meaning was, in his view, to
be so inseparably intertwined even with the shades of the
72 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
language, that the change of a single expression would make
a difference in the accompanying feeling, if not in the bare
signification : consequently, all good poetry must be remem-
bered exactly, — to change a word is to modify the essence.
Rigidly this theory can only be applied to a few kinds of poetry,
or special passages in which the imagination is exerting itself
to the utmost, and collecting from the whole range of associated
language the very expressions which it requires. The highest
excitation of feeling is necessary to this peculiar felicity of
choice. In calmer moments the mind has either a less choice,
or less acuteness of selective power. Accordingly, in prose it
would be absurd to expect any such nicety. Still, on great
occasions in imaginative fiction, there should be passages in
which the words seem to cleave to the matter. The excite-
ment is as great as in poetry. The words should become part
of the sense. They should attract our attention, as this is
necessary to impress them on the memory ; but they should
not in so doing distract attention from the meaning conveyed.
On the contrary, it is their inseparability from their meaning
which gives them their charm and their power. In truth,
Scott's language, like his sense, was such as became a bold,
sagacious man of the world. He used the first sufficient words
which came uppermost, and seems hardly to have been
sensible, even in the works of others, of that exquisite accuracy
arid inexplicable appropriateness of which we have been
speaking.
To analyse in detail the faults and merits of even a few of
the greatest of the Waverley Novels would be impossible in
the space at our command on the present occasion. We have
only attempted a general account of a few main characteristics.
Every critic must, however, regret to have to leave topics so
tempting to remark upon as many of Scott's stories, and a yet
greater number of his characters.
CHARLES DICKENS.1
(1858.)
IT must give Mr. Dickens much pleasure to look at the col-
lected series of his writings. He has told us of the beginnings
of Pickwick.
" I was," he relates in what is now the preface to that work, "a young
man of three and twenty, when the present publishers, attracted by some
pieces I was at that time writing in the Morning Chronicle newspaper (of
which one series had lately been collected and published in two volumes,
illustrated by my esteemed friend Mr. George Cruikshank), waited upon
me to propose a something that should be published in shilling numbers —
then only known to me, or I believe to anybody else, by a dim recollection
of certain interminable novels in that form, which used, some five and
twenty years ago, to be carried about the country by pedlars, and over
some of which I remember to have shed innumerable tears, before I served
my apprenticeship to Life. When I opened my door in Furnival's Inn to
the managing partner who represented the firm, I recognised in him the
person from whose hands I had bought, two or three years previously, and
whom I had never seen before or since, my first copy of the magazine in
which my first effusion — dropped stealthily one evening at twilight, with
fear and trembling, into a dark letter-box, in a dark office, up a dark
court in Fleet Street — appeared in all the glory of print ; on which occasion,
by-the-bye, — how well I recollect it !— I walked down to Westminster Hall,
and turned into it for half an hour, because my eyes were so dimmed with
joy and pride, that they could not bear the street, and were not fit to be
seen there. I told my visitor of the coincidence, which we both hailed as
a good omen ; and so fell to business."
After such a beginning, there must be great enjoyment in
looking at the long series of closely printed green volumes, in
remembering their marvellous popularity, in knowing that they
are a familiar literature wherever the English language is spoken,
1 Cheap Edition of the Works of Charles Dickens. The Pickwick
Papers, Nicholas Nickleby, etc. London, 1857-8. Chapman and Hall.
73
74 CHARLES DICKENS
— that they are read with admiring appreciation by persons of
the highest culture at the centre of civilisation, — that they
amuse, and are fit to amuse, the roughest settler in Vancouver's
Island.
The penetrating power of this remarkable genius among
all classes at home is not inferior to its diffusive energy abroad.
The phrase "household book" has, when applied to the works
of Mr. Dickens, a peculiar propriety. There is no contempor-
ary English writer, whose works are read so generally through
the whole house, who can give pleasure to the servants as well
as to the mistress, to the children as well as to the master.
Mr. Thackeray without doubt exercises a more potent and plastic
fascination within his sphere, but that sphere is limited. It is
restricted to that part of the middle class which gazes inquisi-
tively at the " Vanity Fair " world. The delicate touches of our
great satirist have, for such readers, not only the charm of wit,
but likewise the interest of valuable information ; he tells them
of the topics which they want to know. But below this class
there is another and far larger, which is incapable of compre-
hending the idling world, or of appreciating the accuracy of de-
lineations drawn from it, — which would not know the differ-
ence between a picture of Grosvenor Square by Mr. Thackeray
and the picture of it in a Minerva-Press novel, — which only
cares for or knows of its own multifarious, industrial, fig-selling
world, — and over these also Mr. Dickens has power.
It cannot be amiss to take this opportunity of investigating,
even slightly, the causes of so great a popularity. And if, in
the course of our article, we may seem to be ready with over-
refining criticism, or to be unduly captious with theoretical
objections, we hope not to forget that so great and so diffused
an influence is a datum for literary investigation, — that books
which have been thus tried upon mankind and have thus sue
ceeded, must be books of immense genius, — and that it is our
duty as critics to explain, as far as we can, the nature and the
limits of that genius, but never for one moment to deny or
question its existence.
Men of genius may be divided into regular and irregular.
Certain minds, the moment we think of them, suggest to us
CHARLES DICKENS 75
the ideas of symmetry and proportion. Plato's name, for ex-
ample, calls up at once the impression of something ordered,
measured, and settled : it is the exact contrary of everything
eccentric, immature, or undeveloped. The opinions of such a
mind are often erroneous, and some of them may, from change
of time, of intellectual data, or from chance, seem not to be
quite worthy of it ; but the mode in which those opinions are
expressed, and (as far as we can make it out) the mode in which
they are framed, affect us, as we have said, with a sensation of
symmetricalness. It is not very easy to define exactly to
what peculiar internal characteristic this external effect is due :
the feeling is distinct, but the cause is obscure ; it lies hid in
the peculiar constitution of great minds, and we should not
wonder that it is not very easy either to conceive or to describe.
On the whole, however, the effect seems to be produced by a
peculiar proportionateness, in each instance, of the mind to the
tasks which it undertakes, amid which we see it, and by which
we measure it. Thus we feel that the powers and tendencies
of Plato's mind and nature were more fit than those of any other
philosopher for the due consideration and exposition of the
highest problems of philosophy, of the doubts and difficulties
which concern man as man. His genius was adapted to its
element ; any change would mar the delicacy of the thought,
or the polished accuracy of the expression. The weapon was
fitted to its aim. Every instance of proportionateness does
not, however, lead us to attribute this peculiar symmetry to
the whole mind we are observing. The powers must not only
be suited to the task undertaken, but the task itself must also
be suited to a human being, and employ all the marvellous
faculties with which he is endowed. The neat perfection of
such a mind as Talleyrand's is the antithesis to the symmetry
of genius ; the niceties neither of diplomacy nor of conversation
give scope to the entire powers of a great nature. We may
lay down as the condition of a regular or symmetrical genius,
that it should have the exact combination of powers suited to
graceful and easy success in an exercise of mind great enough
to task the whole intellectual nature.
On the other hand, men of irregular or unsymmetrical
76 CHARLES DICKENS
genius are eminent either for some one or some few peculiarities
of mind, have possibly special defects on other sides of their
intellectual nature, at any rate want what the scientific men of
the present day would call the definite proportion of faculties
and qualities suited to the exact work they have in hand. The
foundation of many criticisms of Shakespeare is, that he is
deficient in this peculiar proportion. His overteeming imagi-
nation gives at times, and not un frequently, a great feeling of
irregularity ; there seems to be confusion. We have the tall
trees of the forest, the majestic creations of the highest genius ;
but we have, besides, a bushy second growth, an obtrusion of
secondary images and fancies, which prevent our taking an
exact measure of such grandeur. We have not the sensation of
intense simplicity, which must probably accompany the highest
conceivable greatness. Such is also the basis of Mr. Hallam's
criticism on Shakespeare's language,1 which Mr. Arnold has
lately revived.2 " His expression is often faulty," because his
illustrative imagination, somewhat predominating over his
other faculties, diffuses about the main expression a supplement
of minor metaphors which sometimes distract the comprehen-
sion, and almost always deprive his style of the charm that
arises from undeviating directness. Doubtless this is an in-
stance of the very highest kind of irregular genius, in which all
the powers exist in the mind in a very high, and almost all
of them in the very highest measure, but in which from a slight
excess in a single one, the charm of proportion is lessened.
The most ordinary cases of irregular genius are those in which
single faculties are abnormally developed, and call off the at-
tention from all the rest of the mind by their prominence and
activity. Literature, as the " fragment of fragments," is so full
of the fragments of such minds that it is needless to specify
instances.
Possibly it may be laid down that one of two elements is
essential to a symmetrical mind. It is evident that such a
mind must either apply itself to that which is theoretical or
that which is practical, to the world of abstraction or to the
^Introduction to the Literature of Europe, vol. ii., chap. vi.
2 Preface to Matthew Arnold's Poems.
CHARLES DICKENS 77
world of objects and realities. In the former case the deduc-
tive understanding, which masters first principles, and makes
deductions from them, the thin ether of the intellect, — the
" mind itself by itself," — must evidently assume a great pro-
minence. To attempt to comprehend principles without it,
is to try to swim without arms, or to fly without wings. Ac-
cordingly, in the mind of Plato, and in others like him, the
abstract and deducing understanding fills a great place ; the im-
agination seems a kind of eye to descry its data ; the artistic
instinct an arranging impulse, which sets in order its inferences
and conclusions. On the other hand, if a symmetrical mind
busy itself with the active side of human life, with the world
of concrete men and real things, its principal quality will be a
practical sagacity, which forms with ease a distinct view and
just appreciation of all the mingled objects that the world pre-
sents,— which allots to each its own place, and its intrinsic and
appropriate rank. Possibly no mind gives such an idea of this
sort of symmetry as Chaucer's. Everything in it seems in its
place. A healthy sagacious man of the world has gone through
the world ; he loves it, and knows it ; he dwells on it with fond
appreciation ; every object of the old life of " merry England "
seems to fall into its precise niche in his ordered and sym-
metrical comprehension. The prologue to the Canterbury Tales
is in itself a series of memorial tablets to mediaeval society ;
each class has its tomb, and each its apt inscription. A man
without such an apprehensive and broad sagacity must fail in
every extensive delineation of various life ; he might attempt
to describe what he did not penetrate, or if by a rare discretion
he avoided that mistake, his works would want the binding
element ; he would be deficient in that distinct sense of rela-
tion and combination which is necessary for the depiction of
the whole of life, which gives to it unity at first, and imparts
to it a mass in the memory ever afterwards. And eminence
in one or other of these marking faculties — either in the de-
ductive abstract intellect, or the practical seeing sagacity —
seems essential to the mental constitution of a symmetrical
genius, at least in man. There are, after all, but two principal
all-important spheres in human life — thought and action ; and
78 CHARLES DICKENS
we can hardly conceive of a masculine mind symmetrically de-
veloped, which did not evince its symmetry by an evident per-
fection in one or other of those pursuits, which did not leave
the trace of its distinct reflection upon the one, or of its large
insight upon the other of them. Possibly it may be thought
that in the sphere of pure art there may be room for a symmet-
rical development different from these ; but it will perhaps be
found, on examination of such cases, either that under peculiar
and appropriate disguises one of these great qualities is pre-
sent, or that the apparent symmetry is the narrow perfection
of a limited nature, which may be most excellent in itself, as
in the stricter form of sacred art, but which, as we explained,
is quite opposed to that broad perfection of the thinking being,
to which we have applied the name of the symmetry of
genius.
If this classification of men of genius be admitted, there
can be no hesitation in assigning to Mr. Dickens his place in
it. His genius is essentially irregular and unsymmetrical.
Hardly any English writer perhaps is much more so. His
style is an example of it. It is descriptive, racy, and flowing;
it is instinct with new imagery and singular illustration ; but
it does not indicate that due proportion of the faculties to one
another which is a beauty in itself, and which cannot help dif-
fusing beauty over every happy word and moulded clause. We
may choose an illustration at random. The following graphic
description will do : —
"If Lord George Gordon had appeared in the eyes of Mr. Willet,
overnight, a nobleman of somewhat quaint and odd exterior, the impres-
sion was confirmed this morning, and increased a hundred-fold. Sitting bolt
upright upon his bony steed, with his long, straight hair dangling about
his face and fluttering in the wind ; his limbs all angular and rigid, his
elbows stuck out on either side ungracefully, and his whole frame jogged
and shaken at every motion of his horse's feet ; a more grotesque or more
ungainly figure can hardly be conceived. In lieu of whip, he carried in
his hand a great gold-headed cane, as large as any footman carries in
these days ; and his various modes of holding this unwieldy weapon — now
upright before his face like the sabre of a horse-soldier, now over his
shoulder like a musket, now between his finger and thumb, but always in
some uncouth and awkward fashion — contributed in no small degree to the
absurdity of his appearance. Stiff, lank, and solemn, dressed in an unusual
CHARLES DICKENS 79
manner, and ostentatiously exhibiting — whether by design or accident — all
his peculiarities of carriage, gesture, and conduct, all the qualities, natural
and artificial, in which he differed from other men, he might have moved
the sternest looker-on to laughter, and fully provoked the smiles and whis-
pered jests which greeted his departure from the Maypole Inn.
" Quite unconscious, however, of the effect he produced, he trotted on
beside his secretary, talking to himself nearly all the way, until they came
within a mile or two of London, when now and then some passenger went
by who knew him by sight, and pointed him out to some one else, and
perhaps stood looking after him, or cried in jest or earnest as it might be,
1 Hurrah, Geordie ! No Popery ! ' At which he would gravely pull off his
hat and bow. When they reached the town and rode along the streets,
these notices became more frequent ; some laughed, some hissed, some
turned their heads and smiled, some wondered who he was, some ran
along the pavement by his side and cheered. When this happened in a
crush of carts and chairs and coaches, he would make a dead stop, and
pulling off his hat, cry, * Gentlemen, No Popery ! ' to which the gentlemen
would respond with lusty voices, and with three times three ; and then on
he would go again with a score or so of the raggedest following at his
horse's heels, and shouting till their throats were parched.
" The old ladies too — there were a great many old ladies in the
streets, and these all knew him. Some of them — not those of the highest
rank, but such as sold fruit from baskets and carried burdens — clapped
their shrivelled hands, and raised a weazen, piping, shrill ' Hurrah, my
lord '. Others waved their hands or handkerchiefs, or shook their fans or
parasols, or threw up windows, and called in haste to those within to come
and see. All these marks of popular esteem he received with profound
gravity and respect ; bowing very low, and so frequently that his hat was
more off his head than on ; and looking up at the houses as he passed
along, with the air of one who was making a public entry, and yet was
not puffed-up or proud." l
No one would think of citing such a passage as this, as ex-
emplifying the proportioned beauty of finished writing ; it is
not the writing of an evenly developed or of a highly cultured
mind ; it abounds in jolts and odd turns ; it is full of singular
twists and needless complexities : but, on the other hand, no
one can deny its great and peculiar merit. It is an odd style,
and it is very odd how much you read it. It is the overflow
of a copious mind, though not the chastened expression of a
harmonious one.
The same quality characterises the matter of his works.
1 Barnaby Rudge, chap, xxxvii.
8o CHARLES DICKENS
His range is very varied. He has attempted to describe
every kind of scene in English life, from quite the lowest to
almost the highest. He has not endeavoured to secure success
by confining himself to a single path, nor wearied the public
with repetitions of the subjects by the delineation of which
he originally obtained fame. In his earlier works he never
writes long without saying something well ; something which
no other man would have said ; but even in them it is the
characteristic of his power that it is apt to fail him at once ;
from masterly strength we pass without interval to almost
infantine weakness, — something like disgust succeeds in a
moment to an extreme admiration. Such is the natural fate
of an unequal mind employing itself on a vast and variegated
subject. In writing on the Waverley Novels, we ventured to
make a division of novels into the ubiquitous — it would have
been perhaps better to say the miscellaneous — and the
sentimental : the first, as its name implies, busying itself with
the whole of human life, the second restricting itself within a
peculiar and limited theme. Mr. Dickens's novels are all of
the former class. They aim to delineate nearly all that part
of our national life which can be delineated, — at least, within
the limits which social morality prescribes to social art ; but
you cannot read his delineation of any part without being
struck with its singular incompleteness. An artist once said
of the best work of another artist : " Yes, it is a pretty patch ".
If we might venture on the phrase, we should say that
Mr. Dickens's pictures are graphic scraps ; his best books are
compilations of them.
The truth is, that Mr. Dickens wholly wants the two
elements which we have spoken of, as one or other requisite
for a symmetrical genius. He is utterly deficient in the faculty
of reasoning. "Mamma, what shall I think about?" said the
small girl. " My dear, don't think," was the old-fashioned
reply. We do not allege that in the strict theory of education
this was a correct reply ; modern writers think otherwise ; but
we wish some one would say it to Mr. Dickens. He is often
troubled with the idea that he must reflect, and his reflections
are perhaps the worst reading in the world. There is a sen-
CBARL&S DICKENS 81
timental confusion about them ; we never find the consecu-
tive precision of mature theory, or the cold distinctness of clear
thought. Vivid facts stand out in his imagination ; and a fresh
illustrative style brings them home to the imagination of his
readers ; but his continuous philosophy utterly fails in the
attempt to harmonise them, — to educe a theory or elaborate a
precept from them. Of his social thinking we shall have a
few words to say in detail ; his didactic humour is very unfor-
tunate : no writer is less fitted for an excursion to the impera-
tive mood. At present, we only say, what is so obvious as
scarcely to need saying, that his abstract understanding is so
far inferior to his picturesque imagination as to give even to
his best works the sense of jar and incompleteness, and to
deprive them altogether of the crystalline finish which is
characteristic of the clear and cultured understanding.
Nor has Mr. Dickens the easy and various sagacity which,
as has been said, gives a unity to all which it touches. He
has, indeed, a quality which is near allied to it in appearance.
His shrewdness in some things, especially in traits and small
things, is wonderful. His works are full of acute remarks on
petty doings, and well exemplify the telling power of minute
circumstantiality. But the minor species of perceptive sharp-
ness is so different from diffused sagacity, that the two scarcely
ever are to be found in the same mind. There is nothing less
like the great lawyer, acquainted with broad principles and
applying them with distinct deduction, than the attorney's
clerk who catches at small points like a dog biting at flies.
" Over-sharpness " in the student is the most unpromising
symptom of the logical jurist. You must not ask a horse in
blinkers for a large view of a landscape. In the same way, a
detective ingenuity in microscopic detail is of all mental
qualities most unlike the broad sagacity by which the great
painters of human affairs have unintentionally stamped the
mark of unity on their productions. They show by their
treatment of each case that they understand the whole of life ;
the special delineator of fragments and points shows that he
understands them only. In one respect the defect is more
striking in Mr. Dickens than in any other novelist of the
VOL. in. 6
82 CHARLES DICKENS
present day. The most remarkable deficiency in modern
fiction is its omission of the business of life, of all those count-
less occupations, pursuits, and callings in which most men live
and move, and by which they have their being. In most
novels money grows. You have no idea of the toil, the
patience, and the wearing anxiety by which men of action
provide for the day, and lay up for the future, and support
those that are given into their care. Mr. Dickens is not
chargeable with this omission. He perpetually deals with the
pecuniary part of life. Almost all his characters have de-
termined occupations, of which he is apt to talk even at too
much length. When he rises from the toiling to the lux-
urious classes, his genius in most cases deserts him. The
delicate refinement and discriminating taste of the idling orders
are not in his way ; he knows the dry arches of London Bridge
better than Belgravia. He excels in inventories of poor fur-
niture, and is learned in pawnbrokers' tickets. But, although
his creative power lives and works among the middle class and
industrial section of English society, he has never painted the
highest part of their daily intellectual life. He made, indeed,
an attempt to paint specimens of the apt and able man of
business in Nicholas Nickleby ; but the Messrs. Cheeryble are
among the stupidest of his characters. He forgot that breadth
of platitude is rather different from breadth of sagacity. His
delineations of middle-class life have in consequence a harsh-
ness and meanness which do not belong to that life in reality.
He omits the relieving element. He describes the figs which
are sold, but not the talent which sells figs well. And it is
the same want of diffused sagacity in his own nature which
has made his pictures of life so odd and disjointed, and whi<
has deprived them of symmetry and unity.
The bizarrerie of Mr. Dickens's genius is rendered moei
remarkable by the inordinate measure of his special excellences.
The first of these is his power of observation in detail. We
have heard, — we do not know whether correctly or incorrectly,
— that he can go down a crowded street, and tell you all that
is in it, what each shop was, what the grocer's name was, how
many scraps of orange-peel there were on the pavement. His
CHARLES DICKENS 83
works give you exactly the same idea. The amount of detail
which there is in them is something amazing, — to an ordinary
writer something incredible. There are single pages contain-
ing telling minutice, which other people would have thought
enough for a volume. Nor is his sensibility to external objects,
though omnivorous, insensible to the artistic effect of each.
There are scarcely anywhere such pictures of London as he
draws. No writer has equally comprehended the artistic
material which is given by its extent, its aggregation of different
elements, its mouldiness, its brilliancy.
Nor does his genius — though, from some idiosyncrasy of
mind or accident of external situation, it is more especially
directed to city life — at all stop at the city wall. He is es-
pecially at home in the picturesque and obvious parts of
country life, particularly in the comfortable and (so to say)
mouldering portion of it. The following is an instance ; if not
the best that could be cited, still one of the best : —
" They arranged to proceed upon their journey next evening, as a
stage-waggon, which travelled for some distance on the same road as
they must take, would stop at the inn to change horses, and the driver for
a small gratuity would give Nell a place inside. A bargain was soon
struck when the waggon came ; and in due time it rolled away ; with the
child comfortably bestowed among the softer packages, her grandfather
and the schoolmaster walking on beside the driver, and the landlady and
all the good folks of the inn screaming out their good wishes and fare-
wells.
" What a soothing, luxurious, drowsy way of travelling, to lie inside
that slowly-moving mountain, listening to the tinkling of the horses' bells,
the occasional smacking of the carter's whip, the smooth rolling of the
great broad wheels, the rattle of the harness, the cheery good-nights of
passing travellers jogging past on little short-stepped horses — all made
pleasantly indistinct by the thick awning, which seemed made for lazy
listening under, till one fell asleep ! The very going to sleep, still with an
indistinct idea, as the head jogged to and fro upon the pillow, of moving
onward with no trouble or fatigue, and hearing all these sounds like dreamy
music, lulling to the senses — and the slow waking up, and finding one's
self staring out through the breezy curtain half-opened in the front, far up
into the cold bright sky with its countless stars, and downwards at the
driver's lantern dancing on like its namesake Jack of the swamps and
marshes, and sideways at the dark grim trees, and forward at the long bare
road rising up, up, up, until it stopped abruptly at a sharp high ridge as if
there were no more road, and all beyond Was sky — and the stopping at the
6*
84 CHARLES DICKENS
inn to bait, and being helped out, and going into a room with fire and candles,
and winking very much, and being agreeably reminded that the night was
cold, and anxious for very comfort's sake to think it colder than it was !
What a delicious journey was that journey in the waggon !
" Then the going on again— so fresh at first, and shortly afterwards
so sleepy. The waking from a sound nap as the mail came dashing past
like a highway comet, with gleaming lamps and rattling hoofs, and visions
of a guard behind, standing up to keep his feet warm, and of a gentleman
in a fur cap opening his eyes and looking wild and stupefied — the stopping
at the turnpike, where the man has gone to bed, and knocking at the door
until he answered with a smothered shout from under the bed-clothes in
the little room above, where the faint light was burning, and presently
came down, night-capped and shivering, to throw the gate wide open, and
wish all waggons off the road except by day. The cold sharp interval
between night and morning — the distant streak of light widening and
spreading, and turning from grey to white, and from white to yellow, and
from yellow to burning red — the presence of day, with all its cheerfulness
and life — men and horses at the plough — birds in the trees and hedges,
and boys in solitary fields frightening them away with rattles. The coming
to a town — people busy in the market ; light carts and chaises round the
tavern yard ; tradesmen" standing at their doors ; men running horses up
and down the street for sale ; pigs plunging and grunting in the dirty dis-
tance, getting off with long strings at their legs, running into clean chemists'
shops and being dislodged with brooms by 'prentices ; the night-coach
changing horses — the passengers cheerless, cold, ugly, and discontented,
with three months' growth of hair in one night — the coachman fresh as
from a bandbox, and exquisitely beautiful by contrast : — so much bustle, so
many things in motion, such a variety of incidents — when was there a
journey with so many delights as that journey in the waggon ! " l
Or, as a relief from a very painful series of accompanying
characters, it is pleasant to read and remember the description
of the fine morning on which Mr. Jonas Chuzzlewit does not
reflect. Mr. Dickens has, however, no feeling analogous to
the nature-worship of some other recent writers. There is
nothing Wordsworthian in his bent ; the interpreting inspira-
tion (as that school speak) is not his. Nor has he the erudition
in difficult names which has filled some pages in late novelists,
with mineralogy and botany. His descriptions of Nature are
fresh and superficial ; they are not sermonic or scientific.
Nevertheless, it may be said that Mr. Dickens's genius is
especially suited to the delineation of city life. London is
1 Old Curiosity Shop, chap. xlvi.
CHARLES DICKENS 85
like a newspaper. Everything is there, and everything is dis-
connected. There is every kind of person in some houses ;
but there is no more connection between the houses than
between the neighbours in the lists of " births, marriages, and
deaths ". As we change from the broad leader to the squalid
police report, we pass a corner and we are in a changed world.
This is advantageous to Mr. Dickens's genius. His memory
is full of instances of old buildings and curious people, and he
does not care to piece them together. On the contrary, each
scene, to his mind, is a separate scene, — each street a separate
street. He has, too, the peculiar alertness of observation that
is observable in those who live by it. He describes London
like a special correspondent for posterity.
A second most wonderful special faculty which Mr. Dickens
possesses is what we may call his vivification of character, or
rather of characteristics. His marvellous power of observation
has been exercised upon men and women even more than upon
town or country ; and the store of human detail, so to speak,
in his books is endless and enormous. The boots at the inn,
the pickpockets in the street, the undertaker, the Mrs. Gamp,
are all of them at his disposal ; he knows each trait and inci-
dent, and he invests them with a kind of perfection in detail
which in reality they do not possess. He has a very peculiar
power of taking hold of some particular traits, and making a
character out of them. He is especially apt to incarnate particu-
lar professions in this way. Many of his people never speak
without some allusion to their occupation. You cannot separ-
ate them from it. Nor does the writer ever separate them.
What would Mr. Mould1 be if not an undertaker? or Mrs.
Gamp 2 if not a nurse ? or Charley Bates 3 if not a pickpocket ?
Not only is human nature in them subdued to what it works
in, but there seems to be no nature to subdue; the whole
character is the idealisation of a trade, and is not in fancy or
thought distinguishable from it Accordingly, of necessity,
such delineations become caricatures. We do not in general
contrast them with reality ; but as soon as we do, we are struck
with the monstrous exaggerations which they present. You
1 In Martin Chuzzlewit. 2 Ibid. 3 In Oliver Twist.
86 CHARLES DICKENS
could no more fancy Sam Weller, or Mark Tapley, or the
Artful Dodger 1 really existing, walking about among common
ordinary men and women, than you can fancy a talking duck
or a writing bear. They are utterly beyond the pale of ordin-
ary social intercourse. We suspect, indeed, that Mr. Dickens
does not conceive his characters to himself as mixing in the
society he mixes in. He sees people in the street, doing
certain things, talking in a certain way, and his fancy petrifies
them in the act. He goes on fancying hundreds of reduplica-
tions of that act and that speech ; he frames an existence in
which there is nothing else but that aspect which attracted his
attention. Sam Weller is an example. He is a man-servant,
who makes a peculiar kind of jokes, and is wonderfully felici-
tous in certain similes. You see him at his first introduction : —
" ' My friend,' said the thin gentleman.
" ' You're one o' the adwice gratis order,' thought Sam, ' or you
wouldn't be so werry fond o' me all at once.' But he only said — * Well,
sir?'
" ' My friend,' said the thin gentleman, with a conciliatory hem —
' have you got many people stopping here, now ? Pretty busy ? Eh ? '
" Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high-dried man,
with a dark squeezed-up face, and small restless black eyes, that kept
winking and twinkling on each side of his little inquisitive nose, as if they
were playing a perpetual game of peep-bo with that feature. He was
dressed all in black, with boots as shiny as his eyes, a low white neck-
cloth, and a clean shirt with a frill to it. A gold watch-chain and seals
depended from his fob. He carried his black kid gloves in his hands, not
on them ; and, as he spoke, thrust his wrists beneath his coat-tails, with
the air of a man who was in the habit of propounding some regular posers.
" ' Pretty busy, eh ? ' said the little man.
" « Oh, werry well, sir,' replied Sam, « we shan't be bankrupts, and
we shan't make our fort'ns. We eat our biled mutton without capers, and
don't care for horse-radish wen ve can get beef.'
" ' Ah,' said the little man, ' you're a wag, ain't you ? '
" ' My eldest brother was troubled with that complaint,' said Sam, { it
may be catching — I used to sleep with him.'
" ' This is a curious old house of yours,' said the little man, looking
round him.
" ' If you'd sent word you was a-coming, we'd ha' had it repaired,'
replied the imperturbable Sam.
" The little man seemed rather baffled by these several repulses, and
1 In the Pickwick Papers, Martin Chuzzlewit, and Oliver Twist.
CHARLES DICKENS 87
a short consultation took place between him and the two plump gentle-
men. At its conclusion, the little man took a pinch of snuff from an
oblong silver box, and was apparently on the point of renewing the con-
versation, when one of the plump gentlemen, who, in addition to a bene-
volent countenance, possessed a pair of spectacles and a pair of black
gaiters, interfered —
" * The fact of the matter is,' said the benevolent gentleman, « that
my friend here ' (pointing to the other plump gentleman) ' will give you
half a guinea, if you'll answer one or two '
" ' Now, my dear sir — my dear sir,' said the little man, ' pray allow
me — my dear sir, the very first principle to be observed in these cases is
this : if you place a matter in the hands of a professional man, you must
in no way interfere in the progress of the business ; you must repose
implicit confidence in him. Really, Mr. ' (he turned to the other plump
gentleman, and said) — * I forget your friend's name.'
" ' Pickwick,' said Mr. Wardle, for it was no other than that jolly per-
sonage.
" ' Ah, Pickwick — really Mr. Pickwick, my dear sir, excuse me — I
shall be happy to receive any private suggestions of yours, as amicus
curies^ but you must see the impropriety of your interfering with my con-
duct in this case, with such an ad captandum argument as the offer of
half a guinea. Really, my dear sir, really,' and the little man took an
argumentative pinch of snuff, and looked very profound.
" ' My only wish, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, ' was to bring this very un-
pleasant matter to as speedy a close as possible.'
" ' Quite right — quite right,' said the little man.
" ' With which view,' continued Mr. Pickwick, ' I made use of the
argument which my experience of men has taught me is the most likely
to succeed in any case.'
" « Ay, ay,' said the little man, ' very good, very good indeed ; but
you should have suggested it to me. My dear sir, I'm quite certain you
cannot be ignorant of the extent of confidence which must be placed in
professional men. If any authority can be necessary on such a point,
my dear sir, let me refer you to the well-known case in Barnwell and '
" ' Never mind George Barnwell,' interrupted Sam, who had remained
a wondering listener during this short colloquy ; ' everybody knows vat
sort of a case his was, tho' it's always been my opinion, mind you, that
the young 'ooman deserved scragging a precious sight more than he did.
Hows'ever, that's neither here nor there. You want me to except of half
a guinea. Werry well, I'm agreeable : I can't say no fairer than that,
can I, sir?' (Mr. Pickwick smiled.) 'Then the next question is, what
the devil do you want with me ? as the man said wen he see the ghost.'
" ' We want to know ' said Mr. Wardle.
" * Now, my dear sir — my dear sir,' interposed the busy little man.
" Mr. Wardle shrugged his shoulders and was silent.
88
CHARLES DICKENS
" * We want to know,' said the little man solemnly ; ' and we ask the
question of you, in order that we may not awaken apprehensions inside—
we want to know who you've got in this house at present.'
" ' Who there is in the house ! ' said Sam, in whose mind the inmates
were always represented by that particular article of their costume which
came under his immediate superintendence. * There's a wooden leg in
number six ; there's a pair of Hessians in thirteen ; there's two pair of
halves in the commercial ; there's these here painted tops in the snuggery
inside the bar ; and five more tops in the coftee-room.'
" ' Nothing more ? ' said the little man.
" ' Stop a bit,' replied Sam, suddenly recollecting himself. ' Yes ;
there's a pair of Wellingtons a good deal worn, and a pair o' lady's shoes,
in number five.'
" * What sort of shoes ? ' hastily inquired Wardle, who, together with
Mr. Pickwick, had been lost in bewilderment at the singular catalogue of
visitors.
" ' Country make,' replied Sam.
" ' Any maker's name ? '
" ' Brown.'
"< Where of?'
" ' Muggleton.'
" ' It is them,' exclaimed Wardle. ' By Heavens, we've found them.'
" « Hush ! ' said Sam. < The Wellingtons has gone to Doctors Com-
mons.'
" ' No,' said the little man.
" ' Yes, for a license.'
" ' We're in time,' exclaimed Wardle. ' Show us the room ; not a
moment is to be lost.'
" ' Pray, my dear sir — pray,' said the little man ; ' caution, caution.'
He drew from his pocket a red silk purse, and looked very hard at Sam
as he drew out a sovereign.
" Sam grinned expressively.
" ' Show us into the room at once, without announcing us,' said the
little man, ' and it's yours.' " *
One can fancy Mr. Dickens hearing a dialogue of this sort,
— not nearly so good, but something like it, — and immediately
setting to work to make it better and put it in a book ; then
changing a little the situation, putting the boots one step up
in the scale of service, engaging him as footman to a stout
gentleman (but without for a moment losing sight of the
peculiar kind of professional conversation and humour which
his first dialogue presents), and astonishing all his readers by
1 Pickwick Papers^ chap, ix.
CHARLES DICKENS 89
the marvellous fertility and magical humour with which he
maintains that style. Sam Weller's father is even a stronger
and simpler instance. He is simply nothing but an old coach-
man of the stout and extinct sort : you cannot separate him
from the idea of that occupation. But how amusing he is !
We dare not quote a single word of his talk ; because we
should go on quoting so long, and every one knows it so well.
Some persons may think that this is not a very high species
of delineative art. The idea of personifying traits and trades
may seem to them poor and meagre. Anybody, they may
fancy, can do that. But how would they do it ? Whose
fancy would not break down in a page — in five lines ? Who
can carry on the vivification with zest and energy and humour
for volume after volume ? Endless fertility in laughter-causing
detail is Mr. Dickens's most astonishing peculiarity. It requires
a continuous and careful reading of his works to be aware of
his enormous wealth. Writers have attained the greatest
reputation for wit and humour, whose whole works do not
contain so much of either as are to be found in a very few
pages of his.
Mr. Dickens's humour is indeed very much a result of the
two peculiarities of which we have been speaking. His power
of detailed observation and his power of idealising individual
traits of character — sometimes of one or other of them, some-
times of both of them together. His similes on matters of
external observation are so admirable that everybody appre-
ciates them, and it would be absurd to quote specimens of
them ; nor is it the sort of excellence which best bears to be
paraded for the purposes of critical example. Its off-hand
air and natural connection with the adjacent circumstances are
inherent parts of its peculiar merit. Every reader of Mr.
Dickens's works knows well what we mean. And who is not
a reader of them ?
But his peculiar humour is even more indebted to his
habit of vivifying external traits, than to his power of external
observation. He, as we have explained, expands traits into
people ; and it is a source of true humour to place these, when
so expanded, in circumstances in which only people — that is
90 CHARLES DICKENS
complete human beings — can appropriately act. The humour
of Mr. Pickwick's character is entirely of this kind. He is a
kind of incarnation of simple-mindedness and what we may
call obvious-mindedness. The conclusion which each occur-
rence or position in life most immediately presents to the un-
sophisticated mind is that which Mr. Pickwick is sure to
accept. The proper accompaniments are given to him. He
is a stout gentleman in easy circumstances, who is irritated
into originality by no impulse from within, and by no stimulus
from without. He is stated to have " retired from business ".
But no one can fancy what he was in business. Such guileless
simplicity of heart and easy impressibility of disposition would
soon have induced a painful failure amid the harsh struggles
and the tempting speculations of pecuniary life. As he is
represented in the narrative, however, nobody dreams of such
antecedents. Mr. Pickwick moves easily over all the surface
of English life from Goswell Street to Dingley Dell, from
Dingley Dell to the Ipswich elections, from drinking milk-
punch in a wheelbarrow to sleeping in the approximate pound,
and no one ever thinks of applying to him the ordinary
maxims which we should apply to any common person in life,
or to any common personage in a fiction. Nobody thinks it
is wrong in Mr. Pickwick to drink too much milk-punch in a
wheelbarrow, to introduce worthless people of whom he knows
nothing to the families of people for whom he really cares ;
nobody holds him responsible for the consequences ; nobody
thinks there is anything wrong in his taking Mr. Bob Sawyer
and Mr. Benjamin Allen to visit Mr. Winkle, senior, and
thereby almost irretrievably offending him with his son's
marriage. We do not reject moral remarks such as these, but
they never occur to us. Indeed, the indistinct consciousness
that such observations are possible, and that they are hovering
about our minds, enhances the humour of the narrative. We
are in a conventional world, where the mere maxims of com-
mon life do not apply, and yet which has all the amusing
detail, and picturesque elements, and singular eccentricities of
common life. Mr. Pickwick is a personified ideal ; a kind of
amateur in life, whose course we watch through all the circum-
CHARLES DICKENS 91
stances of ordinary existence, and at whose follies we are
amused just as really skilled people are at the mistakes of an
amateur in their art. His being in the pound is not wrong ;
his being the victim of Messrs. Dodson is not foolish. " Al-
ways shout with the mob," said Mr. Pickwick. " But suppose
there are two mobs/' said Mr. Snodgrass. "Then shout with
the loudest," said Mr. Pickwick. This is not in him weakness
or time-serving, or want of principle, as in most even of
ficititious people it would be. It is his way. Mr. Pickwick
was expected to say something, so he said " Ah ! " in a grave
voice. This is not pompous as we might fancy, or clever as
it might be, if intentionally devised ; it is simply his way.
Mr. Pickwick gets late at night over the wall behind the back-
door of a young-ladies' school, is found in that sequestered
place by the schoolmistress and the boarders and the cook,
and there is a dialogue between them.1 There is nothing out
of possibility in this ; it is his way. The humour essentially
consists in treating as a moral agent a being who really is not
a moral agent. We treat a vivified accident as a man, and we
are surprised at the absurd results. We are reading about an
acting thing, and we wonder at its scrapes, and laugh at them
as if they were those of the man. There is something of this
humour in every sort of farce. Everybody knows these are
not real beings acting in real life, though they talk as if they
were, and want us to believe that they are. Here, as in Mr.
Dickens's books, we have exaggerations pretending to comport
themselves as ordinary beings, caricatures acting as if they
were characters.
At the same time it is essential to remember, that however
great may be and is the charm of such exaggerated personifica-
tions, the best specimens of them are immensely less excellent,
belong to an altogether lower range of intellectual achievements,
than the real depiction of actual living men. It is amusing to
read of beings out of the laws of morality, but it is more pro-
foundly interesting, as well as more instructive, to read of those
whose life in its moral conditions resembles our own. We see
this most distinctly when both representations are given by the
1 Chap. xvi.
92 CHARLES DICKENS
genius of one and the same writer. Falstaff is a sort of sack-
holding paunch, an exaggerated over-development which no
one thinks of holding down to the commonplace rules of the
ten commandments and the statute-law. We do not think of
them in connection with him. They belong to a world apart.
Accordingly, we are vexed when the king discards him and
reproves him. Such a fate was a necessary adherence on
Shakespeare's part to the historical tradition ; he never probably
thought of departing from it, nor would his audience have
perhaps endured his doing so. But to those who look at the
historical plays as pure works of imaginative art, it seems
certainly an artistic misconception to have developed so mar-
vellous an unmoral impersonation, and then to have subjected
it to an ethical and punitive judgment. Still, notwithstanding
this error, which was very likely inevitable, Falstaff is pro-
bably the most remarkable specimen of caricature-representation
to be found in literature. And its very excellence of execution
only shows how inferior is the kind of art which creates only
such representations. Who could compare the genius, marvel-
lous as must be its fertility, which was needful to create a
Falstaff, with that shown in the higher productions of the same
mind in Hamlet, Ophelia, and Lear ? We feel instantaneously
the difference between the aggregating accident which rakes up
from the externalities of life other accidents analogous to itself,
and the central ideal of a real character which cannot show
itself wholly in any accidents, but which exemplifies itself
partially in many, which unfolds itself gradually in wide
spheres of action, and yet, as with those we know best in life,
leaves something hardly to be understood, and after years of
familiarity is a problem and a difficulty to the last. In the
same way, the embodied characteristics and grotesque exaggera-
tions of Mr. Dickens, notwithstanding all their humour and all
their marvellous abundance, can never be for a moment com-
pared with the great works of the real painters of essential
human nature.
There is one class of Mr. Dickens's pictures which may
seem to form an exception to this criticism. It is the delinea-
tion of the outlaw, we might say the anti-law, world in Oliver
CHARLES DICKENS 93
Twist. In one or two instances Mr. Dickens has been so
fortunate as to hit on characteristics which, by his system of
idealisation and continual repetition, might really be brought
to look like a character. A man's trade or profession in regular
life can only exhaust a very small portion of his nature ; no
approach is made to the essence of humanity by the exaggera-
tion of the traits which typify a beadle or an undertaker.
With the outlaw world it is somewhat different. The bare
fact of a man belonging to the world is so important to his
nature, that if it is artistically developed with coherent acces-
sories, some approximation to a distinctly natural character
will be almost inevitably made. In the characters of Bill
Sykes and Nancy this is so. The former is the skulking
ruffian who may be seen any day at the police-courts, and
whom any one may fancy he sees by walking through St.
Giles's. You cannot attempt to figure to your imagination
the existence of such a person without being thrown into the
region of the passions, the will, and the conscience ; the mere
fact of his maintaining, as a condition of life and by settled
profession, a struggle with regular society, necessarily brings
these deep parts of his nature into prominence ; great crime
usually proceeds from abnormal impulses or strange effort.
Accordingly, Mr. Sykes is the character most approaching to
a coherent man who is to be found in Mr. Dickens's works.
We do not say that even here there is not some undue heighten-
ing admixture of caricature, — but this defect is scarcely thought
of amid the general coherence of the picture, the painful
subject, and the wonderful command of strange accessories.
Miss Nancy is a still more delicate artistic effort. She is an
idealisation of the girl who may also be seen at the police-courts
and St. Giles's ; as bad, according to occupation and common
character, as a woman can be, yet retaining a tinge of woman-
hood, and a certain compassion for interesting suffering, which
under favouring circumstances might be the germ of a regenerat-
ing influence. We need not stay to prove how much the
imaginative development of such a personage must concern
itself with our deeper humanity ; how strongly, if excellent, it
must be contrasted with everything conventional or casual or
94 CHARLES DICKENS
superficial. Mr. Dickens's delineation is in the highest degree
excellent. It possesses not only the more obvious merits belong-
ing to the subject, but also that of a singular delicacy of expres-
sion and idea. Nobody fancies for a moment that they are
reading about anything beyond the pale of ordinary propriety.
We read the account of the life which Miss Nancy leads with
Bill Sykes without such an idea occurring to us : yet when we
reflect upon it, few things in literary painting are more wonder-
ful than the depiction of a professional life of sin and sorrow,
so as not even to startle those to whom the deeper forms of
either are but names and shadows. Other writers would have
given as vivid a picture : Defoe would have poured out even a
more copious measure of telling circumstantiality, but he would
have narrated his story with an inhuman distinctness, which if
not impure is unpure ; French writers, whom we need not name,
would have enhanced the interest of their narrative by trading
on the excitement of stimulating scenes. It would be injustice
to Mr. Dickens to say that he has surmounted these tempta-
tions ; the unconscious evidence of innumerable details proves
that, from a certain delicacy of imagination and purity of spirit,
he has not even experienced them. Criticism is the more
bound to dwell at length on the merits of these delineations,
because no artistic merit can make Oliver Twist a pleasing
work. The squalid detail of crime and misery oppresses us
too much. If it is to be read at all, it should be read in the
first hardness of the youthful imagination, which no touch can
move too deeply, and which is never stirred with tremulous
suffering at the " still sad music of humanity "-1 The coldest
critic in later life may never hope to have again the apathy of
his boyhood.
It perhaps follows from what has been said of the charac-
teristics of Mr. Dickens's genius, that it would be little skilled
in planning plots for his novels. He certainly is not so skilled.
He says in his preface to the Pickwick Papers " that they were
designed for the introduction of diverting characters and in-
cidents ; that no ingenuity of plot was attempted, or even at
that time considered feasible by the author in connection
1 Wordsworth, " Tintern Abbey ".
CHARLES DICKENS 95
with the desultory plan of publication adopted ; " and he adds
an expression of regret that "these chapters had not been
strung together on a thread of more general interest". It is
extremely fortunate that no such attempt was made. In the
cases in which Mr. Dickens has attempted to make a long con-
nected story, or to develop into scenes or incidents a plan in
any degree elaborate, the result has been a complete failure.
A certain consistency of genius seems necessary for the con-
struction of a consecutive plot. An irregular mind naturally
shows itself in incoherency of incident and aberration of char-
acter. The method in which Mr. Dickens's mind works, if we
are correct in our criticism upon it, tends naturally to these
blemishes. Caricatures are necessarily isolated ; they are pro-
duced by the exaggeration of certain conspicuous traits and
features ; each being is enlarged on its greatest side ; and we
laugh at the grotesque grouping and the startling contrast.
But that connection between human beings on which a plot
depends is rather severed than elucidated by the enhancement
of their diversities. Interesting stories are founded on the
intimate relations of men and women. These intimate relations
are based not on their superficial traits, or common occupations,
or most visible externalities, but on the inner life of heart and
feeling. You simply divert attention from that secret life by
enhancing the perceptible diversities of common human nature,
and the strange anomalies into which it may be distorted.
The original germ of Pickwick was a " Club of Oddities ".
The idea was professedly abandoned ; but traces of it are to
be found in all Mr. Dickens's books. It illustrates the pro-
fessed grotesqueness of the characters as well as their slender
connection.
The defect of plot is heightened by Mr. Dickens's great,
we might say complete, inability to make a love-story. A
pair of lovers is by custom a necessity of narrative fiction, and
writers who possess a great general range of mundane know-
ledge, and but little knowledge of the special sentimental
subject, are often in amusing difficulties. The watchful reader
observes the transition from the hearty description of well-
known scenes, of prosaic streets, or journeys by wood and
96 . CHARLES DICKERS
river, to the pale colours of ill-attempted poetry, to such sights
as the novelist evidently wishes that he need not try to see.
But few writers exhibit the difficulty in so aggravated a form
as Mr. Dickens. Most men by taking thought can make a lay
figure to look not so very unlike a young gentleman, and can
compose a telling schedule of ladylike charms. Mr. Dickens
has no power of doing either. The heroic character — we do
not mean the form of character so called in life and action,
but that which is hereditary in the heroes of novels — is not
suited to his style of art. Hazlitt wrote an essay to inquii
" Why the heroes of romances are insipid " ; and without goinj
that length it may safely be said that the character of th<
agreeable young gentleman who loves and is loved should not
be of the most marked sort. Flirtation ought not to be ai
exaggerated pursuit. Young ladies and their admirers should
not express themselves in the heightened and imaginative
phraseology suited to Charley Bates and the Dodger. Humour
is of no use, for no one makes love in jokes : a tinge of insidi-
ous satire may perhaps be permitted as a rare and occasional
relief, but it will not be thought "a pretty book," if so malici-
ous an element be at all habitually perceptible. The broad
farce in which Mr. Dickens indulges is thoroughly out of place.
If you caricature a pair of lovers ever so little, by the necessity
of their calling you make them ridiculous. One of Sheridan's
best comedies l is remarkable for having no scene in which the
hero and heroine are on the stage together ; and Mr. Moore
suggests 2 that the shrewd wit distrusted his skill in the light,
dropping love-talk which would have been necessary. Mr.
Dickens would have done well to imitate so astute a policy ;
but he has none of the managing shrewdness which those who
look at Sheridan's career attentively will probably think not
the least remarkable feature in his singular character. Mr.
Dickens, on the contrary, pours out painful sentiments as if he
wished the abundance should make up for the inferior quality.
The excruciating writing which is expended on Miss Ruth
Pinch 3 passes belief. Mr. Dickens is not only unable to make
1 " School for Scandal ". 2 Life of Sheridan, vol. i., chap. v.
3 In Martin Chttzzlewit.
CHARLES DICKENS 97
lovers talk, but to describe heroines in mere narrative. As
has been said, most men can make a jumble of blue eyes and
fair hair and "pearly teeth, that does very well for a young lady,
at least for a good while ; but Mr. Dickens will not, probably
cannot, attain even to this humble measure of descriptive art.
He vitiates the repose by broad humour, or disenchants the de-
licacy by an unctuous admiration.
This deficiency is probably nearly connected with one of
Mr. Dickens's most remarkable excellences. No one can
read Mr. Thackeray's writings without feeling that he is per-
petually treading as close as he dare to the border-line that
separates the world which may be described in books from the
world which it is prohibited so to describe. No one knows
better than this accomplished artist where that line is, and
how curious are its windings and turns. The charge against
him is that he knows it but too well ; that with an anxious
care and a wistful eye he is ever approximating to its edge,
and hinting with subtle art how thoroughly he is familiar with,
and how interesting he could make, the interdicted region on
the other side. He never violates a single conventional rule ;
but at the same time the shadow of the immorality that is
not seen is scarcely ever wanting to his delineation of the
society that is seen. Every one may perceive what is passing
in his fancy. Mr. Dickens is chargeable with no such defect :
he does not seem to feel the temptation. By what we may
fairly call an instinctive purity of genius, he not only observes
the conventional rules, but makes excursions into topics which
no other novelist could safely handle, and, by a felicitous
instinct, deprives them of all impropriety. No other writer
could have managed the humour of Mrs. Gamp without
becoming unendurable. At the same time it is difficult not
to believe that this singular insensibility to the temptations to
which many of the greatest novelists have succumbed is in
some measure connected with his utter inaptitude for delineat-
ing the portion of life to which their art is specially inclined.
He delineates neither the love-affairs which ought to be, nor
those which ought not to be.
Mr. Dickens's indisposition to "make capital" out of the
VOL. in. 7
98 CHARLES DICKENS
most commonly tempting part of human sentiment is the
more remarkable because he certainly does not show the same
indisposition in other cases. He has naturally great powers
of pathos ; his imagination is familiar with the common sort
of human suffering ; and his marvellous conversancy with the
detail of existence enables him to describe sick-beds and
death-beds with an excellence very rarely seen in literature.
A nature far more sympathetic than that of most authors has
familiarised him with such subjects. In general, a certain
apathy is characteristic of book-writers, and dulls the efficacy
of their pathos. Mr. Dickens is quite exempt from this
defect ; but, on the other hand, is exceedingly prone to a very
ostentatious exhibition of the opposite excellence. He dwells
on dismal scenes with a kind of fawning fondness ; and he
seems unwilling to leave them, long after his readers have had
more than enough of them. He describes Mr. Dennis the
hangman l as having a professional fondness for his occupation :
he has the same sort of fondness apparently for the profession
of death-painter. The painful details he accumulates are a
very serious drawback from the agreeableness of his writings.
Dismal "light literature" is the dismallest of reading. The
reality of the police reports is sufficiently bad, but a fictitious
police report would be the most disagreeable of conceivable
compositions. Some portions of Mr. Dickens's books are
liable to a good many of the same objections. They are
squalid from noisome trivialities, and horrid with terrifying
crime. In his earlier books this is commonly relieved at
frequent intervals by a graphic and original mirth. As, we
will not say age, but maturity, has passed over his powers,
this counteractive element has been lessened ; the humour is
not so happy as it was, but the wonderful fertility in painful
mtnutzce still remains.
Mr. Dickens's political opinions have subjected him to a
good deal of criticism, and to some ridicule. He has shown,
on many occasions, the desire — which we see so frequent
among able and influential men — to start as a political reformer.
Mr. Spurgeon said, with an application to himself: " If you've
1 In Barnaby Rudge.
CHARLES DICKENS 99
got the ear of the public, of course you must begin to tell it its
faults ". Mr. Dickens has been quite disposed to make this
use of his popular influence. Even in Pickwick there are
many traces of this tendency ; and the way in which it shows
itself in that book and in others is very characteristic of the
time at which they appeared. The most instructive political
characteristic of the years 1825 to 1845 is the growth and
influence of the scheme of opinion which we call Radicalism.
There are several species of creeds which are comprehended
under this generic name, but they all evince a marked reaction
against the worship of the English constitution and the affec-
tion for the English status quo, which were then the established
creed and sentiment. All Radicals are Anti-Eldonites. This
is equally true of the Benthamite or philosophical radicalism
of the early period, and the Manchester, or " definite-grievance
radicalism," among the last vestiges of which we are now
living. Mr. Dickens represents a species different from either.
His is what we may call the " sentimental radicalism " ; and
if we recur to the history of the time, we shall find that there
would not originally have been any opprobrium attaching to
such a name. The whole course of the legislation, and still
more of the administration, of the first twenty years of the
nineteenth century was marked by a harsh unfeelingness which
is of all faults the most contrary to any with which we are
chargeable now. The world of the " Six Acts," 1 of the
frequent executions, of the Draconic criminal law, is so far
removed from us that we cannot comprehend its having ever
existed. It is more easy to understand the recoil which has
followed. All the social speculation, and much of the social
action of the few years succeeding the Reform Bill, bear the
most marked traces of the reaction. The spirit which animates
Mr. Dickens' s political reasonings and observations expresses
t exactly. The vice of the then existing social authorities,
and of the then existing public, had been the forgetfulness of
1 Of 23rd November, 3rd December, and i;th December, 1819 ; intro-
iuced by Eldon, Sidmouth and Castlereagh, to put down sedition, just after
he Manchester massacre and the Cato Street conspiracy.. (Forrest
|M organ.)
7*
ioo CHARLES DICKENS
the pain which their own acts evidently produced, — an un-
realising habit which adhered to official rules and established
maxims, and which would not be shocked by the evident
consequences, by proximate human suffering. The sure result
of this habit was the excitement of the habit precisely opposed
to it. Mr. Carlyle, in his Chartism, we think, observes of the
poor-law reform : " It was then, above all things, necessary
that outdoor relief should cease. But how ? What means
did great Nature take for accomplishing that most desirable
end ? She created a race of men who believed the cessation
of outdoor relief to be the one thing needful." In the same
way, and by the same propensity to exaggerated oppositioi
which is inherent in human nature, the unfeeling obtusen<
of the early part of this century was to be corrected by an e:
treme, perhaps an excessive, sensibility to human suffering ii
the years which have followed. There was most adequat
reason for the sentiment in its origin, and it had a great tasl
to perform in ameliorating harsh customs and repealing dreadfi
penalties ; but it has continued to repine at such evils loi
after they ceased to exist, and when the only facts that at
resemble them are the necessary painfulness of due punishmei
and the necessary rigidity of established law. Mr. Dickens is
an example both of the proper use and of the abuse of the
sentiment. His earlier works have many excellent descriptions
of the abuses which had descended to the present generation
from others whose sympathy with pain was less tender.
Nothing can be better than the description of the poor debtors'
gaol in Pickwick, or of the old parochial authorities in Oliver
Twist. No doubt these descriptions are caricatures, all his
delineations are so; but the beneficial use of such art can
hardly be better exemplified. Human nature endures the
aggravation of vices and foibles in written description better
than that of excellences. We cannot bear to hear even the
hero of a book for ever called "just" ; we detest the recurring
praise even of beauty, much more of virtue. The moment
you begin to exaggerate a character of true excellence, you
spoil it ; the traits are too delicate not to be injured by heighten-
ing, or marred by over-emphasis. But a beadle is made for
CHARLES DICKENS 101
caricature. The slight measure of pomposity that humanises
his unfeelingness introduces the requisite comic element ; even
the turnkeys of a debtors' prison may by skilful hands be
similarly used. The contrast between the destitute condition
of Job Trotter and Mr. Jingle and their former swindling
triumph is made comic by a rarer touch of unconscious art.
Mr. Pickwick's warm heart takes so eager an interest in the
misery of his old enemies, that our colder nature is tempted to
smile. We endure the over-intensity, at any rate the unneces-
sary aggravation, of the surrounding misery ; and we endure
it willingly, because it brings out better than anything else
could have done the half-comic intensity of a sympathetic nature.
It is painful to pass from these happy instances of well-
used power to the glaring abuses of the same faculty in Mr.
Dickens's later books. He began by describing really remov-
able evils in a style which would induce all persons, however
insensible, to remove them if they could ; he has ended by
describing the natural evils and inevitable pains of the present
state of being, in such a manner as must tend to excite dis-
content and repining. The result is aggravated, because Mr.
Dickens never ceases to hint that these evils are removable,
though he does not say by what means. Nothing is easier
than to show the evils of anything. Mr. Dickens has not
unfrequently spoken, and, what is worse, he has taught a
great number of parrot-like imitators to speak, in what really
is, if they knew it, a tone of objection to the necessary con-
stitution of human society. If you will only write a descrip-
tion of it, any form of government will seem ridiculous. What
is more absurd than a despotism, even at its best ? A king of
ability or an able minister sits in an orderly room filled with
memorials, and returns, and documents, and memoranda.
These are his world ; among these he of necessity lives and
moves. Yet how little of the real life of the nation he governs
can be represented in an official form ! How much of real
suffering is there that statistics can never tell ! how much of
obvious good is there that no memorandum to a minister will
ever mention ! how much deception is there in what such
documents contain ! how monstrous must be the ignorance of
102 CHARLES DICKENS
the closet statesman, after all his life of labour, of much that
a ploughman could tell him of! A free government is almost
worse, as it must read in a written delineation. Instead of
the real attention of a laborious and anxious statesman, we
have now the shifting caprices of a popular assembly — elected
for one object, deciding on another ; changing with the turn
of debate ; shifting in its very composition ; one set of men
coming down to vote to-day, to-morrow another and often
unlike set, most of them eager for the dinner-hour, actuated
by unseen influences, by a respect for their constituents, by the
dread of an attorney in a far-off borough. What people are
these to control a nation's destinies, and wield the power of
an empire, and regulate the happiness of millions ! Either
way we are at fault. Free government seems an absurdity,
and despotism is so too. Again, every form of law has a
distinct expression, a rigid procedure, customary rules and
forms. It is administered by human beings liable to mistake,
confusion, and forgetfulness, and in the long run, and on the
average, is sure to be tainted with vice and fraud. Nothing
can be easier than to make a case, as we may say, against
any particular system, by pointing out with emphatic carica-
ture its inevitable miscarriages, and by pointing out nothing
else. Those who so address us may assume a tone of philan-
thropy, and for ever exult that they are not so unfeeling as
other men are ; but the real tendency of their exhortations is
to make men dissatisfied with their inevitable condition, and,
what is worse, to make them fancy that its irremediable evils
can be remedied, and indulge in a succession of vague striv
ings and restless changes. Such, however — though in a style
of expression somewhat different — is very much the tone with
which Mr. Dickens and his followers have in later years made
us familiar. To the second-hand repeaters of a cry so feeble
we can have nothing to say ; if silly people cry because they
think the world is silly, let them cry ; but the founder of the
school cannot, we are persuaded, peruse without mirth the
lachrymose eloquence which his disciples have perpetrated
The soft moisture of irrelevant sentiment cannot have entirely
entered into his soul. A truthful genius must have forbidden
CHARLES DICKENS 103
it. Let us hope that his pernicious example may incite some
one of equal genius to preach with equal efficiency a sterner
and a wiser gospel ; but there is no need just now for us to
preach it without genius.
There has been much controversy about Mr. Dickens's
taste. A great many cultivated people will scarcely concede
that he has any taste at all ; a still larger number of fervent
admirers point, on the other hand, to a hundred felicitous
descriptions and delineations which abound in apt expres-
sions and skilful turns and happy images, — in which it would
be impossible to alter a single word without altering for the
worse ; and naturally inquire whether such excellences in
what is written do not indicate good taste in the writer.
The truth is, that Mr. Dickens has what we may call creative
taste ; that is to say, the habit or faculty, whichever we may
choose to call it, which at the critical instant of artistic pro-
duction offers to the mind the right word, and the right word
only. If he is engaged on a good subject for caricature, there
will be no defect of taste to preclude the caricature from being
excellent But it is only in moments of imaginative produc-
tion that he has any taste at all. His works nowhere indicate
that he possesses in any degree the passive taste which decides
what is good in the writings of other people, and what is not,
and which performs the same critical duty upon a writer's
own efforts when the confusing mists of productive imagina-
tion have passed away. Nor has Mr. Dickens the gentle-
manly instinct which in many minds supplies the place of
purely critical discernment, and which, by constant association
with those who know what is best, acquires a second-hand
perception of that which is best. He has no tendency to
conventionalism for good or for evil ; his merits are far re-
moved from the ordinary path of writers, and it was not
probably so much effort to him as to other men to step so
far out of that path : he scarcely knew how far it was. For
the same reason, he cannot tell how faulty his writing will
often be thought, for he cannot tell what people will think.
A few pedantic critics have regretted that Mr. Dickens had
not received what they call a regular education. And if we
io4 CHARLES DICKENS
understand their meaning, we believe they mean to regret that
he had not received a course of discipline which would
probably have impaired his powers. A regular education
should mean that ordinary system of regulation and instruction
which experience has shown to fit men best for the ordinary
pursuits of life. It applies the requisite discipline to each
faculty in the exact proportion in which that faculty is wanted
in the pursuits of life ; it develops understanding, and memory,
and imagination, each in accordance with the scale prescribed.
To men of ordinary faculties this is nearly essential ; it is the
only mode in which they can be fitted for the inevitable com-
petition of existence. To men of regular and symmetrical
genius also, such a training will often be beneficial. The
world knows pretty well what are the great tasks of the
human mind, and has learned in the course of ages with some
accuracy what is the kind of culture likely to promote their
exact performance. A man of abilities extraordinary in
degree but harmonious in proportion will be the better for
having submitted to the kind of discipline which has been
ascertained to fit a man for the work to which powers in that
proportion are best fitted ; he will do what he has to do better
and more gracefully ; culture will add a touch to the finish of
nature. But the case is very different with men of irregular
and anomalous genius, whose excellences consist in the
aggravation of some special faculty, or at the most one or two.
The discipline which will fit such a man for the production of
great literary works is that which will most develop the
peculiar powers in which he excels ; the rest of the mind will
be far less important ; it will not be likely that the cultui
which is adapted to promote this special development will ah
be that which is most fitted for expanding the powers
common men in common directions. The precise problem
to develop the powers of a strange man in a strange direction.
In the case of Mr. Dickens, it would have been absurd to have
shut up his observant youth within the walls of a college.
They would have taught him nothing about Mrs. Gamp there ;
Sam Weller took no degree. The kind of early life fitted to
develop the power of apprehensive observation is a brooding
CHARLES DICKENS 105
life in stirring scenes ; the idler in the streets of life knows the
streets; the bystander knows the picturesque effect of life
better than the player ; and the meditative idler amid the hum
of existence is much more likely to know its sound and to
take in and comprehend its depths and meanings than the
scholastic student intent on books, which, if they represent
any world, represent one which has long passed away, —
which commonly try rather to develop the reasoning under-
standing than the seeing observation, — which are written in
languages that have long been dead. You will not train
by such discipline a caricaturist of obvious manners.
Perhaps, too, a regular instruction and daily experience of
the searching ridicule of critical associates would have de-
tracted from the pluck which Mr. Dickens shows in all his
writings. It requires a great deal of courage to be a humorous
writer ; you are always afraid that people will laugh at you
instead of with you : undoubtedly there is a certain eccentricity
about it. You take up the esteemed writers, Thucydides and
the Saturday Review ; after all, they do not make you laugh. It
is not the function of really artistic productions to contribute
to the mirth of human beings. All sensible men are afraid
of it, and it is only with an extreme effort that a printed joke
attains to the perusal of the public : the chances are many to
one that the anxious producer loses heart in the correction of
the press, and that the world never laughs at all. Mr. Dickens
is quite exempt from this weakness. He has what a French-
man might call the courage of his faculty. The real daring
which is shown in the Pickwick Papers, in the whole character
of Mr. Weller senior, as well as in that of his son, is immense,
far surpassing any which has been shown by any other con-
temporary writer. The brooding irregular mind is in its first
stage prone to this sort of courage. It perhaps knows that
its ideas are "out of the way"; but with the infantine
simplicity of youth, it supposes that originality is an advantage.
Persons more familiar with the ridicule of their equals in
station (and this is to most men the great instructress of the
college time) well know that of all qualities this one most
requires to be clipped and pared and measured. Posterity,
106 CHARLES DICKENS
we doubt not, will be entirely perfect in every conceivable
element of judgment ; but the existing generation like what
they have heard before — it is much easier. It required great
courage in Mr. Dickens to write what his genius has compelled
them to appreciate.
We have throughout spoken of Mr. Dickens as he was,
rather than as he is ; or, to use a less discourteous phrase, and we
hope a truer, of his early works rather than of those which are
more recent. We could not do otherwise consistently with
the true code of criticism. A man of great genius, who has
written great and enduring works, must be judged mainly by
them ; and not by the inferior productions which, from the
necessities of personal position, a fatal facility of composition,
or other cause, he may pour forth at moments less favourable
to his powers. Those who are called on to review these in-
ferior productions themselves, must speak of them in the terms
they may deserve ; but those who have the more pleasant task
of estimating as a whole the genius of the writer, may confine
their attention almost wholly to those happier efforts which
illustrate that genius. We should not like to have to speak in
detail of Mr. Dickens's later works, and we have not done so.
There are, indeed, peculiar reasons why a genius constituted as
his is (at least if we are correct in the view which we have
taken of it) would not endure without injury during a long life the
applause of the many, the temptations of composition, and the
general excitement of existence. Even in his earlier works it
was impossible not to fancy that there was a weakness of fibre
unfavourable to the longevity of excellence. This was the effect
of his deficiency in those masculine faculties of which we have
said so much, — the reasoning understanding and firm far-seeing
sagacity. It is these two component elements which stiffen
the mind, and give a consistency to the creed and a coherence
to its effects, — which enable it to protect itself from the rush
of circumstances. If to a deficiency in these we add an extreme
sensibility to circumstances, — a mobility, as Lord Byron used
to call it, of emotion, which is easily impressed, and still more
easily carried away by impression, — we have the idea of a
character peculiarly unfitted to bear the flux of time and
CHARLES DICKENS 107
chance. A man of very great determination could hardly bear
up against them with such slight aids from within and with
such peculiar sensibility to temptation. A man of merely
ordinary determination would succumb to it ; and Mr. Dickens
has succumbed. His position was certainly unfavourable. He
has told us that the works of his later years, inferior as all good
critics have deemed them, have yet been more read than those
of his earlier and healthier years. The most characteristic part
of his audience, the lower middle-class, were ready to receive
with delight the least favourable productions of genius. Human
nature cannot endure this ; it is too much to have to endure a
coincident temptation both from within and from without.
Mr. Dickens was too much inclined by natural disposition to
lachrymose eloquence and exaggerated caricature. Such was
the kind of writing which he wrote most easily. He found
likewise that such was the kind of writing that was read most
readily ; and of course he wrote that kind. Who would have
done otherwise? No critic is entitled to speak very harshly
of such degeneracy, if he is not sure that he could have coped
with difficulties so peculiar. If that rule is to be observed,
who is there that will not be silent? No other Englishman
has attained such a hold on the vast populace ; it is little,
therefore, to say that no other has surmounted its attendant
temptations.
PARLIAMENTARY REFORM.1
(18590
WE shall not be expected to discuss in a party spirit the subject
of parliamentary reform. It has never been objected to th<
National Review that it is a party organ ; and even periodical*
which have long been such, scarcely now discuss that subject
in a party spirit. Both Whigs and Conservatives are pled^
to do something, and neither as a party have agreed what the]
would do. We would attempt to give an impartial criticism oi
the electoral system which now exists, and some indication of
the mode in which we think that its defects should be amended.
It is possible, we fear, that our article may be long, and that
our criticism on existing arrangements may appear tedious.
But a preliminary understanding is requisite ; unless we are
agreed as to what is to be desired, we cannot hope to agree as
to what is to be done : a clear knowledge of the disease must
precede the remedy. In business, no ingenuity of detail can
compensate for indistinctness of design.
There is much that may be said against the Reform Act
of 1832 ; but, on the whole, it has been successful. It is a
commonplace to speak of the legislative improvements of the
last twenty-five years, and it would be tedious to enumerate
them. Free trade, a new colonial policy, the improved poor-
1 " On the Electoral Statistics of the Counties and Boroughs in Eng-
land and Wales during the Twenty-five Years from the Reform Act of 1832
to the Present Time." By William Newmarch, one of the Honorary Sec-
retaries of the Statistical Society. Read before the Statistical Society, i6th
June, 1857, and printed in the Journal of that Society, vol. xx., parts 2
and 3. We cannot speak too highly of these most admirable statistics.
No pains have been spared to make them complete, and extreme judgment
has been shown in the selection. When it is not otherwise stated, all our
electoral statistics are from this source.
108
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 109
law, the Encumbered Estate Act in Ireland, the tithe commu-
tation, municipal reform, the tentative but most judicious sup-
port of education, are only some of the results of the reform
of the House of Commons. Scarcely less important is the
improvement which the Reform Bill has introduced into the
general tone of our administration ; our executive has become
purer, more considerate, and more humane, and it would be
difficult to show that in its ordinary and beneficial action it is
much weaker. Nor is this all. So much of agreement in
opinion as we see around us is perhaps unexampled in a politi-
cal age ; and it is the more singular, because the English nation
is now considerably less homogeneous in its social structure
than it once was. The prodigious growth of manufactures and
trade has created a new world in the North of England, which
contrasts with the south in social circumstances and social
habits : yet at no former time was there such a difference as
there now is between Lancashire and Devonshire. It is im-
possible not to ascribe this agreement to the habit of national
discussion which the Reform Act has fostered. The scattered
argument, the imperfect but perpetual influence of the press
and society, have made us, perhaps even to an excessive de-
gree, unanimous. Possibly we are all too much disposed to
catch the voice which is in the air. Still, a little too much
concord is better than a little too much discord. It is a strik-
ing result, that our present constitution has educed from such
dissimilar elements so much of harmony.
Beneficial, however, as are these incidental results of the
Reform Bill, they are not the most important parts of its
success. This measure has, to a considerable extent, been
successful in its design. The object which its framers had in
view was, to transfer the predominant influence in the State
from certain special classes to the general aggregate of fairly
instructed men. It is not perhaps very easy to prove upon
paper that this has been, at least in a very great degree, effected.
The most difficult thing to establish by argument is an evident
fact of observation. There are no statistics of opinion to which
we can refer, there is no numerical comparison which will
establish the accordance of parliamentary with social opinion.
1 1 o PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
We must trust to our eyes and ears, to the vague but conclu-
sive evidence of events. If, indeed, public opinion had always
been as unanimous as it now is, we should have some difficulty
in ascertaining the fact. When everybody thinks the same,
there is no saying which is the stronger party. But during the
last twenty-six years there have been many periods at which
public opinion was much divided and strongly excited. The
great legislative changes which have been mentioned were not
effected without long and animated party dissension. The
policy of a great country like this has continually required the
determination of critical questions, both at home and abroad ;
its ramified affairs have been a never-failing source of contro-
verted topics. What would have been the sign if the expressed
opinion of Parliament had been contrary to the distinct opinion
of the country ? In the present state of the country we should
not have been long in learning it. We should have had
political meetings, not of one class but all classes, clouds of
petitions from every quarter, endless articles in newspapers ;
the cry would only have died away when the obnoxious deci-
sion was reversed, and the judgment of Parliament submitted
itself to the will of the nation. The inclination of the House
of Commons is evidently not to oppose the country. On the
contrary, we all know the power, the undue power, possessed
by that part of the press whose course is supposed to indicate
what is likely to be the common opinion. So far from our
legislators dissenting too often from the expressed judgment
of the country, they are but too much swayed by indications
of what it probably will be. The history of our great legisla-
tive changes of itself shows that the opinion of Parliament is,
in the main, coincident with that of the nation. Parliament
and the country were converted at the same time. Even the
history of the corn-law agitation, which is often referred to as
indicating the contrary, proves this conspicuously. It suc-
ceeded almost at the moment that impartial people, who had
no interests on either side, were convinced that it ought to
succeed. Mr. Cobden liked to relate, that when he first began
to dream of agitating the question, a most experienced noble-
man observed to him, " Repeal the corn laws ! you will repeal
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 1 1
the monarchy as soon ". The noble lord was right in estimat-
ing the tenacity and intensity of the protectionist creed ; but
he did not know, and Mr. Cobden did, the power of plain
argument on the common mass of plain men, and the certainty
that their opinion, if really changed, would suffice to change
the course of our legislation, even in opposition to strong aris-
tocratic influence and very rooted prejudice. It has been said
that Sir Robert Peel owed his success in life to " being con-
verted at the conversion of the average man " ; the same in-
fluences acted on his mind that acted on the minds of most
other people throughout the nation, and in much the same
measure. He was, therefore, converted to new views at the
same time that most other people were converted to them.
The same may be said of the present Parliament. Nobody
would call the reformed House of Commons original ; it is
never in advance of the higher order of cultivated thought :
but every one would agree that it is pre-eminently considerate,
well-judging, and convincible ; and when people say this, they
mean that its opinions commonly coincide with their own.
In no respect is the reality of the accordance in opinion
between Parliament and the nation so convincingly shown as
in the sympathy of Parliament with the eccentricities of public
opinion. We are constantly acknowledging that " the English
mind " is exclusively occupied with single questions ; some-
i times with one, and sometimes with another, but at each time
I with one only. If Parliament did not share the same in-^
fluences as the general body of fairly educated men, there
would every now and then be a remarkable contrast between
the subjects which interested Parliament and that which
occupied the nation. The intensity of our peculiar sympathies
make this more likely. Satirists say that the English nation
is liable to intellectual seizures ; and so exclusive and so
restless is our intellectual absorption, so sudden its coming,
so quick sometimes is its cessation, that there is some signi-
ficance in the phrase. We are struck with particular ideas,
and for the time think of nothing else. It will be found that
Parliament, if it be sitting, thinks of the same. No instance
of this can be more remarkable than the parliamentary pro-
1 1 2 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
ceedings on Mr. Roebuck's motion for an inquiry into the
conduct of the Crimean campaign. There was great excite-
ment in the nation at the moment ; it has enabled the present
generation to understand what historians did not before under-
stand— the fate of poor Admiral Byng. The English nation
cannot bear failure in war. If there had been any one to hanj
at the time Mr. Roebuck made his motion, and he could
been hanged directly, certainly he would have been hang*
On the other hand, the authority of statesmanlike opinion ii
Parliament, the weight of political connection, the legitimate
disinclination to break up a Government during a dangerous
crisis, and — what is more remarkable — the great preponder-
ance of sound argument, were united to influence Parliament
not to grant even an inquiry. The result showed that the
opinion of our leading statesmen was right, and that the
arguments they produced were incontrovertible. Few inves-
tigations that have been commenced with so much outcry have
ever had so trivial an effect Yet, in opposition to all these
influences, usually so omnipotent, — in opposition to the com-
bined force of personal feeling and abstract argument, — tl
House of Commons so far accurately represented the senti
ment of the country as to grant, and even to insist
granting, the inquiry. This Parliamentary episode appears to
an instantia lucifera on the subject ; it shows that, even wh<
we could wish it otherwise, the House of Commons will ech(
the voice of the nation.
After all, there can be no more conclusive evidence of tl
substantial agreement between Parliament and the nation tl
the slight interest which is taken by the public in all questions
of organic reform. Every one knows how the Reform Act of
1832 was carried; no one doubted that the public mind was
excited then ; no fair person could doubt what the de-
cision of the nation then was. The "insurrection of the
middle classes," as it has been called, insured the success of
the " Bill ". It was alleged by its most reasonable opponents
" that the measure could not be final ; that those on whom it-
was proposed to confer the franchise would, even after the
passing of the measure, be but small in comparison with the
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 1 3
from whom it would be still withheld ; that in a few years a
similar agitation would recur, and a similar necessity of
yielding to agitation ; that the storm of 1832 would be a feeble
prelude to that of 1842," etc. These prophecies were not
without a species of probability, but they have not been
realised. No excited multitude clamours for enfranchisement ;
the reality is the reverse of the anticipation.
Two defects, however, may be discerned in the general
accordance of Parliamentary with national opinion. The
Parliament certainly has an undue bias towards the sentiments
and views of the landed interest. It is not easy to trace this
in immediate results. We have said that we scarcely think
that it is proved by the history of the free-trade agitation ; that
agitation was successful, nearly if not quite, as soon as it
should have been. We may, indeed, speculate on the results
! which might have occurred if the Irish famine had not
I happened, and if Sir R. Peel had not formed a statesmanlike
| judgment upon its consequences ; we may believe that there
'would in that case have been an opposition between an
educated nation converted by reasoning to the principles of
free trade, and a majority in Parliament wedded by pre-
judice and interest to protection. Still, as this is but con-
jecture, we cannot cite it as conclusive evidence. Nor is the
partiality to real property in matters of taxation which is
i occasionally dwelt on, very easy to prove in figures. The
account is at best a complicated one. The exemption of land
from probate duty is partly compensated by the succession
duty, by the land-tax, by the more severe pressure of the
income-tax, and still more by the necessary incidence of much
local taxation on this kind of property. Still, a fair observer,
closely comparing the opinion of the House of Commons with
that of the public out of doors, will certainly observe some
signs of a partiality towards the landed interest among our
legislators. We cannot ascribe this to any obvious preponder-
ance in number of the county over the borough seats. Taking
population as a test, it is otherwise. There are in England and
Wales 159 county members, more than double that number
(viz. 335) of borough members; the population of the repre-
VOL. III. 8
1 14 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
sented boroughs is 7,500,000, that of the counties 10,500,000,
consequently the represented boroughs have not as many
inhabitants as the counties, though they elect twice the numl
of members. This test is, of course, a most imperfect one ;
but may serve to show that in mere arithmetic the counties
are not extravagantly favoured. The real cause is the peculiar
structure of our county society. A county member is almost
of necessity one of the county gentry ; he must not onb
possess land, but it must be land in that place : no one else is
"entitled to stand". On the other hand, boroughs return a
very miscellaneous class of members. Many important land-
owners sit for them. So great is the variety, that no class is
excluded from them altogether. This contrast must affect the
distribution of parliamentary power. The county members
form a peculiar class in the House of Commons, and exercise a
steady influence there out of proportion to their mere numbers.
Besides, so much more of social influence belongs to the
^territorial aristocracy than to any other class, that its weight
is indefinitely increased. Not a few men enter Parliament
mainly to augment their social importance, and over these the
unquestioned possessors of social rank necessarily have great
power. A third circumstance contributes its effect. The
Ministers of the Crown are generally large landowners. By
imperious social usage, they must be men of large property ;
and all opulence gravitates towards the land. Political opul-
ence does so particularly. Until recently there was much
difficulty in finding other investments not requiring sedulous
personal attention, and not liable to be affected by political
vicissitudes. It is of essential importance that Ministers of
State should be persons at ease in their worldly circumstances,
and it is quite out of the question that they should have any
share in the administration of commercial enterprises ; they
have enough to do without that Their wealth, too, should
not be in a form that could expose them even to the suspicion
of stock-jobbing, or of making an improper use of political
information. We have now many kinds of property deben-
tures, canal shares, railway shares, etc., which have these
advantages in nearly an equal degree with land itself; but
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 1 5
the growth of these is recent. It may hereafter have im-
portant consequences, but it has not as yet had time to achieve
them. Accordingly the series of Cabinet Ministers presents a
nearly unbroken rank of persons who either are themselves
large landowners, or are connected closely by birth or inter-
marriage with large landowners. This combination of cir-
cumstances gives to real property an influence in our political
system greater than in strict theory we should wish it to have.
It is true that the owners of much land are men of much
leisure, and the possession of such property has a sedative
influence, which in moderation may not be undesirable ; but
the effective representation of national opinion requires the
selection of members of Parliament from men of various
occupations, various tendencies, and various sympathies. Public
opinion in a composite nation is formed by the action and re-
action of many kinds of minds ; and abstractedly it seems a
defect that the solid mass of county members, on whatever
side of the house they sit, should present features so marked
and uniform.
The second defect in the accordance of Parliamentary with
national opinion is but another phase of the same fact. Too
little weight is at present given to the growing parts of the
country, too much to the stationary. It appears that the
county constituencies in England and Wales have only in-
creased, in the twenty years between 1837 and 1857, from
473,000 to 505,000, that is, at about 6 per cent. ; the borough
constituencies, in the same period, have increased from 321,000
to 439,000, or at the rate of 17 per cent. And it further
appears, as we should expect, that the principal increase,
both in the case of counties and boroughs, is not in the purely
agricultural districts, but in the great scenes of manufacturing
industry and in the metropolis. The growth of constituencies,
according to the present franchise, is a much better test of
relative importance than the mere growth of population ; it
indicates the increase of property, and therefore of presumable
intelligence. These figures plainly indicate, if not an existing
defect, yet a source of future defect in our representative sys-
tem. If there was a just proportion between the two halves
8*
1 1 6 PARLIAMENTAR V REFORM
of England in 1832, there is not that just proportion now.
In the long run, public opinion will be much more influenced
by the growing portion of the country than by the stationary.
It is an indistinct perception of this fact that stimulates whj
ever agitation for reform at present exists. The mam
facturers of Leeds and Manchester do not give levees anc
entertainments to Mr. Bright from any attraction towai
abstract democracy; the rate-paying franchise which Mi
Bright desires would place these classes under the irresistibl
control of their work-people. What our great traders realb
desire is, their own due weight in the community. They fee
that the country squire and the proprietor of a petty borough
have an influence in the nation above that which they ought
to have, and greater than their own. A system arranged a
quarter of a century ago presses with irritating constraint on
those who have improved with half-magical rapidity during
that quarter of a century, — is unduly favourable to those who
have improved much less or not at all.
Subject, however, to these two exceptions, the House of
Commons of the present day coincides nearly — or sufficiently
nearly — in habitual judgment with the fairly intelligent and
reasonably educated part of the community. Almost all
persons, except the avowed holders of the democratic theory,
would think that this is enough. Most people wish to see
embodied in Parliament the true judgment of the nation ; they
wish to see an elected legislature fairly representing — that is,
coinciding in opinion with — the thinking part of the com-
munity. What more, they would inquire, is wanted ? We
answer, that though this is by much the most important j
requisite of a good popular legislature, it is not absolutely the I
only one.
At present, the most important function of the representa- \
tive part of our legislature — the House of Commons — is the!
ruling function. By a very well-known progress of events, j
the popular part of our constitution has grown out of very
small beginnings to a practical sovereignty over all the other
parts. To possess the confidence of the House of Commons
is all that a Minister desires; the power of the Crown is,
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 1 7
reduced to a kind of social influence ; that of the House of
Lords is contracted to a suspensive veto. For the exercise
of this ruling function, the substantial conformity of the
judgment and opinion of the House of Commons with that
of the fairly cultivated and fairly influential part of the people
at large is the most important of possible conditions — is, in
fact, the one condition on which the satisfactory performance
of that function appears to depend. No legislature destitute
of this qualification, whatever its other merits may be, can
create that feeling of diffused satisfaction which is the peculiar
happiness of constitutional countries, or can ensure that distinct
comprehension of a popular policy which is the greatest source
of their strength. Nothing can satisfy which is not com-
prehended : no policy can be popular which is not understood.
This is a truth of every-day observation. We are, nowadays,
so familiar with the beneficial results of the ruling action of
Parliament, that we are engrossed by it ; we fancy that it is
the sole duty of a representative assembly : yet so far is this
from being the case, that in England it was not even the
original one.
The earliest function of a House of Commons was un-
deniably what we may call an expressive function. In its
origin it was (matters of taxation excepted) a petitioning
body ; all the early statutes, as is well known, are in this form :
the Petition of Right is an instance of its adoption in times
comparatively recent The function of the popular part of
the legislature was then to represent to the king the wants of
his faithful Commons. They were called to express the feelings
of those who sent them and their own. Of course, in its
original form, this function is obsolete ; and if something an-
alogous to it were not a needful element in the duties of every
representative assembly, it would be childish to refer to it.
But in every free country it is of the utmost importance — and,
in the long run, a pressing necessity — that all opinions ex-
tensively entertained, all sentiments widely diffused should be
stated publicly before the nation. We may attribute the real
decision of questions, the actual adoption of policies, to the
ordinary and fair intelligence of the community, or to the
1 1 8 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
legislature which represents it. But we must also take care to
bring before that fair intelligence and that legislature the senti-
ments, the interests, the opinions, the prejudices, the wants, of
all classes of the nation ; we must be sure that no decision is
come to in ignorance of real facts and intimate wants. The
diffused multitude of moderate men, whose opinions, taken in
the aggregate, form public opinion, are just as likely to
tyrannical towards what they do not realise, inapprehensive
what is not argued out, thoughtless of what is not brought
before them, as any other class can be. They will judge well
of what they are made to understand ; they will not be harsh
to feelings that are brought home to their imagination ; but
the materials of a judgment must be given them, the necessary
elements of imagination must be provided, otherwise the result
is certain. A free government is the most stubbornly stupid
of all governments to whatever is unheard by its deciding
classes. On this account it is of the utmost importance that
there should be in the House of Commons some persons able
to speak, and authorised to speak, the wants, sentiments, and
opinions of every section of the community — delegates, one
might almost say, of that section. It is only by argument in
the legislature that the legislature can be impressed ; it is by
argument in the legislature that the attention of the nation is
most easily attracted and most effectually retained.
If, with the light of this principle, we examine our present
system of representation, it seems unquestionable that it is
defective. We do not provide any mode of expression for the
sentiments of what are vaguely but intelligibly called the work-
ing classes. We ignore them. The Reform Act of 1832
assumed that it was expedient to give a representation to the
wants and feelings of those who live in ten-pound houses, but
that it was not expedient to give any such expression to the
wants and feelings of those who live in houses rated below that
sum. If we were called to consider that part of this subject,
we should find much to excuse the framers of that Act in the
state of opinion which then prevailed and the general circum-
stances of the time. It was necessary to propose a simple
measure; and this numerical demarcation has a trenchant
5
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 1 9
simplicity. But if we now considerately review our electoral
organisation, we must concede that, however perfectly it may
provide an appropriate regulator for our national affairs, it
omits to provide a befitting organ of expression for the desires
and convictions of these particular classes.
The peculiar characteristics of a portion of the working
classes render this omission of special importance. The agri-
cultural labourers may have no sentiments on public affairs ;
but the artisan classes have. Not only are their circumstances
peculiar, and their interests sometimes different from those of
the high orders of the community — both which circumstances
are likely to make them adopt special opinions, and are there-
fore grounds for a special representation — but the habit of
mind which their pursuits and position engender is of itself
not unlikely to cause some eccentricity of judgment. Ob-
servers tell us that those who live by manual ingenuity are
more likely to be remarkable for originality than for modesty.
In the present age — and to some extent, we must expect, in
every age — such persons must be self-taught ; and self-taught
men are commonly characterised by a one-sided energy and
something of a self-sufficient disposition. The sensation of
perfection in a mechanical employment is of itself not without
an influence tending towards conceit ; and however instructed
in definite learning energetic men in these classes may become,
they are not subjected to the insensible influences of cultivated
life, they do not live in the temperate zone of society, which
soon chills the fervid ideas of unseasonable originality. Being
cooped up within the narrow circle of ideas that their own
energy has provided, they are particularly liable to singular
opinions. This is especially the case on politics. They are
attracted to that subject in a free country of necessity ; their
active intellects are in search of topics for reflection ; and this
subject abounds in the very atmosphere of our national life, is
diffused in newspapers, obtruded at elections, to be heard at
every corner of the street. Energetic minds in this class are
therefore particularly likely to entertain eccentric opinions on
political topics ; and it is peculiarly necessary that such opinions
should, by some adequate machinery, be stated and made
1 20 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
public. If such singular views be brought into daily collision
with ascertained facts and the ordinary belief of cultivated
men, their worth can be tested, the weakness of their fallacious
part exposed, any new grain of truth they may contain ap-
preciated. On some subjects (possibly, for example, on simple
questions of foreign policy) the views of self-taught men may
be very valuable, for their moral instincts sometimes have a
freshness rarely to be found. At any rate, whatever may be the
abstract value of the special sentiments and convictions of the
operative classes, their very speciality is a strong indication
that our constitution is defective in providing no distinct out-
let for their expression.
A theorist might likewise be inclined to argue that the
Reform Act of 1832 was defective in not providing an appro-
priate organ for the expression of opinion of the higher orders
of society. It selects a ten-pound householder for special
favour. In large towns, nay to a certain extent in any town,
the more cultivated and refined classes, who live in better
houses than these, are practically disfranchised ; the number
of their inferiors renders valueless the suffrage conferred on
them. We remember some years ago hearing a conversation
between a foreigner and a most accomplished Englishman, who
lived in Russell Square. The foreigner was expatiating on the
happiness of English people in being governed by a legislature
in which they were represented. The Russell-Square scholar
replied, "/ am represented by Mr. Wakley and Tom Dun-
combe ". He felt the scorn natural to a cultivated man in a
metropolitan constituency at the supposition that such repre-
sentatives as these really expressed his views and sentiments.
We know how constantly in America, which is something like
a nation of metropolitan constituencies, the taste and temper
of the electors excludes the more accomplished and leisured
classes from the legislature, and how vulgar a stamp the taste
and temper of those elected impresses on the proceedings of
its legislature and the conduct of its administration. Men of
refinement shrink from the House of Representatives as from
a parish vestry. In England, though we feel this in some
measure, we feel it much less. Other parts of our electoral
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 2 1
system now afford a refuge to that refined cultivation which is
hateful to and hates the grosser opinion of the small shop-
keepers in cities. Our higher classes still desire to rule the
nation ; and so long as this is the case, the inherent tendencies
of human nature secure them the advantage. Manner and
bearing have an influence on the poor ; the nameless charm of
refinement tells; personal confidence is almost everywhere
more easily accorded to one of the higher classes than to one
of the lower classes. From this circumstance, there is an in-
herent tendency in any electoral system which does not vulgar-
ise the government, to protect the rich and to represent the
rich. Though by the letter of the law, a man who lives in a
house assessed at £10 has an equal influence on the constitu-
tion of the legislature with a man whose house is assessed at
£100, yet, in truth, the richer man has the security that the
members of Parliament, and especially the foremost members
of Parliament, are much more likely to be taken from this class
than from a poorer class.
We may therefore conclude that there is not any ground
for altering the electoral system established by the Reform Act
of 1832 on account of its not providing for the due represen-
tation of the more cultivated classes. Indirectly it does so.
But we must narrowly watch any changes in that system which
are proposed to us, with the view of seeing whether their
operation might not have a tendency to impair the subtle work-
ing of this indirect machinery. We must bear in mind that
the practical disfranchisement of the best classes is the ascer-
tained result of giving an equal weight to high and low in con-
stituencies like the metropolitan.
These considerations do not affect our previous conclusion as
to the lower orders. We ascertained that, however perfectly
the House of Commons under the present system of election
may coincide in judgment with the fairly educated classes of
the country, and however competent it may on that account
be to perform the ruling function of a popular legislature, it
was nevertheless defective in its provision for the performance
of the expressive functions of such a legislature ; because it pro-
vided no organ for informing Parliament and the country of
1 2 2 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
the sentiments and opinions of the working, and especially of
the artisan classes.
Another deficiency in the system of representation now
existing is of a different nature. It is not only desirable that a
popular legislature should be fitted to the discharge of its duties,
but also that it should be elected by a process which occasions
no unnecessary moral evils. A theorist would be inclined
to advance a step further. He would require that a popular
assembly should be elected in the mode which would diffuse
the instruction given by the habitual possession of the fran-
chise among the greatest number of competent persons, and
which would deny it to the greatest number of unfit persons.
But every reasonable theorist would hasten to add, that the
end must never be sacrificed to the means. The mode of elec-
tion which is selected must be one which will bring together
an assembly of members fitted to discharge the functions of
Parliament. Among those modes of election, this theoretical
principle prescribes the rule of choice ; but we must not, under
its guidance, attempt to travel beyond the circle of those modes.
A practical statesman will be very cautious how he destroys a
machinery which attains its essential object, for the sake of an
incidental benefit which might be expected from a different
machinery. If we have a good legislature, he will say, let us
not endanger its goodness for the sake of a possible diffusion
of popular education. All sensible men would require that the
advocates of such a measure should show beyond all reasonable
doubt that the extension of the suffrage, which they recommend
on this secondary ground, should not impair the attainment of
the primary end for which all suffrage was devised. At the
present moment, there certainly are many persons of substantial
property and good education who do not possess the franchise,
and to whom it would be desirable to give it, if they could be
distinguished from others who are not so competent. A man
of the highest education, who does not reside in a borough,
may have large property in the funds, in railway shares, or any
similar investment ; but he will have no vote unless his house
is rated above £50. But, as we have said, we must not, from
a theoretical desire to include such persons in our list of electors,
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 2 3
run a risk of admitting also any large number of persons who
would be unfit to vote, and thereby impairing the practical
utility of Parliament. No such hesitation should, however,
hold us back when peculiar moral evils can be proved to arise
from a particular mode of election. If that be so, we ought on
the instant to make the most anxious search for some other
mode of election not liable to the same objection : we ought to
run some risk ; if another mode of election can be suggested,
apparently equal in efficiency, which would not produce the
same evils, we should adopt it at once in place of the other.
We must act on the spirit of faith that what is morally wrong
cannot be politically right
This objection applies in the strongest manner to one
portion of our electoral system, namely, the smaller borough
constituencies. We there entrust the franchise to a class of
persons few enough to be bought, and not respectable
enough to refuse to be bought. The disgraceful exposures
of some of these boroughs before election committees make
it probable that the same abuses exist in others : doubtless,
too, we do not know the worst. The worst constituencies
are slow to petition, because the local agents of both parties
are aware of what would come to light, and fear the conse-
quent penalties. Enough, however, is in evidence for us to
act upon. Some of these small boroughs are dependent on
some great nobleman or man of fortune; and this state is
perhaps preferable to their preserving a vicious independence :
but even this state is liable to very many objections. It is
most advantageous that the nominal electors should be the
real electors. Legal fictions have a place in courts of law ; it
is sometimes better or more possible to strain venerable
maxims beyond their natural meaning than to limit them by
special enactment : but legal fictions are very dangerous in
the midst of popular institutions and a genuine moral excite-
ment. We speak day by day of " shams"; and the name
will be for ever applied to modes of election which pretend to
entrust the exclusive choice to those who are known by every-
body never to choose. The Reform Act of 1832 was dis-
tinctly founded on the principle that all modes of election
should be real.
1 24 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
We arrive, therefore, at the result that the system of 1832
is defective, because it established, or rather permitted to
continue, moral evils which it is our duty to remove, if by
possibility they can be removed. However, in that removal
we must be careful to watch exactly what we are doing. It
has been shown that the letter of the Reform Act makes no
provision for the special representation of wealth and cultiva-
tion ; the representation which they have is attained by indirect
means. The purchasable boroughs are undoubtedly favourable
to wealth ; the hereditary boroughs to men of hereditary culti-
vation ; and we should be careful riot to impair unnecessarily
the influence of these elements by any alteration we may
resolve upon.
We can now decide on the result which we should try to
attain in a new Reform Bill. If we could obtain a House of
Commons that should be well elected, that should contain
true and adequate exponents of all .class interests, that should
coincide in opinion with the fair intelligence of the country,
we shall have all which we ought to desire. We have satisfied
ourselves that we do not possess all these advantages now ;
we have seen that a part of our system of election is grossly
defective ; that our House of Commons contains no adequate
exponents of the views of the working classes ; that though
its judgment has, as yet, fairly coincided with public opinion,
yet that its constitution gives a dangerous preponderance to
the landed interest, and is likely to fail us hereafter unless an
additional influence be given to the more growing and energetic
L classes of society.
We should think it more agreeable (and perhaps it would
be so to most of our readers) if we were able at once to pro-
ceed to discuss the practical plan by which these objects
might be effected ; but in deference to a party which has some
zealous adherents, and to principles which, in an indistinct
shape, are widely diffused, we must devote a few remarks to
the consideration of the ultra-democratic theory ; and as we
have to do so, it will be convenient to discuss in connection
with it one or two of the schemes which the opponents of that
theory have proposed for testing political intelligence,
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 2 5
As is well known, the democratic theory requires that
Parliamentary representation should be proportioned to mere
numbers. This is not, indeed, the proposition which is at
this moment put forward. The most important section of
democratic reformers now advocate a ratepaying or household
franchise ; but this is either avowedly as a step to something
further, or because from considerations of convenience it is
considered better to give the franchise only to those whose
residences can be identified. But it is easy to show that the
ratepaying franchise is almost equally liable with the man-
hood suffrage to a most important objection. That objection,
of course, is that the adoption of the scheme would give /
entire superiority to the lower part of the community. No-
thing is easier than to show that a ratepaying franchise would
have that effect. In England and Wales —
The number of houses assessed at ,£10 and above
is computed to be . . . . . . 990,000
„ at ,£6 and under ;£ 10 572,000
„ „ under £6 . . . 1,713,°°°
3,275,000
More than half the persons who would be admitted by the
ratepaying franchise are, therefore, of a very low order, living
in houses under £6 rent, and two-thirds are below £10, the
lowest qualification admitted by the present law. It therefore
seems quite certain that the effect of the proposed innovation
must be very favourable to ignorance and poverty, and very
unfavourable to cultivation and intelligence.
There used to be much argument in favour of the demo-
cratic theory, on the ground of its supposed conformity with
the abstract rights of man. This has j>assed away ; but we
cannot say that the reasons by which it has been replaced are
more distinct : we think that they are less distinct. We can
understand that an enthusiast should maintain, on fancied
grounds of immutable morality, or from an imaginary con-
formity with a supernatural decree, that the ignorant should
govern the instructed ; but we do not comprehend how any
one can maintain the proposition on grounds of expediency.
We might believe that it was right to submit to the results of
1 26 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
such a polity ; but those results, it would seem, must be be-
yond controversy pernicious. The arguments from expediency,
which are supposed to establish the proposition, are never set
forth very clearly ; and we do not think them worth confuting.
We are, indeed, disposed to believe, in spite of much direct
assertion to the contrary, that the democratic theory still rests
not so much on reason as on a kind of sentiment — on an
obscure conception of abstract rights. The animation of its
advocates is an indication of it. They think they are contend-
ing for the " rights " of the people ; and they endeavour to
induce the people to believe so too. We hold this opinion the
more strongly, because we believe that there is such a thing,
after all, as abstract right in political organisations. We find
it impossible to believe that all the struggles of men for liberty
— all the enthusiasm it has called forth, all the passionate emo-
tions it has caused in the very highest minds, all the glow of
thought and rustle of obscure feeling which the very name
excites in the whole mass of men — have their origin in calcu-
lations of advantage and a belief that such and such arrange-
ments would be beneficial. The masses of men are very difficult
to excite on bare grounds of self-interest ; most easy if a bold
orator tells them confidently they are wronged. The foundation
of government upon simple utility is but the fiction of philoso-
phers ; it has never been acceptable to the natural feelings of
mankind. There is far greater truth in the formula of the French
writers that " le droit derive de la capacitc". Some sort of
feeling akin to this lurks, we believe, in the minds of our re-
formers ; they think they can show that some classes now un-
enfranchised are as capable of properly exercising the franchise
as some who have possessed it formerly, or some who have it
now. The £,$ householder of to-day is, they tell us, in edu-
cation and standing but what the £10 householder was in
1832. The opponents of the theory are pressed with the
argument, that every fit person should have the franchise, and
that many who are excluded are as fit as some who exercise it,
and from whom no one proposes to take it away.
The answer to the argument is plain. Fitness to govern —
for that is the real meaning of exercising the franchise which
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 2 7
elects a ruling assembly — is not an absolute quality of any in-
dividual. That fitness is relative and comparative ; it must
depend on the community to be governed, and on the merits
of other persons who may be capable of governing that com-
munity. A savage chief may be capable of governing a savage
tribe ; he may have the right of governing it, for he may be
the sole person capable of so doing ; but he would have no
right to govern England. We must look likewise to the com-
petitors for the sovereignty. Whatever may be your capacity
for rule, you have no right to obtain the opportunity of exer-
cising it by dethroning a person who is more capable. You
are wronging the community if you do : for you are depriving
it of a better government than that which you can give to it.
You are wronging also the ruler you supersede ; for you are
depriving him of the appropriate exercise of his faculties. Two
wrongs are thus committed from a fancied idea that abstract
capacity gives a right to rule irrespective of comparative rela-
tions. The true principle is, that every person has a right to
so much political power as he can exercise without impeding any /
other person who would more fitly exercise such power. If we
apply this to the lower orders of society, we see the reason
why, notwithstanding their numbers, they must always be sub-
ject— always at least be comparatively uninfluential. Whatever
their capacity may be, it must be less than that of the higher
classes, whose occupations are more instructive and whose
education is more prolonged. Any such measure for enfran-
chising the lower orders as would overpower, and consequently
disfranchise, the higher, should be resisted on the ground of
" abstract right " ; you are proposing to take power from those
who have the superior capacity, and to vest it in those who have
but an inferior capacity, or, in many cases, no capacity at all.
If we probe the subject to the bottom, we shall find that justice
is on the side of a graduated rule, in which all persons should
have an influence proportioned to their political capacity ; and
it is at this graduation that the true maxims of representative
government really aim. They wish that the fairly intelligent
persons, who create public opinion, as we call it, in society,
should rule in the State, which is the authorised means of car-
128
PARLIAMENTARY REFORM
rying that opinion into action. This is the body which has
the greater right to rule ; this is the felt intelligence of the
nation, " la tigitime aristocratie, celle quacceptent librement les
masses, sur qui elle doit exercer son pouvoir".^
It is impossible to deny that this authority, in matters of
political opinion, belongs by right, and is felt to belong in fact,
to the higher orders of society rather than to the lower. The
advantages of leisure, of education, of more instructive pur-
suits, of more instructive society, must and do produce an
effect A writer of very democratic leanings has observed,
that "there is an unconquerable, and, to a certain extent,
beneficial proneness in man to rely on the judgment and
authority of those who are elevated above himself in rank and
riches, from the irresistible associations of the human mind ;
a feeling of respect and deference is entertained for a superior
in station which enhances and exalts all his good qualities,
gives more grace to his thoughts, more wisdom to hfs opinions,
more weight to his judgment, more excellence to his virtues.
. . . Hence the elevated men of society will always maintain
an ascendency which, without any direct exertion of influence,
will affect the result of popular elections ; and when to this
are added the capabilities which they possess, or ought to
possess, from their superior intelligence, of impressing their
own opinions on other classes it will be evident that if any sort
of control were justifiable, it would be superfluous for any good
purpose." 2 There are individual exceptions ; but in questions
of this magnitude we must speak broadly : and we may say
that political intelligence will in general exist rather in the
educated classes than in the less educated, rather in the rich
than the poor; and not only that it will exist, but that it
will, in the absence of misleading feelings, be felt by both
parties to exist.
We have quoted the above passage for more reasons than
one. It not only gives an appropriate description of the
popular association of superiority in judgment with superiority
1 M. Guizot, Essai sur les Origines du Gouvernement representatif.
2 Bailey on Representative Government ; quoted in Sir G. Lewis's
" Essay on the Influence of Authority on Matters of Opinion," p. 228.
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 129
in station, but it draws from the fact of that association an
inference which would be very important if it were correct.
It says, in substance, that as the higher orders are felt by the
lower to be more capable of governing, they will be chosen by
the lower, if the latter are left free to choose ; that, therefore,
no matter how democratic the government — in fact, the more
democratic the government, the surer are the upper orders to
lead. But experience shows that this is an error. If the
acquisition of power is left to the unconscious working of the
natural influences of society, the rich and the cultivated will
certainly acquire it ; they obtain it insensibly, gradually, and
without the poorer orders knowing that they are obtaining it.
But the result is different when, by the operation of a purely
democratic constitution, the selection of rulers is submitted to
the direct vote of the populace. The lower orders are then
told that they are perfectly able to judge ; demagogues assert
it to them without ceasing : the constitution itself is appealed
to as an incontrovertible witness to the fact ; as it has placed
the supreme power in the hands of the lower and more
numerous classes, it would be contravening it to suppose that
the real superiority was in the higher and fewer. Moreover,
when men are expressly asked to acknowledge their superiors,
they are by no means always inclined to do so. They do not
object to yield a mute observance, but they refuse a definite
act of homage. They will obey, but they will not say that
they will obey. In consequence, history teaches that under
a democratic government those who speak the feelings of the
majority themselves, have a greater chance of being chosen to
rule, than any of the higher orders, who, under another form
of government, would be admitted to be the better judges.
The natural effect of such a government is to mislead the poor. ^
We have no room to notice the specific evils which would
accrue from the adoption of an unmixedly democratic con-
stitution. One, however, which has not been quite appreciated
follows naturally from the remarks we have made. There is
a risk of vulgarising the whole tone, method, and conduct of
public business. We see how completely this has been done
in America ; a country far more fitted, at least in the northern
VOL. III. 9
136 PARLIAMEtfTAR V REFORM
States, for the democratic experiment than any old country
can be. Nor must we imagine that this vulgarity of tone is a
mere external expression, not affecting the substance of what
is thought, or interfering with the policy of the nation. No
defect really eats away so soon the political ability of a nation.
A vulgar tone of discussion disgusts cultivated minds with the
subject of politics ; they will not apply themselves to master
a topic which, besides its natural difficulties, is encumbered
with disgusting phrases, low arguments, and the undisguised
language of coarse selfishness. We all know how we should
like to interfere in ward elections, borough politics, or any
public matter over which a constant habit of half-educated
discussion has diffused an atmosphere of deterring associations.
A high morality, too, shrinks with the inevitable shyness of
superiority from intruding itself into the presence of low
debates. The inevitable consequence of vulgarising our
Parliament would be the deterioration of public opinion, not
only in its more refined elements, but in all the tangible benefits
we derive from the application to politics of thoroughly cul-
tivated minds.
We can only allude briefly to the refutation of the purely
democratic theory with which the facts of English history
supply us. It is frequently something like pedantry when
reference is made to the origin of the House of Commons as a
source of data for deciding on the proper constitution for it
now. What might have been a proper constitution for it when
it was an inconsiderable part of the government, may be a most
improper one now that it is the ruling part. Still, one brief
remark may be advanced as to the early history of our re-
presentative system, which will have an important reference to
the topic. " Whilst," writes one of our soundest constitutional
antiquaries, " boroughs were thus reluctant to return members,
and burgesses disinclined to serve in that capacity, the sheriffs
assumed^ right of sending or omitting precepts at their pleasure.
Where boroughs were unwilling or unable to send representa-
tives, the sheriff, from favour or indulgence, withheld the pre-
cept, which in strictness he was bound to issue, and thus ac-
quired a discretionary power of settling what places were to
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 3 1
elect, and what places were not to elect, members of Parliament.
In his return to the writ of summons, he sometimes reported
that he had sent his precept to a borough, but had received no
answer to it. Sometimes he asserted without the slightest
regard to truth, that there were no more cities or boroughs in
his bailiwick than those mentioned in his return. At other
times he qualified this assertion by adding that there were
none fit to send members to Parliament, or that could be in-
duced to send them. No notice seems ever to have been
taken of these proceedings of the sheriffs ; nor is there the
slightest ground for suspecting that in the exercise of his dis-
cretionary power he was directed by any secret instructions
from the king and council : " I have never seen or heard," says
Brady, " of any particular directions from the king and council
or others to the sheriffs, for sending their precepts to this or
that borough only and not to others ". "Provided there was a
sufficient attendance of members for the public business, the
government seem to have been indifferent to the number that came^
or to the number of places from which they were sent"^ The
public business of that time was different from the public
business which is now transacted by Parliament ; but we may
paraphrase the sentence into one that is applicable to us. Pro-
vided we have a House of Commons coinciding in opinion with
the general mass of the public, and containing representatives
competent to express the peculiar sentiments of all peculiar
classes, we have provided for our "public business"; we need
not trouble ourselves much further, we shall have attained all
reasonable objects of desire, and established a polity with
which we may be content.
The most obvious way of attempting this is, to represent,
or attempt to represent, intelligence directly. The simplest
plan of embodying public opinion in a legislature, is to give a
special representation in that legislature, to the politically in-
telligent persons who create that opinion. To attain this end
directly is, however, impossible. There is no test of intellig-
ence which a revising barrister could examine, on which attor-
neys could argue before him. The absurdity of the idea is
1 Allen on Parliamentary Reform, 1832.
9* '
1 3 2 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
only rendered more evident by the few proposals which are
made in the hope of realising it. Mr. Holyoake proposes that
the franchise should be given to those who could pass a political
examination ; an examination, that is, in some standard text-
book— Mill's Principles of Political Economy, or some work of
equal reputation. But it does not need to be explained that
this would enfranchise extremely few people in a country.
Only a few persons give, or can give, a scientific attention to
politics ; and very many who cannot, are in every respect com-
petent to give their votes as electors, and even to serve
representatives. It is probable that the adoption of such ai
examination suffrage, in addition to the kinds-of suffrage whicl
exist now, would not add one per cent, to the present con-
stituencies ; and that if it were made a necessary qualificatioi
for the possession of a vote, we should thereby disfranchh
ninety-nine hundredths of the country. A second propoj
with the same object is, to give votes to all members ol
" learned societies ". But this would be contemptibly futile.
There is no security whatever that members of learned societies
should be really learned. They are close corporations ; and
the only check on the admission of improper persons in future
is the discretion of those who have been admitted already.
At present most members of such societies undoubtedly have
an interest in the objects for which they were formed ; but
create a political motive, and a skilful Parliamentary agent will
soon fill the lists with the names of persons not celebrated for
scientific learning, but who know how to vote correctly upon
occasion. The idea of a direct representation of intelligence
wholly fails from the non-existence of a visible criterion of
that intelligence. All that can be done in this direction must
be effected by a gradual extension of the principle which has
given members to our universities. No one can obtain ad-
mission to these bodies without a prolonged course of study,
or without passing a strict examination in several subjects.
This is a kind of franchise not to be manufactured ; it is only
obtained as a collateral advantage, by persons who are in pur-
suit of quite different objects. Such bodies, however, are
obviously few, and such kinds of franchise are necessarily
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 33
limited. But they should be extended as far as possible ; and
as many such bodies as can be found will tend to supply us
with an additional mode of giving a representation to cultiva-
tion and refinement — an object which we noticed as one of the
desirable ends apparently least provided for by the letter of
our present system.1
The criteria by which a franchise can be determined
must have two characteristics. They must be evident and
conspicuous — tests about which there can be no question.
Our registration courts cannot decide metaphysical niceties ;
our machinery must be tough, if it is to stand the wear and
tear of eager contests. Secondly, as we have explained, such
criteria must be difficult to manufacture for a political object.
Our tests must not be counterfeited, and they must be con-
spicuous. These two requirements nearly confine us to a
property qualification. Property is, indeed, a very imperfect
test of intelligence ; but it is some test. If it has been
inherited, it guarantees education ; if acquired, it guarantees
ability. Either way it assures us of something. In all
countries where anything has prevailed short of manhood
suffrage, the principal limitation has been founded on criteria
derived from property. And it is very important to observe
that there is a special appropriateness in the selection.
Property has not only a certain connection with general
intelligence, but it has a peculiar connection with political
intelligence. It is a great guide to a good judgment to have
1 In relation to this subject, we must call special attention to the claims
of the University of London and of the Scotch Universities to representa-
tion in Parliament. The former University had a distinct pledge from
the Government which founded it that it should be placed on an equality
in every respect with Oxford and Cambridge. And such Universities
would not only introduce additional representatives of intellectual culture
into the House of Commons, but representatives also of free intellectual
culture, as distinguished from the representatives of the ecclesiastical cul-
ture of the older Universities. Mr. Bright has reproached the members
for Oxford and Cambridge Universities with their habitual antagonism to
Reform. This is, we fear, a true accusation. At a time when educational
questions are engrossing a larger and larger share of public attention, an
adequate representation of liberal intellectual culture is most desirable in
the House of Commons.
1 34 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
much to lose by a bad judgment. Generally speaking, the
welfare of a country will be most dear to those who are well
off there. Some considerations, it is true, may limit this
principle : great wealth has an emasculating tendency ; the
knowledge that they have much at stake may make men
timid in action, and too anxious, for the successful discharge
of high duties : still the broad conclusion is unaffected, that
the possession of property is not only an indication of general
mind, but' has a peculiar tendency to generate political mind.
Similar considerations limit the kinds of property to be
selected. Our property qualification must be conspicuous and
uncreatable. Real property — houses and land — on which our
present qualification is based, possess these elements in a pre-
eminent degree. We think, however, that they are not the
only kinds of property which now in a sufficient degree pos-
sess these requirements. They probably were so formerly;
but one of the most important alterations in our social con-
dition is the change in the nature of much of our wealth.
The growth of what lawyers call personal property has of late
years been enormous. Railway shares, canal shares, public
funds, bank shares, debentures without number, are only
instances of what we mean. Great industrial undertakings
are a feature in our age, and it is fitting that a share in them
should give a franchise as much as an estate in land. Two
conditions only would be necessary to be observed. First,
the property must be substantial, as it is called ; that is to
say, it should be remunerative. Property which does not
yield an income is not sufficiently tangible for the purposes
of a qualification : men of business may say it is about to yield
a dividend ; but this is always open to infinite argument.
It would be necessary to provide that the business property
to be represented should have been for a moderate period-
say three years — properly remunerative; no one should
register for such property unless it had for that period paid
a regular interest. Secondly, such property should have
been in the possession of the person wishing to register an
account of it for at least an equal previous period. This is
necessary to prevent the creation of fictitious votes. Real
PARLTAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 3 5
property is, indeed, exposed to this danger; but the occu-
pancy of houses and lands is a very visible fact, and acts of
ownership over the soil are tolerably well known on the spot.
It is therefore somewhat difficult to create fictitious tenancies
or freeholds. In the case of share-property there is no equal
check. The only precaution which can be taken is, to make
the pecuniary risk of those who try to create such votes as
large as possible. If it be required that the property be
registered for a moderate period in the company's books
as belonging to the person who claims to vote in respect
of it, that person must have during that time the sole right
to receive the dividends, and the shares will be liable for all
his debts. If a real owner chooses to put a nominal one in
this position, he does it at the risk of both principal and
income.
We have, then, arrived at the end of another division
of our subject. We have shown that the democratic theory
is erroneous, and that the consequences of acting upon it
would be pernicious. We have discussed the most plausible
schemes which have been suggested for testing political in-
telligence, and we have found reason to think that a property
qualification is the best of those modes. It has incidentally
appeared that the property qualification which at present
exists in England is defective, because it only takes cognis-
ance of a single kind of property. We may now resume the
thread of our discussion, which we laid aside to show the
errors of the democratic theory. We proceed to indicate how
the defects which have been proved to be parts of our existing
system of representation can be remedied without impairing
its characteristic excellence, without destroying a legislature
which is in tolerable conformity with intelligent opinion.
The first defect which we noticed was, that the existing
system takes no account of the views and feelings of the
working classes, and affords no means for their expression.
How, then, can this be supplied ? It is evident that this end
can only be approached in two ways : we may give to the
working classes a little influence in all constituencies, or we
may give them a good deal of influence in a few constituencies.
136 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
By the conditions of the problem they are to have some power
in the country, but not all the power ; and these are the only
two modes in which that end can be effected.
The objection to the first plan is in the nature of a
dilemma. Either your arrangements give to the working
classes a sufficient power to enable them to decide the choice
of the member, or they do not. If they do, they make these
classes absolute in the State. If the Degree of influence which
you grant to them in every constituency is sufficient to enable
them to choose the representative for that constituency, you
have conferred on these inferior classes the unlimited control
of the nation. On the other hand, if the degree of influence
you give to the poorer classes is not sufficient to enable them
to control the choice of any members, you have done nothing.
There will be no persons in Parliament inclined by nature and
empowered by authority to express their sentiments ; their
voice will be as much unheard in Parliament as it is now. If
the poor are to have a diffused influence in all constituencies,
it must be either a great one or a small one. A small one
will amount only to the right of voting for a candidate who is
not elected ; a great one will, in reality, be the establishment
of democracy.
We shall see the truth of this remark more distinctly if we
look a little in detail at one or two of the plans which are
proposed with this object. Perhaps the most remarkable of
these is that which is at present in operation in Prussia. The
suffrage there is very diffused ; it amounts to something very
like manhood suffrage. But the influence of the lower classes
is limited in this way : the constituency is divided into classes
according to the amount of direct taxation they respectively
pay. The names of those voters who pay the highest amount
of tax are put together till a third part of the whole amount of
direct taxes paid by the electoral district has been reached.
These form the first class. Again, as many names are taken
as will make up another third of the same total taxation ; and
these form the second class. The third class is formed of all
the rest, and each class has an equal vote. By this expedient
a few very rich persons in class i, and a moderate number of
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 137
moderately rich persons in class 2, have each of them as much
influence as the entire number of the poorer orders in class 3.
In Prussia a system of double representation has also been
adopted, and for that purpose the constituency is divided into
sections. But we need not confuse ourselves with prolix
detail ; the principle is all which is to the purpose. The effect
of the plan is evident ; it is equivalent to giving to the work-
ing classes one-third of the influence in every constituency, and
no more than one-third. But it is evident that this arrange-
ment not only gives no security for the return of a satisfactory
spokesman for the lower orders, but that it provides that no
such spokesman shall be returned. The two superior classes
are two-thirds of the constituency, and they will take effectual
care that no member animated solely with the views of the
other third shall ever be elected. So far as class feeling goes,
the power given to the lower orders is only the power of
voting in a perpetual minority. Undoubtedly, in case of a
division between the two superior classes, the lower orders
would hold the balance ; they would have the power in all con-
stituencies of deciding who should and who should not be the
member. But this is not the kind of influence which we
have shown it to be desirable that the lower orders should
possess. Nothing can be more remote from their proper
sphere than the position of arbitrator between the conflicting
views of two classes above them. We wish that they should
have a few members to express their feelings ; we do not wish
that they should decide on the critical controversies of their
educated fellow-subjects — that they should determine by a
casting and final vote the policy of the nation.
Another plan suggested is, that the lower orders should
have a single vote, and that persons possessed of property
should have a second vote. But statistics show that the
power which this would g ve to the lower orders would be
enormous. For example, if it should be enacted that all
persons living in houses rated at less than £10 shall have
one vote, and that those living in houses rated at more than
£10, two votes, we should have —
1 38 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
990,000 livmgjn houses of £10 and more than j wkh Ij98o>ooo voteSj
2,280,000 living in houses under ^10 . . . with 2,280,000 votes ;
giving a clear majority throughout the country to the lowest
class of ratepayers ; and that majority would of course be
much augmented if we conferred (as the advocates of manhood
suffrage propose) a vote on every adult male in the country,
whether he paid rates or not The inevitable effect of this
plan would be to give an authoritative control to the poorer
classes. We might, indeed, try to obviate this by giving a
still greater number of votes, say three or four, to the richer
class ; but then we should reduce the poorer class to an im-
potent minority throughout the country. In the first case,
they would have the power of returning nearly all the members
of the legislature ; in the second, they would not as a class, or
with an irresistible influence, return any.
Another scheme, proposed with this object, at least in part,
is the " representation of minorities," as it is commonly called.
This is to be attained by the ingenious device of making the
number of votes to be possessed by each constituent less than
the number of members to be returned by the constituency.1
The consequence is inevitable : an ascertainable minority of
the constituency, by voting for a single candidate only, can
effectually secure his election. Thus, if the number of members
is three and the number of votes two, any fraction of the
constituency greater than two-fifths can be sure of returning a
member, if they are in earnest enough on the matter to vote
for him only. The proof of this is, that a minority of two-
fifths will have exactly as many votes to give to one member
as the remaining three-fifths have to give to each of three
members. If the constituency be 5000, a minority of two-
fifths of the electors, or 2000, would have 2000 votes to give
to a single candidate ; the remaining 3000 would have only
6000 votes to divide between three candidates, which is only
2000 for each. A minority at all greater than 2000, there-
1 This was the sche me actually adopted in the ReformBill of 1867, in
the case of all constituencies returning more than two members. — ED.
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 139
fore, would, if it managed properly, be certain to return a
member. The objection to this plan is, that it would rather
tend to give us a Parliament principally elected by the lower
orders, with special members among them to express the
sentiments of the wealthier classes, than a Parliament gener-
ally agreeing with the wealthier classes, and containing special
representatives for the lower : the principal representation is
almost by express legislation given to the more numerous
classes ; a less to the minority. It would not solve the prob-
lem of giving a certain power to the lower orders, and yet not
giving them a predominant power. In the case which we
have supposed of a constituency with three members and two
votes, the minority also would be a larger one than the richer
classes can permanently hope to constitute in the country.
Two-fifths of a great town must necessarily include many of
the poorer, less cultivated, and less competent. We must
remember, also, that the disproportion in number between rich
and poor, even between the decidedly poor and the rather
wealthy, tends to augment. Society increases most rapidly at
its lower end ; the wide base extends faster than the narrower
summit. At present persons living in " ten-pound houses,"
or upwards, are something like 21 per cent, of the adult males
in the nation, and about 30 per cent, of the rate-paying
population. But in process of time the inevitable increase of
the humbler orders will reduce them to a far more scanty pro-
portion. The operation of the plan might become even more
defective if it were combined, as is often proposed, with an
increase of the number of members returned by the constituen-
cies to which it is to be applied. If four members were given
to a populous constituency, and each elector were to have three
votes, it would require that the minority should be more than
three-sevenths1 of the constituency, to enable it to be certain
of returning a candidate. The rich and educated cannot ex-
1 The rule is, that a minority, to be certain of electing its candidate,
must be more than that fraction of the constituency, which may be ex-
pressed as follows : —
The number of votes.
The number of members + the number of votes.
140 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
pect to remain so large a fraction of the nation as this ; they
are not so now.
The most plausible way of embodying the minority prin-
ciple in action would be to give only one vote to each person,
and only two members to the constituency. In this case, any
minority greater than one-third of the constituency would be
sure of returning a member ; and as this fraction is smaller
than those we have mentioned, it would evidently be more
suitable to the inevitable fewness of the rich and intelligent.
But even this plan would give half the members of the country
to the least capable class of voters ; and it would have the
additional disadvantage of establishing a poor-class member
and rich-class member side by side in the same constituency,
which would evidently be likely to excite keen jealousy and
perpetual local bitterness.
We believe, indeed, that it was an after-thought in the
advocates of " minority representation," to propose it as a
means of giving some, but not too much, representation to
the poor. Its name shows that it was originally devised as a
means of giving a representation to minorities as such. The
extreme case used to be suggested of a party which had a very
large minority in every constituency, but which had not a
majority in any, and had not therefore any share in the repre-
sentation. It cannot be denied that such a case might occur :
but if the constituencies be, as they should be, of varied kinds,
it is very unlikely ; and in politics, any contingency that is very
unlikely ought never to be thought of; the problems of practical
government are quite sufficiently complicated, if those who
have the responsibility of solving them deal only with diffi-
culties which are imminent and dangers which are probable.
But in the actual working of affairs, and irrespectively of any
case so extreme as that which is put forward, the elimination of
minorities which takes place at general elections is a process
highly beneficial. It is decidedly advantageous that every
active or intelligent minority should have adequate spokesmen
in the legislature ; but it is often not desirable that it should be
represented there in exact proportion to its national import-
ance. A very considerable number of by no means unim-
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 141
portant persons rather disapproved of the war with Russia ;
but their views were very inadequately represented in the
votes of Parliament, though a few able men adequately ex-
pressed their characteristic sentiments. And this was as it
should be. The judgment of the Parliament ought always to
be coincident with the opinion of the nation ; it is extremely
important that it should not be less decided. Very frequently
it is of less importance which of two courses be selected than <Jf . <
that the one which is selected should be consistently adhered
to and energetically carried through. If every minority had
exactly as much weight in Parliament as it has in the nation,
there might be a risk of indecision. Members of Parliament
are apt enough to deviate from the plain decisive path, from
vanity, from a wish to be original, from a nervous conscien-
tiousness. They are subject to special temptations, which
make their decisions less simple and consistent than the
nation's. We need a counteracting influence ; and it will be
no subject for regret if that influence be tolerably strong. It
is, therefore, no disadvantage, but the contrary, that a diffused
minority in the country is in general rather inadequately re-
presented. A strong conviction in the ruling power will give
it strength of volition. The House of Commons should think
as the nation thinks ; but it should think so rather more
strongly, and with somewhat less of wavering.
It was necessary to discuss this aspect of the minority prin-
ciple, though it may seem a deviation from the investigation
into the best mode of giving a due but not an undue influence
to the working classes. The advocates of that principle gen-
erally consider its giving a proper, and not more than a proper,
degree of power to the poor as a subordinate and incidental
advantage in a scheme which for other reasons ought to be
adopted ; it was therefore desirable to prove that no such other
reasons exist, as well as that it would very imperfectly, if at all,
tend to place the working classes in the position we desire.
Some persons have imagined that the enfranchisement of
all the lower orders may be obtained without its attendant
consequence, the disfranchisement of other classes, by means
of the system of " double representation," which gives to the
1 4 2 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
primary electors only the power of nominating certain choosers,
or secondary electors, who are to select the ultimate representa-
tive. This proposal was made by Hume many years ago ; it
formed part of more than one of the earlier French constitu-
tions ; and it is now being tried, as we have observed, in
Prussia. We have an example of its effects likewise in a part
of the constitution of the United States. Although, therefore,
we may not have quite so full a trial of the proposed machinery
as we could wish, we have some experience of it. The most
obvious objection to it is, that it gives to the working classes
the theoretical supremacy as much as a scheme of single repre-
sentation. Whether the working classes choose the member
of Parliament, or whether they choose an intermediate body
who are to choose the member, their power of selection will be
equally uncontrolled, the overwhelming advantage derived from
their numbers will be the same. It is alleged that the working
classes will be more fit to choose persons who would exercise
an intermediate suffrage ; that they could choose persons in
their own neighbourhood well known to them, and for whom
they had a respect ; and that the ultimate representative nomi-
nated by these local worthies would be a better person than
the working classes would have nominated themselves at first.
And in quiet times, and before a good machinery of elec-
tioneering influence had been organised, we are inclined to
believe that such would be the effect. The working classes
might, in the absence of excitement and artificial stimulus,
choose persons whom they knew to be better judges than them-
selves ; and, in accordance with the theory of the scheme, would
give to them a bond fide power of independent judgment. But
in times of excitement this would not be the case. The
primary electors can, if they will, require from the secondary a
promise that they will choose such and such members ; they
can exact a distinct pledge on the subject, and give their votes
only to those who will take that pledge. This is actually the
case in the election of the President in the United States. As
a check on the anticipated inconveniences of universal suffrage,
the framers of the federal constitution provided that the Presi-
dent should be chosen by an electoral college elected by uni-
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 43
versal suffrage, and not by the nation at large directly. In
practice, however, the electoral college is a "sham". Its
members are only chosen because they will vote that Mr.
Buchanan be President, or that Colonel Fremont be President ;
no one cares to know anything else about them. There is no
debate in the college, no exercise of discretionary judgment :
they travel to Washington, and give their vote in a " sealed
envelope," and they have no other duty to perform. Accord-
ing to these votes the President is elected. Such, indeed,
appears the natural result wherever the lower orders take a
strong interest in the selection of the ultimate members for the
constituency. They have the power of absolutely determining
the choice of those members ; and when they care to exercise
it, they will exercise it. In Prussia, as it would appear from
the newspaper narrative of the recent elections, a real choice
has been exercised by the Wahlmanner— the secondary elec-
tors. But a few years of experience among a phlegmatic
; people are not a sufficient trial ; there are as yet no parlia-
mentary agents at Berlin. In this country, as in America, an
effectual stimulus would soon be applied to the primary elec-
tors. If twenty intermediate stages were introduced, the result
would be identical : a pledge would be exacted at every stage ;
the primary body would alone exercise a real choice, and the
member would be the direct though disguised nominee of the
lower orders. This scheme would everywhere, in critical times,
and in electioneering countries at all times, give to the demo-
cracy an uncontrolled power.
An expedient has, it is true, been proposed for preventing
this. It has been suggested that the secondary electors — the
electoral college in the American phrase— should have other
duties to perform besides that of electing the representative.
Suppose, for example, that the electors at large chose a muni-
cipal town council, and that the latter elected the representative
of the town in the legislature ; it is thought that persons with
good judgment would be chosen to ensure the due performance
of the municipal duties, and that a good member of Parliament
would be selected by the bond fide choice of those persons with
good judgment. The scheme would be far too alien to English
144 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
habits and traditions to be seriously proposed for adoption by
this country even if its abstract theory were sound ; but there
is an obvious objection of principle to it. The local duties of
a municipal council are too different from that of selecting
parliamentary representative to be properly combined wit
them. We should probably have a town council of politi
partisans, as was the case before the Municipal Reform Act
and the uninteresting local duties would be sacrificed to t
more interesting questions of the Empire. In the real ope
tion of the scheme very much would depend on the time a
which the town council was elected. If it were elected simul
taneously with the general election of members of Parliamen
nobody would think of anything but the latter. The town
councillors would be chosen to vote for the borough member,
and with no regard to any other consideration. We should
have a fictitious electoral college, with the added inconvenience
that it would be expected to perform duties for which it was
not selected, and to which it would be entirely ill-suited. On
the other hand, if the town council were elected when the Par
liamentary election was not thought of, we might, in times
fluctuating opinion, have a marked opposition between t
opinion of the town council and the opinion of the consti-
tuency. In an excitable country — and every country which
takes a regular interest in politics becomes excitable — no such
opposition would be endured. It would be monstrous that
the member for London at a critical epoch, say when a ques-
tion of war or peace was pressing for decision, should be nomi-
nated by a town council elected some time before, when no
such question was even thought of. There used in the ante-
Reform Bill times to be occasional riots when the close cor-
porations, with whom the exclusive suffrage in many boroughs
then rested, made a choice not approved of by the population
of the town. If this was the case when the borough coun-
cillors were only exercising an immemorial right, it will be much
more likely to be so when they are but recently nominated
agents, deriving their whole authority from the dissentients,
and making an unpopular choice in the express name of an
angry multitude. We may therefore dismiss the proposed
!
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 145
expedient of double representation with the remark, that if
the intermediate body be elected with little reference to its
electoral functions, it will be little fitted for such functions ;
and if it is elected mainly with reference to them, it will have
no independent power of choice, but be bound over to elect
the exact person whom its constituents have decided to favour.
A much more plausible proposal is suggested by the re-
commendation which we made some pages back — that the
principle which assigns the franchise to those who can show a
property qualification should not be confined to real estate,
but be extended to every kind of property that yielded an
income and was owned bond fide. A considerable number of
the working classes possess savings ; not large, it is true, when
contrasted with middle-class opulence, but still most important
to, and most valued by, those who have hoarded them during
a lifetime. The total accumulation is likewise very large when
set down in the aggregate. It has been suggested that a suff-
rage conferred on the owners of moneyed property would of
itself enfranchise the most thrifty and careful of the working
classes ; and that, as these would probably be the best judging
of their class, it would be needless to inquire as to the mode
in which any others could obtain the franchise. There may
be a question whether we do wish simply to find representa-
tives for the best of the working classes. We are not now
seeking legislators who will exercise a correct judgment, but
rather spokesmen who will express popular sentiments. We
need not, however, dwell on this, as there is a more conclusive
objection to the plan proposed Unfortunately, the savings of
the working classes are not invested in a form which would be
suitable for political purposes. The most pressing need of the
poor is a provision for failing health and for old age. They
most properly endeavour to satisfy this by subscribing to
" benefit societies " or other similar clubs, which, in considera-
tion of a certain periodical payment, guarantee support during
sickness, or a sum of money in case of decease. Now this life
and health insurance wants all the criteria of a good property
qualification. There is no test of its bond fides. Simulated
qualifications might be manufactured by any skilful attorney.
VOL. III. 10
146 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
The periodical payment might be easily repaid on pretence of
sickness ; and it would be perfectly impossible for any revising
barrister to detect the fraud. There would be no security that
the periodical premium even belonged to the poor man; it
might be lent him, and with little risk, by his richer neighbour.
Electioneering has conquered many difficulties. It would be
easy to have an understanding that the secretary to the society,
the clerk of the electioneering attorney, should see that the
premium was soon repaid, in name to the poor subscriber, and
in fact to the vote-making capitalist. The finances of some
of these societies have never been in the best order ; and there
would be very great difficulty in tracking even a gross election-
eering fraud. Perhaps no practical man will question but that
the manipulation of a borough attorney would soon change
the character of a "benefit society"; it would cease to be, as
now, the repository of the real savings of the best working
men ; it would become a cheap and sure machinery for creating
votes in the name of the most corruptible. So large a portion
of the savings of thrifty operatives are most properly laid by in
these insurance associations, that it is scarcely likely that a
moneyed property qualification would give a vote to a con-
siderable proportion even of the very best of them. A few
would be admitted by giving the franchise to those who left a
certain sum in a savings bank for a certain time ; but, to pre-
vent fraud, that time must be considerable, and careful returns,
prepared for Lord John Russell's Reform Bill, are said to show
that the number enfranchised would be even fewer than might
have been expected. At any rate, it would not be safe to rely
on such a franchise for creating a Parliamentary organ for the
lower classes. Those enfranchised by it would be scattered
through a hundred constituencies. There would be no certainty
that even one member in the House would speak their senti-
ments. Moreover, we have doubts whether a constituency
composed only of operatives who had a considerable sum in
the savings bank after providing, as in all likelihood they
would have done, for the wants of their families in case of
their death and sickness, would not rather have the feelings of
petty capitalists than of skilled labourers. Those who have
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 147
just risen above a class can scarcely be relied on for giving
expression to its characteristic opinions. However, as it would
be scarcely possible to create such a constituency, there is no
reason for prolonging an anticipatory discussion on its tenden-
cies. On the whole, therefore, we must, though rather against
our wishes, discard the idea of creating a working-class fran-
chise by an extension of the suffrage qualification to all kinds
of property. A careful examination appears to show that we
could not obtain in that way a characteristic expression for the
wants of the masses.
These are the principal schemes which have been proposed
for adding to the legislature some proper spokesmen of the
wants of the lower classes by giving to those classes some
influence in every constituency. Our survey of them has con-
firmed the anticipation with which we set out. The dilemma
remains. Either the influence is great enough to determine
the choice of the member, or it is not : if it is not, no spokes-
men for the working classes will be elected ; if it is, no one not
thoroughly imbued with the views and sentiments of the lower
orders would be chosen, — we should have a democracy.
As this, the first of the only two possible expedients,
has failed us, we turn with anxiety to the second. Since
it does not seem possible to procure spokesmen for the work-
ing classes by a uniform franchise in all constituencies, is it
possible to do so by a varying franchise, which shall give
votes according to one criterion in one town, and to another
criterion in another town? It evidently is possible. Whether
there are any countervailing objections is a question for dis-
cussion, but of the possibility there cannot be a doubt. If
all the adult males in Stafford have votes, then the member
for Stafford will be elected by universal suffrage ; he will be
the organ of the lower orders of that place. Supposing that
place to be subject in this respect to no important local
anomaly, the lower orders there will be like the corresponding
classes elsewhere. By taking a fair number of such towns,
we may secure ourselves from the mischievous results of local
irregularities ; we can secure a fair number of spokesmen for
the lower orders. *
10*
148 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
The scheme is not only possible, but has been tried, and
in this country. Before the Reform Bill of 1832 there was
a great disparity in the suffrage qualification of different con-
stituencies. "A variety of rights of suffrage," said Sir James
Mackintosh, in iSiS,1 "is the principle of the English repre-
sentation ; " and he went on to enumerate the various modes
in which it might be obtained — by freehold property, by
burgage tenure, by payment of scot and lot, etc. The
peculiar circumstances of 1832 made it necessary, or seem-
ingly necessary, to abolish these contrasted qualifications.
Great abuses prevailed in them, and it would have been diffi-
cult to adjust remedies for the removal of those abuses. The
great requirement of the moment was a simple bill. During
a semi-revolution there was no time for nice reasonings.
Something universally intelligible was to be found. The
enthusiasm of the country must be concentrated "on the
whole bill and nothing but the bill ". We must not judge the
tumult of that time by the quietude of our own.
At a calmer moment the more philosophic of liberal
statesmen were, however, aware of the advantages of the
machinery which they were afterwards compelled to destroy.
The essay of Sir James Mackintosh, to which we have referred,
appeared in the Edinburgh Review, and was considered at the
time as an authoritative exposition of liberal doctrine : and
almost the whole of it is devoted to a proof that this system
of varying qualification is preferable, not only to universal
suffrage, but to any uniform "right of franchise". On the
point we are particularly considering, he says : " For resistance
to oppression, it is peculiarly necessary that the lower, and in
some places the lowest, classes should possess the right of
suffrage. Their rights would otherwise be less protected than
those of any other class : for some individuals of every other
class would generally find admittance into the legislature ; or,
at least, there is no other class which is not connected with
some of its members. Some sameness of interest, and some
fellow-feeling, would therefore protect every other class, even
^Edinburgh Review, No. LXL, article "Universal Suffrage"; an
admirable essay, singularly worth reading at present.
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 149
if not directly represented. But in the uneducated classes, none
can either sit in a representative assembly, or be connected on
an equal footing with its members. The right of suffrage,
therefore, is the only means by which they can make their
voice heard in its deliberations. They also often send to a
representative assembly members whose character is an im-
portant element in its composition — men of popular talents,
principles, and feelings ; quick in suspecting oppression, bold
in resisting it ; not thinking favourably of the powerful ; listen-
ing, almost with credulity, to the complaints of the humble
and the feeble ; and impelled by ambition, where they are not
prompted by generosity, to be the champions of the defenceless.
It is nothing to say that such men require to be checked and
restrained by others of a different character ; this may be
truly said of every other class. It is to no purpose to observe,
that an assembly exclusively composed of them would be ill
fitted for the duties of legislation ; for the same observation
would be perfectly applicable to any other of those bodies
which make useful parts of a mixed and various assembly."
Sir James had evidently the words of the member for West-
minister sounding in his ears. His words are not an expres-
sion of merely speculative approbation ; they are a copy from
the life.
An authority still more remarkable remains. Lord John
Russell, in 1821, expressed a very decided opinion on the
advantages of having a different scale of property qualification
in different places, and rather boldly grappled with an obvious
objection to it. We quote the passage: "All parts of the
country, and all classes of the people, ought to have a share
in elections. If this is not the case, the excluded part or class
of the nation will become of no importance in the eyes of the
rest : its favour will never be courted in the country, and its
interests will never be vigilantly guarded in the legislature.
Consequently, in proportion to the general freedom of the
community will be the discontent excited in the deprived class
by the sentence of nullity and inactivity pronounced upon
them. Every system of uniform suffrage except universal
contains this dark blot. And universal suffrage, in pretend-
ISO PARL1AMENTAR Y REFORM
ing to avoid it, gives the whole power to the highest and the
lowest, to money and to multitude ; and thus disfranchises the
middle class — the most disinterested, the most independent,
and the most unprejudiced of all. It is not necessary, how-
ever, although every class ought to have an influence in
elections, that every member of every class should have a
vote. A butcher at Hackney, who gives his vote perhaps
once in twelve years at an election for the county of Middle-
sex, has scarcely any advantage over another butcher at the
same place who has no vote at all. And even if he had, the
interest of the State is in these matters the chief thing to be
consulted ; and that is as well served by the suffrage of some
of each class, as by that of all of each class." The necessary
effect of the Act of 1832 has been to make us forget the value
of what the authors of it considered a most beneficial part of
our representative system. That such great statesmen should
have pronounced such panegyrics on the diversity of qualifica-
tions in different constituencies, when it was a living reality
before their eyes, shows at least that it is practicable and
possible.
The plan is, indeed, liable to several objections : it is not
to be expected that in a complicated subject any scheme which
is absolutely free even from serious inconveniences could be
suggested. By far the most popular objection is that which
Lord John Russell noticed in the passage we have just cited.
There is a sense of unfairness in the project. Why should an
artisan in Liverpool have a vote, and an artisan in Macclesfield
no vote? Why should the richer classes in one constituency
be disfranchised by the wholesale admission of their poorer
neighbours, and the richer classes in another constituency not
be so disfranchised ? The answer is suggested by a portion of
our preceding remarks. No one has a right, as we have seen,
to any portion of political power which he cannot exercise
without preventing some others from exercising better that or
some greater power. If all the operatives in the great towns
were enfranchised, they would prevent the higher classes from
exercising any power : and this is the reply to the unenfran-
chised artisan in Macclesfield. If there were no representatives
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 5 1
of the working classes in Parliament, its measures might be less
beneficial, and its debates would be imperfect ; the higher classes
in some great towns must have less power than in some other
great towns, because a uniform suffrage impedes the beneficial
work of Parliament, and prevents the ruling legislature from
exercising its nearly omnipotent power well and justly. To
have a good Parliament, we must disfranchise some good con-
stituents. Perhaps, indeed, the whole difficulty is overrated.
We see every day that, so far as the middle classes are con-
cerned, it is of no perceptible consequence to the individual
whether he has a vote or not : it is of great consequence to him
that the supreme legislature should accord with the views of
his class and himself; but whether he has voted for any par-
ticular member of that legislature is a trifle. We never dream
in society of asking whether the person we are talking to has
a vote or not. Both live, and live equally, in the atmosphere
of politics. Similarly, it is of great importance to the lower
classes that their feelings should be sufficiently expressed in
Parliament ; but which of them votes for the person who should
express them is of no consequence at all. The non- voter ought
to take as much interest in politics as the voter. When all of
a class cannot exercise power without impeding a more qualified
class, we may select, from considerations of convenience, those
members of the less qualified class who are to have power.
There is no injustice in allowing expediency to adjust the claims
of persons similarly entitled
It may also be objected that this plan of representing the
lower classes does not give them the general instruction which
the exercise of the suffrage is supposed to bestow. An unen-
franchised artisan in Macclesfield is not educated by giving the
suffrage to an artisan in Manchester. But it is a mistake to
suppose that there is much, if any, instruction in the personal
exercise of the franchise. Popular elections have no doubt a
didactic influence on the community at large ; they diffuse an
interest in great affairs through the country ; but the elevating
effect of giving a vote is always infmitesimally small. Among
the lower classes it is a question whether the risk of moral
deterioration does not quite balance the hope of moral elevation.
1 5 2 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
Popular institutions educate by the intellectual atmosphere
which they constantly create, and not by the occasional decisions
which they require. And were it otherwise, intellectual instruc-
tion is but a secondary benefit of popular government ; and we
must not throw away, in the hope of increasing it, the primary
advantage of being well governed. We believe too that, in fact,
mere existence under a good government is more instructive
than the power of now and then contributing to a bad govern-
ment.
We are more afraid of the objection that this inequality of
suffrage in otherwise similar constituencies is an anomaly which
may grow up imperceptibly, as it did before the Reform Bill,
but cannot now be created de novo. We admit the difficulty :
we are well aware that this inequality, like every other expe-
dient in politics to which the objections are apparent and the
advantages latent, is far easier to preserve than to originate.
But when great interests are at stake, we should only give up
that which is impossible ; what is merely difficult should be
done. Moreover, a little examination will, we think, show that
the obstacles are far slighter than they might seem at first sight.
From this point of view it is worth remarking, that the
inequality of suffrage qualification to a certain extent still
exists. The effect of the Reform Act has been to hide and
diminish, but not to annihilate, the inequalities which existed
before. The constituencies in which these inequalities existed
were naturally opposed to their abolition, and a compromise
was effected. All persons duly qualified to vote on the 7th
June, 1832, were to retain their right for life, subject to certain
conditions of residence and registration. In all boroughs,
likewise, in which freedom of the borough, whether acquired
by birth or servitude prescriptively, gave a vote, that franchise
was to a certain extent retained. The freemen of such bor-
oughs have votes now just as before, and freedom can be
acquired in the same way: no change on this point was
effected in 1832, except that a borough franchise so obtained
is forfeited by non-residence in the borough. The number of
these anomalous votes is still very considerable. Mr. New-
march has shown that in 1853 it amounted to 60,565, which
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 53
is more than one-seventh of 400,000, the number (or nearly
so) of borough electors at that time. We have therefore a
very considerable amount of inequality in our present system ;
we should scarcely propose to increase it, but to distribute it
more usefully.
The freemen of Coventry, Derby, Leicester, are not a class
of whom we wish to undertake the defence; and in many
towns the existence of those old rights is a recognised nuis-
ance. We are not prepared to approve all anomalies in our
representation. Our principles are especially opposed to the
enfranchisement of favoured individuals in minor towns — few
enough to be bought, corruptible enough to wish to be bought ;
who are not in general the majority of the constituency, but
who exercise important influence because they can throw in a
purchasable balance of votes on critical occasions ; who are in
no respect fair representatives of the working classes, who do
not return to the House a single fit person willing to be spokes-
man for them. We argue merely that the effect of the Act of
1832 has only been to diminish the inequality of suffrage
qualification before existing ; and by no means to establish,
even if a single act of Parliament could have so done, the
erroneous principle that there is to be no inequality.
But the most effectual way of showing that it is possible
to create de novo a beneficial variety of property qualifications,
is to point out how it can be done. If it be admitted that we
should found working-class constituencies, it is clear that we
should found them where the working classes live. This is of
course in the great seats of industry, where work is plentiful
and constant. Those who reside in such towns are likewise
the most political part of the class : the agricultural labourers,
scattered in rural parishes, with low wages and little know-^/
ledge, have no views and no sentiments which admit of Parlia-
mentary expression ; they have no political thoughts. If we
wish to give due expression, and not more than due ex-
pression, to the ideas of the democracy, we must select some
few of the very largest towns, where its characteristic elements
are most congregated. It would have been more fortunate if
these towns had acquired such a franchise prescriptively ; but
1 54 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
it would have been all but miraculous if such had been the
case. Many of our greatest towns are situated in what, in
more purely agricultural times, were very uninfluential dis-
tricts ; we must not expect an hereditary franchise for newly-
created interests. As it is necessary to have a rule of selection,
the best which can be suggested is the rule of population ; we
would propose, therefore, that in the very largest towns in
England 1 there should be what Mr. Bright advocates for all
towns, a rate- paying franchise. If this were extended to all
towns having more than 75,000 inhabitants, it would include
at present London, Liverpool, Manchester, the Tower Hamlets,
Marylebone, Finsbury, Bristol, Birmingham, Lambeth, West-
minster, Leeds, Sheffield, Wolverhampton, Southwark, Green-
wich, Bradford, Newcastle-on-Tyne, and Salford. If there
were a bond fide representation of the working classes in these
towns, they could not complain of a class disfranchisement ;
there would be adequate spokesmen for them. A member
speaking the voice of places where such numbers of operatives
1 It may, indeed, be objected that these large constituencies are just
the ones in which a rate-paying franchise would have the most conclusivel
democratic effect ; and that if we concede it as to these, it is not wortl
while to resist it with respect to others in which we might hope, by tht
influence of wealth and social standing, to counteract more or less its
democratic tendency. But facts show that in an immense number
constituencies these influences could not control that tendency effectually.
If an Act giving votes to all rate-payers be ever passed, it will probabl]
be accompanied by a readjustment of the electoral districts on a dei
cratic principle, which would augment the influence of mere numbei
But we need not consider this, since the introduction of the rate-paying
franchise into our present constituencies would introduce a new element
much too large to be easily managed by indirect influences. It is
course not known exactly how large that new element would be ; but vei
careful tables have been compiled of the number of inhabited houses ii
our present boroughs ; and as the number of women rated in respect
them is no doubt small, all but a minute fraction of such houses woulc
give a qualification to a male voter. Now it appears that in all except
ten borough constituencies the number of inhabited houses was in 185:
and doubtless is still, more than double that of the present electors ;
consequently the new element which would be introduced would greatl)
preponderate over, and in fact disfranchise, the old. It is evident that il
would be very difficult to manage so many new voters by any indii
influences.
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 155
are congregated, could speak the sentiments of that class with
authority. No one could be unaware that the constituency in
these large towns was ultra-democratic. The representation
of the lower orders would be conspicuous as well as effectual.
Nor would the number of representatives so given to the
lower classes be sufficient to deteriorate the general character
of the legislature. It would not amount to forty for England
and Wales, or to fifty for the United Kingdom ; a considerable
number, no doubt, but not sufficient to destroy the represen-
tative character of a house of 658 members. The House of
Commons would still represent the educated classes as a
whole; its opinion would still be their opinion; the perfor- !
mance of its ruling function would be unimpaired ; and that of
its expressive function would be improved.
We have dwelt so long on this part of our subject, that we
shall not be able to devote as much space as we could wish to
the explanation of the mode in which we think the remaining
defects of our representative system should be remedied. We
can only state briefly a few of the most important considera-
tions.
The first of those defects, which we specified at the outset,
is the existence of small boroughs, which are either in the
hands of individual proprietors or have become in the process
of time nests of corruption. We need not specify examples ;
the fact is sufficiently familiar. Indeed, all small boroughs in
the course of years must rapidly tend towards one or other of
these fates. A great deal of wealth in this country seeks to
invest itself politically. A small borough of this sort neces-
sarily contains a considerable number of corruptible individuals ;
year by year skilful Parliamentary agents ascertain who these
individuals are, and buy them. The continual temptation is
too much for shop-keeping humanity ; with every election the
number of purchasable votes tends to increase: one would
not have yielded, only he wanted a new shop front ; another,
who is proof against plate-glass, desires money to put out his
son in the world. Gradually an atmosphere of corruption
closes over the borough, and men of the world cease to expect
purity from it. The only way in which this sort of retail
1 5 6 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
purchase can be escaped is by a wholesale purchase. A rich
proprietor may buy a large majority of vote-conferring pr<
perties in the borough, and so become despotic in the town.
Each presentation (to borrow a phrase from the Church) is
not in that case sold on the day of election, because the ad-
vowson has been bought before by some one who has a use
for it.
We may escape, then, the necessity of ascertaining the
electoral corruption of particular boroughs, and lay it down as
a general condition of permanent purity that a constituency
should contain a fixed number — five hundred, suppose, electors.
It is quite true that this remedy is not certainly effectual :
there are many boroughs, where the enfranchised constituency
exceeds this number, in which the elections are not at all what
we should wish. But the tendency of such a measure is plain.
It prevents the wholesale purchase by the neighbouring
proprietors, because it makes the property too large for
ordinary wealth to buy. It tends to prevent the retail purchase
by increasing the supply of votes — which always lessens their
market value, and in very many cases reduces it below the
price which will tempt ordinary voters to corruption. The
expedient is not a perfectly effectual one, but at least it is a
considerable palliative.
What, then, is to be done with boroughs below the pre-
scribed limits ? There are in England and Wales about sixty-
seven members, elected by forty-two of such boroughs. What
course would it be wisest to take with respect to such seats ?
The most easy plan in theory is to annihilate them at once, t(
have a new schedule A of places disfranchised. But it
easier to write such a recommendation in an essay than tc
carry the enactment in practice. These seats have the pn
tective instincts of property. Money has been spent 01
many of them for a course of years : in all of them the present
electors would vote nearly as a man against the abolition oi
" themselves ". The strenuous resistance of the members foi
such seats must be expected to any bill which should propo<
to abolish them in toto. And such resistance would be th(
more effectual, because in all likelihood it would be indirect.
PARLIAMENTAR V REFORM 1 5 7
The interested members, unless a sinister policy were un-
usually wanting in its characteristic acuteness, would not risk
a division on the unpleasant question of abolishing or not
abolishing their own seats. They would throw the probably
decisive weight of their votes into the scale most inconvenient
to the Government proposing that abolition ; would combine
with every strong opposition to it ; in the present state of
parties, would soon reduce it to a minority. A proposal to
disfranchise many boroughs would soon issue in the resignation
of the proposing Government
We must therefore assume that for the present, to some
considerable extent, the influence of such boroughs must con-
tinue to exist In 1832 there was a popular feeling which
carried everything before it Now all we can hope to carry is
a compromise. As a compromise, the best expedient which
we can suggest is to combine such boroughs. The English
respect for vested interests would preclude the popularity of a
sweeping Act ; but the English liking for a moderate expedient
would be a strong support to any measure that could be so
called. The effect of such a combination would probably be
in great part to set the joint constituency free from the yoke
of great proprietors. If Lord A is supreme in borough <z, and
Mr. B in town b, a and b combined will probably be controlled
by neither. The local feeling of b will resist Lord A ; that of
a would be rigid to the enticements of Mr. B. If one of the
burghs should be "independent," that is to say, purchased
voter by voter at each election, its inhabitants would probably
rather be purchased by any one than by the proprietor of the
antagonistic borough. We are aware that these are not very
attractive considerations ; but what are we to do ? Us ont des
canons. We must make the best terms we can with constitu-
encies which we cannot hope entirely to destroy.
We shall be asked why we group these existing boroughs
with one another, instead of combining them with new towns
not now possessed of the borough franchise, which are there-
fore at present comparatively uncorrupt We admit that, in
some individual cases, there may be conclusive reasons for
taking the latter course ; but we think that there are political
1 5 8 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
arguments which should disincline us from adopting it in
general.
We saw reason to believe that the principal defects of our
House of Commons, as a ruling assembly, were an excessive
bias to the landed interest, and an insufficient sympathy with
the growing interests of the country. On this account it is
desirable not to take from the county constituencies all the
liberalising element which they at present possess ; on the
contrary, it would be desirable, if possible, to increase it. We
should, however, weaken that liberal element very materially
if, in our extreme desire to remedy borough corruption, we
extracted from the constituency of the counties the inhabitants
of all their larger towns. The effect of Mr. Locke King's
proposal to reduce the county franchise from £$o to £10, if
it should be adopted, as it probably will be, will be to aug-
ment the county influence of the towns which have no borough
member. We must not counteract this tendency. As we
think it desirable to diminish the sectarian character of our
county members, we must not adopt the most effectual of all
schemes for preserving it unimpaired — we must not absorb
into the boroughs all other influences save those of the country
gentlemen.
Our second reason for preferring to combine the very small
boroughs with one another rather than to unite each of them
with some town at present unenfranchised is, that we wish t<
diminish the number of seats for such constituencies. If we
annexed new elements to each of them, there would be a
plausible argument for not diminishing their number. But,
as has been explained, we wish to provide a more ampl<
representation for the growing districts of the country ; am
there is a very general and well-grounded opinion that the
House of Commons is already quite sufficiently numerous.
In order, therefore, to increase the representation of the pro-
gressive parts of England in the proportion which seems de-
sirable, we must take from the decaying or stationary towns
of the less active parts of the country the right of sending
members which they have now. On a great scale, the same
plan was adopted in 1832 : it was then necessary to remedy
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 159
great evil ; and therefore it was necessary that the number of
seats disfranchised should be great, and the number of newly
enfranchised towns considerable also. As we have shown, no
such enormous evil remains at present to be remedied. The
judgment of Parliament coincides fairly, if not precisely, with
the opinion of the nation. All we have to correct is, a slight
bias in one direction, and a perceptible but not extreme de-
ficiency of sympathy in another. The changes we have to
make, therefore, may be slight in comparison with those of
1832; still, so important is it that Parliament should really
coincide in opinion with the nation, that we should take account
of the beginnings of a discrepancy ; while the topic of reform
in our electoral system is definitely before the public, we should
take the opportunity of correcting the undue inclination of the
legislature towards the less active, and its contrast of feeling
(which though slight is real) to the more active part of the
community.
We are the more certain that it is advisable to make some
such change as this, because, as we have before observed, we
believe this uneasy consciousness of the less perfect representa-
tion of the progressive elements in the nation, as compared
with the unprogressive, to be the secret source of almost all
the slight popular enthusiasm which now exists in favour of
reform. The external form of what is proposed is, indeed,
different ; the principal, as well as the most popular, suggestion
is one for the representation of the working classes. We have
no doubt that those who are at the head of that movement, as
well as those who join in it, quite believe that such is their true
object. But it is at least an odd undertaking to be headed by
master manufacturers. Whatever view we may take of the
effects of universal or of rate-paying franchise on other parts of
the nation, there can be little question that its influence would
be detrimental to the power of opulent capitalists. We must
alter the world before there ceases to be some opposition of
feeling (there is often a momentary opposition of interest)
between the mill-owner and his work-people. In the days of
the short-time agitation both parties understood this perfectly.
Even now a Parliament of capitalists would probably propose
1 60 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
to repeal the ten-hours' bill ; a Parliament of working men
would very likely desire to extend its principle. To say the
least, it is strange that the characteristic men of one class
should be so ready to throw all power into the hands of the
other.
A letter from Mr. Bright himself to a Manchester associa-
tion puts the matter in a different light. " On a great occasion,"
he tells us, " like the one now before the country, there will
differences of opinion. Some think one extent of franchij
better than another. Some are for a £6 rental ; some are fc
a £5 rental ; you are for the extension of the right of voting
to every man. Now I prefer to establish the Parliamentai
suffrage on the basis which has been tried for some centuri<
in our parishes, and which has been adopted at a recent peri<
in our poor-law unions and in our municipal governments
with some needless restriction, with regard to the munici]
franchise, which I would not introduce into our Parliamentai
franchise. The more public opinion is freely and honestb
expressed, the more distinctly will a government, engaged
preparing a Reform Bill, be able to discover which is the point
likely to be most satisfactory to the public. I consider these
differences of opinion on the subject as of trifling importance
when compared with the question of the distribution of seats
and members. This is the vital point in the coming bill ; and
unless it be well watched, you may get any amount of suffrage,
and yet find, after all, that you have lost the substance, and
are playing merely with the shadow of popular representation."
This at least is an intelligible doctrine. A redistribution of
seats in proportion to population would indisputably be most
advantageous to Mr. Bright and his associates. Some of their
school have made a calculation that sixty-three boroughs, return-
ing eighty-five members, have not, taken together, as many elec-
tors as Manchester, which returns but two. And, independently
of extreme cases, it is quite indisputable that the large towns and
crowded populations of Lancashire and the West Riding would,
in any grouping based on electoral numbers, assume a propor-
tionate magnitude that would be quite different from that
which they have at present. If such a readjustment could be
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 6 1
carried, and the present franchise retained, the followers of Mr.
Bright would be one of the most numerous divisions of the
House of Commons. It is true that the advantage of their
success must be shared with the class most antagonistic to
them in feeling. The county representation would have to be
extended if electoral numbers, or any mere numbers, were to
be taken as the guide to a new adjustment. But Mr. Bright
probably does not fear a conflict with Mr. Newdegate. We
can well understand that he should esteem the lowering of the
franchise, which would impair his power, less important than a
reapportionment of members, which must increase it.
We can spare but a few words to show the unsoundness of
the principle on which the proposed readjustment is to be
based ; and we would hope that only a few words are needed.
Mr. Bright considers it an obvious absurdity that a consti-
tuency of 1000 electors should return a member, and that
another constituency with 5000 should return but one member
also. Such a variety is nevertheless primd facie beneficial : it
would be a probable sign of the complete imperfection of an
electoral organisation if every constituency in it were equally
numerous. All such systems must tend to give undue pre-
ponderance to some classes, and to deny, not only substantial
influence, but even bare expression, to the views of other classes.
If the nation be homogeneous, equal patches of population
will tend to return similar members. The more numerous the
constituency, the more likely is this to be the result. Thousand
A may differ from Thousand B ; but Million A will assuredly
be identical with Million B. The doctrine of chances forbids
us to expect contrasted representatives from constituencies with
a family likeness. If, indeed, the nation should not be homo-
geneous, but should contain two very numerous classes of un-
like tendencies, whose harmony is preserved by the continual
arbitration of less numerous classes intermediate between them,
the result of an equal division of electoral districts would be
different, and it would be worse. Each of the intermediate
classes would be merged in one of the larger. We may, how-
ever, look at the living operation, and not at the bare theory.
We have mentioned the contrast between Mr. Bright and Mr,
VOL, III. II
1 6 2 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
Newdegate. What is it that prevents the continual disturb-
ance of Parliamentary peace between two classes of men so
dissimilar as the members for counties — especially purely
agricultural counties — and members for manufacturing cities ?
Obviously the existence of the intermediate elements, of mem-
bers sent up by agricultural towns, which contain industrial
elements, and by smaller manufacturing towns, which have no
notion of being offered in sacrifice to the populace of great
cities. An electoral system composed of " population sec-
tions " would not give us a representative assembly adapted to
the performance of either of its two functions. A House of
Commons so elected would not represent the public opinion of
the country, and therefore could not rule it as it should be
ruled. The impartial and arbitrating element would be defi-
cient And, as has been explained, this complete deficiency
in the qualities necessaiy to a ruling legislature would not be
compensated by any excellence in the qualities necessary to
secure a good expression of the grievances and opinions of all
classes. Old English good sense selected a town to send re-
presentatives separately from a county in which it was situated
because it saw there the conspicuous focus of separate feelings,
separate interests, possibly separate complaints. Our new
reformers would undo this wise arrangement. They would
(at least, such is the logical tendency of their argument) destroy
those bounds and limits to constituencies which secure a char-
acter to the constituency ; they would represent the shipping
interest by throwing Hull into the county of York arid Grimsby
into the county of Lincoln : distinct definition is all that is
necessary to disprove such ideas.
Paradoxical as it may sound, the evident untenableness of
Mr. Bright's views gives them a claim on our attention. It is
an indication of social unsoundness that men of ability and
energy sincerely advocate very absurd theories, and are able to
collect considerable audiences to applaud those theories. We
may speak of our national contentment ; but the answer comes,
What, then, do these people complain of? We must not rest
satisfied with a mere refutation of the doctrines which are
avowed, or an exposition of the mischievous consequences of
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 163
the plans proposed There are certain theories of political
philosophy which supply ready arguments against almost every
state of society which has been able to maintain a long exis-
tence. These heresies float among the most ordinary ideas of
mankind, and are ready without the least research to the hand
of whoever may believe that he wants them. Latent discon-
tent with the existing form of government catches hastily at
whatever justifies it ; it seeks in these old forms of false doc-
trine a logical basis for itself. One of these heresies is the
purely democratic theory of government ; it has very rarely
indeed been adopted as a guide to action, but its existence is
nearly as old as political speculation. In every age and country
a class which has not as much power as it thinks it ought to
have snatches at the notion that all classes ought to have equal
power. Such an " uneasy class " believes that it ought to have
as much power as the class which is in possession ; and not
liking to put forward even to itself a selfish claim of individual
merit, it tries to found its pretensions on the " equal rights
of all mankind ". Mr. Burke described the first East Indian
nabobs as " Jacobins almost to a man," because they did not
find their social position " proportionate to their new wealth ".
We cannot fail to observe that the new business wealth of the
present day (of which Mr. Bright is the orator and mouth-
piece) has a tendency to democracy for the same reason. Such
a symptom in the body politic is an indication of danger. So
energetic a class as the creators of Manchester need to be con-
ciliated ; their active intelligence has rights which assuredly it
will make heard. The great political want of our day is a
capitalist conservatism. If we could enlist the intelligent crea-
tors of wealth in the ranks of those who would give their due
influence to intelligence and property, we should have almost
secured the stability of our constitution ; we should have paci-
fied its most dangerous assailants ; we should count them
among our most active allies. If the transfer of a moderate
number of seats in Parliament from boroughs, which scarcely
profess to exercise an independent choice of representatives, to
large and growing towns would only in a subordinate degree
conduce to this effect, such a transfer should be made, There
II*
1 64 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
would still be enough of smaller constituencies for all purposes
that are useful.
We have, therefore, completed our task. We have shown
the defects which our present system of representation seems
to contain ; and we have endeavoured to indicate the mode in
which those defects might, we think, be remedied. The sub-
ject is one of great complexity and extent, and very difficult
to discuss within the limits of an article. To be considered
profitably, it must be considered as a whole ; and it will be
evident from our own pages how much space any attempt to
discuss the entire topic necessarily requires. Whatever errors
of detail may be found in our opinions, we cannot doubt that
our general purpose has been correct. A real statesman at tl
present day must endeavour to enlarge the influence of the
growing parts of the nation, as compared with the stationary
to augment the influence of the capitalist classes, but to with-
stand the pernicious theories which some of them for the
moment advocate ; to organise an expression for the desires of
the lower orders, but to withstand even the commencement of
a democratic revolution.
NOTE.
i8//fc February -, 1859.
There are some points suggested by the previous discussion
which I was unable from want of space, to treat as I should
have wished ; and some, too, which have been brought out
more clearly by the events of the last few weeks. I gladly,
therefore, make use of the opportunity afforded me by the
republication of the foregoing essay to make some additional
remarks.
A striking and most healthy symptom in the public mind
in reference to Reform just now is its freshness. In former
times the Tory party never thought about the matter. One of
their traditional tenets, as a party, was an opposition to Reform ;
and all who desired a further change than that of 1832 were in
their eyes Radicals and Democrats. The subject was not
for argument The Liberals, on the other hand, had a vague
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 165
kind of abstract idea that the franchise must be extended some
time or other. They would have been shocked to hear them-
selves called Democrats ; but when they talked about Reform,
their language, as far as it had a meaning at all, had a demo-
cratic meaning. It was imagined that as soon as the " masses >r
had acquired a certain minimum of education, they would have
a claim of right to be enfranchised ; and it was overlooked that
in practice this would be equivalent to the disfranchisement of
all other classes, and would give the lower orders the uncon-
trolled guidance of the community. At present the state of
public opinion is infinitely more hopeful. The Tories have been
stimulated to the consideration of the subject. As a govern-
ment of their own is to propose a Reform Bill, it is impossible
any longer to regard the topic as beyond the range of per-
mitted speculation. The Liberals likewise have been rather
rudely awakened to the unpleasant consequences of their former
ideas. Mr. Bright, more than any one else, should have the
credit of arousing the present liberal reaction against demo-
cracy. He has propounded in a definite plan what was before
an intangible idea. The subject has come within the range of
practical English thought almost for the first time ; and, as
usual, the tone of habitual discussion on it has deepened and
improved. A feeling of sympathy for intelligent working
people is perhaps stronger than ever, and there is every wish
that they should, if possible, have some power in the commun-
ity ; but there is a distinct and settled determination that they
shall not have all the power.
I have dwelt so fully on this part of the subject in the
preceding essay, that it is not necessary for me now to resume
the general discussion of it. The public mind is in a much
more likely mood to entertain what appear to me to be just
ideas than it ever was before, or that I could have hoped it
would be now. There are one or two incidental remarks, how-
ever, which it is necessary to make on the subject.
The most telling objection to the expedient suggested in the
foregoing essay for representing the working classes — viz. that
of lowering the qualification so as to include them in the great
seats of industry, but not elsewhere — is, that it sacrifices the
1 66 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
political power of the higher classes in those important places.
The higher classes in Manchester cannot be expected to like
that they should be disfranchised by the wholesale enfranchise-
ment of the working men in Manchester. That it should ever
be pleasant, it would be impossible to hope ; but there are
some considerations which tend, I think, to make it less un-
pleasant than might be imagined at first sight.
In the first place, a great deal of the anticipated calamity
has happened, and is being endured. The creators of the
wealth of Manchester — and when I speak of Manchester, I
only do so because it stands out in the public mind as a type
and symbol of cities of the class — are not the ten-pound house-
holders who return its members. These are the small shop-
keepers and petty dealers, who swarm and congregate about
every great commercial place ; but who bear to the merchants
and manufacturers of those places much the same relation that
the sutlers of a camp bear to its disciplined army. In London,
where the geographical division of industrial pursuits is un-
usually evident, there are whole constituencies composed
nearly exclusively of these rather mean attendants on com-
mercial civilisation. The Tower Hamlets contain very little
else ; and any one can see by walking through them how little
their population has of the cultivated energy and enlarged
acuteness commonly to be found in a great merchant. In
other towns — Liverpool is a strong contrast in this respect
to London — this attendant community of inferior dealers
resides in the closest proximity to the most important mer-
cantile offices — in the focus of business transactions. The
effect of the Act of 1832 has been to throw the representation
of the large trading towns into the hands of these inferior
traders, whose vicinity to the greater ones is inevitable, and
whose numbers are overwhelming. A portion of the higher
class of traders sympathise in the views of the lower ; this
portion assume to be the leaders of the place, and give to per-
sons at a distance an idea of its tendencies quite different from
what would be desired by the higher citizens in general. There
has always been an anti- Manchester party at Manchester.
The school which Mr. Bright represents has not the undisputed
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 6 7
lead among the manufacturing and mercantile men of the
north which they are commonly thought to have. The most
cultivated people there are perhaps generally opposed to
it. The highest and best class of the traders in great com-
mercial towns are already disfranchised, and it would, in
reality, be better for them that it should be thoroughly under-
stood to be so. At present the world imagines that their
present representatives express their feelings, and state their
opinions. If the representation of such places were avowedly
and constitutionally in the hands of the working classes, it
would be understood that the higher traders had no voice.
Those of them — and they are a very large number — who have
none now would be great gainers, because they would no longer
have the vexation of being thought to sympathise with per-
sons to whom they are emphatically opposed. The reason is
different with respect to the prevailing party in those boroughs,
but the conclusion is the same. So far are Mr. Bright's fol-
lowers from protesting against the wholesale admission of the
class of voters just below them, that they are clamorous in
favour of that admission. If the adoption of a rate-paying
franchise is supported by any part of the country, it is by the
constituencies of the very largest towns. There is no hard-
ship in giving to them the boon which they demand for every
one.
If, however, it should be found that the higher classes of
the largest towns exceedingly disliked the evident disfranchise-
ment which would be the certain consequence of extending
the borough franchise in such towns to the lower orders, it
would not be by any means impossible to find practicable plans
of preserving to them an effectual franchise. The first of
these plans is the creation of what may be called suburban
constituencies. The greater part of our merchants and traders,
even the higher part of our shopkeepers, have long since
deserted the straitened dwellings over the shop and the count-
ing-house which contented their fathers. They have residences
in country districts near their places of business ; all round our
largest cities there is a network of them. Many constituencies
could be found in the environs of our great cities where the
1 68 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
rich, comfortable, and intellectual business classes reside in
very great numbers, and where they would be far more likely
to predominate, and to have an effectual voice in the selection
of members of Parliament, than under the present suffrage
system they are, or can be, in the great seats of industry them-
selves. Such classes would benefit exceedingly by conceding
to the working classes the undisputed command of the repre-
sentation of the great town itself, if they could thereby obtain
a real representation for themselves at their own homes. That
which they have now — so numerous are the meaner house-
holders— is rather a vexing mockery than a desirable reality;
what they would obtain would be a substantial and effectual
influence on the legislature. If it were necessary, it would be
easy to provide that the representation should be really in the
hands of the higher class by fixing the property qualification
for a vote at a higher point than usual (at £20, suppose) ; but
I rather apprehend that this- expedient, though quite defensible,
and by no means intrinsically undesirable, would not be abso-
lutely necessary, as the number of the higher classes residing
in well-selected suburban constituencies would give them, under
a ten-pound franchise, an effectual superiority.
A second plan, which is not inconsistent with the first, but
rather supplementary to it, is a development of the suggestion
that personal property should be made the basis and criterion
of a qualification as well as real property. The first step to
carry this into practice raises the question: for what con-
stituency is this qualification to give a vote ? Railway deben-
tures and the public funds have no locality ; if they are to give
a vote, they may do so for one place as well as for another. I
would propose to give the voter himself a choice on this point
If he had the power of registering himself on the ground of
a monied-property qualification within a certain circle of con-
stituencies— say to any one situated at not more than fifty
miles from his usual place of abode — he could transfer his vote
to that one where it was most wanted, and would be most
effectual. The higher classes in the largest constituencies —
practically disfranchised as they almost are now, and as they
would be quite if the suggestions I have ventured to make
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 169
were adopted — might find a satisfactory refuge in the smaller
constituencies of the neighbourhood, whose numbers they
would augment, and whose composition they would materially
improve. In general, too, the creation of a transferable con-
stituency, by conferring the suffrage on the possessors of non-
local wealth as such, would be a material strengthening of the
educated classes as opposed to the non-educated, because it
would give the former an opportunity of concentrating their
power where it would tell most, while the power of the lower
classes would be dispersed, and inseparably attached to certain
places.
Both of these are expedients for giving to the disfranchised
upper classes of the most numerous constituencies power else-
where than in these constituencies ; two other expedients may
be mentioned, by which they might still retain considerable
influence in them.
The first of these is a modification of the " minority
principle". It has been shown in the preceding essay, by
arguments which are to my own mind conclusive, that this
ingenious expedient would not of itself solve the problem of
giving to the working classes a certain number of spokesmen in
Parliament without conferring on them the supreme authority
in the State. The working classes are the enormous majority
in the country ; if the franchise is universally lowered so as to
include them in every constituency, they will be masters of the
country. By means of the minority principle a certain power
may be preserved to some fraction more or less of the con-
stituency, according to circumstances ; but the great preponder-
ance will be with the majority still. In the case usually sup-
posed of a constituency with three members, in which each
constituent has nevertheless but two votes, a minority at all
greater than two-fifths of the constituency could return one
member, if they pleased it, with complete certainty ; but the
corresponding majority of a trifle less than three-fifths would
return two members with equal certainty. The influence of
the majority would still be double the influence of the minority.
So far from this principle giving to the working classes a few
members and no more, it gives the greater number to them,
1 70 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
and only a few in comparison to the rich. But though this
expedient does not of itself give the solution of the problem
of which we are in search, it gives us the means of alleviating
the inconvenience attaching to what we have found to be one
solution of that problem. We may by means of the minority
principle give a voice to the rich in the exceptional con-
stituencies in which it has been proposed to lower the fran-
chise so as to include the working men. In these constituencies
we only wish to give the rich some power ; it is the principle
of the proposal to give the greater power to their inferiors.
One of the modes in which the minority principle might
be made use of for this purpose has an appearance of equality
which would be, I should imagine, attractive to consistent
democrats. It is proposed that, no matter what the number
of members for the constituency may be, no elector shall have
more than one vote. As has been previously pointed out,
this is by far the most efficacious form of the minority prin-
ciple, because the minority to which it gives a member is
smaller than it is under any other modification of that prin-
ciple. If there were only two members for a constituency, a
minority at all exceeding one-third might be certain of return-
ing a single member. I cannot, indeed, imagine that in this
form the principle could ever be adopted or even seriously
advocated. No one would say that one-third plus one of the
nation was entitled to as much voice in its deliberations and
decisions as two-thirds minus one of it. A small minority, as
such, and no matter how composed, could never claim to have
as much power as a large majority, the members of which
might, for aught which appears, be equally intelligent. Nor,
even if we supposed the minority to be the rich and educated,
and the majority the poor and ignorant, would the result be
satisfactory. The error would then be in the other direction :
the ignorant majority would in that case have as much power
as the instructed minority, which is exactly what we desire
that they should not have. Like all other modifications of
the minority principle, this one fails as an anti-democratic
expedient applicable to the whole country. It would be most
dangerous to lower very greatly the franchise throughout the
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 7 1
country, in reliance on its efficacy in precluding a despotism of
the uneducated. But if the franchise be only extended to
the working classes in certain exceptional constituencies, the
adoption of the rule that no elector should have more than a
single vote might in them be very beneficial. Suppose that
three members were assigned to such constituencies, and that
no elector possessed more than a single vote, a moderate frac-
tion (one- fourth of the constituency plus one) could always be
sure of returning a member, and the remaining part of the
constituency (three-fourths minus one) would return the other
two. If the higher classes of a great town were really united,
and used their legitimate influence with zeal, they could always
command somewhat more than a quarter of the constituency :
they would be secure of returning a representative to the
legislature as well as their inferiors.
The same end would be reached by the adoption of what
is called the "cumulative vote" in these exceptional con-
stituencies. By this is simply meant that the elector should
be permitted to give all his votes to a single member if he
pleases : thus, if the members to be elected for the constituency
be three, and each elector have three votes, he would be en-
abled to give all his votes to any one candidate, instead of being
compelled, as at present, either to distribute them among three
candidates, or abstain from using some of them. By means of
this expedient also, a minority at all greater than one-quarter
could with certainty return a member ; and the effect in that
respect would be of course the same as if that result had been
attained by the other expedient. I cannot but think, however,
that the latter mode is very preferable in other respects. Mr.
J. S. Mill says very justly that the principle of giving the elec-
tor fewer votes than there are members to be elected must
always be unpopular, " because it cuts down the privileges of
the voter ; " while, on the other hand, the adoption of the cumu-
lative vote increases them, and has in consequence a tendency
to be popular. Mr. Mill justly observes also that the expedient
of the "cumulative vote" has another great advantage: it en-
ables voters to indicate not only their preference for a candi-
date, but the degree of their preference. Instead of voting
1 7 2 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
mechanically for all the candidates put forward by their party,
it enables them to select the one whom they really themselves
most approve, and to support him only. This would tend to
secure to eminent and trusted statesmen a secure position in
their respective constituencies, which is one of the most im-
portant among the minor excellences of a representative system.
By one or other of these two schemes, it would be possible
to give a real representation to the working classes in the large
towns in which they live, and to preserve a portion of influence
and a share in the local representation to the higher classes of
the town. Both schemes are, however, liable to the very con-
siderable objection that they permit, or rather provide for, the
election in the same place of a member for the poor and a
member for the rich, which is very likely to cause local ill-feel-
ing, and may sometimes irritate the poor into momentary tur-
bulence. On this ground, it seems to me preferable that the
higher classes in the large towns should be content with such
indirect compensation for their local disfranchisement as would
be afforded by the two plans which were noticed first. But
popular impression has an incalculable influence in such ques-
tions ; and if the higher classes in these first-class constituencies
would feel it a stigma or an injustice to have no share in their
local representation, such a share must be reserved to them,
although we are thereby compelled to allow of the election of
two contrasted kinds of members for the same town.
It may likewise be objected to the creation of such excep-
tional constituencies as I have proposed, that their exceptional
character could not be permanent. If you once lower the
qualification in one constituency, it may be said there will be
no rest from agitation until it has been lowered to the same
extreme point in all constituencies. But this appears to me to
assume that the democratic tendencies of the country are far
more powerful than they really are. The extension of the
suffrage, especially a very large extension of it, is not very
popular with the existing constituencies. If we give to such
privileged bodies a good argumentative defence, the oligarchical
tendencies of human nature will go far to ensure their main-
taining their privileges. Nothing tends to the longevity of a
PARLIAMENTARY REFORM
173
public benefit so much as its being also a particular private
advantage to some one who will look after it. Such a defence
the existing constituencies will really have if we assign to the
working classes some real representation in Parliament ; but
while the most numerous class have no means at all of making
their voice heard, there will always be an uneasy feeling that
they are unduly depressed and unfeelingly disregarded. So
far, then, from the creation of exceptional constituencies tend-
ing to weaken the arguments in favour of the general structure
of the present constituencies, it is the only way of removing the
most telling argumentative objection to our existing arrange-
ments.
An exceptional character in particular constituencies is, it
should be observed, an essential element in every system of
-class representation. If you lay down the principle that there
shall be persons in Parliament qualified and authorised to speak
the sentiments of special classes, you must take care that in
certain electoral bodies those classes shall predominate, that
the member for such bodies shall be their member. You can
only secure speciality in the member by a speciality in the con-
stituency. This is the very ground on which borough popula-
tions were originally selected for a separate representation. It
was believed that places differing so much from the rural
districts in which they were situated would have distinct in-
terests to advocate, distinct opinions to maintain, possibly
distinct grievances to state. In a word, it was believed that
they would send a special representative, with something to
say different from that which an ordinary county representative
would ever say. By selecting for particular representation
towns occupied in all the important kinds of trade, we have
secured an expression to the opinions and sentiments of all
kinds of capitalists. By giving special representatives to the
Universities, we have provided, perhaps not adequately, but still
to some extent, for the characteristic expression of the peculiar
views of the cultured classes. I believe that the principle of
special representation should be extended to the lower classes
also, who, from an improvement in education, have now in the
larger towns opinions to state, and perhaps, in their own esti-
1 74 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
mation, grievances to make known. If a special representation
is given to such persons, it can only be in the same way that
special representatives are given to other classes by creating
constituencies with a corresponding speciality.
It is to be observed, that the necessity for creating such
exceptional constituencies would not be obviated by the recom-
mendation which Mr. Mill has made of giving one vote to every
man, whatever be his education, and additional votes in a
rapidly-ascending scale to persons of greater education. The
object of this recommendation is to keep the principal authority
in the State in the hands of educated men. The scale of votes
is avowedly arranged for that purpose. By the adoption of
this scheme, you would give to the working classes no charac-
teristic expression in the legislature ; you would give them an
influence in every constituency in appearance considerable, but
which would be of no practical avail to them as a class, because
on all characteristic points their voice would be neutralised,
and whenever there were class candidates theirs would be re-
jected, by the more numerous votes given for that very purpose
.to the more educated classes.
I must have wearied every reader with this part of the
subject ; and my only excuse is the strong conviction which
I feel of its importance, and my wish not to omit to make
any observation which may serve to throw it into what seems
to me the true light.
As far as the nomination boroughs go, I have no wish to
say a word in their defence. In former times there may have
been a certain advantage in the existence of such seats.
Young men of promise were then occasionally brought into
Parliament by the patrons of such constituencies, and great
statesmen sometimes found a refuge in them during moments
of unpopularity. But these advantages belong to past times.
Before the Reform Act of 1832 the borough proprieters had
boroughs to spare; such was the plenty of such seats, that
there were some left for the public, after providing for the
relations and personal friends of the proprietor. But the fact
is otherwise at present. There are not now enough of such
boroughs to provide for the personal connections of those who
PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM 1 7 5
own them ; and the public derive almost no advantage from
their continuance.
As I have explained, all very small boroughs tend to
become either dependent or corrupt, and therefore all very
small ones should be abolished. But this is no ground for
abolishing a great number of constituencies which, though not
very large, are still large enough to be fairly independent and
fairly uncorrupt. There can be no ground for disfranchising
every place which has not 10,000 inhabitants. If we look to
abstract principle as our guide, no measure would be more un-
desirable. We have seen it to be desirable not only that
there should be special representatives for every class in Parlia-
ment, but likewise that the predominant tone and temper of
Parliament should be despotically controlled by no class or
sect of persons — that it should coincide with the feeling of
the nation itself. The accordance of the opinion of Parlia-
ment with that of the country is the principal condition for
the performance by Parliament of its great function of ruling
the country. This can only be secured by the continuance in
Parliament of many members representing no special interest,
bound down to state the ideas of no particular class, them-
selves not markedly exhibiting the characteristics of any
particular status, but able to form a judgment of what is
good for the country as freely and impartially as other edu-
cated men. It is impossible to expect that such persons will
be commonly sent to Parliament by the counties and the large
towns. A good deal has already been said of the sectarian
character of the county members. I fear it must be allowed
that the better class of members for large towns are at least
as sectarian ; they are capitalists, men of business, represent-
ing the views and opinions of the ten-pound householders.
I am not speaking of such members as stray in occasionally
for such constituencies as the Tower Hamlets. A low class
of demagogue will now and then be returned by every very
large constituency ; but the characteristic tendency of the large
towns is to return men of business of mature age, and of a
certain very recognisable, if not very describable tendency of
sentiment and opinion — a kind of member as marked, as
1 76 PARLIAMENTAR Y REFORM
peculiar, and as distinct from all others as any county member
can be. I cannot but think that we shall impair the proper
working of our Parliamentary constitution if we greatly aug-
ment the number of class representatives, whether for the lai
towns or the counties. Whatever other defects may be allege
to exist in the smaller boroughs, the objection that th(
return exclusively the representatives of a class cannot be made
to them. Every species of member sits for some of them.
A list of persons more unlike one another could hardly
found than the list of the representatives for our smaller
boroughs. When we consider how exceedingly important it
is that the judgment of Parliament should be alloyed by no
class prejudice or class interest, that its decisions should be in
accordance with the real and deliberate decision of the nation,
we shall, I hope, pause before we abolish constituencies so
likely to contribute to effect this result. It is not possible for
human skill to apportion to each special interest the exact
number of representatives which it ought to have, and to com-
pose a Parliament exclusively of such special representatives.
It would require more skill than any statesman can claim to
establish a coincidence of opinion between Parliament and the
country solely by the definite allotment of particular members
to particular classes. There is no criterion to tell us with
accuracy how much each class contributes to the formation of
public opinion. The sole expedient for securing the result
which we wish to obtain, is that by which it has actually been
obtained. We have a Parliament, subject to two slight
objections, fairly coincident in judgment with the reflecting
part of the community. This inestimable coincidence of
judgment is largely due to the immemorial existence of very
many impartial constituencies. We have class advocates in
Parliament, it is true; but many unbiassed judges, many
national representatives, are to be found there likewise. Per-
haps no course could be more dangerous for the country than
to diminish the number of the latter, and so lose, possibly at
a very critical moment, the incalculable benefit of their im-
partial intelligence.
JOHN MILTON.1
(I859-)
THE Life of Milton, by Professor Masson, is a difficulty fof
the critics. It is; very laborious, very learned, and in the main,
we believe, very accurate. It is exceedingly long, — there are
780 pages in this volume, and there are to be two volumes
more : it touches on very many subjects, and each of these
has been investigated to the very best of the author's ability.
No one can wish to speak with censure of a book on which so
much genuine labour has been expended ; and yet we are
bound, as true critics, to say that we think it has been com-
posed upon a principle that is utterly erroneous. In justice to
ourselves we must explain our meaning.
There are two methods on which biography may consist-
ently be written. The first of these is what we may call the
exhaustive method. Every fact which is known about the
hero may be told us ; everything which he did, everything
which he would not do, everything which other people did to
him, everything which other people would not do to him,—
may be narrated at full length. We may have a complete
picture of all the events of his life ; of all which he underwent,
and all which he achieved. We may, as Mr. Carlyle expresses
1 The Life of John Milton, narrated in connection with the Political,
Ecclesiastical, and Literary History of his time. By David Massonj
M.A., Professor of English Literature in University College, London.
Cambridge : Macmillan.
An Account of the Life, Opinions, and Writings of John Milton.
By Thomas Keightley ; with an Introduction to " Paradise Lost ".
London : Chapman and Hall.
The Poems of Milton, with Notes by Thomas Keightley. London :
Chapman and Hall.
VOL. III. i77 12
1 78 JOHN MILTON
it, have a complete account "of his effect upon the universe,
and of the effect of the universe upon him". We admit that
biographies of this species would be very long and generally
very tedious, we know that the world could not contain very
many of them ; but nevertheless the principle on which they
may be written is intelligible.
The second method on which the life of a man may be
written is the selective. Instead of telling everything, we may
choose what we will tell. We may select out of the number-
less events, from among the innumerable actions of his life,
those events and those actions which exemplify his true
character, which prove to us what were the true limits of his
talents, what was the degree of his deficiencies, which were
his defects, which his vices, — in a word, we may select the
traits and the particulars which seem to give us the best idea
of the man as he lived and as he was. On this side the flood,
as Sydney Smith would have said, we should have fancied that
this was the only practicable principle on which biographies
can be written about persons of whom many details are re-
corded. For ancient heroes the exhaustive method is possible.
All that can be known of them is contained in a few short
passages of Greek and Latin, and it is quite possible to say
whatever can be said about every one of these: the result
would not be unreasonably bulky, though it might be dull.
But in the case of men who have lived in the thick of the
crowded modern world, no such course is admissible ; over-
much may be said, and we must choose what we will say. Bio-
graphers, however, are rarely bold enough to adopt the selec-
tive method consistently. They have, we suspect, the fear of
the critics before their eyes. They do not like that it should
be said that " the work of the learned gentleman contains
serious omissions: the events of 1562 are not mentioned;
those of October, 1579, are narrated but very cursorily" : and
we fear that in any case such remarks will be made. Very
learned people are pleased to show that they know what is
not in the book ; sometimes they may hint that perhaps the
author did not know it, or surely he would have mentioned it.
But a biographer who wishes to write what most people of
JOHN MILTON 179
cultivation will be pleased to read must be courageous enough
to face the pain of such censures. He must choose, as we
have explained, the characteristic parts of his subject ; and all
that he has to take care of besides, is so to narrate them that
their characteristic elements shall be shown : to give such an
account of the general career as may make it clear what these
chosen events really were ; to show their respective bearings to
one another ; to delineate what is expressive in such a manner
as to make it expressive.
This plan of biography is, however, by no means that of
Mr. Masson. He has no dread of overgrown bulk and over-
whelming copiousness. He finds, indeed, what we have called
the exhaustive method insufficient. He not only wishes to
narrate in full the life of Milton, but to add those of his con-
temporaries likewise : he seems to wish to tell us not only
what Milton did, but also what every one else did in Great
Britain during his lifetime. He intends his book to be not
" merely a biography of Milton, but also in some sort a con-
tinuous history of his time. . . . The suggestions of Milton's
life have indeed determined the tracks of these historical re-
searches and expositions, sometimes through the literature of the
period, sometimes through its civil and ecclesiastical politics ;
but the extent to which I have pursued them, and the space
which I have assigned to them, have been determined by my
desire to present, by their combination, something like a con-
nected historical view of British thought and British society in
general prior to the Revolution." We need not do more than
observe that this union of heterogeneous aims must always end,
as it has in this case, in the production of a work at once over-
grown and incomplete. A great deal which has only a slight
bearing on the character of Milton is inserted ; much that is
necessary to a true history of " British thought and British
society " is of necessity left out. The period of Milton's life which
is included in the published volume makes the absurdity especi-
ally apparent. In middle life Milton was a great controversialist
on contemporary topics ; and though it would not be proper
for a biographer to load his pages with a full account of all
such controversies, yet some notice of the most characteristic
12 *
i8o JOHN MILTON
of them would be expected from him. In this part of Milton's
life some reference to public events would be necessary ; and
we should not severely censure a biographer, if the great
interest of those events induced him to stray a little from his
topic. But the first thirty years of Milton's life require a
very different treatment. He passed those years in the
ordinary musings of a studious and meditative youth ; it was
the period of "Lycidas" and of "Comus" ; he then dreamed
the
" Sights which youthful poets dream
On summer eve by haunted stream ".l
We do not wish to have this part of his life disturbed, to
a greater extent than may be necessary, with the harshness
of public affairs. Nor is it necessary that it should be so
disturbed. A life of poetic retirement requires but little
reference to anything except itself. In a biography of Mr.
Tennyson we should not expect to hear of the Reform Bill,
or the Corn Laws. Mr. Masson is, however, of a different
opinion. He thinks it necessary to tell us, not only all
which Milton did, but everything also that he might have
heard of.
The biography of Mr. Keightley is on a very different
scale. He tells the story of Milton's career in about half
a small volume. Probably this is a little too concise, and
the narrative is somewhat dry and bare. It is often, how-
ever, acute, and is always clear; and even were its defects
greater than they are, we should think it unseemly to criticise
the last work of one who has performed so many useful
services to literature with extreme severity.
The bare outline of Milton's life is very well known. We
have all heard that he was born in the latter years of King
James, just when Puritanism was collecting its strength for
the approaching struggle ; that his father and mother were
quiet good people, inclined, but not immoderately, to that
persuasion; that he went up to Cambridge early, and had
some kind of dissension with the authorities there ; that the
L'Allegro." 9
JOHN MILTON 181
course of his youth was in a singular degree pure and staid ;
that in boyhood he was a devourer of books, and that he
early became, and always remained, a severely studious man ;
that he married, and had difficulties of a peculiar character
with his first wife ; that he wrote on Divorce ; that after the
death of his first wife, he married a second time a lady who
died very soon, and a third time a person who survived him
more than fifty years ; that he wrote early poems of singular
beauty, which we still read ; that he travelled in Italy, and
exhibited his learning in the academies there ; that he plunged
deep in the theological and political controversies of his time ;
that he kept a school, or rather, in our more modern phrase,
took pupils ; that he was a republican of a peculiar kind, and
of " no Church," which Dr. Johnson thought dangerous ; that
he was Secretary for Foreign Languages under the Long
Parliament, and retained that office after the coup dttat of
Cromwell ; that he defended the death of Charles I., and be-
came blind from writing a book in haste upon that subject ;
that after the Restoration he was naturally in a position of
some danger and much difficulty ; that in the midst of that
difficulty he wrote " Paradise Lost " ; that he did not fail in
"heart or hope,"1 but lived for fourteen years after the de-
struction of all for which he had laboured, in serene retire-
ment, " though fallen on evil days, though fallen on evil
times " ; — all this we have heard from our boyhood. How
much is wanting to complete the picture — how many traits,
both noble and painful, might be recovered from the past —
we shall never know, till some biographer skilled in interpreting
the details of human nature shall select this subject for his art.
All that we can hope to do in an essay like this is, to
throw together some miscellaneous remarks on the character
of the Puritan poet, and on the peculiarities of his works ;
and if in any part of them we may seem to make unusual
criticisms, and to be over-ready with depreciation or ob-
jection, our excuse must be that we wish to paint a likeness,
and that the harsher features of the subject should have a
prominence, even in an outline.
1 Sonnet xix.
i82 JOHN MILTON
There are two kinds of goodness conspicuous in the world,
and often made the subject of contrast there ; for which, how-
ever, we seem to want exact words, and which we are obliged
to describe rather vaguely and incompletely. These characters
may in one aspect be called the sensuous and the ascetic.
The character of the first is that which is almost personified
in the poet-king of Israel, whose actions and whose history
have been " improved " so often by various writers, that it
now seems trite even to allude to them. Nevertheless, the
particular virtues and the particular career of David seem to
embody the idea of what may be called sensuous goodness
far more completely than a living being in general comes
near to an abstract idea. There may have been shades in the
actual man which would have modified the resemblance ; but
in the portrait which has been handed down to us, the traits
are perfect and the approximation exact. The principle of
this character is its sensibility to outward stimulus ; it is
moved by all which occurs, stirred by all which happens,
open to the influences of whatever it sees, hears, or meets with.
The certain consequence of this mental constitution is a
peculiar liability to temptation. Men are, according to the
divine, " put upon their trial through the senses ". It is
through the constant suggestions of the outer world that our
minds are stimulated, that our will has the chance of a choice,
that moral life becomes possible. The sensibility to this
external stimulus brings with it, when men have it to excess,
an unusual access of moral difficulty. Everything acts on
them, and everything has a chance of turning them aside ; the
most tempting things act upon them very deeply, and their in-
fluence, in consequence, is extreme. Naturally, therefore, the
errors of such men are great We need not point the moral—
" Dizzied faith and guilt and woe,
Loftiest aims by earth defiled,
Gleams of wisdom sin-beguiled,
Sated power's tyrannic mood,
Counsels shared with men of blood,
Sad success, parental tears,
And a dreary gift of years "-1
1 John Henry Newman's " Call of David ",
JOHN MIL TON 1 83
But, on the other hand, the excellence of such men has a
charm, a kind of sensuous sweetness, that is its own. Being
conscious of frailty, they are tender to the imperfect; being
sensitive to this world, they sympathise with the world ;
being familiar with all the moral incidents of life, their good-
ness has a richness and a complication : they fascinate their
own age, and in their deaths they are " not divided " from
the love of others. Their peculiar sensibility gives a depth to
their religion ; it is at once deeper and more human than that
of other men. As their sympathetic knowledge of those
whom they have seen is great, so it is with their knowledge of
Him whom they have not seen ; and as is their knowledge,
so is their love ; it is deep, from their nature ; rich and in-
timate, from the variety of their experience; chastened by
the ever-present sense of their weakness and of its con-
sequences.
In extreme opposition to this is the ascetic species of
goodness. This is not, as is sometimes believed, a self-
produced ideal — a simply voluntary result of discipline and
restraint. Some men have by nature what others have to
elaborate by effort. Some men have a repulsion from the
world. All of us have, in some degree, a protective instinct ;
an impulse, that is to say, to start back from what may
trouble us, to shun what may fascinate us, to avoid what
may tempt us. On the moral side of human nature this
preventive check is occasionally imperious ; it holds the whole
man under its control, — makes him recoil from the world, be
offended at its amusements, be repelled by its occupations, be
scared by its sins. The consequences of this tendency, when
it is thus in excess, upon the character are very great and
very singular. It secludes a man in a sort of natural monas-
tery ; he lives in a kind of moral solitude ; and the effects of
his isolation for good and for evil on his disposition are very
many. The best result is a singular capacity for meditative
religion. Being aloof from what is earthly, such persons are
shut up with what is spiritual ; being unstirred by the in-
cidents of time, they are alone with the eternal ; rejecting this
life, they are alone with what is beyond. According to the
184 JOHN MILTON
measure of their minds, men of this removed and secluded
excellence become eminent for a settled and brooding piety,
for a strong and predominant religion. In human life too,
in a thousand ways, their isolated excellence is apparent.
They walk through the whole of it with an abstinence from
sense, a zeal of morality, a purity of ideal, which other men
have not. Their religion has an imaginative grandeur, and
their life something of an unusual impeccability. And these
are obviously singular excellences. But the deficiencies to
which the same character tends are equally singular. In the
first place, their isolation gives them a certain pride in them-
selves, and an inevitable ignorance of others. They are
secluded by their constitutional Sat'/jiwv from life ; they are re-
pelled from the pursuits which others care for; they are
alarmed at the amusements which others enjoy. In conse-
quence, they trust in their own thoughts ; they come to
magnify both them and themselves — for being able to think
and to retain them. The greater the nature of the man, the
greater is this temptation. His thoughts are greater, and, in
consequence, the greater is his tendency to prize them, the
more extreme is his tendency to overrate them. This pride,
too, goes side by side with a want of sympathy. Being
aloof from others, such a mind is unlike others ; and it feels,
and sometimes it feels bitterly, its own unlikeness. Gener-
ally, however, it is too wrapt up in its own exalted thoughts
to be sensible of the pain of moral isolation ; it stands apart
from others, unknowing and unknown. It is deprived of
moral experience in two ways, — it is not tempted itself, and
it does not comprehend the temptations of others. And this
defect of moral experience is almost certain to produce two
effects, one practical and the other speculative. When such
a man is wrong, he will be apt to believe that he is right.
If his own judgment err, he will not have the habit of
checking it by the judgment of others ; he will be accus-
tomed to think most men wrong ; differing from them would
be no proof of error, agreeing with them would rather be a
basis for suspicion. He may, too, be very wrong, for the
conscience of no man is perfect on all sides. The strange-
JOHN MILTON 185
ness of secluded excellence will be sometimes deeply shaded
by very strange errors. To be commonly above others,
still more to think yourself above others, is to be below
them every now and then, and sometimes much below.
Again, on the speculative side, this defect of moral experi-
ence penetrates into the distinguishing excellence of the
character, — its brooding and meditative religion. Those
who see life under only one aspect, can see religion under
only one likewise. This world is needful to interpret what
is beyond ; the seen must explain the unseen. It is from
a tried and a varied and a troubled moral life that the deepest
and truest idea of God arises. The ascetic character wants
these ; therefore in its religion there will be a harshness of
outline, a bareness, so to say, as well as a grandeur. In life
we may look for a singular purity; but also, and with
equal probability, for singular self-confidence, a certain un-
sympathising straitness, and perhaps a few singular errors.
The character of the ascetic, or austere species of good-
ness, is almost exactly embodied in Milton. Men, indeed,
are formed on no ideal type. Human nature has tendencies
too various, and circumstances too complex. All men's
characters have sides and aspects not to be comprehended
in a single definition ; but in this case, the extent to which
the character of the man, as we find it delineated, approaches
to the moral abstraction which we sketch from theory, is
remarkable. The whole being of Milton may, in some
sort, be summed up in the great commandment of the
austere character, "Reverence thyself". We find it ex-
pressed in almost every one of his singular descriptions of
himself, — of those striking passages which are scattered
through all his works, and which add to whatever interest
may intrinsically belong to them one of the rarest of artistic
charms, that of magnanimous autobiography. They have
been quoted a thousand times, but one of them may perhaps
be quoted again. " I had my time, readers, as others have,
who have good learning bestowed upon them, to be sent to
those places, where the opinion was it might be soonest
attained ; and as the manner is, was not unstudied in those
1 86 JOHN MIL TON
authors which are most commended ; whereof some were
grave orators and historians, whose matter methought I loved
indeed, but as my age then was, so I understood them ; others
were the smooth elegiac poets, whereof the schools are not
scarce, whom both for the pleasing sound of their numerous
writing, which in imitation I found most easy, and most
agreeable to nature's part in me, and for their matter, which
what it is, there be few who know not, I was so allured to
read, that no recreation came to me better welcome : for that
it was then those years with me which are excused, though
they be less severe, I may be saved the labour to remember
ye. Whence having observed them to account it the chief
glory of their wit, in that they were ablest to judge, to praise,
and by that could esteem themselves worthiest to love those
high perfections, which under one or other name they took to
celebrate, I thought with myself by every instinct and presage
of nature, which is not wont to be false, that what emboldened
them to this task, might with such diligence as they used
embolden me ; and that what judgment, wit, or elegance was
my share, would herein best appear, and best value itself, by
how much more wisely, and with more love of virtue I should
choose (let rude ears be absent) the object of not unlik(
praises : for albeit these thoughts to some will seem virtuouj
and commendable, to others only pardonable, to a third soi
perhaps idle ; yet the mentioning of them now will end ii
serious. Nor blame it, readers, in those years to propose t(
themselves such a reward, as the noblest dispositions abo>
other things in this life have sometimes preferred : whereof
not to be sensible when good and fair in one person me
argues both a gross and shallow judgment, and withal ai
ungentle and swainish breast. For by the firm settling
these persuasions, I became, to my best memory, so much
proficient, that if I found those authors anywhere speakii
unworthy things of themselves, or unchaste of those name
which before they had extolled, this effect is wrought wit
me, from that time forward their art I still applauded, but th<
men I deplored ; and above them all, preferred the two famoi
renowners of Beatrice and Laura, who never write but honoi
JOHN MIL TON 187
of them to whom they devote their verse, displaying sublime
and pure thoughts without transgression. And long it was
not after, when I was confirmed in this opinion, that he who
would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in
laudable things, ought himself to be a true poem ; that is, a
composition and pattern of the best and honourablest things ;
not presuming to sing high praises of heroic men, or famous
cities, unless he have in himself the experience and the
practice of all that which is praiseworthy." l
It may be fanciful to add, and we may be laughed at, but
we believe that the self-reverencing propensity was a little
aided by his singular personal beauty. All the describers of
his youth concur in telling us that this was very remarkable.
Mr. Masson has the following account of it : —
"When Milton left Cambridge in July, 1632, he was twenty-three
years and eight months old. In stature, therefore, at least, he was
already whatever he was to be. ' In stature,' he says himself at a latter
period, when driven to speak on the subject, ' I confess I am not tall,
but still of what is nearer to middle height than to little : and what if I
were of little ; of which stature have often been very great men both in
peace and war — though why should that be called little which is great
enough for virtue ? ' (' StaturA,fateor, non sum procera, sedqucE mediocri
tamen quamparvce propior sit ; sed quid si parva, qua et summi scEpe tuni
pace turn bello viri fuere — quanquam parva cur dicitur, qucs ad virtutem
satis magna est?"). This is precise enough; but we have Aubrey's
words to the same effect : 'He was scarce so tall as I am,' says Aubrey ;
to which, to make it more intelligible, he appends the marginal note: —
' Qu- Quot feet I am high ? Resp. Of middle stature ; ' — z>., Milton was
a little under middle height. ' He had light brown hair,' continues
Aubrey, — putting the word ' abrown ' (' auburn ') in the margin by way
of synonym for ' light brown ' ; — < his complexion exceeding fair ; oval
face ; his eye a dark grey.' "
We are far from accusing Milton of personal vanity.
His character was too enormous, if we may be allowed so to
say, for a fault so petty. But a little tinge of excessive self-
respect will cling to those who can admire themselves.
Ugly men are and ought to be ashamed of their existence.
Milton was not so.
The peculiarities of the austere type of character stand
1 Apology for Smectymnuus.
1 88 JOHN MILTON
out in Milton more remarkably than in other men who par-
take of it, because of the extreme strength of his nature.
In reading him this is the first thing that strikes us. We
seem to have left the little world of ordinary writers. The
words of some authors are said to have " hands and feet " ;
they seem, that is, to have a vigour and animation which
only belong to things which live and move. Milton's words
have not this animal life. There is no rude energy about
them. But, on the other hand, they have, or seem to have,
a soul, a spirit which other words have not. He was early
aware that what he wrote, "by certain vital signs it had,"
was such as the world would not "willingly let die".1
After two centuries we feel the same. There is a solemn
and firm music in the lines ; a brooding sublimity haunts
them ; the spirit of the great writer moves over the face
of the page. In life there seems to have been the same
peculiar strength that his works suggest to us. His moral
tenacity is amazing. He took his own course, and he kept
his own course ; and we may trace in his defects the same
characteristics. "Energy and ill-temper," some say, "are
the same thing ; " and though this is a strong exaggera-
tion, yet there is a basis of truth in it. People who labour
much will be cross if they do not obtain that for which they
labour ; those who desire vehemently will be vexed if they
do not obtain that which they desire. As is the strength of
the impelling tendency, so, other things being equal, is the
pain which it will experience if it be baffled. Those, too,
who are set on what is high will be proportionately offended
by the intrusion of what is low. Accordingly, Milton is
described by those who knew him as a "harsh and choleric
man". "He had," we are told, "a gravity in his temper,
not melancholy, or not till the latter part of his life, — not
sour, not morose, not ill-natured ; but a certain severity of
mind, not condescending to little things;" — and this,
although his daughter remembered that he was delightful
company, the life of conversation, and that he was so "on
account of a flow of subjects and an unaffected cheerfulness
1 Reason of Church Government, Introduction to book iii.
JOHN MIL TON 189
and civility". Doubtless this may have been so when he
was at ease, and at home. But there are unmistakable
traces of the harsher tendency in almost all his works.
Some of the peculiarities of the ascetic character were
likewise augmented by his studious disposition. This began
very early in life, and continued till the end. " My father,"
he says, " destined me to the study of polite literature, which
I embraced with such avidity, that from the twelfth year of
my age I hardly ever retired to rest from my studies till
midnight ; which was the first source of injury to my eyes,
to the natural weakness of which were added frequent head-
aches : all of which not retarding my eagerness after know-
ledge, he took care to have me instructed," * etc. Every
page of his works shows the result of this education. In
spite of the occupations of manhood, and the blindness and
melancholy of old age, he still continued to have his princi-
pal pleasure in that "studious and select" reading, which,
though often curiously transmuted, is perpetually involved
in the very texture of his works. We need not stay to
observe how a habit in itself so austere conduces to the
development of an austere character. Deep study, especially
deep study which haunts and rules the imagination, neces-
sarily removes men from life, absorbs them in themselves ;
purifies their conduct, with some risk of isolating their
sympathies; develops that loftiness of mood which is gifted
with deep inspirations and indulged with great ideas, but
which tends in its excess to engender a contempt for others,
and a self-appreciation which is even more displeasing
to them.
These same tendencies were aggravated also by two defects
which are exceedingly rare in great English authors, and which
perhaps Milton alone amongst those of the highest class is in
a remarkable degree chargeable with. We mean a deficiency
in humour, and a deficiency in a knowledge of plain human
nature. Probably when, after the lapse of ages, English litera-
ture is looked at in its larger features only, and in comparison
with other literatures which have preceded or which may follow
1 Defensio Secunda ; translated by Keightley.
1 90 JOHN MIL TON
it, the critics will lay down that its most striking characteristic
as a whole is its involution, so to say, in life ; the degree to
which its book life resembles real life ; the extent to which the
motives, dispositions, and actions of common busy persons are
represented in a medium which would seem likely to give us
peculiarly the ideas of secluded, and the tendencies of meditative
men. It is but an aspect of this fact, that English literature
abounds, — some critics will say abounds excessively, — with
humour. This is in some sense the imaginative element of
ordinary life, — the relieving charm, partaking at once of contrast
and similitude, which gives a human and an intellectual interest
to the world of clowns and cottages, of fields and farmers. The
degree to which Milton is deficient in this element is conspicu-
ous in every page of his writings where its occurrence could be
looked for ; and if we do not always look for it, that is because
the subjects of his most remarkable works are on a removed
elevation, where ordinary life, the world of " cakes and ale,"
is never thought of and never expected. It is in his dramas,
as we should expect, that Milton shows this deficiency the
most. "Citizens" never talk in his pages, as they do in
Shakespeare. We feel instinctively that Milton's eye had
never rested with the same easy pleasure on the easy, ordinary,
shop-keeping world. Perhaps, such is the complication of
art, that it is on the most tragic occasions that we felt this want
the most. It may seem an odd theory, and yet we believe
it to be a true principle, that catastrophes require a comic
element. We appear to feel the same principle in life. We
may read solemn descriptions of great events in history, —
say of Lord Strafford's trial, and of his marvellous speech,
and his appeal to his " saint in heaven " ; but we comprehend
the whole transaction much better when we learn from Mr.
Baillie, the eye-witness, that people ate nuts and apples,
and talked, and laughed and betted on the great question of
acquittal and condemnation. Nor is it difficult to under-
stand why this should be so. It seems to be a law of
the imagination, at least in most men, that it will not
concentration. It is essentially a glancing faculty. It g<
and comes, and comes and goes, and we hardly know whence
JOHN MIL TON 1 9 1
or why. But we most of us know that when we try to fix
it, in a moment it passes away. Accordingly, the proper
procedure of art is to let it go in such a manner as to ensure
its coming back again. The force of artistic contrasts
effects exactly this result. Skilfully disposed opposites
suggest the notion of each other. We realise more perfectly
and easily the great idea, the tragic conception, when we
are familiarised with its effects on the minds of little people,
—with the petty consequences which it causes, as well as
with the enormous forces from which it comes. The catas-
trophe of Samson Agonistes discloses Milton's imperfect
mastery of this element of effect. If ever there was an
occasion which admitted its perfect employment, it was this.
The kind of catastrophe is exactly that which is sure to
strike and strike forcibly the minds of common persons. If
their observations on the occasion were really given to us,
we could scarcely avoid something rather comic. The
eccentricity, so to speak, of ordinary persons, shows itself
peculiarly at such times, and they say the queerest things.
Shakespeare has exemplified this principle most skilfully on
various occasions : it is the sort of art which is just in his
way. His imagination always seems to be floating between
the contrasts of things ; and if his mind had a resting-place
that it liked, it was this ordinary view of extraordinary events.
Milton was under the great obligation to use this relieving
principle of art in the catastrophe of Samson, because he
has made every effort to heighten the strictly tragic element,
which requires that relief. His art, always serious, was
never more serious. His Samson is not the incarnation of
physical strength which the popular fancy embodies in the
character ; nor is it the simple and romantic character of the
Old Testament. On the contrary, Samson has become a
Puritan : the observations he makes would have done much
credit to a religious pikeman in Cromwell's army. In con-
sequence, his death requires some lightening touches to make
it a properly artistic event. The pomp of seriousness becomes
too oppressive.
1 92 JOHN MIL TON
" At length for intermission sake they led him
Between the pillars ; he his guide requested
(For so from such as nearer stood we heard),
As over-tired, to let him lean a while
With both his arms on those two massy pillars
That to the arched roof gave main support.
He unsuspicious led him ; which when Samson
Felt in his arms, with head a while inclined,
And eyes fast fix'd, he stood, as one who pray'd,
Or some great matter in his mind revolved :
At last with head erect thus cry'd aloud,
' Hitherto, lords, what your commands imposed
I have perform 'd, as reason was, obeying,
Not without wonder or delight beheld :
Now of my own accord such other trial
I mean to show you of my strength, yet greater,
As with amaze shall strike all who behold.'
This utter'd, straining all his nerves he bow'd,
As with the force of winds and waters pent
When mountains tremble, those two massy pillars
With horrible convulsion to and fro.
He tugg'd, he shook, till down they came, and drew
The whole roof after them, with bursts of thunder,
Upon the heads of all who sat beneath, —
Lords, ladies, captains, counsellors, or priests,
Their choice nobility and flower, not only
Of this, but each Philistian city round,
Met from all parts to solemnise this feast.
Samson with these immix'd, inevitably
Pull'd down the same destruction on himself ;
The vulgar only 'scaped who stood without.
Chor. O dearly-bought revenge, yet glorious !
Living or dying thou hast fulfill'd
The work for which thou wast foretold
To Israel, and now ly'st victorious
Among thy slain self-kill'd
Not willingly, but tangled in the fold
Of dire necessity, whose law in death conjoin'd
Thee with thy slaughter'd foes, in number more
Than all thy life hath slain before."
This is grave and fine ; but Shakespeare would have done
it differently and better.
We need not pause to observe how certainly this deficiency
in humour and in the delineation of ordinary human feeling is
JOHN MILTON 193
connected with a recluse, a solitary, and to some extent an
unsympathising life. If we combine a certain aloofness from
common men with literary habits and an incessantly studious
musing, we shall at once see how powerful a force is brought
to bear on an instinctively austere character, and how sure it
will be to develop the peculiar tendencies of it, both good and
evil. It was to no purpose that Milton seems to have practised
a sort of professional study of life. No man could rank more
highly the importance to a poet of an intellectual insight into
all-important pursuits and "seemly arts". But it is not by
the mere intellect that we can take in the daily occupations
of mankind ; we must sympathise with them, and see them
in their human relations. A chimney-sweeper, qud chimney-
sweeper, is not very sentimental ; it is in himself that he is
so interesting.
Milton's austere character is in some sort the more evident,
because he possessed in large measure a certain relieving
element, in which those who are eminent in that character are
very deficient. Generally such persons have but obtuse senses.
We are prone to attribute the purity of their conduct to the
dulness of their sensations. Milton had no such obtuseness.
He had every opportunity for knowing ' ' the world of eye and
ear "-1 You cannot open his works without seeing how much
he did know of it. The austerity of his nature was not caused
by the deficiency of his senses, but by an excess of the warning
instinct. Even when he professed to delineate the world of
sensuous delight, this instinct shows itself. Dr. Johnson
thought he could discern melancholy in " L'Allegro ".2 If he
had said solitariness, it would have been correct.
The peculiar nature of Milton's character is very conspicu-
ous in the events of his domestic life, and in the views which
he took of the great public revolutions of his age. We can
spare only a very brief space for the examination of either
of these; but we will endeavour to say a few words upon
each of them.
The circumstances of Milton's first marriage are as singular
as any in the strange series of the loves of the poets. The
1 Wordsworth : " Tintern Abbey ". 2 Life of Milton.
VOL. III. 13
i94 JOHN MILTON
scene opens with an affair of business. Milton's father, as is
well known, was a scrivener, a kind of professional money-
lender, then well known in London ; and having been early
connected with the vicinity of Oxford, continued afterwards to
have pecuniary transactions of a certain nature with country
gentlemen of that neighbourhood. In the course of these he
advanced £500 to a certain Mr. Richard Powell, a squire of
fair landed estate, residing at Forest Hill, which is about four
miles from the city of Oxford. The money was lent on the
nth of June, 1627 ; and a few months afterwards Mr. Milton
the elder gave £312 of it to his son the poet, who was then
a youth at college, and made a formal memorandum of the
same in the form then usual, which still exists. The debt was
never wholly discharged ; for in 1651 we find Milton declaring
on oath that he had never received more than £180, " in part
satisfaction of his said just and principal debt, with damages
for the same and his costs of suit ". Mr. Keightley supposes
him to have " taken many a ride over to Forest Hill " after he
left Cambridge and was living at Horton, which is not very
far distant ; but of course this is only conjecture. We only ,
know that about 1643 "he took," as his nephew relates, "a
journey into the country, nobody about him certainly knowing j
the reason, or that it was more than a journey of recreation.
After a month's stay he returns a married man, who set out
a bachelor ; his wife being Mary, the eldest daughter of Mr.
Richard Powell, then a justice of the peace " for the county of
Oxford. The suddenness of the event is rather striking ; but
Philips was at the time one of Milton's pupils, and it is j
possible that some pains may have been taken to conceal the
love-affair from the "young gentlemen". Still, as Philips j
was Milton's nephew, he was likely to hear such intelligence !
tolerably early ; and as he does not seem to have done so, j
the denouement was probably rather prompt. At any rate, he j
was certainly married at that time, and took his bride home
to his house in Aldersgate Street ; and there was feasting and
gaiety according to the usual custom of such events. A few
weeks after, the lady went home to her friends, in which there
was of course nothing remarkable ; but it is singular that when
JOHN MILTON 195
the natural limit of her visit at home was come, she absolutely
refused to return to her husband. The grounds of so strange
a resolution are very difficult to ascertain. Political feeling
ran very high : old Mr. Powell adhered to the side of the king,
and Milton to that of the Parliament; and this might be
fancied to have caused an estrangement. But on the other
hand, these circumstances must have been well known three
months before. Nothing had happened in that quarter of a
year to change very materially the position of the two parties
in the State. Some other cause for Mrs. Milton's conduct
must be looked for. She herself is said to have stated that
she did not like her husband's " spare diet and hard study ".*
No doubt, too, she found it dull in London ; she had probably
always lived in the country, and must have been quite un-
accustomed to the not very pleasant scene in which she
found herself. Still, many young ladies have married school-
masters, and many young ladies have gone from Oxfordshire
to London ; and nevertheless, no such dissolution of matri-
monial harmony is known to have occurred.
The fact we believe to be, that the bride took a dislike to
her husband. We cannot but have a suspicion that she did
not like him before marriage, and that pecuniary reasons had
their influence. If, however, Mr. Powell exerted his paternal
influence, it may be admitted that he had unusual considera-
tions to advance in favour of the alliance he proposed. It is
snot every father whose creditors are handsome young gentle-
jmen with fair incomes. Perhaps it seemed no extreme tyranny
to press the young lady a little to do that which some others
might have done without pressing. Still, all this is but hypo-
thesis ; our evidence as to the love-affairs of the time of King
Charles I. is but meagre. But, whatever the feelings of Miss
Powell may have been, those of Mrs. Milton are exceedingly
certain. She would not return to her husband ; she did not
inswer his letters ; and a messenger whom he sent to bring her
sack was handled rather roughly. Unquestionably, she was
deeply to blame, by far the most to blame of the two. What-
ever may be alleged against him, is as nothing compared with
1 Philips.
13*
196 JOHN MILTON
her offence in leaving him. To defend so startling a course,
we must adopt views of divorce even more extreme than those
which Milton was himself driven to inculcate ; and whatever
Mrs. Milton's practice may have been, it may be fairly con-
jectured that her principles were strictly orthodox. Yet, if she
could be examined by a commission to the ghosts, she would
probably have some palliating circumstances to allege in
mitigation of judgment. There were, perhaps, peculiarities in
Milton's character which a young lady might not improperly
dislike. The austere and ascetic character is of course far less
agreeable to women than the sensuous and susceptible. The
self-occupation, the pride, the abstraction of the former are to
the female mind disagreeable ; studious habits and unusual
self-denial seem to it purposeless ; lofty enthusiasm, public
spirit, the solitary pursuit of an elevated ideal, are quite out of
its way : they rest too little on the visible world to be intelli-
gible, they are too little suggested by the daily occurrences
life to seem possible. The poet in search of an imaginai
phantom has never been successful with women ; there are ii
numerable proofs of that ; and the ascetic moralist is even 1(
interesting. A character combined out of the two — and this
some extent was Milton's — is singularly likely to meet wil
painful failure ; with a failure the more painful that it coul
never anticipate or explain it. Possibly he was absorbed ii
an austere self-conscious excellence ; it may never have occurn
to him that a lady might prefer the trivial detail of dail
happiness.
Milton's own view of the matter he has explained to us
his book on divorce ; and it is a very odd one. His complaii
was, that his wife would not talk. What he wished in marriaj
was an " intimate and speaking help " ; he encountered a " mut
and spiritless mate ". One of his principal incitements to tl
" pious necessity of divorcing," was an unusual deficiency
household conversation. A certain loquacity in their wive
has been the complaint of various eminent men ; but
domestic affliction was a different one. The " ready and revri
ing associate," whom he had hoped to have found, appeared
be a " coinhabiting mischief," who was sullen, and perhaj
JOHN MILTON 197
seemed bored and tired And at times he is disposed to cast
the blame of his misfortune on the uninstructive nature of
youthful virtue. The "soberest and best-governed men," he
says, are least practised in such affairs, are not very well aware
that " the bashful muteness" of a young lady " may oft-times
hide the unliveliness and natural sloth which is really unfit for
conversation " ; and are rather in too great haste to light the
nuptial torch : whereas those "who have lived most loosely,
by reason of their bold accustoming, prove most successful in
their matches ; because their wild affections, unsettling at will,
have been as so many divorces to teach them experience ".
And he rather wishes to infer that the virtuous man should, in
case of mischance, have his resource of divorce likewise.
In truth, Milton's book on divorce — though only containing
principles which he continued to believe long after he had any
personal reasons for wishing to do so — was clearly suggested at
first by the unusual phenomena of his first marriage. His wife
began by not speaking to him, and finished by running away from
him. Accordingly, like most books which spring out of per-
sonal circumstances, his treatises on this subject have a frank-
ness, and a mastery of detail, which others on the same topic
sometimes want. He is remarkably free from one peculiarity
of modern writers on such matters. Several considerate gentle-
men are extremely anxious for the " rights of women ". They
think that women will benefit by removing the bulwarks which
the misguided experience of ages has erected for their protection.
A migratory system of domestic existence might suit Madame
Dudevant, and a few cases of singular exception ; but we cannot
fancy that it would be, after all, so much to the taste of most
ladies as the present more permanent system. We have some
reminiscence of the stories of the wolf and the lamb, when we
hear amiable men addressing a female auditory (in books, of
course) on the advantages of a freer "development". We are
perhaps wrong, but we cherish an indistinct suspicion that an
indefinite extension of the power of selection would rather tend
to the advantage of the sex which more usually chooses. But
we have no occasion to avow such opinions now. Milton had
no such modern views. He is frankly and honestly anxious
198 JOHN MILTON
for the rights of the man. Of the doctrine that divorce is only
permitted for the help of wives, he exclaims : " Palpably uxori-
ous ! who can be ignorant that a woman was created for man,
and not man for woman ? What an injury is it after wedlock
to be slighted ! what to be contended with in point of house-
rule who shall be the head ; not for any parity of wisdom, for
that were something reasonable, but out of a female pride ! ' [
suffer not,' saith St. Paul, ' the woman to usurp authority over
the man.' If the Apostle could not suffer it," he naturally re-
marks, "into what mould is he mortified that can?" He had
a sincere desire to preserve men from the society of unsocial
and unsympathising women ; and that was his principal idea.
His theory, to a certain extent, partakes of the same notion.
The following passage contains a perspicuous exposition of it :
" Moses, Deut. xxiv. I, established a grave and prudent law,
full of moral equity, full of due consideration towards nature,
that cannot be resisted, a law consenting with the wisest men
and civilest nations ; that when a man hath married a wife, if
it come to pass that he cannot love her by reason of some dis-
pleasing natural quality or unfitness in her, let him write her a
bill of divorce. The intent of which law undoubtedly was this,
that if any good and peaceable man should discover some help-
less disagreement or dislike, either of mind or body, whereby
he could not cheerfully perform the duty of a husband without
the perpetual dissembling of offence and disturbance to his
spirit ; rather than to live uncomfortably and unhappily both to
himself and to his wife ; rather than to continue undertaking a
duty, which he could not possibly discharge, he might dismij
her, whom he could not tolerably, and so not conscionably,
tain. And this law the Spirit of God by the mouth of Solomoi
Prov. xxx. 21, 23, testifies to be a good and a necessary law,
by granting it that * a hated woman ' (for so the Hebrew wor
signifies, rather than 'odious,' though it come all to one), tl
' a hated woman, when she is married, is a thing that the earl
cannot bear '." And he complains that the civil law of modei
states interferes with the " domestical prerogative of the hi
band".
His notion would seem to have been that a husband
JOHN MILTON 199
bound not to dismiss his wife, except for a reason really suffi-
cient ; such as a thoroughly incompatible temper, an incorrig-
ible "muteness," and a desertion like that of Mrs. Milton.
But he scarcely liked to admit that, in the use of this power,
he should be subject to the correction of human tribunals. He
thought that the circumstances of each case depended upon
" utterless facts " ; and that it was practically impossible for
a civil court to decide on a subject so delicate in its essence,
and so imperceptible in its data. But though amiable men
doubtless suffer much from the deficiencies of their wives, we
should hardly like to entrust them, in their own cases, with a
jurisdiction so prompt and summary.
We are far from being concerned, however, just now with
the doctrine of divorce on its intrinsic merits : we were only
intending to give such an account of Milton's opinions upon
it as might serve to illustrate his character. We think we
have shown that it is possible there may have been, in his
domestic relations, a little overweening pride ; a tendency to
overrate the true extent of masculine rights, and to dwell on
his wife's duty to be social towards him rather than on his
duty to be social towards her, — to be rather sullen whenever
she was not quite cheerful. Still, we are not defending a lady
for leaving her husband for defects of such inferior magnitude.
Few households would be kept together, if the right of transi-
tion were exercised on such trifling occasions. We are but
suggesting that she may share the excuse which our great
satirist has suggested for another unreliable lady : " My mother
was an angel ; but angels are not always commodes d vivre ".
This is not a pleasant part of our subject, and we must
leave it. It is more agreeable to relate that on no occasion
of his life was the substantial excellence of Milton's character
more conclusively shown, than in his conduct at the last stage
of this curious transaction. After a very considerable interval,
and after the publication of his book on divorce, Mrs. Milton
showed a disposition to return to her husband ; and, in spite
of his theories, he received her with open arms. With great
Christian patience, he received her relations too. The Parlia-
mentary party was then victorious ; and old Mr. Powell, who
200 JOHN MILTON
had suffered very much in the cause of the king, lived until
his death untroubled, and " wholly to his devotion," as we are
informed, in the house of his son-in-law.
Of the other occurrences of Milton's domestic life we have
left ourselves no room to speak ; we must turn to our second
source of illustration for his character, — his opinions on the
great public events of his time. It may seem odd, but we be-
lieve that a man of austere character naturally tends both to an
excessive party spirit and to an extreme isolation. Of course
the circumstances which develop the one must be different
from those which are necessary to call out the other : party
spirit requires companionship ; isolation, if we may be pardoned
so original a remark, excludes it. But though, as we have
shown, this species of character is prone to mental solitude,
tends to an intellectual isolation where it is possible and as
soon as it can, yet when invincible circumstances throw it into
mental companionship, when it is driven into earnest associa-
tion with earnest men on interesting topics, its zeal becomes
excessive. Such a man's mind is at home only with its own
enthusiasm ; it is cooped up within the narrow limits of its
own ideas, and it can make no allowance for those who differ
from or oppose them. We may see something of this exces-
sive party zeal in Burke. No one's reasons are more philoso-
phical ; yet no one who acted with a party went further in aid
of it or was more violent in support of it. He forgot what
could be said for the tenets of the enemy; his imagination
made that enemy an abstract incarnation of his tenets. A
man, too, who knows that he formed his opinions originally by
a genuine and intellectual process, is but little aware of the
undue energy those ideas may obtain from the concurrence of
those around. Persons who first acquired their ideas at second-
hand are more open to a knowledge of their own weakness,
and better acquainted with the strange force which there is in
the sympathy of others. The isolated mind, when it acts with
the popular feeling, is apt to exaggerate that feeling for the
most part by an almost inevitable consequence of the feelings
which render it isolated. Milton is an example of this remark.
In the commencement of the struggle between Charles I. and
JOHN MILTON 201
the Parliament, he sympathised strongly with the popular
movement, and carried to what seems now a strange extreme
his partisanship. No one could imagine that the first literary
Englishman of his time could write the following passage on
Charles I. :—
"Who can with patience hear this filthy, rascally Fool
speak so irreverently of Persons eminent both in Greatness and
Piety ? Dare you compare King David with King Charles ;
a most Religious King and Prophet, with a Superstitious Prince,
and who was but a Novice in the Christian Religion ; a most
prudent, wise Prince with a weak one ; a valiant Prince with a
cowardly one ; finally, a most just Prince with a most unjust
one? Have you the impudence to commend his Chastity and
Sobriety, who is known to have committed all manner of Leud-
ness in company with his Confident the Duke of Buckingham ?
It were to no purpose to inquire into the private Actions of
his Life, who publickly at Plays would embrace and kiss the
Ladies."1
Whatever may be the faults of that ill-fated monarch —
and they assuredly were not small — no one would now think
this absurd invective to be even an excusable exaggeration.
It misses the true mark altogether, and is the expression of a
strongly imaginative mind, which has seen something that it
did not like, and is unable in consequence to see anything
that has any relation to it distinctly or correctly. But with
the supremacy of the Long Parliament Milton's attachment to
their cause ceased. No one has drawn a more unfavourable
picture of the rule which they established. Years after their
supremacy had passed away, and the restoration of the mon-
archy had covered with a new and strange scene the old actors
and the old world, he thrust into a most unlikely part of his
History of England the following attack on them : —
"But when once the superficiall zeal and popular fumes
that acted their New Magistracy were cool'd and spent in them,
strait every one betook himself (setting the Commonwealth be-
hind, his privat ends before) to doe as his own profit or ambi-
tion ledd him. Then was justice delay'd, and soon after deni'd :
1 Defence of the People of England, chap. iv.
202 JOHN MILTON
spight and favour determin'd all : hence faction, thence treachery,
both at home and in the field : ev'ry where wrong, and oppres-
sion : foull and horrid deeds committed daily, or maintain'd, in
secret, or in open. Som who had bin call'd from shops and
warehouses, without other merit, to sit in Supreme Councills and
Committees as thir breeding was, fell to huckster the Common-
wealth. Others did therafter as men could soothe and humour
them best ; so hee who would give most, or, under covert of
hypocriticall zeale, insinuat basest, enjoy'd unworthily the re-
wards of lerning and fidelity ; or escap'd the punishment of
his crimes and misdeeds. Thir Votes and Ordinances, which
men looked should have contain'd the repealing of bad laws,
and the immediat constitution of better, resounded with nothing
els, but new Impositions, Taxes, Excises ; yeerly, monthly,
weekly. Not to reckon the Offices, Gifts, and Preferments
bestow'd and shar'd among themselves."
His dislike of this system of committees, and of the gener-
ally dull and unemphatic administration of the Commonwealth,
attached him to the Puritan army and to Cromwell ; but in
the continuation of the passage we have referred to, he ex-
presses, with something, let it be said, of a schoolmaster feel-
ing, an unfavourable judgment on their career.
" For Britan, to speak a truth not oft'n spok'n, as it is a
Land fruitful enough of men stout and courageous in warr,
soe it is naturally not over-fertill of men able to govern justly
and prudently in peace, trusting onely in thir Motherwit ; who
consider not justly, that civility, prudence, love of the Publick
good, more then of money or vaine honour, are to this soile
in a manner outlandish ; grow not here, but in mindes well
implanted with solid and elaborat breeding, too impolitic els
and rude, if not headstrong and intractable to the industry
and vertue either of executing or understanding true Civill
Government. Valiant indeed, and prosperous to win a field ;
but to know the end and reason of winning, unjudicious, and
unwise : in good or bad succes, alike unteachable. For the
Sun, which wee want, ripens wits as well as fruits ; and as
Wine and Oil are imported to us from abroad, soe must ripe
understanding, and many Civill Vertues, be imported into our
JOHN MILTON 203
mindes from Foren Writings, and examples of best Ages ; we
shall els miscarry still, and com short in the attempts of any
great enterprize. Hence did thir Victories prove as fruitles,
as thir Losses dang'rous ; and left them still conq'ring under
the same greevances, that Men suffer conquer'd : which was
indeed unlikely to goe otherwise, unles Men more then vul-
gar bred up, as few of them were, in the knowledg of antient
and illustrious deeds, invincible against many and vaine Titles,
impartial to Freindships and Relations, had conducted thir
Affairs : but then from the Chapman to the Retailer, many
whose ignorance was more audacious then the rest, were ad-
mitted with all thir sordid Rudiments to bear no meane sway
among them, both in Church and State."
We need not speak of Milton's disapprobation of the
Restoration. Between him and the world of Charles II. the
opposition was inevitable and infinite. Therefore the general
fact remains, that except in the early struggles, when he exag-
gerated the popular feeling, he remained solitary in opinion,
and had very little sympathy with any of the prevailing
parties of his time.
Milton's own theory of government is to be learned from
his works. He advocated a free commonwealth, without rule
of a single person, or House of Lords : but the form of his
projected commonwealth was peculiar. He thought that a
certain perpetual council, which should be elected by the nation
once for all, and the number of which should be filled up
as vacancies might occur, was the best possible machine of
government. He did not confine his advocacy to abstract
theory, but proposed the immediate establishment of such a
council in this country. We need not go into an elaborate
discussion to show the errors of this conclusion. Hardly any
one, then or since, has probably adopted it. The interest
of the theoretical parts of Milton's political works is entirely
historical. The tenets advocated are not of great value, and the
arguments by which he supports them are perhaps of less;
but their relation to the times in which they were written
gives them a very singular interest. The time of the Com-
monwealth was the only period in English history in which
204 JOHN MIL TON
the fundamental questions of government have been thrown
open for popular discussion in this country. We read in
French literature discussions on the advisability of establishing
a monarchy, on the advisability of establishing a republic, on
the advisability of establishing an empire ; and, before we
proceed to examine the arguments, we cannot help being
struck at the strange contrast which this multiplicity of open
questions presents to our own uninquiring acquiescence in the
hereditary polity which has descended to us. " King, Lords, and
Commons " are, we think, ordinances of nature. Yet Milton's
political writings embody the reflections of a period when, for
a few years, the government of England was nearly as much
a subject of fundamental discussion as that of France was in
1851. An " invitation to thinkers," to borrow the phrase of
Neckar, was given by the circumstances of the time; and,
with the habitual facility of philosophical speculation, it was
accepted, and used to the utmost.
Such are not the kind of speculations in which we expect
assistance from Milton. It is not in its transactions with
others, in its dealings with the manifold world, that the isolated
and austere mind shows itself to the most advantage. Its
strength lies in itself. It has "a calm and pleasing solitari-
ness ". It hears thoughts which others cannot hear. It en-
joys the quiet and still air of delightful studies ; and is ever
conscious of such musing and poetry " as is not to be obtained
by the invocation of Dame Memory and her twin daughters,
but by devout prayer to that Eternal Spirit, who can enrich
with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out His Seraphim
with the hallowed fire of His altar ".
" Descend from Heav'n, Urania, by that name
If rightly thou art call'd, whose voice divine
Following, above th' Olympian hill I soar,
Above the flight of Pegasean wing.
The meaning, not the name, I call ; for thou
Nor of the Muses nine, nor on the top
Of old Olympus dwell'st, but heav'nly born :
Before the hills appear'd, or fountain flow'd,
Thou with eternal Wisdom didst converse,
Wisdom thy sister, and with her didst play
JOHN MILTON 205
In presence of th' Almighty Father, pleased
With thy celestial song. Up led by thee
Into the Heav'n of Heav'ns I have presumed,
An earthly guest, and drawn empyreal air,
Thy temp'ring. With like safety guided down,
Return me to my native element ;
Lest from this flying steed, unrein'd (as once
Bellerophon, though from a lower clime),
Dismounted, on th' Aleian field I fall
Erroneous there to wander and forlorn.
Half yet remains unsung, but narrower bound
Within the visible diurnal sphere ;
Standing on earth, not rapt above the pole,
More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchanged
To hoarse or mute, though fall'n on evil days,
On evil days though fall'n, and evil tongues ;
In darkness, and with dangers compass'd round
And solitude ; yet not alone, while thou
Visit'st my slumbers nightly, or when morn
Purples the east : still govern thou my song,
Urania, and fit audience find, though few ;
But drive far off the barb'rous dissonance
Of Bacchus and his revellers, the race
Of that wild rout that tore the Thracian bard
In Rhodope, where woods and rocks had ears
To rapture, till the savage clamour drown'd
Both harp and voice ; nor could the Muse defend
Her son. So fail not thou, who thee implores ;
For thou art heav'nly, she an empty dream."1
" An ancient clergyman of Dorsetshire, Dr. Wright, found
John Milton in a small chamber hung with rusty green, sitting
in an elbow-chair, and dressed neatly in black : pale, but not
cadaverous." "He used also to sit in a grey coarse cloth
coat at the door of his house near Bunhill Fields, in warm,
sunny weather;"2 and the common people said he was in-
spired.
If from the man we turn to his works, we are struck at
once with two singular contrasts. The first of them is this.
The distinction between ancient and modern art is sometimes
said, and perhaps truly, to consist in the simple bareness of
the imaginative conceptions which we find in ancient art, and
1 " Paradise Lost," book vii. '2 Richardson.
206 JOHN MILTON
the comparatively complex clothing in which all modern
creations are embodied. If we adopt this distinction, Milton
seems in some sort ancient, and in some sort modern. Nothing
is so simple as the subject-matter of his works. The two
greatest of his creations, the character of Satan and the char-
acter of Eve, are two of the simplest — the latter probably the
very simplest — in the whole field of literature. On this side
Milton's art is classical. On the other hand, in no writer is
the imagery more profuse, the illustrations more various,
the dress altogether more splendid. And in this respect the
style of his art seems romantic and modern. In real truth,
however, it is only ancient art in a modern disguise. The
dress is a mere dress, and can be stripped off when we will.
We all of us do perhaps in memory strip it off ourselves.
Notwithstanding the lavish adornments with which her image
is presented, the character of Eve is still the simplest sort of
feminine essence — the pure embodiment of that inner nature,
which we believe and hope that women have. The character
of Satan, though it is not so easily described, has nearly as
few elements in it. The most purely modern conceptions will
not bear to be unclothed in this matter. Their romantic
garment clings inseparably to them. Hamlet and Lear are
not to be thought of except as complex characters, with very
involved and complicated embodiments. They are as difficult
to draw out in words as the common characters of life are ;
that of Hamlet, perhaps, is more so. If we make it, as per-
haps we should, the characteristic of modern and romantic
art that it presents us with creations which we cannot think of
or delineate except as very varied, and, so to say, circum-
stantial, we must not rank Milton among the masters of
romantic art. And without involving the subject in the
troubled sea of an old controversy, we may say that the most
striking of the poetical peculiarities of Milton is the bare
simplicity of his ideas, and the rich abundance of his illustra-
tions.
Another of his peculiarities is equally striking. There
seems to be such a thing as second-hand poetry. Some
poets, musing on the poetry of other men, have unconsciously
JOHN MILTON 207
shaped it into something of their own : the new conception is
like the original, it would never probably have existed had
not the original existed previously ; still it is sufficiently differ-
ent from the original to be a new thing, not a copy or a
plagiarism ; it is a creation, though, so to say, a suggested
creation. Gray is as good an example as can be found of a
poet whose works abound in this species of semi-original con-
ceptions. Industrious critics track his best lines back, and
find others like them which doubtless lingered near his fancy
while he was writing them. The same critics have been
equally busy with the works of Milton, and equally successful.
They find traces of his reading in half his works ; not, which
any reader could do, in overt similes and distinct illustrations,
but also in the very texture of the thought and the expression.
In many cases, doubtless, they discover more than he himself
knew. A mind like his, which has an immense store of im-
aginative recollections, can never know which of his own
imaginations is exactly suggested by which recollection. Men
awake with their best ideas ; it is seldom worth while to investi-
gate very curiously whence they came. Our proper business
is to adapt, and mould, and act upon them. Of poets perhaps
this is true even more remarkably than of other men ; their
ideas are suggested in modes, and according to laws, which
are even more impossible to specify than the ideas of the rest
of the world. Second-hand poetry, so to say, often seems
quite original to the poet himself; he frequently does not know
that he derived it from an old memory ; years afterwards it
may strike him as it does others. Still, in general, such in-
ferior species of creation is not so likely to be found in minds
of singular originality as in those of less. A brooding, placid,
cultivated mind, like that of Gray, is the place where we should
expect to meet with it. Great originality disturbs the adap-
tive process, removes the mind of the poet from the thoughts
of other men, and occupies it with its own heated and flashing
thoughts. Poetry of the second degree is like the secondary
rocks of modern geology — a still, gentle, alluvial formation;
the igneous glow of primary genius brings forth ideas like the
primeval granite, simple, astounding, and alone. Milton's
208 JOHN MILTON
case is an exception to this rule. His mind has marked
originality, probably as much of it as any in literature ; but it
has as much of moulded recollection as any mind too. His
poetry in consequence is like an artificial park, green, and
soft, and beautiful, yet with outlines bold, distinct, and firm,
and the eternal rock ever jutting out ; or, better still, it is like
our own Lake scenery, where Nature has herself the same
combination — where we have Rydal Water side by side with
the everlasting upheaved mountain. Milton has the same
union of softened beauty with unimpaired grandeur ; and it is
his peculiarity.
These are the two contrasts which puzzle us at first in
Milton, and which distinguish him from other poets in our
remembrance afterwards. We have a superficial complexity
in illustration, and imagery, and metaphor ; and in contrast
with it we observe a latent simplicity of idea, an almost rude
strength of conception. The underlying thoughts are few,
though the flowers on the surface are so many. We have
likewise the perpetual contrast of the soft poetry of the
memory, and the firm, as it were fused, and glowing poetry
of the imagination. His words, we may half fancifully say,
are like his character. There is the same austerity in the real
essence, the same exquisiteness of sense, the same delicacy of
form which we know that he had, the same music which we
imagine there was in his voice. In both his character and
his poetry there was an ascetic nature in a sheath of beauty.
No book perhaps which has ever been written is more
difficult to criticise than "Paradise Lost". The only way to
criticise a work of the imagination, is to describe its effect
upon the mind of the reader — at any rate, of the critic ; and
this can only be adequately delineated by strong illustrations,
apt similes, and perhaps a little exaggeration. The task is in
its very nature not an easy one ; the poet paints a picture on
the fancy of the critic, and the critic has in some sort to copy
it on the paper. He must say what it is before he can make
remarks upon it. But in the case of "Paradise Lost" we
hardly like to use illustrations. The subject is one which the
imagination rather shrinks from. At any rate, it requires
JOHN MIL TON 209
courage, and an effort to compel the mind to view such a
subject as distinctly and vividly as it views other subjects.
Another peculiarity of " Paradise Lost " makes the difficulty
even greater. It does not profess to be a mere work of art ;
or rather, it claims to be by no means that, and that only.
It starts with a dogmatic aim ; it avowedly intends to
" assert eternal Providence,
And justify the ways of God to man ".
In this point of view we have always had a sympathy with
the Cambridge mathematician who has been so much abused.
He said, " After all, ' Paradise Lost ' proves nothing " ; and
various persons of poetical tastes and temperament have been
very severe on the prosaic observation. Yet, " after all," he
was right. Milton professed to prove something. He was
too profound a critic — rather, he had too profound an instinct
of those eternal principles of art which criticism tries to state
— not to know that on such a subject he must prove some-
thing. He professed to deal with the great problem of human
destiny ; to show why man was created, in what kind of
universe he lives, whence he came, and whither he goes. He
dealt of necessity with the greatest of subjects. He had to
sketch the greatest of objects. He was concerned with infinity
and eternity even more than with time and sense ; he under-
took to delineate the ways, and consequently the character of
Providence, as well as the conduct and the tendencies of man.
The essence of success in such an attempt is to satisfy the
religious sense of man ; to bring home to our hearts what we
know to be true ; to teach us what we have not seen ; to
awaken us to what we have forgotten ; to remove the " cover-
ing " from all people, and the " veil " that is spread over all
nations ; to give us, in a word, such a conception of things
| divine and human as we can accept, believe and trust. The
true doctrine of criticism demands what Milton invites — an
examination of the degree in which the great epic attains this
aim. And if, in examining it, we find it necessary to use
unusual illustrations, and plainer words than are customary,
it must be our excuse that we do not think the subject can
be made clear without them.
VOL. III. 14
210 JOHN MILTON
The defect of " Paradise Lost " is that, after all, it is
founded on a political transaction. The scene is in heaven
very early in the history of the universe, before the creation
of man or the fall of Satan. We have a description of a court.
The angels,
" By imperial summons called,"
appear
" Under their hierarchs in orders bright :
Ten thousand thousand ensigns high advanced,
Standards and gonfalons 'twixt van and rear
Stream in the air, and for distinction serve
Of hierarchies, and orders, and degrees ".
To this assemblage " th' Omnipotent " speaks : —
" Hear, all ye Angels, progeny of light,
Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Pow'rs,
Hear my decree, which unrevoked shall stand :
This day I have begot whom I declare
My only Son ; and on this holy hill
Him have anointed, whom ye now behold
At my right hand ; your Head I him appoint ;
And by myself have sworn, to him shall bow
All knees in Heav'n, and shall confess him Lord :
Under his great vicegerent reign abide
United as one individual soul
For ever happy. Him who disobeys,
Me disobeys, breaks union, and that day,
Cast out from God and blessed vision, falls
Int' utter darkness, deep ingulph'd, his place
Ordain 'd without redemption, without end."
This act of patronage was not popular at court ; and why
should it have been ? The religious sense is against it. The
worship which sinful men owe to God is not transferable to
lieutenants and vicegerents. The whole scene of the court
jars upon a true feeling. We seem to be reading about some
emperor of history, who admits his son to a share in the
empire, who confers on him a considerable jurisdiction, and
requires officials, with "standards and gonfalons," to bow
before him. The orthodoxy of Milton is quite as questionable
as his accuracy. The old Athanasian creed was not made by
persons who would allow such a picture as that of Milton to
JOHN MILTON 211
stand before their imaginations. The generation of the Son
was to them a fact " before all time " ; an eternal fact. There
was no question in their minds of patronage or promotion.
The Son was the Son before all time, just as the Father was
the Father before all time. Milton had in such matters a
bold but not very sensitive imagination. He accepted the
inevitable materialism of biblical, and, to some extent, of all
religious language as distinct revelation. He certainly believed,
in contradiction to the old creed, that God had both " parts
and passions ". He imagined that earth
u Is but the shadow of heaven and things therein,
Each to other like more than on earth is thought "-1
From some passages it would seem that he actually thought
of God as having " the members and form " of a man.
Naturally, therefore, he would have no toleration for the
mysterious notions of time and eternity which are involved
in the traditional doctrine. We are not, however, now con-
cerned with Milton's belief, but with his representation of his
creed — his picture, so to say, of it in " Paradise Lost " ; still,
as we cannot but think, that picture is almost irreligious, and
certainly different from that which has been generally accepted
in Christendom. Such phrases as " before all time," " eternal
generation," are doubtless very vaguely interpreted by the
mass of men ; nevertheless, no sensitively orthodox man
could have drawn the picture of a generation, not to say an
exaltation, in time.
We shall see this more clearly by reading what follows in
the poem : —
" All seemed well pleased ; all seemed, but were not all ".
One of the archangels, whose name can be guessed, decidedly
disapproved, and calls a meeting, at which he explains that
" orders and degrees
Jar not with liberty, but well consist " ;
S but still, that the promotion of a new person, on grounds of
i relationship merely, above, even infinitely above, the old
1 Book v., " Raphael to Adam ".
2 1 2 JOHN MIL TON
angels, with imperial titles, was " a new law," and rather
tyrannical. Abdiel,
" than whom none with more zeal adored
The Deity, and with divine commands obeyed,"
attempts a defence :
" Grant it thee unjust,
That equal over equals monarch reign :
Thyself, though great and glorious, dost thou count,
Or all angelic nature join'd in one,
Equal to him begotten Son ? by whom
As by his Word the mighty Father made
All things, ev'n thee ; and all the Spirits of Heav'n
By him created in their bright degrees,
Crown'd them with glory, and to their glory named
Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Pow'rs,
Essential Pow'rs ; nor by his reign obscured,
But more illustrious made ; since he the Head,
One of our number thus reduced becomes ;
His laws our laws ; all honour to him done
Returns our own. Cease then this impious rage,
And tempt not these ; but hasten to appease
Th' incensed Father and th' incensed Son,
While pardon maybe found, in time besought."
Yet though Abdiel's intentions were undeniably good, his
argument is rather specious. Acting as an instrument in the
process of creation would scarcely give a valid claim to the
obedience of the created being. Power may be shown in the
act, no doubt ; but mere power gives no true claim to the
obedience of moral beings. It is a kind of principle of all
manner of idolatries and false religions to believe that it does
so. Satan, besides, takes issue on the fact :
" That we were formed then, say'st thou ? and the work
Of secondary hands, by task transferr'd
From Father to his Son ? Strange point and new !
Doctrine which we would know whence learned."
And we must say that the speech in which the new ruler is ii
troduced to the " thrones, dominations, princedoms, powers/
is hard to reconcile with Abdiel's exposition, " This day "
seems to have come into existence, and could hardly ha\
assisted at the creation of the angels, who are not young, an<
who converse with one another like old acquaintances.
JOHN MILTON 213
We have gone into this part of the subject at length,
because it is the source of the great error which pervades
" Paradise Lost". Satan is made interesting. This has been
the charge of a thousand orthodox and even heterodox writers
against Milton. Shelley, on the other hand, has gloried in it ;
and fancied, if we remember rightly, that Milton intentionally
ranged himself on the Satanic side of the universe, just as
Shelley himself would have done, and that he wished to show
the falsity of the ordinary theology. But Milton was born an
age too early for such aims, and was far too sincere to have
advocated any doctrine in a form so indirect. He believed
every word he said. He was not conscious of the effect his
teaching would produce in an age like this, when scepticism is
in the air, and when it is not possible to help looking coolly
on his delineations. Probably in our boyhood we can re-
collect a period when any solemn description of celestial events
would have commanded our respect ; we should not have dared
to read it intelligently, to canvass its details and see what it
meant : it was a religious book ; it sounded reverential, and
that would have sufficed. Something like this was the state
of mind of the seventeenth century. Even Milton probably
shared in a vague reverence for religious language. He hardly
felt the moral effect of the pictures he was drawing. His
artistic instinct, too, often hurries him away. His Satan
was to him, as to us, the hero of his poem. Having com-
menced by making him resist on an occasion which in an
earthly kingdom would have been excusable and proper, he
probably a little sympathised with him, just as his readers do.
The interest of Satan's character is at its height in the first
two books. Coleridge justly compared it to that of Napoleon.
There is the same pride, the same Satanic ability, the same
will, the same egotism. His character seems to grow with his
position. He is far finer after his fall, in misery and suffer-
ing, with scarcely any resource except in himself, than he was
originally in heaven ; at least, if Raphael's description of him
can be trusted. No portrait which imagination or history has
drawn of a revolutionary anarch is nearly so perfect ; there is
all the grandeur of the greatest human mind, and certain
214 JOHN MILTON
infinitude in his circumstances which humanity must ever want.
Few Englishmen feel a profound reverence for Napoleon I.
There was no French alliance in his time ; we have most of |
us some tradition of antipathy to him. Yet hardly any |
Englishman can read the account of the campaign of 1814
without feeling his interest in the emperor to be strong, and
without perhaps being conscious of a latent wish that he may
succeed. Our opinion is against him, our serious wish is of
course for England ; but the imagination has a sympathy of
its own, and will not give place. We read about the great
general — never greater than in that last emergency — showing
resources of genius that seem almost infinite, and that assuredly
have never been surpassed, yet vanquished, yielding to the
power of circumstances, to the combined force of adversaries,
each of whom singly he outmatches in strength, and all ol
whom together he surpasses in majesty and in mind. Some-
thing of the same sort of interest belongs to the Satan of the
first two books of " Paradise Lost ". We know that he will
vanquished ; his name is not a recommendation. Still we do
not imagine distinctly the minds by which he is to be van-
quished ; we do not take the same interest in them that we do
in him ; our sympathies, our fancy are on his side.
Perhaps much of this was inevitable ; yet what a defect it
is ! especially what a defect in Milton's own view, and looked
at with the stern realism with which he regarded it ! Suppose
that the author of evil in the universe were the most attractive
being in it ; suppose that the source of all sin were the origin
of all interest to us ! We need not dwell upon this.
As we have said, much of this was difficult to avoid, if in-
deed it could be avoided, in dealing with such a theme. Even
Milton shrank, in some measure, from delineating the Divine
character. His imagination evidently halts when it is required
to perform that task. The more delicate imagination of our
modern world would shrink still more. Any person who will
consider what such an attempt must end in, will find his nerves
quiver. But by a curiously fatal error, Milton has selected
for delineation exactly that part of the Divine nature which is
most beyond the reach of the human faculties, and which is
JOHN MILTON 215
also, when we try to describe our fancy of it, the least effective
to our minds. He has made God argue. Now the procedure
of the Divine mind from truth to truth must ever be incompre-
hensible to us ; the notion, indeed, of His proceeding at all, is
a contradiction : to some extent, at least, it is inevitable that we
should use such language, but we know it is in reality inapplic-
able. A long train of reasoning in such a connection is so out of
place as to be painful ; and yet Milton has many. He relates
a series of family prayers in heaven, with sermons afterwards,
which are very tedious. Even Pope was shocked at the notion
of Providence talking like "a school-divine".1 And there is
the still worse error, that if you once attribute reasoning to
Him, subsequent logicians may discover that He does not
reason very well.
Another way in which Milton has contrived to strengthen
our interest in Satan, is the number and insipidity of the
good angels. There are old rules as to the necessity of a
supernatural machinery for an epic poem, worth some fraction
ot the paper on which they are written, and derived from the
practice of Homer, who believed his gods and goddesses to be
real beings, and would have been rather harsh with a critic who
called them machinery. These rules had probably an influence
with Milton, and induced him to manipulate those serious
angels more than he would have done otherwise. They appear
to be excellent administrators with very little to do ; a kind of
grand chamberlains with wings, who fly down to earth and
communicate information to Adam and Eve. They have no
character ; they are essentially messengers, merely conductors,
so to say, of the providential will : no one fancies that they
have an independent power of action ; they seem scarcely to
have minds of their own. No effect can be more unfortunate.
If the struggle of Satan had been with Deity directly, the
natural instincts of religion would have been awakened ; but
when an angel possessed of mind is contrasted with angels
possessed only of wings, we sympathise with the former.
In the first two books, therefore, our sympathy with Mil-
1 Imitation of Horace's Epistle to Augustus, book ii., ep. I.
216 JOHN MILTON
ton's Satan is great ; we had almost said unqualified. The
speeches he delivers are of well-known excellence. Lord
Brougham, no contemptible judge of emphatic oratory, has laid
down, that if a person had not an opportunity of access to the
great Attic masterpieces, he had better choose these for a
model. What is to be regretted about the orator is, that he
scarcely acts up to his sentiments. "Better to reign in hell
than serve in heaven," is, at any rate, an audacious declaration.
But he has no room for exhibiting similar audacity in action.
His offensive career is limited. In the nature of the subject
there was scarcely any opportunity for the fallen archangel to
display in the detail of his operations the surpassing intellect
with which Milton has endowed him. He goes across chaos,
gets into a few physical difficulties ; but these are not much.
His grand aim is the conquest of our first parents ; and we are
at once struck with the enormous inequality of the conflict.
Two beings just created, without experience, without guile,
without knowledge of good and evil, are expected to contend
with a being on the delineation of whose powers every resource
of art and imagination, every subtle suggestion, every emphatic
simile, has been lavished. The idea in every reader's mind is,
and must be, not surprise that our first parents should yield,
but wonder that Satan should not think it beneath him to
attack them. It is as if an army should invest a cottage.
We have spoken more of theology than we intended ; and
we need not say how much the monstrous inequalities attri-
buted to the combatants affect our estimate of the results of the
conflict. The state of man is what it is, because the defence-
less Adam and Eve of Milton's imagination yielded to the
nearly all-powerful Satan whom he has delineated. Milton has
in some sense invented this difficulty; for in the book of
Genesis there is no such inequality. The serpent may be
subtler than any beast of the field ; but he is not necessarily
subtler or cleverer than man. So far from Milton having justi-
fied the ways of God to man, he has loaded the common the-
ology with a new encumbrance.
We may need refreshment after this discussion ; and we
cannot find it better than in reading a few remarks of Eve.
JOHN MILTON 217
" That day I oft remember, when from sleep
I first awaked, and found myself reposed
Under a shade of flow'rs, much wond'ring where
And what I was, whence hither brought, and how.
Not distant far from thence a murm'ring sound
Of waters issued from a cave, and spread
Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved
Pure as th' expanse of Heav'n. ... I thither went
With unexperienced thought, and laid me down
On the green bank, to look into the clear
Smooth lake, that to me seem'd another sky.
As I bent down to look, just opposite
A shape within the wat'ry gleam appear'd,
Bending to look on me. I started back ;
It started back : but pleased I soon return'd ;
Pleased it return'd as soon with answ'ring looks
Of sympathy and love : there I had fix'd
Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire,
Had not a voice thus warn'd me. What thou seest,
What there thou seest, fair Creature, is thyself ;
With thee it came and goes : but follow me,
And I will bring thee where no shadow stays
Thy coming, and thy soft embraces, he
Whose image thou art ; him thou shall enjoy
Inseparably thine : to him shalt bear
Multitudes like thyself, and thence be call'd
Mother of Human Race. What could I do
But follow straight, invisibly thus led ?
Till I espi'd thee, fair indeed and tall
Under a platan ; yet methought less fair,
Less winning soft, less amiably mild,
Than that smooth wat'ry image. Back I turn'd :
Thou following cry'dst aloud, Return, fair Eve ;
Whom fly'st thou ? " l
Eve's character, indeed, is one of the most wonderful efforts
of the human imagination. She is a kind of abstract woman ;
essentially a typical being ; and official " mother of all living ".
Yet she is a real interesting woman, not only full of delicacy
and sweetness, but with all the undefinable fascination, the
charm of personality, which such typical characters hardly ever
have. By what consummate miracle of wit this charm of in-
dividuality is preserved, without impairing the general idea
1 Book iv.
2 18 JOHN MILTON
which is ever present to us, we cannot explain, for we do not
know.
Adam is far less successful. He has good hair, — "hya-
cinthine locks " that c< from his parted forelock manly hung " ;
a " fair large front " and " eye sublime " ; but he has little else
that we care for. There is, in truth, no opportunity of dis-
playing manly virtues, even if he possessed them. He has
only to yield to his wife's solicitations, which he does. Nor
are we sure that he does it well. He is very tedious ; he in-
dulges in sermons which are good ; but most men cannot but
fear that so delightful a being as Eve must have found him
tiresome. She steps away, however, and goes to sleep at some
of the worst points.
Dr. Johnson remarked, that, after all, "Paradise Lost"
was one of the books which no one wished longer : we fear, in
this irreverent generation, some wish it shorter. Hardly any
reader would be sorry if some portions of the later books had
been spared him. Coleridge, indeed, discovered profound
mysteries in the last ; but in what could not Coleridge find a
mystery if he wished? Dryden more wisely remarked that
Milton became tedious when he entered upon a " tract of
Scripture ". l Nor is it surprising that such is the case. The
style of many parts of Scripture is such that it will not bear
addition or subtraction. A word less, or an idea more, and
the effect upon the mind is the same no longer. Nothing can
be more tiresome than a sermonic amplification of such passages.
It is almost too much when, as from the pulpit, a paraphrastic
commentary is prepared for our spiritual improvement. In
deference to the intention we bear it, but we bear it unwillingly ;
and we cannot endure it at all when, as in poems, the object
is to awaken our fancy rather than to improve our conduct.
The account of the creation in the book of Genesis is one of
the compositions from which no sensitive imagination would
subtract an iota, to which it could not bear to add a word.
Milton's paraphrase is alike copious and ineffective. The uni-
verse is, in railway phrase, " opened," but not created ; no green
earth springs in a moment from the indefinite void. Instead,
1 " Essay on Satire."
JOHN MIL TON 2 1 9
too, of the simple loneliness of the Old Testament, several
angelic officials are in attendance, who help in nothing, but
indicate that heaven must be plentifully supplied with tame
creatures.
There is no difficulty in writing such criticisms, and, indeed,
other unfavourable criticisms on " Paradise Lost ". There is
scarcely any book in the world which is open to a greater
number, or which a reader who allows plain words to produce
a due effect will be less satisfied with. Yet what book is really
greater? In the best parts the words have a magic in them ;
even in the inferior passages you are hardly sensible of their
inferiority till you translate them into your own language.
Perhaps no style ever written by man expressed so adequately
the conceptions of a mind so strong and so peculiar ; a manly
strength, a haunting atmosphere of enhancing suggestions, a
firm continuous music, are only some of its excellences. To
comprehend the whole of the others, you must take the volume
down and read it, — the best defence of Milton, as has been
said most truly, against all objections.
Probably no book shows the transition which our theology
has made since the middle of the seventeenth century, at once
so plainly and so fully. We do not now compose long narra-
tives to "justify the ways of God to man". The more
orthodox we are, the more we shrink from it ; the more we
hesitate at such a task, the more we allege that we have no
powers for it Our most celebrated defences of established
tenets are in the style of Butler, not in that of Milton. They
do not profess to show a satisfactory explanation of human
destiny ; on the contrary, they hint that probably we could
not understand such an explanation if it were given us ; at
any rate, they allow that it is not given us. Their course is
palliative. They suggest an " analogy of difficulties ". If our
minds were greater, so they reason, we should comprehend
these doctrines : now we cannot explain analogous facts which
we see and know. No style can be more opposite to the bold
argument, the boastful exposition of Milton. The teaching
of the eighteenth century is in the very atmosphere we breathe.
We read it in the teachings of Oxford ; we hear it from the
220 JOHN MILTON
missionaries of the Vatican. The air of the theology is
clarified. We know our difficulties, at least ; we are rather prone
to exaggerate the weight of some than to deny the reality of any.
We cannot continue a line of thought which would draw
us on too far for the patience of our readers. We must,
however, make one more remark, and we shall have finished
our criticism on " Paradise Lost ". It is analogous to that
which we have just made. The scheme of the poem is based
on an offence against positive morality. The offence of Adam
was not against nature or conscience, nor against anything of
which we can see the reason, or conceive the obligation, but
against an unexplained injunction of the Supreme Will. The
rebellion in heaven, as Milton describes it, was a rebellion, not
against known ethics, or immutable spiritual laws, but against
an arbitrary selection and an unexplained edict. We do not
say that there is no such thing as positive morality : we do
not think so ; even if we did, we should not insert a proposi-
tion so startling at the conclusion of a literary criticism. But
we are sure that wherever a positive moral edict is promulgated,
it is no subject, except perhaps under a very peculiar treatment,
for literary art. By the very nature of it, it cannot satisfy the
heart and conscience. It is a difficulty ; we need not attempt
to explain it away. There are mysteries enough which will
never be explained away. But it is contrary to every
principle of criticism to state the difficulty as if it were not
one; to bring forward the puzzle, yet leave it to itself; to
publish so strange a problem, and give only an untrue solution
of it : and yet such, in its bare statement, is all that Milton
has done.
Of Milton's other writings we have left ourselves no room
to speak ; and though every one of them, or almost every one
of them, would well repay a careful criticism, yet few of them
seem to throw much additional light on his character, or add
much to our essential notion of his genius, though they may
exemplify and enhance it. " Comus " is the poem which does
so the most. Literature has become so much lighter than it
used to be, that we can scarcely realise the position it occupied
in the light literature of our forefathers. We have now in
JOHN MILTON 221
our own language many poems that are pleasanter in their
subject, more graceful in their execution, more flowing in their
outline, more easy to read. Dr. Johnson, though perhaps no
very excellent authority on the more intangible graces of
literature, was disposed to deny to Milton the capacity of
creating the lighter literature : " Milton, madam, was a genius
that could cut a colossus from a rock, but could not carve
heads upon cherry-stones ". And it would not be surprising if
this generation, which has access to the almost indefinite
quantity of lighter compositions which have been produced
since Johnson's time, were to echo his sentence. In some
degree, perhaps, the popular taste does so. " Comus " has no
longer the peculiar exceptional popularity which it used to
have. We can talk without general odium of its defects. Its
characters are nothing, its sentiments are tedious, its story is
not interesting. But it is only when we have realised the
magnitude of its deficiencies that we comprehend the peculi-
arity of its greatness. Its power is in its style. A grave and
firm music pervades it : it is soft, without a thought of weak-
ness ; harmonious and yet strong ; impressive, as few such
poems are, yet covered with a bloom of beauty and a com-
plexity of charm that few poems have either. We have,
perhaps, light literature in itself better, that we read oftener
and more easily, that lingers more in our memories ; but we
have not any, we question if there ever will be any, which gives
so true a conception of the capacity and the dignity of the
mind by which it was produced. The breath of solemnity
which hovers round the music attaches us to the writer. Every
line, here as elsewhere, in Milton excites the idea of indefinite
power.
And so we must draw to a close. The subject is an in-
finite one, and if we pursued it, we should lose ourselves in
miscellaneous commentary, and run on far beyond the patience
of our readers. What we have said has at least a defined
intention. We have wished to state the impression which the
character of Milton and the greatest of Milton's works are
likely to produce on readers of the present generation — a
generation different from his own almost more than any other.
THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED PARLIA-
MENT, AND ITS LESSONS.1
(1860.)
PERHAPS no subject of historical research should be so inter-
esting just now as the practical working of our system of Par-
liamentary representation before 1832. The principles of
representative government are again about to be brought under
discussion ; a new proposal for Parliamentary Reform must be
announced before many weeks are past. The more that sub-
ject is discussed, the more do all thoughtful persons wish to
consult the lessons of experience with respect to it. We feel
more than we used to do the difficulty of the question ; we
distrust more the tenets of pure democracy ; we know more
of the complexity of a cultivated community ; we know the ne-
cessity of giving to each class the weight which it ought to
have, and no greater weight : in conseqence, we feel more than
formerly the intellectual prudence of recurring to the facts of
experience. But unfortunately there are very few such facts.
Of all important political expedients, representation is by far
the newest ; and our experience with respect to it is therefore
scanty and limited. The continental nations who have made
trial of representative government, have done so almost always
under exceptional circumstances, and in each case the national
1 The Rise and Progress of the English Constitution. By E. S.
Creasy, M.A. Fourth edition, revised and with additions.
Richard Bentley, 1858.
The Representative History of Great Britain and Ireland :
a History of the House of Commons, and of the Counties, Cities,
and Boroughs of the United Kingdom, from the earliest Period. By
T. H. B. Oldfield. In six volumes. London : Baldwin, Cradock, and Joy,
1816.
HISTORY OF UNREFORMED PARLIAMENT 223
character of the particular nation which made the trial has very
greatly affected the result of it. The experience of America
is, from many causes, difficult to apply to the times in which
we live. The difference of circumstances, both economical and
social, is a perpetually modifying force, which tends to make a
sweeping deduction almost necessarily unsound. The contrast
between a new country and an old ; between a State in which
there is an endowed Church and a landed aristocracy, and one in
which there is neither ; between a society in which slavery exists
and one in which it does not ; — is too great to be unimportant,
and too pervading to be eliminated. Nor is it easy to derive
effectual instruction from the working of the system which is
in operation now. At least, it is difficult to derive instruction
which others will think satisfactory. We may, and do, make
out points sufficiently clearly to ourselves ; but in the heat of
controversy, and in the confusion of contemporary events,
others, in fact, derive from the same data the contrary deduc-
tions. We are therefore thrown back on our own history for
such instruction as it may give us ; and the break made by
the Reform Act of 1832 is, at least in this respect, useful. We
can draw lessons from the times preceding it with the calm-
ness of history, and nevertheless those times may yield us in-
struction. They are far enough from our own age to be
dispassionately considered ; they resemble it enough to suggest
analogies for our guidance. Nor is this history in itself uninter-
esting. The unreformed system of representative government
is that which lasted the longest ; which was contemporary with
the greatest events ; which has developed the greatest orators,
and which has trained the most remarkable statesmen. No
apology, therefore, seems to be needed for writing upon the sub-
ject at present, even if we should write at some length.
To give an exact account of the old English system of re-
presentation is, however, no easy task. At present the statis-
tical information which we possess respecting the electoral
system which exists is exceedingly abundant. We can tell
the number of voters in every borough and every county ; we
know by what right of suffrage they are entitled to vote, and
how many of them have chosen in any case to exercise their
224 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
right at each successive election. Compendious works specify
what lord or commoner has influence in such or such a town
they say whether it is preponderant and all-powerful, or onh
moderate and sometimes resisted ; they tell us in which town
money has overwhelming influence, and enumerate the occa-
sions upon which the use of that influence has been proved
fore the proper tribunal. We can hardly hope to obtain bettc
information as to the actual working of a system than that
which we have as to the system under which we are living,
hundred years ago our ancestors were nearly destitute of all
such information. They had no means of telling the numbei
of voters in any borough or county ; no register existed froi
which it could be discovered ; the right of voting in different
places was exceedingly different, and the decisions of the
House of Commons respecting them had been very confused
From political motives, indeed, these decisions were often con-
tradictory ; they were made to suit the requirements of the
moment and the commands of the Minister of the day, and
judicial spirit was, while the decision lay with a committee oi
the whole House of Commons, scarcely even affected. Sii
Robert Walpole used to say that in election committees then
ought to be "no quarter;" and the final fate of his long ad-
ministration was determined by a division on an election peti-
tion from Chippenham. As the deciding power respecting
electoral rights was so inconsistent, it would perhaps hardly
have been worth while to collect its decisions ; and no one did
so. A hundred years ago, the constant reference to precise
numerical data which distinguishes our present discussions was
by no means in use ; and even if the number of the electoral
body had been more easy of ascertainment, no one probably
would have ascertained it. The Government had not yet es-
tablished a census of its subjects, and would not perhaps hai
liked to have the voters who chose it counted. At any rate,
no one did count them ; and a very general notion respecting
the practical working of our representative system was all
which could be formed at the time, or that can be formed
now.
The representation of England and Wales was formerly, as
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 225
now, in the hands of counties and boroughs. The number of
counties was the same as it now is ; but they were as yet un-
divided for the purposes of representation. The number of
boroughs was very considerable, and this of itself led to
difficulty.
It is evident that in early times, when population was
small and trade scanty, it would be difficult to find very many
boroughs that would be fit to elect proper members of Parlia-
ment. We know by trial that a town constituency, to be
pure and to be independent, must be of fair size, and must
contain a considerable number of better-class inhabitants : un-
less it be so, it will assuredly succumb to one of two dangers ;
it will fall under the yoke of some proprietor who will purchase
the place as a whole, or it will be purchased, vote by vote, at
each election. Nothing, both experience and theory explain
to us, is so futile as to expect continued purity and continued
independence from a small number of persons who have some-
thing valuable to sell, and who would gain what is an object
to them by selling it. But of considerable towns the number
was once exceedingly few. Internal commerce and foreign
trade have made such enormous strides in England recently,
that we hardly realise the poverty of former times, or the small
number of people who lived where we live now. Statistics,
though they may give us a statement of the fact, do not, and
cannot, fill our imaginations with it. We may get a better
notion of what England was in numbers and wealth from
travelling in the purely agricultural, the less advanced and
poorer parts, of the Continent, than we can from figures and
books. We shall in that way gain a vivid impression that it
would be impossible in a rude age and country to find a very
great number of towns large enough to elect representatives
independently, and rich enough to elect them uncorruptly.
In the system which prevailed a hundred and fifty years
ago our ancestors had much aggravated this difficulty. They
had not selected the most considerable towns to be Parlia-
mentary constituencies ; they had not taken all the largest,
and they had taken several of the smallest. We need not now
explain why this happened. We have no room to discuss the
VOL. m. 15
226 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
antiquities of the old boroughs ; we cannot tell in many cases
why some were chosen which were chosen. But two facts are
incontestable : of which one is, that there was probably much
original caprice in the selection of town constituencies. The
sheriff had at first a certain discretionary power, and we do not
know very precisely how he exercised it. The boroughs them-
selves were anxious, not to obtain the right, but to evade the
obligation, of sending members to Parliament. Provided a
respectable number of borough members appeared in their
places to assent to the requisite taxes, and to indicate by their
demeanour, if not by their votes, the popular feeling on the
topics of the day, the early rulers of England, those rulers who
laid the foundations of our representative system, were satisfied.
They felt no nice scruples as to the exact magnitude of the
towns which did not send members, or of those which did so.
In the times of the Tudors, and a little later, the Crown exer-
cised its prerogative of creating new boroughs; and as the
popular spirit had then begun to be a subject of dread, and
the voice of the House of Commons was already of some im-
portance, we need not hesitate to imagine that the statesmen
of the time regarded the " loyalty " or subservience of th<
boroughs they created, rather than their precise size. Englisl
statesmen look to the wants of the day, and especially to ttu
wants of their own administration, much more than to compl(
figures ; they do so even at the present day, when statistical
tables will be paraded against them : how much more did thei
not improbably do so in the reigns of the Tudors, when thei
was no check upon them in any matter requiring much researcl
or information ; when, if they chose to disregard numeric;
data, no one else could know, far less prove, that they hac
done so ! Nor was original caprice the only cause that ha(
given representatives to many boroughs which in the eighteen!
century seemed scarcely fit to choose them, and which denie(
them to others which appeared to be much more fit. In the
contest between the Stuarts and the people, the Crown lost its
old prerogative of creating boroughs ; the moment there was
contest between the House of Commons and the sovereign, il
became clear that the sovereign must be victorious if he couk
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 227
add members to the former at his pleasure. Accordingly the
House of Commons impugned the validity of the so-called pre-
rogative ; their resistance was successful, and it was exercised
no longer. In consequence the old boroughs remained, and
no new ones were added ; and as, in a changing country like
this, many places which were formerly large gradually became
small, and many small ones on the other hand became large,
the distribution of wealth and numbers came in process of time,
and by a process which no one watched, to be altogether
different from the distribution of Parliamentary influence.
Nor was this the only way in which the inherent difficulty
of finding good town constituencies in poor and rude times
was artificially aggravated in our old system of representation.
Not only were the best boroughs not chosen to be constitu-
encies, but the best persons in those boroughs were not chosen
to be electors. The old and complex rights of suffrage in
different boroughs are antiquarian matters, on which we have
not a single line of space to bestow ; but they differed very
much. Originally, perhaps, the right or duty had belonged or
attached to all rate-paying householders ; but this simple de-
finition, if it ever existed, had long passed away, and the rights
of suffrage had become most various. No short description,
much less any single definition, would include them. We give
those which existed in the boroughs of two counties, Somer-
setshire and Lancashire, to show how great the diversity was,
and how many " permutations and combinations " it embraced.
SOMERSETSHIRE.
BRISTOL . . Freeholders of 40.?. and free burgesses.
BATH . . . Mayor, aldermen, and common councilmen only.
WELLS . . Mayor, masters, burgesses, and freemen of the seven
trading companies of the said city.
FAUNTON . . Potwallers, not receiving alms or charity.
BRIDGEWATER . Mayor, aldermen, and twenty-four capital burgesses
of the borough paying scot and lot.
^CHESTER . . Alleged to be the inhabitants of the said town paying
scot and lot, which the town called potwallers.
jVtiNEHEAD . . The parishioners of Dunster and Minehead, being
housekeepers in the borough of Minehead, and not
receiving alms.
15*
228 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
MILBORN PORT . The capital bailiffs and their deputies, the number of
bailiffs being nine, and their deputies being two ;
the commonalty stewards, their number being
two ; and the inhabitants thereof paying scot and
lot.
LANCASHIRE.
LANCASTER . . Freemen only.
WIGAN . . . Free burgesses.
CLITHEROK . Freeholders, resident and non-resident.
LIVERPOOL . . Mayor, bailiffs, and freemen not receiving alms.
PRESTON . . All the inhabitants.
Generally speaking, we may perhaps say that the origin;
scot-and-lot (or rate-paying) qualification had been submitte<
to two apposite forces of alteration. By one it had been
stricted to certain inhabitants of the town who, by virtue
some corporate right or municipal office, assumed to thei
selves to be its most important and chief inhabitants. The
principal persons were usually few, and they prudently cor
trived that their number should not be augmented. The
formed themselves into self-renewing corporations : at eve
vacancy the remaining members filled up the place as the
deemed best, and they took care no one should have votes fo
the borough but themselves. On the other hand, by a secor
process, the borough suffrage had been widened so as to inclue
all freemen, or all inhabitant householders not receiving all
everybody, in short, who could be included in it. The proce
of extension, as was natural, was of the two the older pn
While the right of electing members was attended by the dut
of paying them, it was an onerous burden, and the chief peopl
in the place tried to extend it as far as they well could ;
later times, when members were no longer paid, and politic
advantages were to be obtained by the skilful use of a vote, tl
influential people of a borough tried as much as possible
keep the Parliamentary suffrage to themselves. In the last
attempt they generally succeeded. The boroughs in which the
people at large elected the members were, in the eighteenth
century, far fewer than those in which a few persons of one sc
or another elected them. The tendency of the House of C<
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 229
mons itself, from various causes, was rather to confine than to
extend the right of suffrage. But in whichever direction the
progress of time had altered what we may suppose to have
been the original right of franchise, whether it had restricted
it or had extended it, the effect upon the constituency was
almost equally bad. If it was much narrowed, it fell into the
hands of a very small number of persons, who used for their
own benefit what had become a very marketable privilege ; and
if the franchise had been very much extended — especially if it
became, as in several places it did, nearly equivalent to uni-
versal suffrage — we may readily conceive in what manner it
was used, when we remember that many of the boroughs were
small, that in that age corruption was thought far less disgrace-
ful than at present, and that the poorer classes were much
poorer and much more ignorant than they now are.
We need not further explain the general causes which
impaired the independence and purity of the ancient boroughs.
As it would have been somewhat difficult to find in old times
enough boroughs that were proper to choose representatives ;
as the best had not been chosen — perhaps had not been searched
for ; as in the actual boroughs the best people to be voters had
not been selected as such ; as in most of them the electing
constituency was very small ; — it is no wonder that most of
these boroughs fell more or less under the control of rich men
who considered the franchise of the borough a part of their
own property.
With the counties the case was somewhat different; as
yet there was no Chandos clause, the forty-shilling freehold
was as yet the only title to a vote. Yeomen with such free-
holds were as yet numerous, in many counties very numerous,
and were still sturdy and independent. The inferior gentry
were not always much disposed to submit to the dictation of
lord or duke. In the last century, the county franchise was
always considered as the free and independent element ; those
who wished to purify the legislature, always proposed to aug-
ment that element, and saw no other means of obtaining what
they wished for.
But even the counties were in former times far less inde-
230 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
pendent than, from the nature of the legal franchise — from the
paper description of it — we should suppose. Our county
society has always been an aristocratic society; and in the
last century aristocracy was a power of which it is difficult in
these days of free manners and careless speech to realise the
force. Society had then, far more than now, a simple, regular,
recognised structure ; each class had its place : it looked up to
the classes above it ; it would have thought it wrong to vie
with them, or even to imitate them. Each class was to a certain
extent independent ; each went its own way on its own affairs,
attended to the transactions of its own calling and the details
of its own life : but each had a tendency, such as we can hardb
now imagine, to be guided, impelled, and governed by those
who were above them on all questions and in all matters which
concerned or seemed to concern all classes equally. The real
distinction between classes, too, was then an infinitely greater
one than it now is. The aristocratic class was the most edu-
cated class, had access to the best society ; was, as a whole,
far the most polished and cultivated class in the nation. Foi
good and for evil, noblemen had a power then to which then
is nothing comparable, scarcely any thing analogous, now.
Amusing illustrations of this occur in the documents of the
time. Thus Burke, in a memorandum on East Indian affairs,
addressed to the noblemen and gentlemen who composed the
Rockingham party, proposes the following scheme : " Witl
regard to the Bank [of England], which is the grand instrument
of the Court on this occasion, might it not be proper (if pos-
sible) that some of you of the greatest property should resolve
to have nothing to do with their paper ? There are five or si:
of you that would frighten them." If the territorial influen<
of the aristocracy was supposed to be so powerful in Thread-
needle Street, we may easily suppose what it must have bee
in their own counties, at their own doors. The county contest
of the last century had a continued tendency to become famil;
conflicts between one noble house and another. The political
questions of the day were merged in the intensity of the arist<
cratic, and perhaps hereditary feud.
Such was the representation of England ; and it seems
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 231
stricted enough ; but that of Scotland was even more restricted
still, and more subject to illegitimate influence. Even the
stoutest defenders of the old system of representation before
1832 used to own that the Scotch system could only be defended
as " part of a whole," and that taken by itself it was absurd.
There were in theory in Scotland thirty county members and
fifteen borough members ; but the franchise had in both of
them been narrowed to an almost inconceivable extent. In
1812 the whole county constituency only amounted to 1235,
and the whole borough constituency to 1253. The franchise
in the counties was restricted to the tenants-in-chief of the
Crown ; all proprietors (the feudal law in theory still prevailed)
who held from a subject were disfranchised, though a very large
portion of the county was owned by them. The result was
much about the same as if in England the county member had
been chosen, not by the 40^. freeholders, but the lords of the
manor. The franchise was practically as confined in Scotland
as that restriction would have made it here. The borough
franchise, too, was possessed by the members of the town
councils of the various boroughs exclusively ; no other persons
had a share in it. The burghs were, as now, divided into
districts ; in each district the town council of each burgh con-
tained in it named a delegate, and by the majority of these
delegates the member for the district was chosen. Edinburgh
alone had the honour of a separate representation ; and its
constituency amounted in number to thirty-three.
What degree of independence such small constituencies
may have possessed in England or in Scotland, we cannot now
accurately know. Even to those who knew the places best, it
must have been sometimes difficult to determine it with accuracy.
Influence is in its very nature somewhat secret ; we cannot tell
whence it precisely comes, by what exact channels it acts, or
in what direction it is tending. Any estimate which can be
formed of the degree in which the constituencies of the last
century, such as we have described them, were either dependent
or independent, must be very vague. The public at large
knew very little on the subject ; and no one took the trouble
to note down in detail and with precision, that which they did
232
THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
know. A general notion of the practical results may, however,
be easily formed. In the year 1773, Dean Tucker observed in
a letter to Lord Shelburne : —
" Your lordship has the command of two boroughs already ; and the
public shrewdly suspect that you would have no qualms of conscience
against commanding two more, or even twenty-two. Mr. Fox and Lord
Holland's family command one ; the late Marquis of Rockingham had at
least two, which he might, and did, call his own ; and were I to proceed
after the same manner throughout the peerage and the great landed interest,
also the commercial and the manufacturing interest of the realm, perhaps I
might enumerate not less than two hundred, namely boroughs and cities,
and even counties, whose voters choose representatives and return members
to Parliament more according to the good-will and pleasure of those who
have the ascendency over them than according to their own private judg-
ments or personal determinations."
As there were at that time no Irish members, the number
of members of Parliament was 558; and as almost all con-
stituencies had then two members each, this estimate would
give about 400 to the class of nominated and dependent mem-
bers, and about 158 to that of the independent. This calcu-
lation, rough as it evidently is, and imperfect as the data for
making it evidently were, corresponds sufficiently well with a
very elaborate calculation made forty years later : —
Members returned by 87 peers in England and Wales
„ „ 21 „ Scotland
„ „ 36 „ Ireland
Total returned by peers ......
Members returned by 90 commoners in England and Wales
„ „ 14 „ Scotland .
„ „ 19 „ Ireland
„ nominated by Government
Total returned by commoners and Government
Total returned by nomination .
Independent of nomination
Total of the House of Commons
218
300
137
M
20
16
187
487
171
. 6581
1 The above estimate is taken from Dr. Oldfield's Representative
History, a work in many respects entitled to respect, but by no means im-
partial. The representation of Ireland, though not free from great defects
had been exceedingly improved at the time of the union with England,
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 233
Whatever doubts might be suggested — and doubtless some
might be suggested — as to the details of this estimate, its main
conclusion may be considered to be certain. A large pre-
ponderant majority of the members of the House of Commons
were, in one way or in another, nominated by noblemen and
gentlemen ; and only a minority were elected by the popular
constituencies. The majority of the House of Commons
represented the views and feelings of a particular and peculiar
class ; the minority only were elected by constituencies which
could be supposed to choose representatives for all the other
classes.
Such was in bare outline the old electoral system of
England ; and we may describe it by a startling phrase : it
was a representation, so to say, of select constituencies. This
is not the light in which we have been used to regard it. We
speak by tradition of borough-mongers with dislike, and of
rotten boroughs with contempt. From circumstances which
we shall soon see, neither have left a good name in history.
Most of us are the children of those who destroyed them ; the
leaders of our great parties are still those who were foremost
in doing so. We naturally do not think well of them. But
what were they ? They were proprietary constituencies ; they
were, in truth, higher class constituencies ; they gave a re-
presentation to persons of greater wealth, of greater educa-
tion, and presumably, therefore, of greater political capacity,
than the mass of the nation. We have, apparently at least,
the best means of judging of their effects. Being, as we have
seen, the preponderant element in the electoral system,
the members chosen by them were the preponderant element
in the House of Commons. They were the ruling power in
the State. How, then, did this system, so singularly and
irregularly composed, in fact work ? We have the general
results in history. The only difficulty, and it is not a slight
one, is to understand them rightly and explain them briefly.
In the first great quality of a representative government,
we may say boldly that, up to a late period of its existence,
and with an exception or two which we shall specify, this
system worked very well. The first requisite of a representa-
234 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
tive system is, that the representative body should represent
the real public opinion of the nation. Nor is this so easy
a matter as some imagine. There are nations which have
no public opinion. The having it requires what a pedantic
writer might call the co-ordination of judgments. Some people
must be recognised to be wiser than others are. In every
district there must be people generally admitted by the judg-
ment of their neighbours to have more sense, more instructed
minds, more cultured judgments, than others have. Such
persons will not naturally or inevitably, or in matter of fact,
agree in opinion ; on the contrary, they will habitually differ :
great national questions will divide the nation ; great parties
will be formed. But the characteristic of a nation capable of
public opinion is, that those parties will be organised ; in each
there will be a leader, in each there will be some looked up to,
and many who look up to them : the opinion of the party will
be formed and suggested by the few, it will be criticised and
accepted by the many. It has always been the peculiarity of
the history of England, that it has been capable of a true public
opinion in this its exact and proper sense. There has ever been
a structure in English political society : every man has not
walked by the light of his own eyes ; the less instructed have
not deemed themselves the equals of the more instructed ; the
many have subordinated their judgment to that of the few.
They have not done so blindly, for there has always been a
spirit of discussion in our very air : still they have done so —
opinions have always settled down from the higher classes to
the lower ; and in that manner, whenever the nation has been
called on to decide, a decision that is really national has been
formed.
On the whole, the English constitution of the last century,
in its best time, and before the occurrence of changes which
we shall soon describe, gave an excellent expression to the
public opinion of England. It gave a ruling discretion to
those whom the nation at large most trusted ; it provided a
simple machinery for ascertaining with accuracy the decisions
at which the few had arrived, and in which the mass con-
curred.
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 235
This constitution was submitted to no ordinary test. We
have so long outlived the contests of the last century, that we
have forgotten their intensity. We look on it as a very quiet
time ; and we contrast it with the apprehensive, and changeful,
and anxious period in which it seems to us that we are living.
Of the middle of the eighteenth century this is a true idea, at
least of part of it ; but the English Government during the
early part of the century was tried by what is probably the
severest of all trials to the foundations of an hereditary and
constitutional government — by a struggle between two claim-
ants to the throne, each of whom represented a principle. We
know well the arguments of the side which has gained ; but
we do not always remember the moral strength of the side
which lost. The Jacobites had much in their creed which
appealed to the predominating principles of the English
nature — an hereditary family, which claimed the Crown, not
on arguable considerations of policy, but on ascertainable
claims of descent which embodied, not a speculation, but a
fact ; which had prescription in its favour, and was in harmony
with a country almost all whose other institutions were pre-
scriptive ; which had on its side the associations with the
maintenance of order and the security of property, as claimants
by prescription must have ; which appealed to the Conserva-
tive instinct, which is always so strong in a people over
whom the visible world rules so much ; which appealed to the
loyal instincts, which have a great influence over a people in
whom a strong but impressed imagination profoundly works ; —
such a family must have had a singular hold on the popular
attachments of England. History proves that they had that
hold ; and that they only lost England by an incapacity for
action, and an inherent perversity of judgment, that seem to
have been hereditary in the race. In the last act of the drama,
during the first few years of the House of Hanover, the Stuart
dynasty, had still great influence in the country. They were
not, indeed, in possession ; and as the strength of their ad-
herents was among the most Conservative classes, they could
not regain possession ; but if we could fancy them, by any
freak of fortune, to have been reinstated, there would have
236
THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
been incredible difficulty in expelling them once more. Pos-
sibly it could not have been done, certainly it could not have
been done if the fanatical hatred of the majority of Englishmen
to Popery had not co-operated with the attachment to freedom
— if a sentiment which actuated the masses had not been on
the same side with the convictions which influenced the few.
If the hereditary heir to the Crown had been once seated on the
throne, and had consented to be converted, or to seem to be
converted to Protestantism, the chances of the Hanoverian
family would have been small and feeble.
Just before the demise of Queen Anne, the prospects of
the Jacobite party had much to captivate sanguine and short-
sighted men. The female favourite of the Queen — the reign-
ing favourite we may call her — was indisputably on their side :
the Queen, who had the strongest motives to be decidedly
opposed to them, was not so ; her suppressed inclination —
perhaps her latent conscience — was in their favour : the first
ministers of the Crown, if they had no " settled intention," to
use Bolingbroke's distinction, had floating notions and vague
" views " on the same side. In the nation at large, the inferior
gentry — those of whom the Tory foxhunter of Addison is an
admirable memorial — were half Jacobite ; the real clergy (the
Whig historian calls them " a curse rather than a blessing to
those over whom they were set " J) were more than half Jaco-
bite ; the lower class of the people — the No-Popery antipathy
apart — would perhaps have inclined more to the house of
Stuart than to the house of Hanover. Legitimacy is a popular
title, loyalty touches the heart ; the rule of a single monarch
is an intelligible thing ; the least educated can and do under-
stand it ; but the rule of Parliament, and the idea of a con-
stitution, are difficult to imagine ; the lower orders of people
hardly ever understand them or comprehend them. The only
classes over whom the attachment to the Act of Settlement
and to the constitution, such as it then existed, was really
strong, were two : the higher gentry, including the nobility in
that word ; and the mercantile and trading classes — the " fund-
Hallam.
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 237
holders," as the Tory squires of that age called them, and
fancied that they were.
It is evident that a very peculiar Parliamentary constitution
was required to give an expression to the real will of the
nation, when the classes composing it were so divided, and
when the very principle and nature of the government of the
country was in dispute. What, indeed, it may be said, was
the will of the country ? The classes which have been speci-
fied did not agree in opinion, nor would one of them avowedly
and explicitly agree to yield to the opinion of the class op-
posed to it. The squire would never have admitted that the
fundholder was wiser than himself, nor would the fundholder
have paid the least deference to the notions of the squire.
The fact of the one having an opinion, would rather have
tended to prevent the other from adopting it. How, then,
was a national decision — a truly national decision — possible ?
It was possible in this way. The dissentient classes, as we
may call those over whom Jacobitism and the extreme Tory-
ism had the greatest influence — the rural gentry and the rural
clergy — both yielded deference and homage, and to a certain
extent confidence, to the higher gentry and the nobility, under
whom, it may be said, they lived, near whose estates they were
born, and who were the unquestioned heads of all the society
to which they belonged. On political topics this was especi-
ally the case. Rugged prejudice of course existed, and " my
lord " was not always liked ; still it could not but be felt that
he knew more of the world, had access to better information,
had enjoyed more of what were then the rare opportunities
of travelling and education, than the lower gentry had. He
possessed all the means of judging which they had, and others
too. A certain deference was paid then to rank which is not
paid to it now, because the inherent difference between the
highest orders and others in manners and in mind was much
greater 'than any that exist at present. A national decision
was then possible, and was then attained, because the classes
who were the most likely to dissent, and who in reality did
dissent, from what the rest of the nation wished, were pre-
cisely the classes most under the control of, and most likely
238 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
to submit to, the moral influence of those who were above
them.
Such being the state of the nation in the earlier part of
the last century, there was an evident difficulty in giving a
just expression to it. Scarcely any of the ordinary modes of
government which theorists have suggested, or which con-
tinental nations have tried, would have succeeded in giving it.
The most intelligent classes, those who were disposed to
support the House of Hanover and the principles of liberty,
were, as we have explained, the trading classes and the higher
gentry. The class most confided in by the nation was the
higher gentry and the nobility. Fortunately, the most trusted
class was a portion of the most intelligent class : the chosen
leaders of the country were a part at least of those whom it
was best for it to choose for its leaders ; the actual guides
were some of the best guides who could be found. But what
constitutional arrangements would be adapted to give them
by law that guidance ? In what manner could the indefinite
and vague deference of the people be shaped and fashioned
into a polity?
Any system of democratic suffrage, we may at once say,
would have been unfitted for that end. The classes into
whose hands it would have thrown the power were the lower
classes, who could not be expected to have any intelligent
appreciation of freedom, and in fact had none. Anything
like universal suffrage would have been an enormous addition
to the influence of the rural clergy and the smaller squires.
These two classes, being resident in the country, being known
to the lowest classes, distributing all the casual advantages
which they had any chance of receiving, adjudging all the
petty penalties of the local law which they had any risk of
incurring, must have had preponderating influence over the
rural population. They would have brought down from
scattered villages and petty hamlets regiments of voters for
the Stuart dynasty, who knew nothing of the real merits of
the controversy to be decided, who were utterly ignorant of
the very meaning of constitutional government, who could
have given no account of the very nature and structure of
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 239
Parliament, but who knew that the only educated persons
they ever met, the only influential persons they ever saw — the
parson of their own village, and the squire of it — had told
them to do that which they were doing. We should have
then seen in England that which we now see in France.
The uneducated majority would have pronounced their de-
cision ; the country would have been forced to recognise it ;
the law would have been compelled to enforce it. Instead of
living under the constitution which we now have, we might,
and probably should, have been living under a Jacobite des-
potism, sanctioned by the preponderant, we might say almost
by the unanimous, vote of the rural population.
It may be objected, however, that the deference which we
have admitted that the rural clergy and the lesser squires bore
to the higher gentry would have prevented this result. It
may be said that, although they would have by law possessed
the power of influencing in the last resort the national destiny
and deciding on the national constitution, they would not in
practice have done so ; that they would have given up their
own judgments, and would have been guided by the opinions
of the classes whom they knew, and whom they admitted, to
be their superiors. But experience shows that this is an error,
and that those who entertain it have a mistaken view of a
very important part of human nature. If you give people
uncontrolled power, real, bond fide, tangible, felt power, they
will exercise it according to their own notions. Of course
this is only true of classes which have notions. An ignorant
peasantry, for example, have none ; if you give them nominal
political power, you do not give them anything they can
understand, or appreciate, or use. It is not real power to
them ; it has none of the effectiveness of power in their hands :
it is an instrument they cannot employ to obtain any pre-
conceived result ; they are bewildered about its nature ; they
do not know what they are doing when they are exerting it ;
it is not anything they can prize, and use, and enjoy. But a
class of gentry or clergy — a moderately educated class of any
sort — is not in this position. It has views, opinions, wishes
of its own : those views may be narrow, those opinions erron-
24o THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
ecus, those wishes foolish ; but they have them. They are
attached to them. If power is put into their hands, they will
try to carry them out in action. Under a constitution whi<
did not give them predominant power, the Tory squire and
the Tory clergy were ready to give up their vague opinioi
and their floating predilections ; but if they had been invested
with a constitutional authority and a legislative omnipotence,
they would never have given those opinions and predilections
up, or imagined that they could give them up ; they would
have stiffened them into a compact creed, and tried to realii
them under the despotism of the Stuarts.
It is therefore certain that no system of universal suffrage,
or of very diffused and popular suffrage, would have secured
the maintenance of the House of Hanover and the security of
English liberty. The lower classes would themselves probably
have been on the other side ; and whether that be so or not,
the persons who had the greatest, the surest, and the most
diffused influence over them were indisputably on the other
side for the most part.
It is certain, too, that no system of uniform but not
universal suffrage which would have been endured by th<
country would have given at that time a real expression tc
the will of the country. As we have explained, the n
opinion of the country was in accordance with the opinion
of the wealthier trading and mercantile classes. They were
zealous for the House of Hanover ; the nation, though not
zealous for it, was favourable to it. By establishing a high
and uniform qualification for votes in large boroughs, and by
giving a very considerable number of members to those lai
boroughs, it would have been possible, though it would have
been difficult, to secure a Parliament with an opinion sub-
stantially in accordance with the decision of the nation. It
would have been difficult, for the great towns were then few
and scattered ; the north of England, which now teems with
them, was then a poor district, not only in comparison with
what it now is, but also with many parts of the south as it
was at that time. Still, by such a system as we have sug-
gested, it would have been possible to throw the leading
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 241
authority of the nation into the hands of the large towns, and
into the hands of the richer persons in those towns. In
practice, however, no such constitution would have been en-
dured. The Tory gentleman would not have endured to be
put under the yoke of the " fundholder " or the manufacturer.
The clergy would never have endured a subjection to the class
among whom Dissent had the greatest hold, and possibly a
preponderating influence. To have attempted to have placed
the country under the rule of the commercial classes in towns
and cities, would have been a greater revolution than the change
of the dynasty itself; it would have shocked the prejudices
of the nation at large ; it never suggested itself even to those
very classes themselves.
Thus all ordinary systems of suffrage bring out one or
other of two results. They would either have thrown pre-
ponderating and conclusive power into the hands of the lesser
gentry and the clergy, or they would have thrown an equal
and similar power into the hands of the manufacturers and
merchants. The first result would have been easy : England
was then a predominantly agricultural country, and it would
have been very easy to frame a system of suffrage which
would give the ordinary squire and the ordinary clergyman
— the ruling classes in agricultural society then as now — a
large predominance. Any system which gave what would
seem in theory its due weight to the counties would have had
that effect. A system might have been suggested which
would have given enormous power to the large towns. But
both these systems would have been inadequate to the end
desired. That which gave preponderance to the ordinary
landholder would have represented rather the tradition of
Toryism than the present decision of the living nation ; that
which gave a preponderance to manufacturers and traders
would have been offensive to almost all the country ; it would
have been unendurable by many classes of it ; it would not
have been, in fact, 'a government, for it could not have governed
I a country in which it had no root, and to whose keenest pre-
| judices it was adverse.
The system which was in fact adopted obviated these
VOL. III. 1 6
242
THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
defects. Its peculiar nature threw preponderant power into
the hands of the higher gentry and the nobility. The smaller
boroughs had fallen by a kind of necessity of nature into their
hands ; their influence in the counties was preponderant, ii
not overwhelming. As we have explained, this class was
the one most trusted by the nation, which was universally
believed to have the greatest political intelligence, whc
opinions in matter of fact were coincident with those of all
the most intelligent classes. Under any other system of
presentation, it would not have been possible to give to this
class preponderant power. It is not in the nature of
extended system of suffrage to give to a small upper class
any very considerable amount of power. Their numbers ai
few, and their votes are immeasurably outnumbered by th<
votes of their inferiors. It is not possible to establish in
country a system of uniform suffrage so narrow and so higl
as to give to this small upper class a preponderant authoritj
in the country. It seems ridiculous in a popular governm<
to give votes to a very few persons only ; and as soon as an)
uniform system of suffrage is extended beyond those fe1!
it gives decisive predominance to the many, and on that vei
account withdraws it from the less numerous but more edi
cated orders.
In this way, therefore, we think it certain ithat in tl
earlier part of the last century the old system ofrepresentatioi
by throwing into the hands of a peculiar and influential cl<
the predominant authority in the State, was more beneficii
to the nation than a more diffused and popular system woul<
have been. The materials for the creation of constituencie
both numerous and intelligent, both well educated and ii
fluential, did not exist. The practical choice was between
uninstructed number and a select few : our constitution g
the preponderance to the latter ; and in the great struggl
between the House of Stuart and the House of Hanover-
between the principle of legitimacy and the principle
freedom — the consequences were beneficial and were decisive
It not only secured the authority of a free Government, bi
the ease with which it did so has disguised from us the dii
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 243
culties with which it contended. The victory was so complete,
that the recollection of the conflict is confused.
With that struggle, however, the singular usefulness of
the old system of representation certainly ended. We do not
think that, in the remaining part of the history of the
eighteenth century, it gave at all a better expression to the
national opinion than any other system would have done.
Various writers have made charges against the English Govern-
ment on account of the wars which marked the period ;
but we think unjustly. On the whole, no nation of equal
strength, of equal courage and of equal pride, has ever in
the history of the world pursued a course so tranquil. We
were entangled in a Spanish war; we were induced by
our Hanoverian connections to intermeddle unnecessarily in
Germany ; we were at war occasionally, as in every century
we have from time to time been, with France : but none of
these wars were wars of ambition. We wished when at war
for national glory : we were not sorry to go to war because
we thought we might gain glory in it ; but we never went to
war with a distinct desire for territorial aggrandisement. We
have never had in our national character any principle of
aggression. We have no such settled inciting motive. On
the contrary, we wish that every one shall have his own —
shall retain whatever he has already by right or by prescrip-
tion ; though we are jealous — jealous even to slaying — of any
one who by hint, allusion, or suggestion, throws a doubt upon
our own title to anything which we already have. We are
by nature unwilling to relinquish, though we are not desirous
to acquire.
The actual Government of the last century carried out
these principles fairly and well ; but it is probable that any
other Government which the English people would have
borne would have done so equally. A more democratic
Government would perhaps have been more warlike ; but an
English democracy will probably never be very warlike ; it
will never engage in a continued series of intentional aggres-
sions ; least of all would it have done so in the last century,
when there was no struggle in Europe which could arouse the
16*
244 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
popular passions, and no cause which could interest pro-
foundly the popular imagination. The wars of Protestantism
had passed away, and the wars of Jacobinism had not yet
begun. It is possible that a more democratic Government
would, with its inherent aggressive instincts, have inter-
fered somewhat more in the petty wars of circumstance and
occasion which complicate the history of the last century,
and make it so tedious to us now. But we did interfere a
good deal in them as it was. For an aristocracy, ours has
never been a pacific aristocracy. It is in many ways their
boast, their pride, and their merit, that they have less of the
distinctive peculiarities of an aristocracy than any other which
has ever existed ; they claim justly to have a more popular
interest, and a more vigorous sympathy. The blame that
attaches to them is similar : they have shown the same
qualities in the defects of their Government ; they have had
but little of the refining, calculating, diplomatic habit which
usually characterises the policy of an hereditary class that has
much to lose in war, and much to enjoy in peace. The
English aristocracy is the most warlike of great aristocracies,
and the English nation is the least warlike of free nations.
Few of the many threads of union which so richly pervade
our social system have been more influential than this one.
We have had much of martial manliness where we should
have expected but little ; we have had much of apathetic in-
difference where we might have looked for an aggressive
passion. The warmth above has been greater, and that
below less, than a theorist would have expected ; and there-
fore our social fabric has been more equable in temperature
than we should have ventured to predict.
In the quiet times, therefore, of the middle part of the
eighteenth century there is no particular reason for believing
that our old system gave a much better or a much worse
representation to the national voice than any other system
might have been expected to give. In the more troubled
times of the American war and the French war, there is
even less reason to think that any other system would h
varied much the course of our policy. We should have tried
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 245
to conquer America under any Government ; and we should
have tried to resist the aggressive proselytism of France under
any Government. We may form our own opinions now of
the expediency, the justice, or the possibility of these at-
tempts ; we may think that the American war showed national
narrow-mindedness, and the French war showed national irrita-
bility ; but the indubitable fact remains, that both the one
and the other were popular in their day, and that both were
thoroughly acceptable to the community at large as well as to
the aristocracy.
There is, however, great and conclusive reason to believe
that, during the later period of its existence, the old system
of representation had an inherent defect peculiar to itself,
which, if it did not disqualify it altogether for giving a correct
embodiment to national opinion, made it much less likely
than most other systems of representation to do so perfectly.
The social condition of England had undergone a series of
very extensive changes between the time of the accession of
the House of Hanover and the year 1832. A new world — a
world of industry and manufacture — had been created ; new in-
terests had arisen ; new modes of thought had been awakened ;
new habits of mind had been engendered. The mercantile
and manufacturing classes, which had risen to influence, were
naturally unrecognised by the ancient constitution ; they
lived under its protection, but they were unknown to its
letter ; they had thoughts which it did not take account of,
and ideas with which it was inconsistent. The structure of
English society was still half feudal, and its new elements
were utterly unfeudal. It was impossible to subject Lanca-
shire, such as it became, to the dominion of any aristocracy,
however ancient and long-descended it might be. Such
rulers were not fitted for such subjects, nor were such subjects
fitted for such rulers. Between the two classes there was a
contrast which made the higher unintelligible to the lower,
and the lower disagreeable to the higher. Education, more-
over, was diffusing itself. The political intelligence of the
aristocratic classes was no longer so superior to that of other
classes as it had formerly been. The necessary means of
246 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
information were more widely accessible than they had been,
and were very extensively used. The contrast between the
constitution of England and England itself in consequence
became day by day greater and greater, and at last became
unendurable. We have not space to go into detail on this
part of the subject, and it is not necessary to go into detail
about it. If it had not been for the terror excited throughout
Europe by the French revolution, the old system of Parlia-
mentary representation could hardly by possibility have lasted
as long as it did. In the end it passed away; and the
recollection of the evils of its latter time has obscured the
remembrance of its former usefulness. As we have shown,
it long gave us a Parliament coincident in judgment with the
nation ; it maintained upon the throne the dynasty under
which we live, and secured the foundations of English liberty.
It long worked well, and if at last it worked ill, the excuses
for its doing so were many. It had survived all that was akin
to it, and was in contact with everything which was most
discordant to it. A constitution which was adapted to the
England of 1700 must necessarily have been adapted to the
England of 1832. Changes so momentous as there had been
between those years in our society required and enforced an
equivalent alteration in our polity.
Such is the general result of this long examination of our
old system of representation in the main quality of a represen-
tative system — that by which above all others it must stand
or fall — its coincidence with the real national opinion. We
see that this is a mixed and a complicated, but not on the
whole an unsatisfactory one. We will now shortly examine
our old system in three other respects. Did it give a means
of expression to the views of all classes ? Did it secure to us
really strong administrations? Did it train for us efficient
statesmen ? If we can in any way answer these questions, it
will, we think, be admitted that we have discussed the most
important part of the subject, and examined our former system
of representation by the tests that are most stringent and
satisfactory.
In the second requisite of the representative system, that
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 247
which existed in England in the last century must be considered
to have been successful. It gave a means of expression to all
classes whose minds required an expression. The mercantile
and trading class had not, as we have just explained, their due
weight in the system of government ; they did not regulate
all that they should have regulated, or control all that they
should have controlled ; but they had always the means of
expressing their sentiments. They had not, especially in the
later times, a representation proportioned to their intelligence
and their influence ; but they always had some representation.
The gentry were not only represented, but over-represented.
Especially during the closing years of the eighteenth century
and the first few years of the nineteenth, their influence was
unreasonably great, and their despotism absolute. They ruled
the country without check and without resistance ; they were
subject only to a weak and modified remonstrance ; they had
but to listen in the House of Commons to the speeches of
those whom they could immeasurably outvote ; they had but
to quell out of doors the unrecognised murmurs of an unor-
ganised multitude, which had long obeyed them, which was
still ready to obey them, which did not know its own power.
With respect to the lowest class of all, the working of our
own system of representation is peculiarly instructive. That
system, by its letter, attempted to throw a good deal of power
into their hands. In a great number of boroughs the suffrage,
as we have seen, was practically all but universal ; all inhabitant
householders not receiving alms very frequently had votes.
What is now so much desired, the representation of the
working-classes, then really existed. In Stafford, in Coventry,
and in other places, the lowest classes were preponderant.
Those classes had then the means of making their voice heard,
and their sentiments known in Parliament. They had some
influence in the State, though they did not rule the State.
In theory our constitution was at that time in this point
perfect. As we read the description of it, we believe that
nothing could be better. In practice it was a failure. The
trial of the experiment demonstrated that it is useless to
provide means for expressing the political thoughts of classes
248
THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
who have no such thoughts. The freemen of Stafford and
Coventry did not send to Parliament members who really and
truly expressed the opinions and sentiments of the working-
classes, because the working-classes had no opinion on matters
of legislation and administration, and had only vague ideas of
what was passing in their time. For the most part, they used
the power which was given to them, not as an opportunity of
influence, but as a source of income. They did not think of
it as something by which they could control the rich, but as
something which they could sell to the rich. Sheridan has
left an amusing document as to the constituency of Stafford.
They probably did not expect that so unbusinesslike a person
should have preserved so businesslike a document ; but it is as
follows : —
R. B. Sheridan^ Esq. Expenses at\ the Borough of Stafford for
Election anno 1784.
248 Burgesses, paid £5 50 each .... ^1302 o o
Yearly Expenses since.
House-rent and taxes . .
23
6
6
Servant at 6s. per week \
board wages . . . . /
IS
12
o
Ditto, yearly wages . . .
8
8
0
Coals, etc.
10
0
0
C7 6 6
J / u u
Ale-tickets
40
o
o
Half the member's plate .
25
o
o
Swearing young burgesses .
IO
o
o
Subscription to the Infirmary
5
5
o
Ditto clergymen's widows
2
2
0
Ringers
*
A
o
•f
86 ii o
One year .
143 17 6
Multiplied by
years
6
863 5 o
Total expense of six years' Parliament, exclusive
of expense incurred during the time of election
and your own annual expenses .... ^2165 5
Corruption of this kind, and perhaps sometimes greater in
degree, prevailed in almost every town in which the suffrage
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 249
was very extended. As the wealth of the country grew, the
price of votes became greater. If the old system of representa-
tion had endured till now, we can scarcely estimate how
great it would by this time have become. Experience proved
what our theories suggest, that the enfranchisement of the
corruptible is in truth the establishment of corruption.
In one respect, however, the representation of the working-
classes which we formerly had in this country may be con-
sidered to have been successful. The towns in which the
suffrage was practically universal at times sent to the House
of Commons, not spokesmen of their own grievances, but
spokesmen of grievances in general. Sir Francis Burdett is
but the type, and the best-known instance, of a whole class of
members who, in former times, were always ready to state any
one's complaints, without much inquiry whether they were
true ; to bring forward a case, without much asking whether
it were very well founded ; to make a general declamation
about the sufferings of the country which was a kind of caveat
against abuses in general, and might be construed as a protest
against any particular one which chanced to occur. Such
undiscriminating and vague invectives had their use. They
prevented gross instances of administrative harshness — at least
they tended to prevent them. They prevented the air of
politics from becoming stagnant ; they broke the monotony
of class domination. But it may be questioned whether, on
the whole, their influence was beneficial. These reckless
orators had but little moral weight ; they were too ready
with their statements to get them trusted, they were too
undiscriminating in their objections for those objections to
| have influence. A weak Opposition is commonly said to be
more advantageous to a Government than no Opposition at all ;
it gives an impression to the public that all which can be said
against the plans of the Cabinet has been said ; it gives an
impression that what is unchecked is checked, that what is
uncontrolled is controlled. It diminishes the practical re-
sponsibility of an administration, by diminishing the popular
conception of its power. In the same way, the vague
demagogues who occasionally appeared in the old House of
2So THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
Commons did not weaken the substantial power of the classes
that ruled there. They were "his Majesty's" objectors. It
was their province to say that whatever was done was done
wrong. It was not therefore of much consequence what the
administration did. They were sure of its being opposed,
they were sure of its being carried ; and they had therefore
the advantage of complete power without the odium of enforc-
ing silence. A despotism disguised in this manner is perhaps
more uncontrolled than any other despotism : — such, however,
was the mode in which the attempt of our old system of re-
presentation to give special members to the lowest cl;
really operated. It failed in what may be considered it
characteristic function. The ideas of the lowest classes 01
politics were still unheard in the legislature, because those
classes had no ideas. A confused popular feeling sometime
sent popular orators to Parliament. But the kind of indi<
criminate objection and monotonous invective which tho<
orators made use of without ceasing, seem to have been rathe
an assistance than an obstruction to the governing clas
The lesson of the whole history indubitably is, that it is ii
vain to lower the level of political representation beneath the
level of political capacity ; that below that level you ma}
easily give nominal power, but cannot possibly give re
power ; that at best you give a vague voice to an unreasonii
instinct, that in general you only give the corruptible an oj
portunity to become corrupt.
It is often said, and commonly believed, that the ol<
system of representation secured, under almost all circum-
stances, the existence and the continuance of what is called
a strong Government : it is believed that under that system tl
administration of the day had almost always the power t<
carry any legislative measure which it deemed beneficial, am
to do any executive act which it might think fit Histor
however, when it is accurately reviewed, affords little or nc
confirmation of this idea. Many parts of the history of Englanc
during the existence of our old constitution bear, on the ve
face of them, the most conspicuous evidence that there was thei
no security for the existence of a strong executive Government
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 251
Many administrations during the last century, so far from
being pre-eminently powerful, were not moderately coherent.
The earlier part of George the Third's reign is simply the
history of a series of feeble Governments, which had little
power to act as they intended, or to legislate as they desired.
The traditional notion of the strength of Governments in
former times is founded upon the enormous strength of the
administrations which successively directed the long struggle
with France and Napoleon. The French revolution frightened
the English nation ; it haunted the people of that generation
so much, that they could not look anywhere but they imagined
they saw the traces of it. Priestley interpreted the prophecies
by means of it ; Mitford wrote Grecian history by the aid of it.
If its effect was so striking in the out-of-the-way parts of
literature, in politics its effect might well be expected to be
extreme. It was extreme. The English people were terrified
into unity. They ceased to be divided into Parliamentary
sections, as their fathers were divided, or as their grandchildren
are now divided. The process by which the unanimity of the
nation created a corresponding unanimity in the House of
Commons was simple and was effectual. The noblemen and
gentlemen who had the greatest influence in the counties, and
a certain number of whom were proprietors of boroughs — the
class which, as we have seen, had a despotic control over the
House of Commons as it then was — felt the antipathy to
French principles as much as any other class ; perhaps they
did not feel it more, though some persons have thought they
did, than the rest of the nation ; but they undoubtedly did not
feel it less. The Parliament was as united in its dislike to
Jacobinism, and in its resistance to Napoleon, as the nation
was ; and it could not be more so. The large majorities,
therefore, of the administrations of Mr. Pitt and Lord Liver-
pool, are not attributable to any peculiar excellence in the
Parliamentary constitution of that period ; any tolerable system
of Parliamentary representation would equally have produced
them ; the country was too united for even an approximate
representation of it not to be so.
It is undoubtedly, however, believed by very many persons
252 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
that the old system of representation contained a peculiar
machinery for securing the strength of the executive. This
theory, it has been well observed, constituted the " esoteric
doctrine of the Tory party. The celebrated question asked by
the Duke of Wellington, ' How is the king's Government to be
carried on if the bill passes ? ' which has since received
practical answer, indicates without concealment the real vie
of English government entertained by him and his party.
They held that if the majority of the House of Commons con-
sisted of persons not nominated by great borough proprietor
but freely chosen by genuine popular election, the Government
could not be carried on. They believed it to be necessai
that a Government should repose upon an immovable phalan:
of members for close boroughs ; and that the members returne<
for open seats should be a minority, who would confine them-
selves to criticising the Government in their speeches, without
being able to shake its stability by their votes." 1 In this con-
ception there was, indeed, an obvious difficulty : it provid<
that a large majority in Parliament should be always main-
tained by the close union of the members for the small<
boroughs. But who was to keep those members themselve
united? They represented only the proprietors of their re
spective seats, and who was to keep either them or those
proprietors always of one mind? If the nation at large was
divided, why should not these persons partake of the division ?
The advocates of this theory had a ready answer ; they said
that the proprietors of the boroughs, and the members for
them, were to be kept on the side of the Government by means
of the patronage of the Government ; they thought that place
should be offered to the borough owners and to the borouj
members for their friends and for themselves ; and that in this
way they might be kept united, and be always induced to suj
port the administration. This theory was not a theory merely
it was reduced to practice by several Prime Ministers — by the
Duke of Newcastle, by Sir Robert Walpole, and by others.
Those who tried it had undoubtedly a great advantage ; the
had the materials that were needful, they had the patronage.
1 Edinburgh Review, Jan. 1859.
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 253
We have no space to inquire how the establishments of the
last century came to be so cumbrous ; but most cumbrous
they were. We are amazed nowadays at the names of the
old sinecures, at the number of half-useless places, at what
seems the childish lavishness of the public offices ; but this
profusion, though not perhaps created for a purpose, was used
for a purpose. Old feudal offices, which had once served to
mark the favour or the gratitude of the Crown, were employed
as a kind of purchase-money to buy the adhesion of Parlia-
mentary proprietors : peerages, too, were used to the same
end ; all the available resources of the age, were, in truth, con-
centrated upon it. In part this consistent exertion of very
great means of influence was effectual ; sometimes it really did
make a Government strong ; and some writers, who have not
duly weighed the facts of history, have believed that it always
must do so : but there are in its very nature three fundamental
defects, which must always hinder its working for a long period
with constant efficiency.
In the first place, the theory of this machinery is that the
patronage of the Crown is to be used to purchase votes. But
who is to use the patronage ? The theory assumes that it is to
be used by the Minister of the day. According to it, the head
of the party which is predominant in Parliament is to employ
the patronage of the Crown for the purpose of confirming that
predominance. But suppose that the Crown chooses to object
to this ; suppose that the king for the time being should say,
" This patronage is mine ; the places in question are places in
my service ; the pensions in question are pensions from me :
I will myself have at least some share in the influence that is
acquired by the conferring of those pensions, and the distribu-
tion of those places ". George III. actually did say this. He
was a king in one respect among a thousand : he was willing
to do the work of a Secretary of the Treasury ; his letters for
very many years are filled with the petty details of patronage ;
he directed who should have what, and stipulated who should
not have anything. This interference of the king must evi-
dently in theory, and did certainly in fact, destroy the efficiency
of the alleged expedient. Very much of the patronage of the
254 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
Crown went, not to the adherents of the Prime Minister, because
they were his adherents, but to the king's friends, because they
were his friends. Many writers have been very severe on
George III. for taking the course which he did take, and have
frequently repeated the well-known maxims which show that
what he did was a deviation from the constitution. Very likely
it was ; but what is the use of a constitution which takes n<
account of the ordinary motives of human nature? It wa<
inevitable that an ambitious king, who had industry enougl
to act as he did, would so act. Let us consider his positioi
He was invested with authority which was apparently great.
He was surrounded by noblemen and gentlemen who pas<
their life in paying him homage, and in professing perha{
excessive doctrines of loyal obedience to him. When tl
Duke of Devonshire, or the Duke of Bedford, or the Duke
Newcastle approached the royal closet, they implied by woi
and manners that the king had immeasurably more power thai
they had. In fact, it was expected that he should have im-
measurably less. It was expected that, though these nobl<
men daily acknowledged that he was their superior, he shouk
constantly act as if he were their inferior. The Prime Ministei
was, in reality, appointed by them, and it was expected thai
the king should do what the Prime Minister told him ; that
he should assent to measures on which he was not consulted
that he should make peace when Mr. Grenville said peace
right ; that he should make war whenever Mr. Grenville sai<
war was right ; that he should allow the offices of his hous
hold and the dignitaries of his court to be used as a means foi
the support of Cabinets whose members he disliked, and whose
policy he disapproved of. It is evident that no man who was
not imbecile would be content with such a position. It is not
difficult to bear to be without power, it is not very difficult to
bear to have only the mockery of power ; but it is unbearabl
to have real power, and to be told that you must center
yourself with the mockery of it ; it is unendurable to have ii
your hands an effectual instrument of substantial influence, an<
also to act day by day as a pageant, without any influen<
whatever. Human nature has never endured this, and we ma}
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 255
be quite sure that it never will endure it. It is a fundamental
error in the " esoteric theory " of the Tory party, that it assumed
the king and the Prime Minister to be always of the same
mind, while they often were of different minds.
A still more remarkable defect in the so-called strength
procured under the old system of representation by the use of
patronage, was the instability of that strength. It especially
failed at the moment at which it was especially wanted. A
majority in Psrliament which is united by a sincere opinion,
and is combined to carry out that opinion, is in some sense
secure. As long as that opinion is unchanged, it will remain ;
it can only be destroyed by weakening the conviction which
binds it together. A majority which is obtained by the em-
ployment of patronage is very different ; it is combined mainly
by an expectation. Sir Robert Walpole, the great master in
the art of dispensing patronage, defined gratitude as an anti-
cipation of future favour ; he meant that the majority which
maintained his administration was collected, not by recollec-
tion, but by hope ; they thought not so much of favours
which were past as of favours which were to come. At a
critical moment this bond of union was ordinarily weak. If
the Minister of the day should fail, he would confer favours
no longer ; the patronage that was coveted would pass into
the gift of the Minister who succeeded him. The expectation
upon which a Minister's strength under the old system of re-
presentation was based, varied, therefore, with the probability
that he would succeed. It was most potent when it was
certain that the Minister would be victorious ; it was weak
and hesitating when it was dubious whether he might not be
beaten and retire. In other words, that source of strength
was prolific when it was not wanted ; when it was wanted, it
was scarcely perceptible. In a time of doubt and difficulty
every member of such a majority inevitably distrusted his
neighbour. If others deserted the Government, his support
would be useless to the Minister, and pernicious to himself.
A man who wanted places would wish to support, not the
administration which was about to go out, but the administra-
tion which was just coming in. A curious example of this
256 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
tendency is preserved in the memoirs of Lord Rockingham.
" I will go through," said the Duke of Newcastle, the Minister
who was just going out — " I will go through the elections as
well as I can, and endeavour to see what they (the Court)
really intend. I think it is too late for them to do any mis-
chief. They may be disagreeable, and defeat some of our
friends, and act directly contrary to what they promised ; but
they can't now alter the tone and complexion of the new
Parliament : that is all settled, and so far my staying in to
this time has been of use." On the above letter the secom
Lord Hardwicke has made the following remark : " Notwith-
standing the choice of the Parliament, which the Duke ol
Newcastle piques himself upon, they forsook him for Lore
Bute when his standard was set up ". Lord Bute was of coui
the Minister who was about to come in, and who, after a vei
brief interval, did come in. In like manner, much of the
strength of Sir Robert Walpole passed to Mr. Pelham, am
Mr. Addington succeeded to much of Mr. Pitt's. In th<
cases, as soon as it became pretty clear that the Minister ol
the day would soon cease to be such, almost all the Parlh
mentary following, which was procured by the expectation
receiving from him places and pensions, very rapidly melt<
away.
It was, of course, still more certain that when the Ministe
of the day had really ceased to be Minister, and was not likeb
to return, no one thought much about him. The power that
was gained by the use of patronage was not only unstable ii
the popular sense of being weak and easily overthrown, but
it was unstable also in the peculiar sense in which the math<
maticians use that word, for when overthrown, it was ve
difficult to set it up again. It had not any intrinsic tenden<
to return of itself to the state of equilibrium. The best ex-
ample of this is to be found in one of the features of the ol<
system of representation which is most frequently regarded
strengthening the Government. There were certain borough'
called Treasury boroughs, in which there were dockyards
other Government establishments, and in which the administra-
tion for the time being had, as such, a predominant influence.
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LZSSONS 257
These boroughs ensured the Minister who was in power at
each Parliamentary election some sixteen votes. But the
singular insecurity of such a source of strength is very clear.
The existence of it was a premium upon dissolutions. A new
administration could certainly count in a new Parliament on
diminishing their adversaries' strength by a considerable
number of votes, and on augmenting their own strength by
the same number of votes, also. When parties were equally
divided, such a foundation of power could not but be weak.
A Minister might possess it to-day ; but if his adversary should
come in and dissolve, it would cease to aid him, and begin to
aid that adversary.1
This characteristic instability of a majority procured by
patronage inevitably weakened the confidence of a Prime
! Minister in a struggle with the Crown. Theoretical writers
j have often blamed the successive Prime Ministers of George III.
for permitting him to interfere with the distribution of what
i was, by the ordinary theory of the constitution, their patronage.
But they could not help it. The king had at critical moments
1 The following is the list given of the Government boroughs : —
Treasury.
Dartmouth ......... 2
Dover .......... I
Harwich ......... 2
Hythe 2
Windsor . . . . . . . . I
Hampshire 2
Yarmouth (Norfolk) i
— n
Admiralty.
Queenborough i
Rochester i
Sandwich ......... 2
- 4
Ordnance.
Queenborough i
Total number of members returned by Government in
England and Wales only . . . . 16
The whole representation of Scotland was in much the same position.
VOL. III. 17
258 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
the power of saying who should be Minister. He could at
least, in times when the divisions were close and the Govern-
ment was weak, at any moment transfer the purchasing power
from the head of the administration to the leader of the Oppo-
sition. It was in consequence impossible for any Minister on
dubious occasions to refuse the king a share in the patronage.
If he did not concede some of it, he would in all likelihood
lose the whole of it.
A third inherent defect in the administrative strength ol
tained by the use of patronage is its certain unpopularity
Mankind call it corruption. Refined reasoners may prove,
fancy they prove, that it is desirable ; they may demonstral
that it is possiby in some degree inevitable ; but {they will neve
induce ordinary men to like it. Of all Governments, it is tl
least impressive to the popular imagination. It seems not onl
to have vice for its adjunct, but vice for its principle. Al
Governments are feeble which cannot appeal with confidei
to the moral instincts of their subjects ; but it appears alm<
impudent in this one to attempt to do so. It exists becai
it has successfully applied bad motives to men susceptible
bad motives. As the secret of its power appears to be be
it loses its hold over the loyalty of mankind. We have
this exemplified in a conspicuous instance in France. Tl
monarchy of Louis Philippe was weak because it was believe
to be maintained by bribery and to be supported from immoi
motives. The same cause long weakened, and was at last tl
chief agent in destroying, the long, prosperous, and able Minist
of Sir Robert Walpole. It was to no purpose that he goverru
well ; it was to no purpose that he administered general affaii
consummately, or that he regulated the finances wisely ; it We
to no purpose that he showed that those who opposed him we
impelled to do so by very mean motives : no defensive
siderations availed him. It was believed that his Governme
was maintained by corruption, and a kind of disgust gradual!
grew up towards it, long impaired, and at length annihilat
it. Every Government under the old system of representatic
that continued long in office was sure to contract this staii
that of Lord Liverpool did not escape it. There were sure
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 259
be some instances of misapplied patronage, which inevitably
incurred the'censure and irritated the feelings of thinking men.
This unpopularity is a source of more continued weakness to
a Government than would be at first sight imagined. It might
be thought that an administration with plenty of votes would
have plenty of courage ; but it is not so. A certain timidity
belongs to all oligarchies, and to an unpopular oligarchy — to
an oligarchy that is believed to rest upon corruption — above
all. It is timid at every outcry, and it yields whenever it can.
In the plenitude of power Sir Robert Walpole did not press
his excise scheme, though it was a wise one, and though he
was sure that it was so ; he felt that at a crisis he was weak,
that the popular odium was not compensated by Parliamentary
support. Make what refined devices we may, in every free
Government any strong opinion that possesses the multitude
will be powerful ; it will not be least powerful where the Govern-
ment is conscious that it rests upon a basis which is odious to
common men, and which therefore shuns a popular scrutiny.
For these reasons, therefore, we think, when the subject is
accurately examined, the supposed strength which the adminis-
trations of the last century are commonly said to have derived
from the employment of patronage was a strength rather seem-
ing than substantial. It added to the strength of administra-
tions otherwise strong, and that did not need it ; but it was
not in its nature to strengthen those which were weak, or to
!aid, as it is sometimes believed to have aided, tottering adminis-
trations in a fatal division.
But even for this strength, such as it was, the people of
the last century paid a very heavy price. They purchased it
by the almost total sacrifice of efficiency in administration.
jWe can hardly at the present day conceive how utterly feeble
that administration formerly was ; nor have we space to go
into the details of the subject. But one test on the subject
bay be easily used ; we mean the test of success. Our ad-
ministrative system was subjected in the last century to three
pf the most searching tests of efficiency. It was tried by a
prolonged riot in the capital, by a rebellion within the island,
py the resistance of our greatest colonies. If any events can
17*
260 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
bring out the latent vigour of an administration, these would
probably bring it out. They did not, however, do so. We
all know the utter feebleness and miserable inefficiency wit!
which the mobs of 1780 were resisted, if resistance it can
called. We know that London was then almost as much
the mercy of its worst inhabitants as Paris has ever
But it is not so generally known that similar events nearly
bad, though not quite as bad, had happened before ; but the
did happen. In Hume's Correspondence there is a curious
scription of the riots of 1765 : "Another very extraordinai
event is the riot which the silk-weavers have made for soi
days past. They got a bill passed in the House of Commoi
to prevent more effectually the importation of foreign sill
which the Duke of Bedford threw out in the House of Loi
The next day, above ten thousand of these people came
to the House, desiring redress, with drums beating and colours
flying. They attacked the Duke of Bedford in his chariot, and
threw so large a stone at him, that if he had not put out his
hand, and saved his head by having his thumb cut to the bor
he must have been killed. He behaved with great resolutioi
and got free of them ; since which time he has remained bk
aded in his own house, and defended by the troops. Yesterday
the same number of weavers assembled again at the House of
Lords, where the horse and foot guards were to secure the
entry for the peers. The mob were ranged before the soldier
and their colours were playing in the faces of his Majest
troops. The degree of security with which these people
mit felony seems to me the most formidable circumstance
the whole : they carry in their whole deportment so mi
tranquillity and ease, that they do not seem apprised of tl
illegality of their proceedings. It is really serious to see tl
legislature of this country intimidated by such a rabble ; ar
to see the House of Lords send for Justice Fielding, to h<
him prove for how many reasons he ought not to do his dui
The Duke of Bedford is still in danger of his life if he goes 01
of his house; and we expect to see the same number of peoj
assembled every day, till something more vigorous is done thi
any one has yet chosen to propose. The spirit of robbing
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 261
gone forth in this nation to a degree that we have not ex-
perienced this century past, and it will not be found so easy a
matter to quell it " (pp. 55, 56).
No description can be more graphic of the weakness of
a feeble administration, unmoved by evident danger. We
need not dwell on the other instances of inefficiency to which
we have alluded. In 1745, the administration of the day —
a divided and discordant administration, it is true — permitted
a small body of half-disciplined Highlanders to advance into
the centre of England. So imperfect were their arrangements,
that some good judges of evidence have thought that if Charles
Edward had pushed on towards London, he might have suc-
ceeded in taking it. The war with our North-American
Colonies was conducted with as little wisdom and energy ; it
could not be with less. The whole strength of the empire
was never put forth ; and historians have often wondered at
the series of petty expeditions and inconclusive conflicts with
which so great a country as England endeavoured to reduce
so great a country as America. Lord North's Government
was perhaps somewhat feebler than many of the Governments
of the last century ; but even if so, it is only because it exhibits
the characteristic defects belonging to them all in a con-
spicuous and aggravated form. It was not exceptionally
inefficient, but characteristically inefficient.
The explanation of this inefficiency is simple. It was
i caused by the abuse of patronage ; or rather, to speak the
language of the old Tory theory, by the use of it to bribe
members of Parliament and proprietors of boroughs. George
II. is reported to have said to Sir Robert Walpole, " I won't
I have my army jobbed away for your members : it shan't be".
! It had been, however ; and the state of the English army at
the commencement of the long war with France is a con-
clusive proof of it. Burke, in his speech on economical
reform, has explained this point with more humour than is
usual with him : —
"There was another disaster far more doleful than this.
I shall state it, as the cause of that misfortune lies at the
bottom of almost all our prodigality. Lord Talbot attempted
262 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
to reform the kitchen ; but such, as he well observed, is the I
consequence of having duty done by one person, whilst i
another enjoys the emoluments, that he found himself frustrated i
in all his designs. On that rock his whole adventure split —
his whole scheme of economy was dashed to pieces ; his de-
partment became more expensive than ever ; the Civil List i
debt accumulated — why ? It was truly from a cause which, i
though perfectly adequate to the effect, one would not have j
instantly guessed — it was because the turnspit in the king's \
kitchen was a member of Parliament}- The king's domestic
servants were all undone ; his tradesmen remained unpaid and
became bankrupt — because the turnspit in the king's kitchen
a member of Parliament. His Majesty's slumbers were in-
terrupted, his pillow was stuffed with thorns, and his peace oi
mind entirely broken — because the king's turnspit was a mei
of Parliament. The judges were unpaid ; the justice of the
kingdom bent and gave way ; the foreign Ministers remaine
inactive and unprovided ; the system of Europe was dissolved
the chain of our alliances was broken ; all the wheels
Government at home and abroad were stopped — because
king's turnspit was a member of Parliament" The efficient
of the public offices was sacrificed, in order that the best
in them might be better used as Parliamentary purchase-mont
It would have been a heavy price to pay, even for a Govern-
ment that was really strong.
It is curious, that though under our old constitution
heavy a price was paid for Parliamentary support, and so little
support was at critical moments obtained for that price, the
Governments of that day did very little with the stren^
which they so bought, after they had bought it. We nowadays
consider that the first use which a Prime Minister will make of
a large majority, is to legislate with it. In the last centui
men did not think so. Lord John Russell justly said in th<
House of Commons, that there was no statute, no act
legislation, which we can connect with or can trace to Loi
Chatham, who was the most celebrated Minister of Englar
1 Vide " Lord Talbot's speech, in Almond's Parliamentary Register
vol. vii., p. 79, of the proceedings of the Lords ".
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 263
during the last century. There have been a greater number
of important Acts of Parliament passed in the last twenty
years than in the previous hundred and twenty. The people
of England, a hundred years ago, and their Parliament also,
were habitually satisfied with their existing institutions : they
did not care to abolish any of these, or to introduce any new
ones. Accordingly, when the Minister at that time had bought
his majority, he had nothing to do with it except to keep him-
self Minister.
On the whole, therefore, we do not think that our old
system of representation is entitled to the credit which it has
often received for causing and maintaining strong administra-
tions. The ingenious devices which it contained seem to us
to have failed whenever they were really wanted ; and we con-
clude, from the entire history of the last century, that Govern-
ments were then only strong when public opinion was definite
and decided, and when that is so they will be strong now.
The only one of our questions as to our old system of re-
presentation that is still unanswered is, What was the degree
of its suitability for training and developing statesmen ? Lord
Macaulay has in more than one part of his writings expressed
a doubt whether all representative systems are not in this
respect defective. They require, he says, that an influential
statesman should be an orator, and especially a ready and de-
bating orator ; and this, he considers, is inexpedient. He
appears to believe, both that the practice of debating injures
the intellect, and that the conviction of its necessity makes a
statesman prize and practise qualities which are not essential
to his true calling in preference to those which really are so.
He believes that the statesman is induced to think more of the
House of Commons, and of the effect which his measures would
produce there, than is desirable; and also, that the habit of
defending those measures by very questionable arguments dis-
organises the intellect of a statesman and renders it much less
fit than it would otherwise be for the investigation of import-
ant truths. There is doubtless some truth in these ideas ; the
practical working of a representative Government often tends
to produce these hurtful effects upon the minds of the states-
264 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
men who are eminent under it. And not only so. All free
Governments are to some extent unfavourable to much origin-
ality of mind in their influential statesmen. They necessitate
an appeal to the people ; and the mind of the people is almost
by definition ordinary and commonplace. The opinions of the
majority of mankind necessarily partake of these qualities ;
and those who have to please that majority must in all ages,
to some extent, cultivate them. And these are serious disad-
vantages. But, on the other hand, it may be fairly believed
that no system which has yet been devised secures for the
most eminent statesmen in a nation so large a number of great
qualities as are necessary for the Prime Minister under a well-
developed system of Parliamentary government. It is true,
that a man who is eminent in that position may not be in
the least eminent in abstract or original reflection ; it is
possible that he may be beneath the average capacity of men
in that respect. But, on the other hand, this defect is not
peculiar to a Parliamentary system of government. No
device has yet been suggested for securing the supremacy in
the State to persons capable of original thought. A Prime
Minister under a Parliamentary constitution must have a very
great number of other great qualities. He must be a man of
business long trained in great affairs ; he must be, if not a great
orator, a great explainer ; he must be able to expound with
perspicuity to a mixed assembly complicated measures and in-
volved transactions ; he must be a great party leader, and have
the knowledge of men, the easy use of men, and the miscella-
neous sagacity, which such eminence necessarily implies ; he
must be a ready man, a managing man, and an intelligible
man : and under no other system of government with which
we are acquainted is there any security that all these, or an
equal number of other, important qualities will constantly be
found in the ruler of a nation. All these qualities the system
of representation which existed in England during the last
century secured to the utmost. We might easily run over the
names of the eminent statesmen whom it produced, but it is
needless ; we know that they were eminent, and we know that
they were many.j
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 265
A claim has often been made on behalf of the old close
boroughs, that the number and the greatness of these statesmen
is due to them. A very long list of the names of the statesmen
who were brought into Parliament during the last century by
those boroughs is set forth, and it is alleged that the excellence
of these great statesmen was a conspicuous advantage which
resulted from the machinery that introduced them to public
life. But to this argument there will be found, when the sub-
ject is narrowly examined, to be several important quali-
fications.
In the first place, a great number of remarkable men un-
doubtedly came into Parliament under the old system of repre-
sentation by means of the close boroughs, simply and solely
because that was at that time the readiest and simplest mode
of coming in. If any other mode had been the readiest, they
would have availed themselves of that instead. Take the case
of Sir Robert Walpole. Had any man that ever lived more of
the qualities, the good and the bad qualities, of a great popular
candidate ? He was genial, sagacious, and unsensitive. He
would have managed the mob, and managed the attorney, and
managed the electors, better almost than any other of our re-
markable statesmen ; yet he came in for a close borough.
Circumstances threw that mode of entering public life into his
path, and he took advantage of it immediately ; but if the
system of representation then prevailing in England had been
a different one, he would have taken advantage of that also.
We must not give the close boroughs a peculiar credit for all
the eminent statesmen who entered into the House of Commons
by means of them, but only for such of the great statesmen as
from the nature of their mind and the peculiarity of their cir-
cumstances, would most likely not have entered Parliament in
any other way ; and these are not many.
This is one great qualification. A still more important one
remains. A great number of able men came into Parliament
formerly who do not appear there now, because there was
a motive to enter it at that time which does not now exist.
Public life was in the last century not only a career, but a
livelihood. It was possible to make a subsistence, and even
266 THE HISTORY OF THE VNREFORMED
a fortune, by it. Take the case of the first Lord Liverpool :
he was a man of no extraordinary genius or unequalled
abilities ; he was simply a man of plain, strong, ordinary
understanding ; he had good sense, and good habits of busi-
ness : he had no qualities which a very great number of young
men in every generation may not be sure that they have.
Nevertheless he began life with scarcely any money, he passed
a long life in the service of the State, he lived in affluence,
and he provided amply for his family. The possibility of such
a career could not but render public life in the highest degree
attractive. Fortune as well as fame were, it was evident, to
be obtained in it by sound abilities and good management.
In consequence, a very great number of young men were glad
to enter Parliament ; and if the same incentives had been
continued to the present day, when education is so much
more general, and social advantages so much more diffused,
it is difficult to say how much that number might not have
been by this time augmented. If the places and pensions,
the patent offices and the sinecures, from which the profit-
ableness of public life was derived, were still in existence,
very many of the ablest, the most cultivated, and the most
interesting young men in every generation would be desirous
to enter Parliament. They would throng any avenue which
was open for their purpose ; they would address, and perhaps
not unsuccessfully, the electors of boroughs, whether small or
large ; they would attempt to gain a share of our county
representation, exclusive as that still in some degree is. We
perhaps are not likely to see again in England a time when
public life will afford the means of subsistence, as well as the
opportunities of ambition. We do not, on the whole, regret
the change that has taken place. We do not say that it should
be lamented ; but it has its disadvantages. The public
cannot expect to be so well served by its statesmen now that
it is served gratuitously, as it was when it paid highly for their
services. Instead of the number of remarkable statesmen who
were introduced into the House of Commons by means of the
close boroughs being so great as to excite our wonder, we may
rather be surprised that it was not greater. The incentives to
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 267
a public career were then so strong, that we may wonder that
more remarkable persons did not enter upon it. The close
boroughs must have been almost as much an impediment as
an aid, or the number of statesmen attracted in the last century
to the service of the nation must have been much larger than
in fact it was.
Such was in part the case. The close boroughs did not,
in truth, introduce conscientious and scrupulous men to an
attractive position in public life. The position of a member
nominated to the representation of a close borough by its
proprietor was a position of dependence. He was an employe.
He had to vote as often as, and just as, the owner of the
borough told him. If he did not do so, he might at the next
election be excluded entirely from public life, or be obliged
to search through the list of borough owners for a new patron.
Even when the member for a close borough was permitted to
exercise his own judgment, the public would scarcely believe
that he was so. They attributed all which he did to the
influence of the proprietor of his seat ; and if there chanced to
be an apparent difference of opinion, they were more disposed
to attribute some sinister design to the owner of the borough
than any substantial independence to the member for it. The
votes of a nominated member were not regarded as his own,
even when in fact they were so. As we might expect, persons
of high character and sensitive nature shrank from this depen-
dence. They could not endure that it should be said that
they had no control over the course which they adopted in
politics ; the possibility of the supposition that they must
vote according to the edict of some one else was nearly as
odious as the having so to vote. A curious example of this
inevitable tendency in men of high and susceptible natures
may be found in the life of Sir Samuel Romilly. He avowedly
preferred the purchase of a seat to a position in which he
might be imagined to be dependent. He preferred to be the
member for a borough which was publicly known to be com-
monly venal, to being the member for a borough of which
a nobleman or gentleman who took a genuine interest in
politics was the proprietor. He preferred its being known
268 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
that he had bought his seat, to the possibility of a suspicion
that he held it upon a tenure of base service. In very many
cases, which cannot now be known by us, an analogous feeling
must have prevented shrinking and delicate men from occupy-
ing the seats for rotten boroughs, or from associating with the
great noblemen who owned them. Aristocratic patronage is
never very pleasant to men of this character ; and it is unen-
durable to them that such patronage should be the basis of
their career, and an essential pre-requisite to habitual life
Exceptional instances apart, the close boroughs were rather
an obstruction than an opening to persons of original minds
and delicate dispositions.
Nor was it natural that the owners of boroughs should
commonly desire to introduce such men. If these proprietors
had views of their own, they selected men who would give
effect to those views ; and these would ordinarily be men of
pliant characters and unsuggestive intellects. If such pro-
prietors had no opinion, they ordinarily put the seat up to
auction in the market, and got as much money as they could
get for it. Nor, in the few cases in which noblemen introduced
men of the highest order of minds into Parliament, and in
which they treated them with tenderness and delicacy, were
they by any means disposed to admit them to an equality
with themselves, or with the near connections of great families.
They reserved high office as much as possible for themselves,
and for those who mingled by right of birth in their own
society ; and believed that they had done much in giving the
opportunity of a public career and the profit of a minor place
to able men of humbler station whom they had brought into
the House of Commons. The Rockingham party, the best
party that ever was composed of the associated proprietors of
close boroughs, thus treated Mr. Burke, who was the greatest
man who ever sat for a close borough. We cannot but be
indignant at such conduct ; we cannot help saying that it
showed high-bred exclusiveness, and aristocratic narrowness of
mind : but we also cannot help perceiving that it was natural.
The same thing would be sure to happen again in any similar
circumstances. The owners of seats inevitably believed that
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 269
they were theirs ; that they, and that men of their family and
their station, had an evident right to enjoy whatever was most
desirable in the consequences of them. They believed that
they had a right to their own, and to all it produced. His-
torians may lament that Lord John Cavendish was preferred
to Mr. Burke ; but if the old system of representation were
once more re-established, a similar phenomenon would happen
again : the near connections of the large proprietors of Par-
liamentary property would again be preferred by those pro-
prietors to all others. The universal tendencies of human
nature ensure that it should be so.
On the other hand, although the close boroughs did not
aid men of able minds and sensitive natures in the entrance to
public life, they did aid men of able minds and coarse natures.
The latter were willing to be dependents, and were able to be
serviceable dependents ; they were inclined to be slaves, and
were able to be useful slaves. The pecuniary profits derivable
from a public career, the places and pensions open to and
readily obtainable by an able public man, brought a large
number of such men into Parliament. We need not cite many
instances, for the fact is evident. The entire history of the
last century is full of such men — as Mr. Rigby, as the first
Lord Holland, as Budd Doddington. The suspicion of de-
pendence, and the reality of aristocratic patronage, were easily
endured by men of covetous dispositions and vulgar characters :
they only desired to have as much as possible of whatever
profits were obtainable, and whatsoever the path to great pro-
fits might be, that was the road for them. And independently
of these extreme cases, the close boroughs tended to fill the
House of Commons with men of commonplace opinions and
yielding characters, who accepted the creed of their patrons
very easily, and without, in all ordinary cases, any conscious
suppression of their own. Their preferences were so languid,
that they were not conscious of relinquishing them. The
facile flexibility of decorous mediocrity is one of the most
obvious facts of human nature ; and it is one of the most
valuable facts, for without it the requisite union of great
political parties would scarcely be attainable.
270 THE HISTORY OF THE UNREFORMED
Such and so great seem to us the deductions which are to
be made from the common belief that the close boroughs
tended to open the House of Commons to men of original
minds and refined dispositions. They are so great, as to make
it dubious whether that observation has even a nucleus of
truth ; they indisputably show that in its ordinary form it is
an extreme exaggeration ; and they suggest a doubt whether
as much or more may not be said for the very opposite of it.
We have now, therefore, completed our long investigation.
We have inquired whether our old system of Parliamentary
representation did or did not give us a Parliament substantially
accordant with the true public opinion of the English nation ;
whether it gave, to all classes who had political ideas to ex-
press, the means of expressing them ; whether it had any
peculiar tendency to produce great and original statesmen.
What, then, are the results which we have learned from this
investigation ? What are the lessons which this remarkable
history, when it is examined, tends to teach us ?
First, we should learn from it to distrust complicated
expedients for making strong administrations, and refined
expedients for producing wise and able statesmen. The
sole security upon which we can depend for a strong Govern-
ment is a consistent union in the nation. If we have that,
we shall have a strong Government under any tolerable Parlia-
mentary system ; and if we have not that, we shall not have
under any a really strong Government on ordinary occasions.
The true security for having a sufficient supply of good states-
men is to maintain a sufficient supply of good constituencies.
We need not regret the rotten boroughs, if we have instead of
them an adequate number of tolerably educated and not too
numerous constituencies, in which the great majority of the
voters are reasonably independent and tolerably incorrupt.
There is nothing in either of these two respects very valuable
in our old system of representation. It did not secure to us
an unusual number of coherent and powerful administrations ;
it did not of itself give us an exceptionally great number of
able and honest statesmen.
Secondly, we should learn from the history of the last
PARLIAMENT, AND ITS LESSONS 271
century that it is perfectly idle to attempt to give political
power to persons who have no political capacity, who are not
intellectual enough to form opinions, or who are not high-
minded enough to act on those opinions. This proposition
is admitted in words ; everybody says it is a truism. But is
it admitted in reality? Do not all the ordinary plans for a uni-
form extension of the suffrage practically deny it ? Will not
their inevitable effect be, in the smaller and poorer boroughs
at least, to throw, or to attempt to throw, much power into
the hands of the voters who are sure to be ignorant, and who
are almost sure to be corrupt ?
Lastly, the events of the earlier part of the last century
show us — demonstrate, we may say, to us — the necessity of
retaining a very great share of power in the hands of the
wealthier and more instructed classes — of the real rulers of
public opinion. We have seen that we owe the security of
our present constitutional freedom to the possession by these
classes of that power : we have learned that under a more
democratic system the House of Stuart might have been still
upon the throne ; that the will of the numerical majority in
the nation would probably have placed it there, and would
probably have kept it there ; that the close boroughs of
former times gave, in an indirect form arid in an objectionable
manner, the requisite influence to the instructed classes ; and
we must infer, therefore, that we should be very cautious how
we now proceed to found a new system, without any equivalent
provision, and with no counterbalancing weight, to the scanty
intelligence of very ordinary persons and to the unbridled
passions of the multitude.
If we duly estimate the significance of these conclusions,
we shall perhaps think that to have been once more reminded
of them, at a critical instant, is a result of sufficient signifi-
cance to justify this protracted investigation, and an adequate
apology for the detail which has been necessary to render it
intelligible.
MR. GLADSTONE.1
(1860.)
WE believe that Quarterly essayists have a peculiar mission in
relation to the characters of public men. We believe it is
their duty to be personal. This idea may seem ridiculous to
some of our readers ; but let us consider the circumstances
carefully. We allow that personality abounds already, that
the names of public men are for ever on our lips, that we
never take up a newspaper without seeing them. But this
incessant personality is wholly fragmentary ; it is composed
of chance criticism on special traits, of fugitive remarks on
temporary measures, of casual praise and casual blame. We
can expect little else from what is written in haste, or is spoken
without limitation. Public men must bear this criticism as they
can. Those whose names are perpetually in men's mouths
must not be pained if singular things are sometimes said of
them. Still some deliberate truth should be spoken of our
statesmen, and if Quarterly essayists do not speak it, who
will ? We fear it will remain unspoken.
Mr. Gladstone is a problem, and it is very remarkable that
he should be a problem. We have had more than ordinary
means for judging of him. He has been in public life for
seven and twenty years ; he has filled some of the most con-
spicuous offices in the State; he has been a distinguished
member of the Tory party ; he is a distinguished member of
the Liberal party ; he has brought forward many measures ;
he has passed many years in independent Opposition, which
1 Speech of the Chancellor of the Exchequer on the Finance of the
Year and the Treaty of Commerce with France. Delivered in the House
of Commons on Friday, loth February, 1860. Corrected by the Author.
272
MR. GLADSTONE 273
is unquestionably the place most favourable to the display of
personal peculiarities in Parliament ; he is the greatest orator
in the House of Commons ; he never allows a single important
topic to pass by without telling us what he thinks of it ; — and
yet, with all these data, we are all of us in doubt about him.
What he will do, and what he will think, still more, why he
will do it, and why he will think it, are qucestiones vexatce at
every political conjuncture. At the very last ministerial crisis,
when the Government of Lord Derby was on the verge of ex-
tinction, when every vote on Lord John's resolution l was of
critical importance, no one knew till nearly the last hour how
Mr. Gladstone would vote, and in the end he voted against
his present colleagues. The House of Commons gossips are
generally wrong about him. Nor is the uncertainty confined
to Parliamentary divisions ; it extends to his whole career.
Who can calculate his future course? Who can tell whether
he will be the greatest orator of a great administration ; whether
he will rule the House of Commons ; whether he will be, as
his gifts at first sight mark him out to be, our greatest states-
man ? or whether, below the gangway, he will utter unintelligible
discourses ; will aid in destroying many ministries and share
in none ; will pour forth during many hopeless years a bitter,
a splendid, and a vituperative eloquence ?
We do not profess that we can solve all the difficulties
that are suggested even by the superficial consideration of a
character so exceptional. We do not aspire to be prophets.
Mr. Gladstone's destiny perplexes us — perhaps as much as it
perplexes our readers. But we think that we can explain much
of his past career ; that many of his peculiarities are not so
unaccountable as they seem ; that a careful study will show
us the origin of most of them ; that we may hope to indicate
some of the material circumstances and conditions on which
his future course depends, though we should not be so bold as
to venture to foretell it.
During the discussion on the Budget, an old Whig who
did not approve of it, but who had to vote for it, muttered of
1 On the Parliamentary Reform Bill brought forward by Lord Derby's
Government in 1859.
VOL. III. 1 8
274 MR. GLADSTONE
its author, " Ah, Oxford on the surface, but Liverpool below ".
And there is truth in the observation, though not in the
splenetic sense in which it was intended. Mr. Gladstone
does combine, in a very curious way, many of the character-
istics which we generally associate with the place of his edu-
cation and many of those which we usually connect with the
place of his birth. No one can question the first part of the
observation. No man has through life been more markedly
an Oxford man than Mr. Gladstone. His Church and State,
published after he had been several years in public life, was
instinct with the very spirit of the Oxford of that time. Hi<
Homer, published the other day, bears nearly equal traces of
the school in which he was educated. Even in his ordinary
style there is a tinge half theological, half classical, which
recalls the studies of his youth. Many Oxford men much
object to the opinions of their distinguished representative;
but none of them would deny, that he remarkably embodies
the peculiar results of the peculiar teaching of the place.
And yet he has something which his collegiate training
never would have given him, which it is rather remarkable
it has not taken away from him. There is much to be said
in favour of the University of Oxford. No one can den;
to it very great and very peculiar merits. But certainly it
is not an exciting place, and its education operates as a nar-
cotic rather than as a stimulant. Most of its students devote
their lives to a single profession, and we may observe among
them a kind of sacred torpidity. In many rural parsonages
there are men of very great cultivation, who are sedulous in
their routine duties, who attend minutely to the ecclesiastic;
state of the souls in their village, but who are perfectly devoi<
of general intellectual interests. They have no anxiety t(
solve great problems ; to busy themselves with the specula-
tions of their age ; to impress their peculiar theology — for
peculiar it is both in its expression and in its substance — on
the educated mind of their time. Oxford, it has been said,
"disheartens a man early". At any rate, since Newmanism
lost Father Newman, few indeed of her acknowledged sons
attain decided eminence in our deeper controversies. Jowett
MR. GLADSTONE 275
she would repudiate, and Mansel is but applying the weapons
of scepticism to the service of credulity. The most charac-
teristic of Oxford men labour quietly, delicately, and let us
hope usefully, in a confined sphere ; they hope for nothing
more, and wish for nothing more. Even in secular literature
we may observe an analogous tone. The Saturday Review is
remarkable as an attempt on the part of " university men "
to speak on the political topics and social difficulties of the
time. And what do they teach us? It is something like
this : " So-and-so has written a tolerable book, and we would
call attention to the industry which produces tolerable books.
So-and-so has devoted himself to a great subject, and we
would observe that the interest now taken in great subjects
is very commendable. Such-and-such a lady has delicate
feelings, which are desirable in a lady, though we know that
they are contrary to the facts of the world. All common
persons are doing as well as they can, but it does not come to
much after all. All statesmen are doing as ill as they can,
and let us be thankful that that does not come to much either. '!__,
We may search and search in vain through this repository of
the results of " university teaching " for a single truth which it
has established, for a single high cause which it has advanced,
for a single deep thought which is to sink into the minds of
its readers. We have, indeed, a nearly perfect embodiment '
of the corrective scepticism of a sleepy intellect. " A B says
he has done something, but he has not done it ; C D has made
a parade of demonstrating this or that proposition, but he does
not prove his case ; there is one mistake in page 5 > and an-
other in page 1 1 3 ; a great history has been written of this or
that century, but the best authorities as to that period have
not been consulted, which, however, is not very remarkable,
as there is nothing in them." We could easily find, if it
were needful, many traces of the same indifferent habit, the
same apathetic culture, in the more avowed productions of
Oxford men. The shrewd eye of Mr. Emerson, stimulated
doubtless by the contrast to America, quickly caught the trait.
"After all," says the languid Oxford gentleman of his story,
" there is nothing true and nothing new, and no matter ! "
18*
276
MR. GLADSTONE
To this, as to every other species of indifferentism, Mr.
Gladstone is the antithesis. Oxford has not disheartened
him. Some of his colleagues would say they wished it had.
He is interested in everything he has to do with, and often
interested too much. He proposes to put a stamp on con-
tract notes with an eager earnestness as if the destiny of
Europe, here and hereafter, depended upon its enactment.
He cannot let anything alone. " Sir," said an old distributor
of stamps in Westmoreland, " my head, sir, is worn out. I
must resign. The Chancellor, sir, is imposing of things that
1 can't understand." The world is not well able to under-
stand them either. The public departments break down
under the pressure of the industry of their superior. Mr.
Gladstone is ready to work as long as his brain will hold
together — to make speeches as long as he has utterance (words
he is sure to have) ; but the subordinate officials will not
work equally hard. They have none of the excitement of
origination ; they will not share the credit of success. They
do, however, share the discredit of failure. In the high-pres-
sure season of this year's Budget, Acts of Parliament have
been passed in which essential provisions were not to be found,
in which what was intended to be enacted was omitted or
exceeded, in which the marginal notes were widely astray of
the text. In his literary works Mr. Gladstone is the same.
His book on Homer is perhaps the most zealous work which
this generation has produced. He has the enthusiasm of a
German professor for the scholastic detail, for the exact meaning
of word No. i, for the precise number of times which word No.
2 is used by the poet ; he has the enthusiasm of a lover for
Helen, the enthusiasm of an orator for the speeches. Of his
theological books we need not speak ; every reader will recall
the curious succession of needless quastiunculce by which theii
interest is marred.
Some of this energy Mr. Gladstone probably owes to the
place of his birth. Lancashire is sometimes called " America-
and-water " : we suspect it is America and very little water.
The excessive energy natural to half-educated men who have
but a single pursuit cannot, indeed, in any part of England,
MR. GLADSTONE 277
produce the monstrous results which it occasionally produces
in the United States ; it is kept in check by public opinion,
by the close vicinity of an educated world. But in its own
pursuit, in commerce, we question whether New York itself
is more intensely eager than Liverpool — at any rate, it is diffi-
cult to conceive how it can be. Like several other remarkable
men whose families belong to the place, Mr. Gladstone has
carried into other pursuits, the eagerness, the industry — we
are loth to say the rashness, but the boldness — which Liverpool
men apply to the business of Liverpool. Underneath the
scholastic polish of his Oxford education, he has the specu-
lative hardihood, the eager industry of a Lancashire merchant.
Such is one of the principal peculiarities which Mr. Glad-
stone's character presents even to a superficial observer.
But something more than superficial observation is necessary
really to understand a character so complicated and so odd.
We will touch upon some of the traits which are among the
most important ; and if our minute analysis has, or seems
to have, some of the painfulness of a vivisection, we would
observe that a defect of this kind is in some degree insepar-
able from the task we have undertaken. We cannot explain
the special peculiarities of a singular man of genius without a
somewhat elaborate and a half-metaphysical discussion.
It is needless to say that Mr. Gladstone is a great orator.
Oratory is one of the pursuits as to which there is no error.
The criterion is ready. Did the audience feel? were they
excited? did they cheer? These questions, and others such
as these, can be answered without a mistake. A man who
can move the House of Commons — still, after many changes,
the most severe audience in the world — must be a great
orator. The most sincere admirers and the most eager de-
predators of Mr. Gladstone are agreed on this point, and it
is almost the only point on which they are agreed.
It will be well, however, to pause upon this characteristic
of Mr. Gladstone's genius, and to examine the nature of it
rather anxiously, because it seems to afford the true key to
some of his most perplexing peculiarities. Mr. Gladstone
has, beyond every other man in this generation, what we
278
MR. GLADSTONE
may call the oratorical impulse. We are in the habit of
speaking of rhetoric as an art, and also of oratory as a faculty,
and in both cases we speak quite truly. No man can speak
without a special intellectual gift, and no man can speak well
without a special intellectual training. But neither this gift
of the intellect nor this education will suffice of themselves.
A man must not only know what to say, he must have a
vehement longing to get up and say it. Many persons, rather
sceptical persons especially, do not feel this in the least.
They see before them an audience — a miscellaneous collection
of odd-looking men — but they feel no wish to convince them
of anything. " Are not they very well as they are ? They
believe what they have been brought up to believe." " Con-
firm every ,man in his own manner of conceiving," said one
great sage. "A savage among savages is very well," re-
marked another. You may easily take away one creed and
then not be able to implant another. " You may succeed in
unfitting men for their own purposes without fitting them for
your purposes" — thus thinks the cut bono sceptic. Another
kind of sceptic is distrustful, and speaks thus : " I know / carii
convince these people ; if I could, perhaps I would, but I
can't. Only look at them ! they have all kinds of crotchets
in their heads. There is a wooden-faced man in spectacles.
How can you convince a wooden-faced man in spectacles?
And see that other man with a narrow forehead and com-
pressed lips — is it any use talking to him ? It is of no use ;
do not hope that mere arguments will impair the prepossessioi
of nature and the steady convictions of years." Mr. Gladstoru
would not feel these sceptical arguments. He would get uj
to speak. He has the didactic impulse. He has the " coura^
of his ideas ". He will convince the audience. He knows an
argument which will be effective, he has one for one am
another for another ; he has an enthusiasm which he feels will
rouse the apathetic, a demonstration which he thinks must
convert the incredulous, an illustration which he hopes will
drive his meaning even into the heads of the stolid. At an)
rate, he will try. He has a nature, as Coleridge might have
said, towards his audience. He is sure, if they only knew
MR. GLADSTONE 279
what he knows, they would feel as he feels, and believe as he
believes. And by this he conquers. This living faith, this
enthusiasm, this confidence, call it as we will, is an extreme
power in human affairs. One croyant, said the Frenchman,
is a greater power than fifty incre'dules. In the composition
of an orator, the hope, the credulous hope, that he will con-
vince his audience, is the primum mobile^ it is the primitive
incentive which is the spring of his influence and the source of
his power. Mr. Gladstone has this incentive in perhaps an
excessive and dangerous measure. Whatever may be right
or wrong in pure finance, in abstract political economy, it is
certain that no one save Mr. Gladstone would have come down
with the Budget of 1860 to the Commons of 1860. No other
man would have believed that such a proposal would have
a chance. Yet after the warning — the disheartening warning
of a reluctant Cabinet — Mr. Gladstone came down from a de-
pressing sick-bed, with semi-bronchitis hovering about him,
entirely prevailed for the moment, and three parts conquered
after all. We will not say that the world is given to men of
this temperament and this energy ; on the contrary, there is
often a turn in the tide, the ovation of the spring may be the
prelude to unpopularity in the autumn ; but we see that
audiences are given them ; we see that unimpressible men are
deeply moved by them — that the driest topics of legislation
and finance are for the instant affected by them — that the pro-
longed effects of that momentary influence may be felt for
many years, sometimes for centuries. The orator has a do-
minion over the critical instant, and the consequences of the
decisions taken during that instant may last long after the
orator and the audience have both passed away.
Nor is the didactic impulse the only one which is essential
to a great political orator; nor is it the only one which Mr.
Gladstone has. We say it with respect ; but he has the con-
tentious impulse. He illustrates the distinction between the
pacific and the peaceful. On all great questions, on the con-
troversies of states and empires, Mr. Gladstone is the most
pacific of mankind. He hates the very rumour of war ; he
trusts in moral influences ; he detests the bare idea of military
28o MR. GLADSTONE
preparations. He will not believe that preparations are neces-
sary till the enemy is palpable. In the early part of 1853
he did not believe that the Russian war was impending ; after
the conversations of the Emperor Nicholas with Sir Hamilton
Seymour, he proposed to Parliament a scheme for converting
some portions of the National Debt, which could only be
successful if peace continued, and which, after the outbreak of
the war, failed ignominiously. In 1860, mutatis mutandis, he
has done the same. He staked his financial reputation upon
a fine calculation ; he gave us a Budget in which the two ends
scarcely met. The Chinese war came, and they no longer meet.
We believe that Mr. Gladstone so much hates the bare idea
of the possibility of war, that after many warnings, after at
least one failure which must have been painful, and which
should have been instructive, he has refused to take even the
contingency of hostilities into his calculations. Some one
said he was not only a Christian, but a morbid Christian.
He cannot imagine that anything so coarse as war will occur ;
when it does occur, he has a tendency to disapprove of it as
soon as he can. During the Russian war he soon joined, in
fact if not in name, the peace-at-all-price party ; he exerted
his finest reasonings and his most persuasive eloquence against
a war which was commenced with his consent. At the
present moment no Englishman, not Mr. Bright himself, feels
so little the impulse to arm. He will not believe in a war till
he sees men fighting. He is the most pacific of our states-
men in theory and in policy. When you hear Mr. Gladstone,
he is about the most combative. He can bear a good deal
about the politics of Europe ; but let a man question the fees
on vatting, or the change in the game certificate, or the stamp
on bills of lading — what melodious thunders of loquacious
wrath ! The world, he hints, is likely to end at such observa-
tions, and it is dreadful that they should be made by the
honourable member who made them — "by the honourable
member who four years ago said so-and-so, and five years
before that moved," etc. etc. The number of well-intentioned
and tedious persons whom Mr. Gladstone annually scolds into
a latent dislike of him must be considerable.
MR. GLADSTONE 281
But though we may smile at the minuticz in which this con-
tentious impulse sometimes shows itself, we must remember
that the impulse itself is essential to a great political orator, every-
where in some degree, but in England especially. To be an
influential speaker in the House of Commons, a man must be
a great debater. He must excel not only in elaborate set
speeches, but likewise in quick occasional repartee. No one
but a rather contentious person will ever so excel. Mr. Fox,
the most genial of men, was asked why he disputed so vehem-
ently about some trifle or other. He said, " I must do so ; I
can't live without discussion ". And this is the temperament
of a great debater. It must be a positive pain to him to be
silent under questionable assertions, to hear others saying that
which he cannot agree with. An indifferent sceptic such as we
formerly spoke of, endures this very easily. " He thinks, no
doubt, that what the speaker is saying is quite wrong ; but
people do not understand what he is saying ; very likely they
won't understand the answer : besides, we've a majority ; what
is the use of arguing when you have a majority ? Let us out-
vote him on the spot, and go to bed." And so, report says,
have whips argued to Mr. Gladstone, but he is ever ready.
He takes up the parable of disputation at a quarter past twelve,
and goes on till he has exhausted argument, illustration, in-
genuity, and research. To hardly any man have both the im-
pulses of the political orator been given in so great a measure :
the didactic orator is usually felicitous in exposition only ; the
great debater is, like Fox, only great when stung to reply by
the cestrus of contention. But Mr. Gladstone is by nature, by
vehement overruling nature, great in both arts ; he longs to pour
forth his own belief; he cannot rest till he has contradicted
every one else.
In addition to this oratorical temperament, Mr. Gladstone
has in a high degree the most important intellectual talent of
an orator ; he has what we may call an adaptive mind. He
has described this himself better than most people would de-
scribe it : —
" Poets of modern times have composed great works in ages that stopped
their ears against them. Paradise Lost does not represent the time of
282 MR. GLADSTONE
Charles the Second, nor the Excursion the first decades of the present
century. The case of the orator is entirely different. His work, from its
very inception, is inextricably mixed up with practice. It is cast in th
mould offered to him by the mind of his hearers. It is an influenc
principally received from his audience (so to speak) in vapour, which h
pours back upon them in a flood. The sympathy and concurrence of his
time, is, with his own mind, joint parent of his work. He cannot follow
nor frame ideals : his choice is, to be what his age will have him, what i
requires in order to be moved by him, or else not to be at all. And
when we find the speeches in Homer, we know that there must have
men who could speak them, so, from the existence of units who could s
them, we know that there must have been crowds who could feel them."
We may judge of the House of Commons in the same way froi
the great Budget speech. No one, indeed, half guides, hall
follows the moods of his audience more quickly, more easily,
than Mr. Gladstone. There is a little playfulness in his manner,
which contrasts with the dryness of his favourite topics, anc
the intense gravity of his earnest character. He has the sam<
sort of control over the minds of those he is addressing that
good driver has over the animals he guides : he feels the min<
of his hearers as the driver the mouths of his horses.
The species of intellect that is required for this task
pre-eminently the advocate's intellect. The instrument
oratory, at least of this kind of oratory, is the argumentum
hominem. It is inextricably mixed up with practice. Itargu<
from the data furnished to him " by the mind of his hearers ".
He receives his premises from them " like a vapour," and poui
out his " conclusions upon them like a flood ". Such an oral
may believe his conclusions, but he can rarely believe them foi
the reasons which he assigns for them. He may be an
thusiast in his creed, he may be a zealot in his faith, but n<
the less will he be an advocate in his practice ; not the less wil
he catch at disputable premises because his audience accept
them ; not the less will he draw inferences from them whicl
suit his momentary purpose ; not the less will he accept the
most startling varieties of assertion, for he will imbibe from on<
audience a different "vapour" of premises from that whicl
he will receive from another; not the less will he have
1 Homer, vol. iii., p. 107.
!
1C
MR. GLADSTONE 283
chameleon-like character which we associate with a consum-
mate advocate ; not the less will he be one thing to-day, with
the colour of one audience upon him ; not the less will he be
another to-morrow, when he has to address, persuade, and in-
fluence some different set of persons.
We scarcely think, with Mr. Gladstone, that this style of
oratory is the very highest, though it is very natural that he
should think so, for it exactly expresses the oratory in which
he is the greatest living master. Mr. Gladstone's conception
of oratory, in theory and in practice, is the oratory of Pitt, not
the oratory of Chatham or of Burke : it is the oratory of adapta-
tion. We do not deny that this is the kind of oratory which
is most generally useful, the only kind which is commonly per-
missible, the only one which in general would not be a bore ;
but we must remember that there is an eloquence of great
principles which the hearers scarcely heed, and do not accept —
such as, in its highest parts, is the eloquence of Burke — we
must remember that there is an eloquence of great passions, of
high-wrought intense feeling, which is nearly independent of
the peculiarities of its audience, because it appeals to our
elemental human nature — which is the same, or much the same,
in almost every audience, which is everywhere and always
susceptible to the union of vivid genius and eager passion.
Such as this last was, if we may trust tradition, the eloquence
of Chatham, the source of his rare, magical, and occasional
power. Mr. Gladstone has neither of these. Few speakers
equally great have left so few passages which can be quoted —
so few which embody great principles in such a manner as to
be referred to by coming generations. He has scarcely given
us a sentence that lives in the memory ; nor is his declamation,
facile and effective as it always is, the very highest declamation :
it is a nearly perfect expression of intellectualised sentiment,
but it wants the volcanic power of primitive passion.
The prominence of advocacy in Mr. Gladstone's mind is in
appearance, though not in reality, diminished by the purity and
intensity of his zeal. There is an elastic heroism about him.
When he begins to speak, we may know that we are going to
hear what we shall not agree with. We may believe that the
284
MR. GLADSTONE
measures he proposes are mischievous ; we may smile at the
emphasis with which some of their minutice are insisted upon ;
but we inevitably feel that we have left the ordinary eai
We know that high sentiments will be appealed to by one wh(
feels high sentiments ; that strong arguments will be strongly
stated by one who believes that argument should decide conti
versy. We know that we are beyond the realm of the Patron?
Secretary ; we have left behind us the doctrine that corruptior
is the ruling power in popular assemblies, that patronage is the
purchase-money of power. We are not alleging that in the
real world in which we live there is not some truth — more
less of truth — in these lower maxims ; but they do not rule ii
Mr. Gladstone's world. He was not born to be a Secretary ol
the Treasury. If he tried his hand at it, he would perplex tl
borough attorneys out of their lives. And he could not keej
the office a month ; he would evince a real disgust at detestabl<
requests, arid guide with odd impulsiveness the delicate anc
latent machinery. His natural element is a higher one. H<
has — and it is one of the springs of great power — a real faith ii
the higher parts of human nature ; he believes, with all hi;
heart and soul and strength, that there is such a thing as truth
he has the soul of a martyr with the intellect of an advocate.
Another of Mr. Gladstone's characteristics is an extra-
ordinary love of labour. We have alluded several times te
his taste, we might almost say his whimsical taste, for minutiae.
He is ready with whatever detail may be necessary on an]
subject, no matter of what kind. He covers his greatest
schemes with a crowd of irrelevant appendages, till it is diffi-
cult to see their outline. The Budget of 1860 was large
enough and complicated enough, one would have thought, in
its essential irremovable features ; but its author did not think
so. He had supplementary provisions respecting game certifi-
cates, respecting the transmission of newspapers by the post,
respecting " several other minuter changes with which he was
almost ashamed to trouble the committee ". The labour
necessary to all these accessories must have been enormous.
Many of the alterations may have — must have — been lying
ready in his memory, or in some old note-book, for many
MR. GLADSTONE 285
years. But the industry to furbish them up, to get them into
a practicable, or even into a proposable shape, would frighten
not only most persons, but most laborious persons. And
Mr. Gladstone's energy seems to be strictly intellectual.
Nothing in his outward appearance indicates the iron physique
that often carries inferior men through heavy tasks. What-
ever he does that is peculiar, he does by the peculiarity of his
mind. He is carried through his work, or seems to be so, by
pure will, zeal, and effort.
The last characteristic of Mr. Gladstone which is very
remarkable, or which we shall mention, is his scholastic
intellect. We have not much of this in conspicuous men in
the present day, but in former times there was a good deal
of it. Lord Bacon had something like it in his eye when he
spoke of minds which were not " discursive " or skilful in
discovering analogies, but were discriminative or skilful in
detecting differences. The best scene for training this sort
of intellect is the law-court. Lord Bacon must have seen
much of it in the work of Gray's Inn when he was young, and
traces of the discipline which he then underwent may perhaps
be found even in books which were written by him many
years afterwards. When, as in positive law, the first principles
are fixed, there is no room for the highest originality ; the
only admissible controversy is whether a particular case
comes or does not come within a particular principle. On
this point there is room for endless distinctions and eternal
hair-splitting. When the principles settled by authority are
not entirely consistent, the function of this kind of distinguish-
ing reason is even greater ; it has to suggest nice refinements,
which may reconcile the apparent differences between the
principles themselves, as well as to settle the exact relation
of the case, or the facts, to the doctrine of the authorities.
Accordingly, the scholastic theologians of mediaeval times
were the most expert masters of the discriminative ratiocina-
tion which the world has ever seen. They had to reconcile
the recognised authorities of the Catholic Church — authorities
vast in size, and scattered over centuries in time — with one
another, with good sense, with the facts of special cases, with
286 MR. GLADSTONE
the general exigencies of the age. By their labour was formed
that acute logic, that subtle, if unreal philosophy which fell
at the Reformation, when the authorities of the Catholic
Church were no longer conclusive, and the art of arranging
them was no longer important. We have learned to smile
at the scholastic distinctions of former times ; the inductive
philosophy, which is now our most conspicuous pursuit, do(
not need them ; the popular character of our ordinary discus
sion does not admit of them. In a free country we mu<
use the sort of argument which plain men understand — an<
plain men certainly do not appreciate or apprehend scholastic
refinements. So at least we should say beforehand. Y<
Mr. Gladstone is the statesman whose expositions have, fc
good or for evil, more power than those of any other ; hi
voice is a greater power in the country of plain men than an]
other man's ; nevertheless, his intellect is of a thoroughly
scholastic kind. He can distinguish between any two pi
positions ; he never allowed, he could not allow, that any tw<
were identical. If anyone on either side of the House is bol
enough to infer anything from anything, 'Mr. Gladstone
ready to deny that the inference is correct — to suggest
distinction which he says is singularly important — to illustrat
an apt subtlety which, in appearance at least, impairs tl
validity of the deduction. No schoolman could be readier
such work. We may find the same tendency of mind eve
more strikingly illustrated in his writings. At the time
the Gorham case, for example, he wrote a pamphlet on
Royal Supremacy. For the purposes of that case, it was
the last importance to determine the exact position of
Crown with respect to ecclesiastical affairs, and especially
the offence of heresy. The law at first seems distinct enouj
on the matter. The 1st of Elizabeth provides " that su<
jurisdictions, privileges, superiorities, and pre-eminen<
spiritual and ecclesiastical, as by any spiritual or ecclesiast
cal power or authority hath heretofore been or may lawfully
be exercised or used for the visitation of the ecclesiastical
state and persons, and for reformation, order and correction
of the same, and of all manner of errors, heresies, schisms
MR. GLADSTONE 287
abuses, offences, contempts, and enormities, shall for ever, by
authority of this present Parliament, be united and annexed
to the imperial Crown of this realm ". These words would
have seemed distinct and clear to most persons. They would
have seemed to give to the Crown all the power it could wish
to exercise — all that any spiritual authority had ever " thereto-
fore exercised " — all that any temporal authority could ever
use. We should think it was clear that Queen Elizabeth
would have applied a rather summary method of instruction
to any one who attempted to limit the jurisdiction conferred
by this enactment. If Mr. Gladstone had lived in the times
about which he was writing, he might have had to make a
choice between being silent and being punished ; but in the
times of Queen Victoria he is not subjected to an alternative
so painful. He writes securely : —
" We have now before us the terms of the great statute which, from
the time it was passed, has been the actual basis of the royal authority in
matters ecclesiastical ; and I do not load these pages by reference to
declarations of the Crown, and other public documents less in authority
than this, in order that we may fix our view the more closely upon the
expressions of what may fairly be termed a fundamental law in relation to
the subject-matter before us.
" The first observation I make is this : there is no evidence in the
words which have been quoted that the Sovereign is, according to the
intention of the statute, the source or fountain-head of ecclesiastical juris-
diction. They have no trace of such a meaning, in so far as it exceeds
(and it does exceed) the proposition, that this jurisdiction has been by
law united or annexed to the Crown.
" I do not now ask what have been the glosses of lawyers — what are
the reproaches of polemical writers — or even what attributes may be
ascribed to prerogative, independent of statute, and therefore applicable
to the Church before as well as after the Reformation. I must for the
purposes of this argument assume what I shall never cease to believe
until the contrary conclusion is demonstrated by fact, namely, that, in the
case of the Church, justice is to be administered from the English bench
upon the same principles as in all other cases — that our judges, or our
judicial committees, are not to be our legislators — and that the statutes of
the realm, as they are above the sacred majesty of the Queen, so are
likewise above their ministerial interpreters. It was by statute that the
changes in the position of the Church at that great epoch were measured
— by statute that the position itself is defined ; and the statute, I say,
contains no trace of such a meaning as that the Crown either originally
288
MR. GLADSTONE
was the source and spring of ecclesiastical jurisdiction, or was to become
such in virtue of the annexation to it of the powers recited ; but simply
bears the meaning, that it was to be master over its administration."
So that which seems a despotism is gradually prun<
down into a vicegerency. "All the superiorities and pn
eminences spiritual and ecclesiastical," which had ever beet
lawfully exercised, are restricted to the single function
regulation; and by a judicious elaboration the Crown
comes scarcely the head of the Church, but only the visitc
and corrector of it, as of several other corporations. We ai
not now concerned with the royal supremacy — we have nc
wish to hint or intimate an opinion on a vast legal discussion
but we are concerned with Mr. Gladstone. And we ventui
to say that a subtler gloss, more scholastically expn
never fell from lawyer in the present age, or from schoolrcu
in times of old.
The great faculties we have mentioned give Mr. Gl;
stone, it is needless to say, an extraordinary influence ii
English politics. England is a country governed mainly
labour and by speech. Mr. Gladstone will work and cai
speak, and the result is what we see. With a flowing el<
quence and a lofty heroism ; with an acute intellect and en<
less knowledge ; with courage to conceive large schemes, ai
a voice which will persuade men to adopt those schemes — it ij
not singular that Mr. Gladstone is of himself a power in Parli<
mentary life. He can do there what no one else living can d(
But the effect of these peculiar faculties is by no mear
unmixedly favourable. In almost every one of them soi
faulty tendency is latent, which may produce bad effects-
in Mr. Gladstone's case has often done so, perhaps does
still. His greatest characteristic, as we have indicated,
the singular vivacity of his oratorical impulse. But gn
as is the immediate power which a vehement oratorical pn
pensity, when accompanied by the -requisite faculties, secui
to the possessor, the advantage of possessing it, or rather
being subject to it, is by no means without an alloy. W(
have all heard that Paley said he knew nothing against soi
one but that he was a popular preacher. And Paley kn<
MR. GLADSTONE 289
what he was saying. The oratorical impulse is a disorganising
impulse. The higher faculties of the mind require a certain
calm, and the excitement of oratory is unfavourable to that
calm. We know that this is so with the hearers of oratory ;
we know that they are carried away from their fixed principles,
from their habitual tendencies, by a casual and unexpected
stimulus. We speak commonly of the power of the orator.
But the orator is subject himself to much the same calamity.
The force which carries away his hearers must first carry away
himself. He will not persuade any of his hearers unless he
has first succeeded, for the moment at least, in persuading his
own mind. Every exciting speech is conceived, planned, and
spoken with excitement. The orator feels in his own nerves,
even in a greater degree, that electric thrill which he is to
communicate to his hearers. The telling ideas take hold of
him with a sort of seizure. They fasten close upon his brain.
He has a sort of passionate impulse to tell them. He hungers,
as a Greek would have said, till they are uttered. His mind
is full of them. He has the vision of the audience in his
mind. Until he has persuaded these men of these things, life
is tame, and its other stimulants are uninteresting. So much
excitement is evidently unfavourable to calm reflection and
deliberation. Mr. Pitt is said to have thought more of the
manner in which his measures would strike the House than of
the manner in which, when carried, they would work. Of
course he did — every great orator will do so, unless he has a
supernatural self-control. An ordinary man sits down — say
to make a Budget : he arranges the accounts ; adds up the
figures ; contrasts the effects of different taxes ; works out
steadily hour after hour their probable incidence, first of one,
then of another. Nothing disturbs him. With the orator it
is different. During that whole process he is disturbed by
the vision of his hearers. How they will feel, how they will
think, how they will like his proposals — cannot but occur to
him. He hears his ideas rebounding in the cheers of his
hearers ; he is disheartened, at fancying that they will fall
[tamely on an inanimate and listless multitude. He is subject
I to two temptations ; he is turned aside from the conceptions
VOL. IIL 19
2 90 MR. GLADSTONE
natural to the subject by an imagination of his audience ; his
own eager temperament naturally inclines him to the views
which will excite that audience most effectually. The tran-
quil deposit of ordinary ideas is interrupted by the sudden
eruption of volcanic forces. We know that the popular in-
stinct suspects the judgment of great orators ; we know that
it does not give them credit for patient equanimity ; and the
popular instinct is right.
Nor is cool reflection the only higher state of mind whicl
the oratorical impulse interferes with ; we believe that it is
singularly unfavourable also to the exercise of the higher kinx
of imagination. Several great poets have written good di
matic harangues ; but no great practical orator has ever writ!
a great poem. The creative imagination requires a singular
calm : it is " the still unravished bride of quietness," as th(
poets say, " the foster-child of silence and slow time "-1 N<
great work has ever been produced except after a long intervs
of still and musing meditation. The oratorical impulse inter-
feres with this. It breaks the exclusive brooding of the mine
upon the topic ; it brings in a new set of ideas, the faces of
the audience and the passions of listening men ; it jerks the
mind, if the expression may be allowed, just when the delicat
poetry of the mind is crystallising into symmetry. The prc
cess is stayed, and the result is marred.
Mr. Gladstone has suffered from both these bad effects
the oratorical temperament. His writings, even on imagin-
ative subjects, even on the poetry of Homer, are singularly
devoid of the highest imagination. They abound in acute
remarks ; they excel in industry of detail ; they contain many
animated and some eloquent passages. But there is no central
conception running through them ; there is no binding idea ii
them ; there is nothing to fuse them together ; they are elal
ate aggregates of varied elements ; they are not shaped an<
consolidated wholes. Nor, it is remarkable, has his style
delicate graces which mark the productions of the gentle an<
meditative mind ; there is something hard in its textui
something dislocated in its connections. In his writii
1 Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn.
MR. GLADSTONE 291
rhere he is removed from the guiding check of the listening
udience, he starts off, just where you least expect it. He
urries from the main subject to make a passing and petty
emark. As he has not the central idea of his work vividly
efore him, he overlays it with tedious, accessory, and some-
mes irrelevant detail.
His intellect has suffered also. He is undeniably defective
n the tenacity of first principle. Probably there is nothing
hich he would less like to have said of him, and yet it is
ertainly true. We speak, of course, of intellectual consistency,
ot of moral probity. And he has not an adhesive mind;
uch adhesiveness as he has is rather to projects than principles.
Ve will give — it is all we have space to give — a single re-
larkable instance of his peculiar mutability. He has adhered
n the year 1 860 to his project of reducing the amount levied
England by indirect taxation. He announced in 1853 that
e would do so, and, what was singular enough, he was able
o do it when the time came. But this superficial consistency
ust not disguise from us the entire inconsistency in abstract
rinciple between the Budget of 1853 and the Budget of 1860.
he most important element in English finance at present is
le income-tax. In 1853 that tax was, Mr. Gladstone ex-
lained to us, an occasional, an exceptional, a sacred reserve,
t had done much that was wonderful for our fathers in the
rench war ; Sir R. Peel had used it with magical efficiency
n our own time ; but it was to be kept for first-rate objects.
1860 the income-tax has become the tax of all work.
Whatever is to be done, whatever other tax is to be relinquished,
is but a penny more or a penny less of this ever-ready and
mnipotent impost. We do not blame Mr. Gladstone for
langing his opinion. We believe that an income-tax of
oderate amount should be a permanent element in our
nancial system. We think that additions to it from time to
me are the best ways of meeting any sudden demand for
xceptional expenditure. But we cannot be unaware of the
nsition which he has made. His opinion as to our most
emarkable tax has varied, not only in detail but in essence,
t was to be a rare and residuary agency ; it is now a permanent
19*
292 MR. GLADSTONE
and principal force. The inconsistency goes further. He
used to think that he would be guilty of a " high political
offence " if he altered the present mode of assessing the
income-tax, if he equalised the pressure on industrial and
permanent incomes. But he is now ready to consider any
plan with that object — in other words, he is ready to do it if
he can. A great change in his fundamental estimate of our
greatest tax has made an evident and indisputable change in
his mode of viewing proposed reforms and alterations in it.
Mr. Gladstone's inclination — his unconscious inclination
for the art of advocacy — increases his tendency to suffer from
the characteristic temptations of his oratorical temperament.
It is scarcely necessary to say that professional advocacy is
unfavourable to the philosophical investigation of truth ; a
more battered commonplace cannot be found anywhere. To
catch at whatever turns up in favour of your own case ;
be obviously blind to everything which tells in favour of tl
case of your adversary ; to imply doubts as to principl<
which it is not expedient to deny ; to suggest with delicat
indirectness the conclusive arguments in favour of principle
which it is not wise directly to affirm — these, and such
these, are the arts of the advocate. A political orator hj
them almost of necessity, and Mr. Gladstone is not exem]
from them. Indeed, without any fault of his own, he
them, if not to an unusual extent, at least with a very unusu?
conspicuousness. His vehement temperament, his " intern
and glowing mind," 1 drive him into strong statements, int
absolute and unlimited assertions. He lays down a princi]
of tremendous breadth to establish a detail of exceedii
minuteness. He is not a " hedging " advocate. He does nc
understand the art which Hume and Peel — different as
their respective spheres — practised with almost equal effect
those spheres. Mr. Gladstone dashes forth to meet his'
opponents. He will believe easily — he will state strongly
whatever may confute them. An incessant use of ingenious
and unqualified principles is one of Mr. Gladstone's most
prominent qualities; it is unfavourable to exact consistency
1 Wordsworth, The Excursion.
MR. GLADSTONE
293
of explicit assertion, and to latent consistency of personal
belief. His scholastic intellect makes matters worse. He will
show that any two principles are or may be consistent ; that
if there is an apparent discrepancy, they may still, after the
manner of Oxford, " be held together ". One of the most
remarkable of Father Newman's Oxford Sermons explains
how science teaches that the earth goes round the sun, and
how Scripture teaches that the sun goes round the earth ; and
it ends by advising the discreet believer to accept both. Both,
it is suggested, may be accommodations to our limited intellect
— aspects of some higher and less discordant unity. We have
often smiled at the recollection of the old Oxford training in
watching Mr. Gladstone's ingenious " reconcilements ". It
must be pleasant to have an argumentative acuteness which
is quite sure to extricate you, at least in appearance, from any
intellectual scrape. But it is a dangerous weapon to use, and
particularly dangerous to a very conscientious man. He will
not use it unless he believes in its results ; but he will try to
believe in its results, in order that he may use it. We need
not spend further words in proving that a kind of advocacy
at once acute, refined, and vehement, is unfavourable both to
consistency of statement and to tenacious sluggishness of belief.
In this manner, the disorganising effects of his greatest
peculiarities have played a principal part in shaping Mr.
Gladstone's character and course. They have helped to make
him annoy the old Whigs, confound the country gentlemen,
and puzzle the nation generally. They have contributed to
bring on him the long array of depreciating adjectives, " ex-
travagant," "inconsistent," "incoherent," and "incalculable".
Mr. Gladstone's intellectual history has aggravated the
unfavourable influence of his characteristic tendencies. Such
a mind as his required, beyond any man's, the early inculcation
of a steadying creed. It required that the youth, if not the
child, should be father to the man : it required that a set of
fixed and firm principles should be implanted in his mind in
its first intellectual years — that those principles should be
precise enough for its guidance, tangible enough to be com-
monly intelligible, true enough to stand the wear and tear of
294
MR. GLADSTONE
ordinary life. The tranquil task of developing coherent
principle might have calmed the vehemence of Mr. Gladstone's
intellectual impulses — might have steadied the impulsive dis-
cursiveness of his nature. A settled and plain creed, which
was in union with the belief of ordinary men, might have kept
Mr. Gladstone in the common path of plain men — might have
made him intelligible and safe. But he has had no such good
fortune. He began the world with a vast religious theory ;
he embodied it in a book on Church and State ; he defended
it, as was said, mistily — at any rate, he defended it in a manner
which requires much careful pains to appreciate, and much
preliminary information to understand ; he puzzled
ordinary mass of English Churchmen ; he has been half out of
sympathy with them ever since. The creed which he has
chosen, or which his Oxford training stamped upon him, was
one not likely to be popular with common Englishmen. It
had a scholastic appearance and a mystical essence which they
dislike almost equally. But this was not its worst defect.
It was a theory which broke down when it was tried. It was
a theory with definite practical consequences, which no one in
these days will accept — which no one in these days will prc
pose. It was a theory to be shattered by the slightest touch
of real life, for it had a definite teaching which was inconsistent
with the facts of that life — which all persons who were engaged
in it were, on some ground or other, unanimous in rejecting.
In Mr. Gladstone's case it had been shattered. He maintained,
that a visible Church existed upon earth ; that every State
was bound to be directed by that Church ; that all members
of that State should, if possible, be members of that Church
that at any rate none of the members should be utterly oul
of sympathy with her ; that the State ought to aid her in h<
characteristic work, and refrain from aiding her antagonists in
that work ; that within her own sphere the Church, though
thus aided, is substantially independent ; that she has an
absolute right to elect her own bishops, to determine her owr
creed, to make her own definitions of orthodoxy and heresy.
This is the high Oxford creed, and, in all essential points, it
was Mr. Gladstone's first creed.
MR. GLADSTONE 295
But a curious series of instructive events proved that
England at least would not adopt it, — that the actual Church
of England is not the Church of which it speaks, — that the
actual English State is by no means the State of which it
speaks. The additional endowment of the Maynooth College
which Sir Robert Peel proposed was an express relinquishment
of the principle that the Church of England had an exclusive
right to assistance from the State ; it proved that the Con-
servative party — the special repository of constitutional
traditions — was ready to aid a different and antagonistic
communion. The removal of the Jewish disabilities struck a
still deeper blow : it proved that persons who could not be
said to participate in even the rudiments of Anglican doctrine
might be Prime Ministers and rulers in England. The theory
of the exclusive union of a visible Church with a visible State
vanished into the air. The real world would not endure it.
We fear it must be said that the theory of the substantial
independence of the English Church has vanished too. The
case of Dr. Hampden proved conclusively that the intervention
of the English Church in the election of her bishops was an
ineffectual ceremony; that it could not be galvanised into
effective life ; that it was one of those lingering relics of the
past which the steady English people are so loth to disturb.
Undisputed practice shows that the Prime Minister, who is
clearly secular prince, is the dispenser of ecclesiastical dignities.
And the judgment of her Majesty's Council in the Gorham
case went further yet. It touched on the finest and tenderest
point of all. It decided that, on the critical question, heresy
or no heresy, the final appeal was not to an ecclesiastical court,
but to a lay court — to a court, not of saintly theologians, but
of tough old lawyers, to men of the world most worldly. The
Oxford dream of an independent Church, the Oxford
dream of an exclusive Church, are both in practice forgotten ;
their very terms are strange in our ears ; they have no reference
to real life. Mr. Gladstone has had to admit this. He has
voted for the endowment of Maynooth ; he has voted for the
admission of Jews to the House of Commons ; he has ac-
quiesced in the Hampden case; he sees daily the highest
296
MR. GLADSTONE
patronage of the Church distributed by Lord Palmerston, the
very man who, on any high-church theory, ought not to dis-
pense it, to the very men who, on any high-church theory,
ought not to receive it. He wrote a pamphlet on the Gorham
case, but he does not practically propose to alter the constitu-
tion of the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council ; he has
never proposed to bring in a bill for that purpose ; he ac-
quiesces in the supreme decision of the most secular court
which can exist over the most peculiarly ecclesiastical ques-
tions that can be thought of. These successive changes do
credit to Mr. Gladstone's good sense ; they show that he has
a susceptible nature, that he will not live out of sympathy
with his age. But what must be the effect of such changes
upon any mind, especially on a delicate and high-toned mind ?
They tend, and must tend, to confuse the first principles of
belief; to disturb the best landmarks of consistency; to leave
the mind open to attacks of oratorical impulse ; to foster the
catching habit of advocacy ; to weaken the guiding element in
a disposition which was already defective in that element. The
" movement of 1833," as Father Newman calls it, has wrecked
many fine intellects, has broken many promising careers. It
could not do either for Mr. Gladstone, for his circumstances
were favourable, and his mental energy was far too strong ;
but it has done him harm, nevertheless : it has left upon his
intellect a weakening strain and a distorting mark.
Mr. Gladstone was a likely man to be enraptured with the
first creed with which he was thrown, and to push it too far.
He wants the warning instincts. Some one said of him
formerly, " He may be a good Christian, but he is an atrocious
pagan " ; and the saying is true. He has not a trace of the
protective morality of the old world, of the modus in rebus>
the pea-ov, the shrinking from an extreme, which are the pro-
minent characteristics of the ethics of the old world, which are
still the guiding creed of the large part of the world that is,—
scarcely altered after two thousand years. And this much we
may concede to the secular moralists — unless a man have
from nature a selective tact which shuns the unlimited, unless
he have a detective instinct which unconsciously but sensitively
MR. GLADSTONE 297
shrinks from the extravagant, he will never enjoy a placid life,
he will not pass through a simple and consistent career. The
placid moderation which is necessary to coherent success
cannot be acquired, it must be born.
Perhaps we may seem already to have more than ac-
counted for the prominence of Mr. Gladstone's characteristic
defects. We may seem to have alleged sufficient reasons for
his being changeable and impulsive, a vehement advocate and
an audacious financier. But we have other causes to assign
which have aggravated these faults. We shall not, indeed,
after what we have said, venture to dwell on them at length.
We will bear in mind the precept, " If you wish to exhaust
your readers, exhaust your subject ". But we will very slightly
allude to one of them.
A writer like Mr. Gladstone, fond of deriving illustration
from the old theology, might speak of public life in England
as an economy. It is a world of its own, far more than most
Englishmen are aware of. It presents the characters of public
men in a disguised form ; and by requiring the seeming adop-
tion of much which is not real, it tends to modify and to
distort much which is real. An English statesman in the
present day lives by following public opinion ; he may profess
to guide it a little ; he may hope to modify it in detail ; he may
help to exaggerate and to develop it ; but he hardly hopes for
more. Many seem not willing to venture on so much. And
what does this mean except that such a statesman has to
follow the varying currents of a varying world ; to adapt his
public expressions, if not his private belief, to the tendencies
of the hour ; to be in no slight measure the slave — the petted
and applauded slave, but still the slave — of the world which
he seems to rule ? Nor is this all. A Minister is not simply
the servant of the public, he is likewise the advocate of his
colleagues. No one supposes that a Cabinet can ever agree ;
when did fifteen able men — fifteen able men, more or less rivals
— ever agree on anything ? We are aware that differences of
opinion, more or less radical, exist in every Cabinet ; that the
decisions of every Cabinet are in nearly every case modified by
concession ; that a minority of the Cabinet frequently dissents
298 MR. GLADSTONE
from them. Yet all this latent discrepancy of opinion is never
hinted at, much less is it ever avowed. A Cabinet Minister
comes down to the House habitually to vote and occasionally
to speak in favour of measures which he much dislikes, from
which he has in vain attempted to dissuade his colleagues.
The life of a great Minister is the life of a great advocate. No
life can be imagined which is worse for a mind like Mr. Glad-
stone's. He was naturally changeable, susceptible, prone to
unlimited statements — to vehement arguments. He has
followed a career in which it is necessary to follow a changing
guide and to obey more or less, but always to some extent, a
fluctuating opinion ; to argue vehemently for tenets which you
dislike ; to defend boldly a given law to-day, to propose boldly
that the same law should be repealed to-morrow. Accumulated
experience shows that the public life of our Parliamentary
statesmen is singularly unsteadying, is painfully destructive of
coherent principle ; and we may easily conceive how dangerous
it must be to a mind like Mr. Gladstone's — to a mind, by its
intrinsic nature, impressible, impetuous, and unfixed.
What, then, is to be the future course of the remarkabl<
statesman whose excellences and whose faults we have vei
tured to analyse at such length ? No wise man would ven-
ture to predict. A wise man does not predict much in this
complicated world, least of all will he predict the exact
course of a perplexing man in perplexing circumstances. ' But
we will hazard three general remarks.
First, Mr. Gladstone is essentially a man who cannot im-
pose his creed on his time, but must learn his creed of his time.
Every Parliamentary statesman must, as we have said, do so in
some measure ; but Mr. Gladstone must do so above all men.
The vehement orator, the impulsive advocate, the ingenious but
somewhat unsettled thinker, is the last man from whom we
should expect an original policy, a steady succession of mature
and consistent designs. Mr. Gladstone may well be the ex-
positor of his time, the advocate of its conclusions, the admired
orator in whom it will take pride ; but he cannot be more.
Parliamentary life rarely admits the autocratic supremacy of an
original intellect ; the present moment is singularly unfavour-
able to it ; Mr. Gladstone is the last man to obtain it.
MR. GLADSTONE
299
Secondly, Mr. Gladstone will fail if he follow the seductive
example of Sir Robert Peel. It is customary to talk of the
unfavourable circumstances in which the latter was placed, but
in one respect those circumstances were favourable. He had
very unusual means of learning the ideas of his time. They
were forced upon him by a loud and organised agitation. The
repeal of the corn-laws, the repeal of the Catholic disabilities —
the two Acts by which he will be remembered — were not chosen
by him, but exacted from him. The world around him
clamoured for them. But no future statesman can hope to
have such an advantage. The age in which Peel lived was an
age of destruction : the measures by which he will be remem-
bered were abolitions. We have now reached the term of the
destructive period. We cannot abolish all our laws ; we have
few remaining with which educated men find fault. The ques-
tions which remain are questions of construction — how the lower
classes are to be admitted to a share of political power without
absorbing the whole power ; how the natural union of Church
and State is to be adapted to an age of divided religious opinion,
and to the necessary conditions of a Parliamentary government.
These, and such as these, are the future topics of our home
policy. And on these the voice of the nation will never be
very distinct. Destruction is easy, construction is very diffi-
cult A statesman who will hereafter learn what our real
public opinion is, will not have to regard loud agitators, but
to disregard them ; will not have to yield to a loud voice, but
to listen for a still small voice ; will have to seek for the opinion
which is treasured in secret rather than for that which is noised
abroad. If Mr. Gladstone will accept the conditions of his age ;
if he will guide himself by the mature, settled, and cultured
reflection of his time, and not by its loud and noisy organs;
if he will look for that which is thought, rather than for that
which is said — he may leave a great name, be useful to his
country, may steady and balance his own mind. But if not,
not. The coherent efficiency of his career will depend on the
the guide which he takes, the index which he obeys, the Scupwv
which he consults.
There are two topics which are especially critical. Mr.
3oo
MR, GLADSTONE
Gladstone must not object to war because it is war, or to
expenditure because it is expenditure. Upon these two points
Mr. Gladstone has shown a tendency — not, we hope, an uncon-
trollable tendency, but still a tendency — to differ from the
best opinion of the age. He has been unfortunately placed.
His humane and Christian feeling are opposed to war ; he has
a financial ideal which has been distorted, if not destroyed, by
a growing expenditure. But war is often necessary ; finance is
not an end ; money is but a means. A statesman who would
lead his age must learn its duties. It may be that the defence
of England, the military defence, is one of our duties. If so,
we must not sit down to count the cost. If so, it is not the
age for arithmetic. If so, it is for our statesmen — it is
especially for Mr. Gladstone, who is the most splendidly gifted
amongst them — to sacrifice cherished hopes ; to forego treasured
schemes ; to put out of their thoughts the pleasant duties of a
pacific time ; to face the barbarism of war ; to vanquish the in-
stinctive shrinkings of a delicate mind.
Lastly, Mr. Gladstone must beware how he again commits
himself to a long period of bewildering opposition. Office is a
steadying situation. A Minister has means of learning from his
colleagues, from his subordinates, from unnumbered persons
who are only too ready to give him information, what the truth
is, and what public opinion is. Opposition, on the other hand,
is an exciting and a misleading situation. The bias of every
one who is so placed is to oppose the Ministry. Yet on a
hundred questions the Ministry are likely to be right. They have
special information, long consultations, skilled public servants
to guide them. On most points there is no misleading motive.
Every Minister decides, to the best of his ability, upon most of
the questions which come before him. A bias to oppose him,
therefore, is always dangerous. It is peculiarly dangerous to
those in whom the contentious impulse is strong, whose life is
in debate. If Mr. Gladstone's mind is to be kept in a useful
track, it must be by the guiding influence of office, by an ex-
emption from the misguiding influence of opposition.
No one desires more than we do that Mr. Gladstone's
future course should be enriched, not only with oratorical fame,
MR. GLADSTONE 301
but with useful power. Such gifts as his are amongst the rarest
that are given to men ; they are amongst the most valuable ;
they are singularly suited to our Parliamentary life. England
cannot afford to lose such a man. If in the foregoing pages
we have seemed often to find fault, it has not been for the
sake of finding fault. It is necessary that England should
comprehend Mr. Gladstone. If the country have not a true
conception of a great statesman, his popularity will be ca-
pricious, his power irregular, and his usefulness insecure.
MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
JAMES WILSON.1
(1860.)
PERHAPS some of the subscribers to the Economist would
not be unwilling to read a brief memoir of Mr. Wilson, even
if the events narrated were in no respect peculiar. They
might possibly be interested in the biography of an author of
whose writings they have read so many, even if the narrative
related no marked transitions and no characteristic events.
But there were in Mr. Wilson's life several striking changes.
The scene shifts from the manufactory of a small Scotch
hatter in a small Scotch town, to London — to the Imperial
Parliament — to the English Treasury — to the Council Board
of India. Such a biography may be fairly expected to have
some interest. The life perhaps of no Political Economist has
been more eventful.
James Wilson was born at Hawick, in Roxburghshire,
on 3rd June, 1805. His father, of whose memory he always
spoke with marked respect, was a thriving man of business,
extensively engaged in the woollen manufacture of that place.
He was the fourth son in a family of fifteen children, of whom,
however, only ten reached maturity. Of his mother, who
died when he was very young, he scarcely retained any
remembrance in after-life. As to his early years little is now
recollected, except that he was a very mild and serious boy,
usually successful during school hours, but not usually suc-
cessful in the play-ground.
As Mr. Wilson's father was an influential Quaker, he was
1 This was published as a supplement to the Economist, soon after
Mr. Wilson's death in 1860,
302
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JAMES WILSON 303
sent when ten years old to a Quaker school at Ackworth,
where he continued for four years. At that time — it may
surprise some of those who knew him in later life to be told
— he was so extremely fond of books as to wish to be a
teacher ; and as his father allowed his sons to choose their line
in life, he was sent to a seminary at Earl's Colne in Essex,
to qualify himself for that occupation. But the taste did not
last long. As we might expect, the natural activity of his
disposition soon induced him to regret his choice of a seden-
tary life. He wrote to Hawick, "I would rather be the most
menial servant in my father's mill than be a teacher " ; and
he was permitted to return home at once.
Many years later he often narrated that after leaving
Earl's Colne, he had much wished to study for the Scottish
Bar, but the rules of the Society of Friends, as then under-
stood, would not allow his father to consent to the plan. He
was sometimes inclined half to regret that he had not been
able to indulge this taste, and he was much pleased at being
told by a great living advocate that " if he had gone to the
Bar he would have been very successful ". But at the time
there was no alternative, and at sixteen he accordingly com-
menced a life of business. He did not, however, lose at once
his studious predilections. For some years at least he was
in the habit of reading a good deal, very often till late in the
night. It was indeed then that he acquired almost all the
knowledge of books which he ever possessed. In later life he
was much too busy to be a regular reader, and he never
acquired the habit of catching easily the contents of books or
even of articles in the interstices of other occupations. What-
ever he did, he did thoroughly. He would not read even an
article in a newspaper if he could well help doing so ; but if
he read it at all, it was with as much slow, deliberate atten-
tion as if he were perusing a Treasury minute.
At the early age we have mentioned he commenced his
business life by being apprenticed to a small hat manufacturer
at Hawick ; and it is still remembered that he showed re-
markable care and diligence in mastering all the minutice of
the trade. There was, indeed, nothing of the amateur man
304 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
of business about him at any time. After a brief interval his
father purchased his master's business for him and for an
elder brother, named William, and the two brothers in con-
junction continued to carry it on at Hawick during two 01
three years with much energy. So small a town, however,
as Hawick then was, afforded no scope for enterprise in thi<
branch of manufacture, and they resolved to transfer them-
selves to London.
Accordingly, in 1824, Mr. Wilson commenced a mercantile
life in London (the name of the firm being Wilson, Irwii
& Wilson), and was very prosperous and successful foi
many years. His pecuniary gains were considerable, and to
the practical instruction which he then obtained he always
ascribed his success as an economist and a financier. " Be-
fore I was twenty years of age," he said at Devonport in
1859, "I was partner in a firm in London, and I can only say,
if there is in my life one event which I regard with satisfactior
more than another, it is that I had then an opportunity of ol
taining experience by observation which has contributed ii
the main to what little public utility I have since been to
country. During these few years I became acquainted-
well acquainted — with the middle classes of this country.
I also became acquainted in some degree with the workii
classes; and also, to a great extent, with the foreign com-
merce of this country in pretty nearly all parts of the world
and I can only say the information and the experience I thi
derived have been to me in my political career of greal
benefit than I can now describe."
In 1831 the firm of Wilson, Irwin & Wilson was di<
solved by mutual consent. But Mr. Wilson (under the fii
of James Wilson & Co.) continued to carry on the sai
kind of business, and continued to obtain the same su<
He began in 1824 with £2000, the gift of his father, and ii
1837 was worth nearly £25,000 — a fair result for so short
period, and evincing a steady business-like capacity and judg-
ment; for it was the fruit not of sudden success in casu<
speculation, but of regular attention during several years
one business. From circumstances which we shall presently
JAMES WILSON 305
state, he was very anxious that this part of his career should
be very clearly understood.
During these years Mr. Wilson led the life of a prosperous
and intellectual man of business. He married,1 and formed
an establishment suitable to his means, first near his manu-
factory in London, and afterwards at Dulwich. He took
great pleasure in such intellectual society as he could obtain ;
was specially fond of conversing on political economy, politics,
statistics, and the other subjects with which he was subse-
quently so busily occupied.2 Through life it was one of his
remarkable peculiarities to be a very animated man, talking by
preference and by habit on inanimate subjects. All the verve,
vigour, and life which lively people put into exciting pursuits,
he put into topics which are usually thought very dry. He
discussed the Currency or the Corn-laws with a relish and
energy which made them interesting to almost every one.
" How pleasant it is," he used to say, " to talk a subject out,"
and he frequently suggested theories in the excitement of
conversation upon his favourite topics which he had never
thought of before, but to which he ever afterwards attached,
as was natural, much importance. The instructiveness of his
conversation was greatly increased as his mind progressed
and his experience accumulated. But his genial liveliness
and animated vigour were the same during his early years of
business life as they were afterwards when he filled important
offices of State in England and in Calcutta. Few men can
have led a more continuously prosperous and happy life than
1 He was married on 5th January, 1832, to Miss Elizabeth Preston, of
Newcastle, and this has given rise to a statement that he was once in
business at Newcastle. This is, however, an entire mistake. He was
never in business anywhere except at Hawick and London. It may be
added, that on the occasion of his marriage he voluntarily ceased to be a
member of the Society of Friends, for whom he always, however, retained
a high respect. During the rest of his life he was a member of the Church
of England.
2 Among his friends of this period, should be especially mentioned Mr.
G. R. Porter, of the Board of Trade, the author of The Progress of the
Nation, whose mind he described twenty years later as the most accurate
he had ever known.
VOL. III. 20
306 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
he did during those years. Unfortunately it was not to
continue.
In 1836, or thereabouts, Mr. Wilson was unfortunatel;
induced to commence a speculation in indigo, in conjunctioi
with a gentleman in Scotland. It was expected that indig<
would be scarce, and that the price would rise rapidly ii
consequence. Such would indeed appear to have been th<
case for a short period, since the first purchases in whicl
Mr. Wilson took part yielded a profit. In consequence
this success, he was induced to try a larger venture, — indeec
to embark most of his disposable capital. Unfortunately,
the severe crisis of 1837 disturbed the usual course of all
trades, and from its effect or from some other cause, indigo,
instead of rising rapidly, fell rapidly. The effect on Mr.
Wilson's position may be easily guessed. A very great
capitalist would have been able to hold till better times, but
he was not. " On ist January," he said at Devonport, "in
given year, my capital was nearer £25,000 than £24,1
and it was all lost." Numerous stories were long circulatec
most of them exaggerated, and the remainder wholly untru<
as to this period of misfortune in Mr. Wilson's life ; but tl
truth is very simple. As is usual in such cases, various
arrangements were proposed and agreed to, were afterwai
abandoned, and others substituted for them. A large bundle
of papers carefully preserved by him records with the utmos
accuracy the whole of the history. The final result will
best described in his own words at Devonport, which pi
cisely correspond with the balance sheets and other document
still in existence. They are part of a speech in answer to
calumnious rumour that had been circulated in the town : —
" Now, how did I act on this occasion ? and this is whs
this placard has reference to. By my own means alone,
was enabled at once to satisfy in full all claims against
individually, and to provide for the early payment of om
half of the whole of the demands against the firm, consistii
of myself and three partners. I was further enabled, or
firm was enabled, at once to assign property of sufHcie
value, as was supposed, to the full satisfaction of the whol
JAMES WILSON 307
of the remainder of the liabilities. An absolute agreement
was made, an absolute release was given, to all the partners ;
there was neither a bankruptcy nor insolvency, neither was
the business stopped for one day. The business was con-
tinued under the new firm, with which I remained a partner,
and from which I ultimately retired in good circumstances.
Some years afterwards it turned out that the foreign property
which was assigned for the remaining half of the debts of the
old firm, of which I was formerly a partner, proved insuffi-
cient to discharge them. The legal liability was, as you
know, all gone ; the arrangement had been accepted — an
arrangement calculated and believed by all parties to be
sufficient to satisfy all claims in full ; but when the affairs of
the whole concern were fully wound up, finding that the
foreign property had not realised what was anticipated, I had
it, I am glad to say, in my power to place at my banker's,
having ascertained the amount, a sum of money to discharge
all the remainder of that debt, which I considered morally,
though not legally, due. This I did without any kind of
solicitation — the thing was not named to me, and I am quite
sure never were the gentlemen more taken by surprise than
when a friend of mine waited on them privately in London,
and presented each of them with a cheque for the balance
due to them. Now, perhaps, I have myself to blame for this
anonymous attack. I probably brought it on myself, for I
always felt that if this matter were made public, it might
look like an act of ostentatious obtrusion on my part, and
therefore, when I put aside the sum of money necessary for
the purpose, I made a request, in the letter I wrote to my
bankers, desiring them as an especial favour that they would
instruct their clerks to mention the matter to no one ; and in
I order that it should be perfectly private, I employed a per-
| sonal friend of my own in the city of London, in whose care
I placed the whole of the cheques, to wait on those gentle-
I men and present each of them with a cheque, and I obtained
I from him a promise, and he from them, not to name the
circumstance to any one." The secrecy thus enjoined was
I well preserved. Many of the most intimate friends of Mr.
20*
3o8 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
Wilson, and his family also, were entirely unacquainted with
what he had done, and learnt it only through the accidental
medium of an electioneering speech. It may be added, too,
that some of those who knew the circumstances, and who have
watched Mr. Wilson's subsequent career, believe that at no
part of his life did he show greater business ability, self-com-
mand, and energy, than at the crisis of his mercantile mis-
fortunes.
It is remarkable that the preface to Mr. Wilson's first
pamphlet, on the Influences of the Corn-laws ', is dated i:
March, 1839, the precise time at which he was negotiating
with his creditors for a proper arrangement of his affairs
and to those who have had an opportunity of observing
completely pecuniary misfortune unnerves and unmans m(
— mercantile men, perhaps, more than any others — it wil
not seem unworthy of remark that a careful pamphlet, wil
elaborate figures, instinct in every line with vigour and enei
should emanate from a man struggling with extreme pecuniar
calamity, and daily harassed with the painful details of it.
After 1839 Mr. Wilson continued in business for sevei
years, and with very fair success, considering that his capil
was much diminished, and that the hat manufacture was in
state of transition. He finally retired in 1844, and invest*
most of his capital in the foundation and extension of tl
Economist.
These facts prove, as we believe, the conclusion which ru
was very desirous to make clear — that, though unfortunate
a particular occasion, Mr. Wilson was by no means, as a rul(
unsuccessful in business. He did not at all like to have it saic
that he was fit to lay down the rules and the theory of busii
but not fit to transact business itself. And the whole of hi
life, on the contrary, proves that he possessed an unusi
capacity for affairs — an extraordinary transacting ability.
It may, however, be admitted that Mr. Wilson was
several respects by no means an unlikely man to meet, especially
in early life, with occasional misfortune. To the last hour of
his life he was always sanguine. He naturally looked at every-
thing in a bright and cheerful aspect ; his tendency was always
JAMES WILSON 309
to form a somewhat too favourable judgment both of things
and men. One proof of this may be sufficient : he was five
years Secretary of the Treasury, and he did not leave it a
suspicious man.
Moreover, Mr. Wilson's temperament was very active and
his mind was very fertile. And though in many parts of
business these gifts are very advantageous, in many also they
are very dangerous, if not absolutely disadvantageous. Fre-
quently they are temptations. Capital is always limited ; often
it is very limited ; and therefore a man of business, who is
managing his own capital, has only defined resources, and can
engage only in a certain number of undertakings. But a person
of active temperament and fertile mind will soon chafe at that
restriction. His inventiveness will show him many ways in
which money might easily be made, and he cannot but feel
that with his energies he would like to make it. If he have
besides a sanguine temperament, he will believe that he can
make it. The records of unfortunate commerce abound in
instances of men who have been unsuccessful because they had
great mind, great energy, and great hope, but had not money
in proportion. Some part of this description was, perhaps,
applicable to Mr. Wilson in 1839, but exactly how much
cannot, after the lapse of so many years, be now known with
any accuracy.
Mr. Wilson's position in middle life was by no means un-
suitable to a writer on the subjects in which he afterwards
attained eminence. He had acquired a great knowledge of
business through a long course of industrious years ; he had
proved by habitual success in business that his habitual judg-
ment on it was sound and good. If he had been a man of
only ordinary energy and only ordinary ability, he would pro-
bably have continued to grow regularly richer and richer. But
by a single error natural to a very sanguine temperament and
a very active mind, he had destroyed a great part of the results
of his industry. He had a new career to seek. He was
willing to expend on it the whole of his great energies. He
was ready to take all the pains which were necessary to fit
himself for success. When he wrote his first pamphlet he used
3io MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
to say that he thought " the sentences never would come right ".
In later life he considered three leading articles in the Economist^
full of facts and figures, an easy morning's work, which woul<
not prevent his doing a good deal else too. Mr. Wilson
a finished man of business obliged by necessity to become
writer on business. Perhaps no previous education and m
temporary circumstances could be conceived more likely
train a great financial writer and to stimulate his powers.
In 1839 Mr. Wilson published his Influences of the Corn-
laws ; in 1840, the Fluctuations of Currency ', Commerce^
Manufactures ; in 1841, The Revenue ; or, What should t>
Chancellor do ? in September, 1 843, he established the Economist.
The origin of the latter may be interesting to our readers. Mr.
Wilson proposed to the editor of the Examiner that he shoul<
furnish gratuitously a certain amount of writing to that journal
on economic and financial subjects ; but the offer was declined,
though with some regret, on account of the expense of type
and paper. A special paper was, therefore, established, which
proved in the end as important as the Examiner itself. From
the first, Mr. Wilson was the sole proprietor of the Economist,
though he obtained pecuniary assistance — especially from th<
kindness of Lord Radnor. He embarked some capital of his
own in it from the first, and afterwards repaid all loans made
to him for the purpose of establishing it.
It would not be suitable to the design of this memoir
give any criticism of Mr. Wilson's pamphlets, still less wouh
it become the Economist to pronounce in any manner a judg-
ment on itself. Nevertheless, it is a part of the melancholy
duty we have undertaken to give some account of Mr. Wilson's
characteristic position as a writer on Political Economy, am
of the somewhat peculiar mode in which he dealt with that
subject.
Mr. Wilson dealt with Political Economy like a practu
man. Persons more familiar with the literature of scienc
might very easily be found. Mr. Wilson's faculty of reading
was small, nor had he any taste for the more refined abstrac-
tions in which the more specially scientific political economist
had involved themselves, " Political Economy," said Sydi
JAMES WILSON 31 1
Smith, " is become in the hands of Malthus and Ricardo, a
school of metaphysics. All seem to agree what is to be done ;
the contention is how the subject is to be divided and defined.
Meddle with no such matters." We are far from alleging that
this saying is just ; nor would Mr. Wilson have by any means
assented to it. But though he would have disavowed it in
theory, it nevertheless embodies his instinctive feeling and
characteristic practice. He " meddled with no such matters " ;
though he did not deny the utility of theoretical refinements,
he habitually and steadily avoided them.
Mr. Wilson's predominating power was what may be called
a business imagination. He had a great power of conceiving
transactions. Political economy was to him the science of
buying and selling, and of the ordinary bargains of men he
had a very steady and distinct conception. In explaining such
subjects he did not begin, as political economists have been
wittily said to do, with " Suppose a man upon an island," but
" What they do in the city is this. The real course of business
is so and so." Most men of business will think this character-
istic a great merit, aad even a theoretical economist should not
consider it a defect. The practical value of the science of
political economy (the observation is an old one as to all
sciences) lies in its " middle principles ". The extreme abstrac-
tions from which such intermediate maxims are scientifically
deduced lie at some distance from ordinary experience, and
are not easily made intelligible to most persons, and when they
are made intelligible, most persons do not know how to use
them. But the intermediate maxims themselves are not so
difHcult ; they are easily comprehended and easily used. They
have in them a practical life, and come home at once to the
"business" and the "bosoms" of men. It was in these that
Mr. Wilson excelled. His "business imagination" enabled
him to see "what men did," and "why they did it"; "why
they ought to do it," and "why they ought not to do it".
His very clear insight into the real nature of mercantile trans-
actions made him a great and almost an instinctive master ot
statistical selection. He could not help picking out of a mass
of figures those which would tell most. He saw which were
312 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
really material ; he put them prominently and plainly forward,
and he left the rest alone. Even now if a student of Parlia-
mentary papers should alight on a return " moved for by Mr.
Wilson," he will do well to give to it a more than ordinary
attention, for it will be sure to contain something attainable,
intelligible, and distinct.
Mr. Wilson's habit of always beginning with the facts,
always arguing from the facts, and always ending with a result
applicable to the facts, obtained for his writings an influence
and a currency more extensive than would have been antici-
pated for any writings on political economy. It is not for the
Economist to speak of the Economist ; but we may observe
that through the pages of this journal certain doctrines,
whether true or false, have been diffused far more widely than
they ever were in England before — far more widely than from
their somewhat abstract nature we could expect them to
be diffused — far more widely than they are diffused in any
other country but this. The business-like method and vigor-
ous simplicity of Mr. Wilson's arguments converted very many
ordinary men of business, who would have distrusted any
theoretical and abstruse disquisition, and would not have
appreciated any elaborate refinements. Nor was this special
influence confined to mercantile men. It penetrated where
it could not be expected to penetrate. The Duke of Welling-
ton was, perhaps, more likely to be prejudiced against a
theoretical political economist than any eminent man of his
day ; he belonged to the " pre-scientific period " ; he had much
of the impatient practicality incident to military insight ; he
was not likely to be very partial to the "doctrines of Mr.
Huskisson " ; — nevertheless, the Duke early pointed out Mr.
Wilson's writings to Lord Brougham as possessing especi;
practical value ; and when the Duke at a much later peri(
was disposed to object to the repeal of the Navigation Laws,
Mr. Wilson had a special interview to convince him of its
expediency.
Nor is this faculty of exposition by any means a trifling
power. On many subjects it is a common saying " that he
only discovers who proves " ; but in practical politics we may
JAMES WILSON 313
almost say that he only discovers who convinces. It is of no
use to have practical truths received by extraordinary men,
unless they are also accepted by ordinary men. Whether
Mr. Wilson was exactly a great writer, we will not discuss :
but he was a great belief -producer ; he had upon his own sub-
jects a singular gift of efficient argument — a peculiar power of
bringing home his opinions by convincing reasons to convinc-
ible persons.
The time at which Mr. Wilson commenced his career as an
economical writer was a singularly happy one. An economi-
cal century has elapsed since 1839. The Corn-laws were then
in full force, and seemed likely to continue so ; the agri-
culturists believed in them, and other classes acquiesced in
them ; the tentative reforms of Mr. Huskisson were half for-
gotten ; our tariff perhaps contained some specimen of every
defect — it certainly contained many specimens of most defects ;
duties abounded which cramped trade, which contributed
nothing to the Exchequer, which were maintained that a
minority might believe they profited at the expense of the
majority ; all the now settled principles of commercial policy
were unsettled ; the " currency " was under discussion ; the
Bank of England had been reduced to accept a loan from the
Bank of France ; capitalists were disheartened and operatives
disaffected ; the industrial energies, which have since multiplied
our foreign commerce, were then effectually impeded by legis-
lative fetters and financial restraints. On almost all of these
restraints Mr. Wilson had much to say.
Upon the Corn-laws Mr. Wilson developed a theory which
was rare when he first stated it, but which was generally
adopted afterwards, and which subsequent experience has con-
firmed. He was fond of narrating an anecdote which shows
his exact position in 1839. There had just been a meeting of
the Anti-Corn-law League at Manchester, and some speakers
had maintained, with more or less vehemence, that the coming
struggle was to be one of class against class, inasmuch as the
Corn-laws were beneficial to the agriculturists, though they
were injurious to manufacturers. The tendency of the argu-
ment was to set one part of the nation against another part.
314 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
Mr. Wilson was travelling in the North, and was writing in a
railway carriage part of the Influences of the Corn-laws. By
chance a distinguished member of the League, whom Mr.
Wilson did not know, happened to travel with him, and asked
him what he was about. " I am writing on the Corn-laws,'
said Mr. Wilson, "something in answer to the rubbish they
have been talking at Manchester." " You are a bold man," was
the reply ; " Protection is a difficult doctrine to support by
argument ". But it soon appeared that Mr. Wilson was the
better Free-trader of the two. He held that the Corn-laws
were injurious to all classes ; that the agriculturists suffered
from them as much as the manufacturers ; that, in consequence,
it was " rubbish" to raise a class-enmity on the subject, for
the interest of all classes was the same.
" We cannot too much lament," he says in his Influences of the Corn-
laws, " and deprecate the spirit of violence and exaggeration with which
this subject has always been approached by each party, which no doubt
has been the chief cause why so little of real truth or benefit has resulted
from the efforts of either ; the arguments on either side have been sup-
ported by such absurd and magnified statements of the influences of those
prohibitory laws on their separate interests, as only to furnish each other
with a good handle to turn the whole argument into ridicule. It therefore
appears to be necessary to a just settlement of this great question, that
these two parries should be first reconciled to a correct view of the real
influences thus exerted over their interests, and the interests of the country
at large ; to a conviction that the imaginary fears of change on the one
hand, and the exaggerated advantages expected on the other hand, are
equally without foundation ; that there are in reality no differences in the
solid interests of either party ; and that individuals, communities, or
countries can only be prosperous in proportion to the prosperity of the
whole." And he proposed to prove "that the agricultural interest has
derived no benefit, but great injury, from the existing laws ; and that the
fears and apprehensions entertained of the ruinous consequences which
would result to this interest by the adoption of a free and liberal policy
with respect to the trade in corn, are without any foundation ; that the
value of this property, instead of being depreciated, in the aggregate,
would be rather enhanced, and the general interests of the owners most
decidedly enhanced thereby ; " and, " that while incalculable benefit would
arise to the manufacturing interest and the working population generally,
in common with all classes of the community, from the adoption of such
policy, nothing can be more erroneous than the belief that the price of
provisions or labour would on the average be thereby cheapened, but
JAMES WILSON 315
that, on the contrary, the tendency would rather be to produce, by a state
of generally increased prosperity, a higher average rate of each ".
Whatever might be thought in 1839, in 1860 we can on
one point have no doubt whatever. The repeal of the Corn-
laws has been followed by the exact effect which Mr. Wilson
anticipated. Whether his argument was right or wrong, the
result has corresponded with his anticipation. The agricul-
turists have prospered more — the manufacturers, the merchants,
the operatives, all classes in a word, have prospered more
since the Corn-laws were repealed, than they ever did before.
As to abstract questions of politics there will always be many
controversies ; but upon a patent contemporaneous fact of this
magnitude there cannot be a controversy.
It is indisputable also that, for the purposes of the Anti-
Corn-law agitation, Mr. Wilson's view was exceedingly op-
portune. Mr. Cobden said not long ago (we quote the
substance correctly even if the words are wrong), " I never
made any progress with the Corn-law question while it was
stated as a question of class against class ". And a careful
inquirer will find that such is the real moral of the whole
struggle. If it had continued to be considered solely or
mainly as a manufacturer's question, it might not have been
settled to this hour. In support of this opinion, Mr. Wilson
made many speeches at the meetings of the Anti-Corn-law
League, though he had little taste for the task of agitation.
We cannot give even an analysis of Mr. Wilson's argu-
ments— our space is too brief — but we will enumerate one or
two of the principal points.
He maintained that, under our protective laws, the agri-
culturists never had the benefit of a high price, and always
suffered the evil of a low price. When our crop was scanty,
it was necessary to sell the small quantity at a high price, or
the farmer could not be remunerated. But exactly at that
moment foreign corn was permitted by law to be imported.
In consequence, during bad years the farmer was exposed to
difficulty and disaster, which were greater because, in ex-
pectation of an English demand, large stocks were often
hoarded on the Continent, and at once poured in to prevent
3i6 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
the home-grower compensating himself for a bad harvest by
an equivalent rise of price.
Nor was the farmer better off in very plentiful years.
There was a surplus in this country, and that surplus could
not be exported, for the price of wheat was always lower
abroad than here. The effect is evident. As corn is an
article of the first necessity, a certain quantity of it will always
be consumed, but more than that quantity will not .be readily
consumed. A slight surplus is, therefore, invariably found
to lower the price of such articles excessively. In very good
years the farmer had to sell his crop at an unremuneratingly
low price, while in very bad years he was prevented from
obtaining the high price which alone could compensate him
for his outlay. Between the effects of the two sorts of years
his condition was deplorable, and Parliamentary committees
were constantly appointed to investigate it.
Mr. Wilson also explained how much these fluctuations
in price contracted the home demand for agricultural produce.
The manufacturing districts were, he showed, subjected by
the Corn-laws to alternate periods of great excitement and
great depression. When corn was very cheap, the mass of
the community had much to spend on other things ; when
corn was very dear, they had very little to spend on those
things. In consequence, the producers of " other things "
were sometimes stimulated by a great demand, and at other
times deadened by utter slackness. The labouring classes
in the manufacturing districts acquired in periods of plenty
a certain taste for what to them were luxuries, and in periods
of scarcity were naturally soured at being deprived of them.
The manufacturers were frequently induced to invest addi-
tional capital by sudden angmentations of demand, and were
often ruined by its sudden cessation. It was therefore
impossible that the manufacturing classes could be steady
customers of the agriculturists, for their own condition was
fluctuating and unsteady.
Mr. Wilson also showed that if the landed interest was
injured by the effects of the Corn-laws, this was of itself
enough to injure the manufacturing interests.
JAMES WILSON 317
"The connection," he wrote, "between the manufacturer and the
landed interest in this country is much closer than is generally admitted
or believed ; not only is the manufacturer dependent on the landed
interest for the large portion of his goods which they immediately con-
sume, but also for a very large portion of what he exports to the most distant
countries. All commerce is, either directly or indirectly, a simple ex-
change of the surplus products of one country for those of another.
It is therefore a first essential that we should be able to take the cotton
of America, the sugar and coffee of India, the silk and teas of China,
before they can take our manufactures ; and if this be necessary, then
must it follow that in proportion to the extent to which we can take their
produce, will they be enabled to take our manufactures. Therefore,
whatever portion of these products is consumed in this country by the
landed interest, must to that extent enable the manufacturer to export
his goods in return ; and thus any causes which increase this ability on
the part of the landed interest to consume, must give a corresponding
additional ability to the manufacturers to export. Every pound of coffee
or sugar, every ounce of tea, every article of luxury, the produce of
foreign climes, whether consumed within the castles and halls of our
wealthiest landowners, or in the humble cottages of our lowliest peasantry,
alike represent some portion of the exports of this country. On the
other hand, the dependence of the landowner is no less twofold on the
manufacturer and merchant. He is not only dependent upon them for
their own immediate consumption, but also for the consumption of what-
ever food enters into the cost price of their goods. Although the English
farmer does not export his corn or his other produce in the exact shape
and form in which he produces them, they constitute not the less on that
account a distinct portion of the exports of this country, and that in the
best of all possible forms. Just as much as the manufacturer exports the
wool or the silk which enters into the fabrics of those materials, does he
export the corn which paid for the labour of spinning and weaving them.
It would be an utter impossibility that this country could consume its
agricultural produce but for our extensive manufacturing population ; or
that the value of what would be consumed could be near its present rate.
If without this aid our agricultural produce were as great as it now is,
a large portion would have to seek a market in distant countries : it
would then have to be exported in the exact form in which it is produced ;
the expenses of which being so large would reduce very greatly from its
value and net price, and the landed interest would be immediately affected
thereby. But, as it is, the produce of the land is exported in the con-
densed form of manufactured goods, at a comparatively trifling expense,
which secures a high value to it here. Thus, for example, a few bales
of silk or woollen goods may contain as much wheat in their value as
would freight a whole ship. To this advantage the landed interest is
indebted, exclusively, for the very superior value of property and produce
318 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
in this country to any other ; because, by our great manufacturing
superiority, a market is found for our produce over the whole world,
conveyed in the cheapest and most condensed form. While the Chinese,
or Indians, buy our cottons, our silks, or our woollens, they buy a portion
of the grain and other produce of the land of this country ; and therefore
the producer here, while indulging in the delicacies or luxuries of Oriental
climes, may only be consuming a portion of the golden heads of wheat
which had gracefully waved in his own fields at a former day. Is it not,
therefore, sufficiently clear that no circumstance whatever can either
improve or injure one of these interests without immediately in the same
way affecting the other ? The connection is so close that it is impossible
to separate or distinguish them. Any circumstance which limits our
commerce must limit our market for agricultural produce ; and any
possible circumstance which deteriorates the condition of our agricul-
turists must deteriorate our commerce, by limiting our imports, and con-
sequently our exports. These are general principles, and are capable of
extension to the whole world, in all places, and at all times ; and the
same principle as is thus shown to connect and combine the different
interests of any one country, just as certainly operates in producing a
similar effect between different countries ; and we ardently hope, ere long,
to find not only the petty jealousies between different portions of the same
community entirely removed, but that all countries will learn that a free
and unrestricted co-operation with each other in matters of commerce
can only tend to the general benefit and welfare of all. "
We do not say that these propositions were exactly dis-
coveries of Mr. Wilson. During the exciting discussion of
a great public question, the most important truths which
relate to it are "in the air" of the age; many persons see
them, or half see them ; and it is impossible to trace the
precise parentage of any of them. But we do say that these
opinions were exactly suited to the broad and practical
understanding of Mr. Wilson ; that they were very effectively
illustrated by him — more effectively probably than by any
other writer ; that he thought them out for himself with but
little knowledge of previous theories ; that they, principally,
raised Free-trade from a class question to a national question ;
that to them, whether advocated by Mr. Wilson or by others,
the success of the Anti-Corn-law agitation was in a great
measure owing ; that whatever doubt may formerly have been
felt, an ample trial has now proved them to be true.
Mr. Wilson's pamphlet entitled The Revenue; or, What
JAMES WILSON 319
should the Chancellor do ? which attracted considerable atten-
tion when it was published in 1841, is worth reading now,
though dated so many years ago ; for it contains an outline of
the financial policy which Sir Robert Peel commenced, and
which Mr. Gladstone has now almost completed. This pam-
phlet, which is not very short (it has twenty-seven moderate
pages), was begun as an article for the Morning Chronicle, but
proved too long for that purpose. It was written with almost
inconceivable rapidity — nearly all, we believe, in a single night
— though its principles and its many figures will bear a critical
scrutiny even now.
In the briefest memoir of Mr. Wilson it is necessary to say
something of the currency ; but it will not be advisable to say
very much. If, however, we could rely on the patience of our
readers, we should say a good deal. On no subject, perhaps,
did Mr. Wilson take up a more characteristic position. He
saw certain broad principles distinctly and steadily, and to
these he firmly adhered, no matter what refined theories were
suggested, or what the opinion of others might be.
Mr. Wilson was a stern bullionist. He held that a five-
pound note was a promise to pay five pounds. He answered
Sir R. Feel's question, "What is a pound?" with Sir Robert's
own answer. He said it was a certain specified quantity of
gold metal. He held that all devices for aiding industry
by issuing inconvertible notes were certainly foolish, and might
perhaps be mischievous. He held that industry could only be
really aided by additional capital — by new machines, new in-
struments, new raw material ; that an addition to a paper
currency was as useless to aid deficient capital as it was to feed
a hungry population.
Mr. Wilson held, secondly, that the sine qud non, the great
prerequisite to a good paper currency, was the maintenance of
an adequate reserve by the issuer. He believed that a banker
should look at his liabilities as a whole — the notes which he
has in circulation and the deposits he has in his ledger taken
together ; and should retain a sufficient portion of them (say
one-third) in cash, or in something equivalent to cash, in daily
readiness to pay them at once. Mr. Wilson considered that
320 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
bankers might be trusted to keep such a reserve, as they would
be ruined, sooner or later, if they did not ; and if the notes
issued by them were always convertible at the pleasure of the
holder, he believed that the currency would never be depreci-
ated.
He thought, however, that, as bank-notes must pass froi
hand to hand in the market, and as in practice most persons
most traders, especially — must take them in payment whethe
they wish to do so or not, some special security might properl]
be required for their payment. He would have allowed any
one who liked to issue bank-notes on depositing Consols to a
sufficient amount — the amount, that is, of the notes issued, am
an adequate percentage in addition.
Lastly, Mr. Wilson believed that the bank-note circulatioi
exercised quite a secondary and unimportant influence upoi
prices and upon transactions, in comparison with the auxiliai
currency of cheques and credits, which has indefinitely aug-
mented during the last thirty years. So far from regarding
the public as constantly ready for an unlimited supply of bank-
notes, he thought that it was only in times of extreme panic,
when this auxiliary currency is diminished and disturbed, that
the bank-notes in the hands of the public either could or woul(
be augmented. He believed that the public only kept in theii
hands as many notes as they wanted for their own convenienc
and that all others were in the present day paid back to the
banker immediately and necessarily.
Unfortunately, however, the currency is not discussed
England with very exact reference to abstract principles. Th(
popular question of every thinker is, "Are you in favour
Peel's Bill, or are you against it?" And this mode of discuss-
ing the subject always placed Mr. Wilson in a position of some
difficulty. He concurred in the aim of Sir R. Peel, but ol
jected to his procedure. He wished to secure the convertibility
of the bank-note. He believed that the Act of 1844 indirectly
induced the Bank Directors to keep more bullion than the}
would keep otherwise, and in so far he thought it beneficial
but he also thought that the advantages obtained by it wei
purchased at a needless price ; that they might have
JAMES WILSON 321
obtained much more cheaply ; that the machinery of the Act
aggravated every panic ; that it tended to fix the attention of
the public on bank-notes, and so fostered the mischievous de-
lusion that the augmented issue of paper currency would
strengthen industry ; that it neglected to take account of other
forms of credit which are equally important with bank-notes ;
that, "for one week in ten years " — the week of panic — it created
needless and intense apprehension, and so tended to cause the
ruin of some solvent commercial men. In brief, though he
fully believed the professed object of Sir R. Peel — the converti-
bility of the bank-note — to be beneficial and inestimable, he as
fully believed the special means selected by him to be incon-
venient and pernicious.
Opinions akin to Mr. Wilson's, if not identical with them,
are very commonly now entertained, both by practical men of
business and by professional economists. The younger school
of thinkers who have had before them the working of the Act
of 1844 and the events of 1847 and 1857, and are not com-
mitted by any of the older controversies, are especially inclined
to them. Yet from peculiar causes they have not been so
popular as Mr. Wilson's other opinions. His views of finance
and of the effect of Free-trade, which were half heresies when
he announced them, have now become almost axioms. But
the truth of his currency theory is still warmly controverted.
The reason is this : Sir R. Peel's Act is a sort of compromise
which is suited to the English people. It was probably in-
tended by its author as a preliminary step; it undoubtedly
suits no strict theory ; it certainly has great marks of incom-
pleteness ; but, "it works tolerably well" ; if it produces evils
at a crisis, " crises come but seldom " ; in ordinary times com-
merce " goes on very fairly ". The pressure of practical evil
upon the English people has never yet been so great as to
induce them to face the unpleasant difficulties of the abstract
currency question. Mr. Wilson's opinions have, therefore,
never been considered by practical men for a practical object,
and it is only when so considered that any opinions of his can
be duly estimated. Their essentially moderate character, too,
is unfavourable to them — not, indeed, among careful inquirers,
VOL. III. 21
322 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
but in the hubbub of public controversy. The only great party
which has as yet attacked Sir Robert Peel's Bill is that which
desires an extensive issue of inconvertible currency ; but to
them Mr. Wilson was as much opposed as Sir Robert Peel
himself. The two watchwords of the controversy are " caution "
and "expansion": the advocates of the Act of 1844 have
seized on the former, the Birmingham school on the latter ;
the intermediate, and, as we think, juster, opinions of Mr.
Wilson have had no party cry to aid them, and they have not as
yet therefore obtained the practical influence which he never
ceased to anticipate and to hope for them. No more need be
said upon the currency question — perhaps we have already said
too much ; but to those who knew Mr. Wilson well, no subject
is more connected with his memory : he was so fond of expound-
ing it, that its very technicalities are, in the minds of some,
associated with his voice and image.
But it was not by mere correctness of economical specula-
tion that Mr. Wilson was to rise to eminence. A very accurate
knowledge of even the more practical aspects of economical
science is not of itself a productive source of income. By th<
foundation of the Economist Mr. Wilson secured for himself,
during the rest of his life, competence and comfort, but it wa<
not solely or simply by writing good political economy in it.
The organisation of a first-rate commercial paper in 1843
required a great inventiveness and also a great discretion.
Nothing of the kind then existed ; it was not known what the
public most wished to know on business interests ; the best
shape of communicating information had to be invented in de-
tail. The labour of creating such a paper, and of administering
it during its early stages is very great ; and might well deter
most men even of superior ability from attempting it At this
period of his life Mr. Wilson used to superintend the whole of
the Economist ; to write all the important leaders, nearly all of
the unimportant ones ; to make himself master of every com-
mercial question as it arose ; to give practical details as to the
practical aspects of it ; to be on the watch for every kind of
new commercial information ; to spend hours in adapting it
to the daily wants of commercial men. He often worked till
JAMES WILSON 323
far into the morning, and impressed all about him with wonder
at the anxiety, labour, and exhaustion he was able to undergo.
As has been stated, for some months after the commencement
of the Economist he was still engaged in his former business ;
and after he relinquished that, he used to write the City article
and also leaders for the Morning Chronicle, at the very time
that he was doing on his own paper far more than most men
would have had endurance of mind or strength of body for.
Long afterwards he used to speak of this period as far more
exhausting than the most exhausting part of a laborious public
life. " Our public men," he once said, " do not know what
anxiety means ; they have never known what it is to have their
own position dependent on their own exertions." In 1843,
and for some time afterwards, he had himself to bear extreme
labour and great anxiety together ; and even his iron frame
was worn and tired by the conjunction.
Within seven years from the foundation of the Economist^
Mr. Wilson dealt effectively and thoroughly with three first-
rate subjects — the railway mania, the famine in Ireland, and
the panic of 1 847, in addition to the entire question of Free-
trade, which was naturally the main topic of economical teach-
ing in those years. On all these three topics he explained
somewhat original opinions, which were novelties, if not para-
doxes then, though they are very generally believed now. To
his writings on the railway mania he was especially fond of re-
curring, since he believed that by his warnings, very effectively
brought out and very constantly reiterated, he had "saved
several men their fortunes" at that time.
The success of the Economist, and the advantage which the
proprietor of it would derive from a first-hand acquaintance
with political life, naturally led him to think of gaining a seat
in Parliament, and an accidental conversation at Lord Radnor's
table fixed his attention on the borough of Westbury. After
receiving a requisition, he visited the place, explained his
political sentiments at much length "from an old cart," and
believed that he saw sufficient chances of success to induce him
to take a house there. He showed considerable abilities in
electioneering, and a close observer once said of him, " Mr
21*
324 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
Wilson may, or may not, be the best political economist in
England, but depend upon it he is the only political economist
who would ever come in for the borough of Westbury".
Though nominally a borough, the constituency is half a rural
one, much under the influence of certain Conservative squires.
The Liberal party were in 1 847 only endeavouring to emanci-
pate themselves from a yoke to which they have now again
succumbed. Except for Mr. Wilson's constant watchfulness,
his animated geniality, his residence on the spot, his knowledge
of every voter by sight, the Liberal party might never have
been successful there. A certain expansive frankness of manner
and a wonderful lucidity in explaining his opinions almost to
any one, gave Mr. Wilson great advantages as a popular candi-
date ; and it was very remarkable to find these qualities con-
nected with a strong taste for treating very dry subjects upoi
professedly abstract principles. So peculiar a combination had
the success which it merited. In the summer of 1847 he was
elected to serve in Parliament for Westbury.
Mr. Wilson made his first speech in the House of Commons
on the motion for a Committee to inquire into the commercial
distress at that time prevalent. And it was considered an ac
of intellectual boldness for a new member to explain his opinion'
on so difficult a subject as the currency, especially as they w<
definitely opposed to a measure supported by such overwheli
ing Parliamentary authority as the Act of 1844 then w<
Judging from the report in " Hansard," and from the recolh
tions of some who heard it, the speech was a successful one
It is very clear and distinct, and its tone is very emphatic
without ever ceasing to be considerate and candid. It contaii
a sufficient account of Mr. Wilson's tenets on the currency —
so good an account, indeed, that when he read it ten ye
later, in the panic of 1857, he acknowledged that he did n<
think he could add a word to it. At the time, however, the
test of its Parliamentary success was not the absolute correct-
ness of its abstract principles, but, to use appropriate ai
technical language, " its getting a rise out of Peel ". Sir
Robert had used some certainly inconclusive arguments it
1 On 30th November, 1847.
JAMES WILSON 325
favour of his favourite measure, and Mr. Wilson made that in-
conclusiveness so very clear that he thought it necessary to rise
" and explain," which, on such a subject, was deemed at the
moment a great triumph for a first speech.
As might be expected from so favourable a commencement,
Mr. Wilson soon established a Parliamentary reputation. He
was not a formal orator, and did not profess to be so. But he
had great powers of exposition, singular command of telling
details upon his own subjects, a very pleasing voice, a grave but
by no means inanimate manner — qualities which are amply
sufficient to gain the respectful attention of the House of Com-
mons. And Mr. Wilson did gain it. But speaking is but
half, and in the great majority of cases by far the smaller half,
of the duties of a member of Parliament. Mr. Wilson was fond
of quoting a saying of Sir R. Peel's, "That the way to get on
in the House of Commons was to take a place and sit there ".
He adopted this rule himself, was constant in his attendance
at the House, a good listener to other men, and always ready
to take trouble with troublesome matters. These plain and
business-like qualities, added to his acknowledged ability and
admitted acquaintance with a large class of subjects upon
which knowledge is rare, gave Mr. Wilson a substantial influence
in the House of Commons in an unusually short time. The
Corn-laws had been repealed, the pitched battle of Free-trade
had been fought and won, but much yet remained to be done
in carrying out its principles with effective precision, in apply-
ing them to articles other than corn, in exposing the fallacies
still abundantly current, and in answering the exceptional case
which every trade in succession set up for an exceptional pro-
tection. These were painful and complex matters of detail,
wearisome to very many persons, and rewarding with no eclat
those who took the trouble to master and explain them. But
Mr. Wilson shrank from no detail. For several years before
he had a seat in the House, he had been used to explain such
topics in countless conversations with the most prominent Free-
traders and in the Economist. He now did so in the House of
Commons, and his influence correspondingly increased. He
was able to do an important work better than any one else
326 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
could do it ; and, in English public life, real work rightly done
at the right season scarcely ever fails to meet with a real re-
ward.
That Mr. Wilson early acquired considerable Parliamentary
reputation is evinced by the best of all proofs. He was offered
office before he had been six months in the House of Com-
mons, though he had, as the preceding sketch will have made
evident, no aristocratic connections — though he was believed to
be a poorer man than he really was — though writing political
articles for newspapers has never been in England the sure
introduction to political power which it formerly was in France
— though, on the contrary, it has in general been found a
hindrance. In a case like Mr. Wilson's, the prize of office was
a sure proof of evident prowess in the Parliamentary arena.
The office which was offered to Mr. Wilson was one of the
Secretaryships of the Board of Control. Mr. Wilson related at
Hawick his reluctance to accept it, and his reason. Never
having given any special attention to Indian topics, he thought
it would be absurd and ridiculous in him to accept an office
which seemed to require much special knowledge. But Lord
John Russell, with "that knowledge of public affairs which
long experience ensures," at once explained to him that a
statesman, under our Parliamentary system, must be prepared
to serve the Queen " whenever he may be called on " ; and ac-
cordingly that he must be ready to take any office which he
can fill, without at all considering whether it is that which he
can best fill. After some deliberation, Mr. Wilson acknow-
ledged the wisdom of this advice, and accepted the office
offered him. Long afterwards, in the speech at Hawick to
which we have alluded, he said that without the preliminary
knowledge of India which he acquired at the Board of Control,
he should never have been able to undertake the regulation of
her finances.
When once installed in his office, he devoted himself to it
with his usual unwearied industry. And at least on one oc-
casion he had to deal with a congenial topic. The introduction
of railways into India was opposed on many grounds, most of
which are now forgotten — such as " the effect upon the native
JAMES WILSON 327
mind," " the impossibility of inducing the Hindoos to travel
in that manner," and the like ; and more serious difficulties
occurred in considering the exact position which the Govern-
ment should assume with regard to such great undertakings
in such singular circumstances — the necessity, on the one hand,
in an Asiatic country where the State is the sole motive power,
of the Government's doing something — and the danger, on
the other hand, of interfering with private enterprise, by its
doing, or attempting to do, too much. Mr. Wilson applied
himself vigorously to all these difficulties ; he exercised the
whole of his personal influence, and the whole of that which
was given to him by his situation, in dissipating the fanciful
obstacles which were alleged to be latent in the unknown
tendencies of the Oriental mind ; while he certainly elaborated
— and he believed that he originally suggested — the peculiar
form of State guarantee upon the faith of which so many
millions of English capital have been sent to develop the in-
dustry of India.
Besides discharging the duties of his office, Mr. Wilson re-
presented the Government of the day on several Committees
connected with his peculiar topics, and especially on one which
fully investigated the Sugar question. Of the latter, indeed,
he became so fully master that some people fancied he must
have been in the trade ; so complete was the familiarity which
he displayed with " brown muscovado," " white clayed," and
all other technical terms which are generally inscrutably
puzzling to Parliamentary statesmen. On a Parliamentary
Committee Mr. Wilson appeared to great advantage. Though
sufficiently confident of the truth of his own opinions, he had
essentially a fair mind ; he always had the greatest confidence
that if the facts were probed the correctness of what he believed
would be established, and, therefore, he was always ready to
probe the facts to the bottom. He was likewise a great
master of the Socratic art of inquiry ; he was able to frame a
series of consecutive questions which gradually brought an un-
willing or a hostile witness to conclusions at which he by no
means wished to arrive. His examination-in-chief, too, was
as good as his cross-examination, and the animated interest
328 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
which he evinced in the subject relieved the dreariness which
a rehearsed extraction of premeditated answers commonly
involves. The examination of Lord Overstone before the
Committee of 1848 on Commercial Distress, that of Mr.
Weguelin before the Committee on the Bank Acts in 1857,
and several of the examinations before the Committee on Life
Insurance, of which he was the Chairman, may be consulted
as models in their respective kinds. And it should be stated
that no man could be less overbearing in examination or cross-
examination ; much was often extracted from a witness which
he did not wish to state, but it was always extracted fairly,
quietly, and by seeming inevitable sequence.
Mr. Wilson continued at the Board of Control till the re-
signation of Lord John Russell's Cabinet in the spring of 1852.
He took part in the opposition of the Liberal party to Lord
Derby's Government, and was very deeply interested in the
final settlement of the Free-trade question which was effected
by the accession of the Protectionist party to office. After a
very severe contest he was re-elected for Westbury in July,
1852, and on the formation of the Aberdeen Government he
accepted the office of Financial Secretary to the Treasury,
which he continued to hold for five years, until the dissolution
of Lord Palmerston's administration in the spring of 1857, and
upon his efficiency in which his remarkable reputation as an
official administrator was mainly based.
The Financial Secretaryship of the Treasury is by no means
one of the most conspicuous offices in the Government, and
but few persons who have not observed political life closely
are at all aware either of its difficulty or of its importance.
The office is, indeed, a curious example of the half-grotesque
way in which the abstract theory of our historical Constitution
contrasts with its practical working. In the theory of the
Constitution — a theory which may still be found in popular
compendiums — there is an officer called the Lord High
Treasurer, who is to advise the Crown and be responsible to
the country for all public moneys. In practice, there is no
such functionary : by law his office is " in commission
Certain Lords Commissioners are supposed to form a Board
JAMES WILSON 329
at which financial subjects are discussed, and which is respons-
ible for their due administration. In practice, there is no such
discussion and no such responsibility. The functions of the
Junior Lords of the Treasury, though not entirely nominal, are
but slight. The practical administration of our expenditure is
vested in the First Lord of the Treasury, the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, and the Financial Secretary of the Treasury. And
of these three the constitutional rule is, that the First Lord of
the Treasury is only officially responsible for decisions in detail
when he chooses to interfere in those decisions. Accordingly,
when a First Lord, as was the case with Sir R. Peel, takes a
great interest in financial questions, the Chancellor of the Ex-
chequer does the usual work of the Secretary of the Treasury,
and the Secretary of the Treasury has in comparison noth-
ing to do. But when, as was the case in the Governments
of Lord Aberdeen and Lord Palmerston, the P-rime Minister
takes no special interest in finance, the Chancellor of the Ex-
chequer is very fully employed in the transaction of his own
proper business, and an enormous mass of work, some of it
of extreme importance, falls to the Secretary of the Treasury.
Of late years, the growth of the miscellaneous civil expenditure
of the country has greatly augmented that work, great as it
was before. In general, it may be said that the whole of the
financial detail of our national expenditure is more or less con-
trolled by the Secretary of the Treasury ; that much of it is
very closely controlled by him ; and that he has vast powers
of practical discretion, if only he be a man of ability, industry
and courage.
For such an office as this Mr. Wilson had very peculiar
qualifications. He was perfectly sure to be right in a plain
case ; and by far the larger part of the ordinary business of
the Government, as of individuals, consists of plain cases. A
man who is thoroughly sure to decide effectually and correctly
the entire mass of easy, obvious cases, is a safer master of
practical life than one eminently skilled in difficult cases, but
deficient in the more rudimentary qualification. Nor is the
power of certainly deciding plain cases rightly, by any means
very common, especially among very intellectual men. A cer-
330 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
tain taint of subtlety, a certain tendency to be wise above the
case in hand, mars the practical efficiency of many men whose
conversation and whose powers would induce us to expect that
they would be very efficient Mr. Wilson had not a particle ol
these defects. He struck off each case with a certain sledge-
hammer efficiency, and every plain case at least with infallible
accuracy.
It might seem overstrained eulogy — a eulogy which h<
would not have wished — to claim for Mr. Wilson an equall;
infallible power of deciding complicated cases. As to sucl
cases there will always be a doubt. Plain matters speak for
themselves : they do not require a dissertation to elucidate
them : every man of business, as soon as he hears the right
decision of them, knows that it is the right decision. But with
more refined matters it is not so ; as to points involving an ab-
stract theory, like that of the currency, there will and must be
differences of judgment to the end of time. We would not,
therefore, whatever may be our own opinion, claim for Mr.
Wilson as infallible a power of deciding difficult questions
as he certainly possessed of deciding plain questions. Bui
we do claim for him even in such matters the greatest s(
ondary excellence, if indeed, a secondary excellence it
Mr. Wilson was perfectly certain to be intelligible on the most
difficult case. Whether he did right or did wrong, must,
we have said, be from the nature of the subject-matter vei
arguable. But what he did, and why he did it, was nevei
in doubt for a moment. The archives of the Treasury contaii
countless minutes from his pen, many of them written witl
what most men would call rapidity, just while the matter We
waiting for decision, and on all sorts of subjects, many of thei
very complicated ones — yet it may be doubted whether an]
one of those minutes contains a single sentence not thoroughly
and conspicuously clear. The same excellence which has beer
shown in countless articles in the Economist appears in his
business-like documents. Wherever his leading articles wei
written and under whatever circumstances — and some of tl
most elaborate of them were written under rather strange cir-
cumstances (for he could catch up a pen and begin to write or
JAMES WILSON 331
the most involved topic, at any time, in any place, and as a
casual observer would think, without any premeditation) — but
wherever and however these articles might be written, it may
be safely asserted that they do not contain a sentence which a
man of business need read twice over, or which he would not
find easily and certainly intelligible. At the Treasury it was
the same. However complicated and involved the matter to
be decided might be — however much it might be loaded with
detail or perplexed by previous controversy — Mr. Wilson never
failed to make immediately clear the exact opinion he formed
upon it, the exact grounds upon which he formed it, and the
exact course of action which he thought should be adopted
upon it. Many persons well acquainted with practical life will
be disposed to doubt whether extreme accuracy of decision is
not almost a secondary merit as compared with a perfect in-
telligibility. In many cases it may be better to have a decision
which every one can understand, though with some percentage
of error, than an elaborately accurate decision of which the
grounds and reasons are not easily grasped, and a plan of
action which, from its refined complexity, is an inevitable my-
stery to the greater number of practical persons. But, putting
aside this abstract discussion, we say without fear of contradic-
tion or of doubt, that Mr. Wilson added to his almost infallible
power of deciding plain cases, an infallible certainty of being
entirely intelligible in complicated cases. Men of business will
be able to imagine the administrative capacity certain to be pro-
duced by the union of extreme excellence in both qualities.
One subsidiary faculty that Mr. Wilson possessed, which
was very useful to him in the multifarious business of the
Treasury, was an extraordinary memory. On his own sub-
jects and upon transactions in which he had taken a decisive
part, he seemed to recollect anything and everything. He was
able to answer questions as to business transacted at the
Treasury after the lapse of months and even of years without
referring to the papers, and with a perfect certainty of sub-
stantial accuracy. He would say, without the slightest effort
and without the slightest idea that he was doing anything ex-
traordinary : " Such and such a person came to me at the
ise 1 1
;r
332 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
Treasury, and said so and so, and this is what I said to him ".
And it is quite possible that he might remember the precise
sums of money which were the subject of conversation,
more useful memory for the purpose of life was perhaps nev
possessed by any one. In the case of great literary memori
such as that of Lord Macaulay and of others, the fortunate
possessor has a continued source of pleasurable and constantl
recurring recollections ; he has a full mind constantly occupi
with its own contents, recurring to its long-loved passag
from its favourite authors constantly and habitually. Bu
Mr. Wilson never recurred to the transactions in which he h
been engaged except when he was asked about them ; he liv
as little in the past perhaps as is possible for an intellectu
person ; but the moment the spring was touched by a questi
or by some external necessity, all the details of the past tran
action started into his memory completely, vividly, and perfectl
He had thus the advantage of always remembering his busin
and also the advantage of never being burdened by it. Ve
few persons can ever have had in equal measure the two meri
of a fresh judgment and a full mind.
Mr. Wilson's memory was likewise assisted by a very ev
judgment. It was easier to him to remember what he ha
done, because, if he had to do the same thing again, he woul
be sure to do it in precisely the same way. He was not
intolerant person, but the qualities he tolerated least easily we
flightiness and inconsistency of purpose. He had furnished hi
mind, so to say, with fixed principles, and he hated the noti
of a mind which was unfurnished.
All these mental qualities taken together go far to make u
the complete idea of a perfect administrator of miscellaneo
financial business, such as that of the English Treasury now i
And Mr. Wilson had the physical qualities also. An iron co
stitution which feared no labour, and was very rarely incapaci
tated even for an hour by any illness, enabled him to accomplis
with ease and unconsciously an amount of work which few m
would not have shrunk from. In the country, where his habi
were necessarily more obvious, he habitually spent the who
day from eleven till eight, with some slight interval for a sh
JAMES WILSON 333
ride in the middle of the day, over his Treasury bag ; and as
such was his notion of a holiday, it may be easily conceived that
in London, when he had still more to do in a morning, and had
to spend almost every evening in the House of Commons, his
work was greater than an ordinary constitution could have
borne. And it was work of a rather peculiar kind. Some men
of routine habits spend many hours over their work, but do not
labour very intensely at one time ; other men of more excitable
natures work impulsively, and clear off everything they do by
eager efforts in a short time. But Mr. Wilson in some sense
did both. Although his hours of labour were so very protracted,
yet if a casual observer happened to enter his library at any
moment, he would find him with his blind down to exclude all
objects of external interest, his brow working eagerly, his eye
fixed intently on the figures before him, and, very likely, his
rapid pen passing fluently over the paper. He had all the
labour of the chronic worker, and all the labour of the impul-
sive worker too. And those admitted to his intimacy used to
wonder that he was never tired. He came out of his library in
an evening more ready for vigorous conversation — more alive
to all subjects of daily interest — more quick to gain new in-
formation— more ready to expound complicated topics, than
others who had only passed an easy day of idleness or ordinary
exertion.
By the aid of this varied combination of powers, Mr. Wilson
was able to grapple with the miscellaneous financial business
of the country with very unusual efficiency. Most men would
have found the office work of the Secretary of the Treasury
quite enough, but he was always ready rather to take away
labour and responsibilities from other departments than to
throw off any upon them. Nor was his efficiency confined to
the labours of his office. The Financial Secretary of the Trea-
sury has a large part of the financial business of the House of
Commons under his control, and is responsible for its accurate
arrangement. The passing a measure through the House of
Commons is a matter of detail ; and in the case of the financial
measures of the Government, a large part of this — the dullest
part, and the most unenvied — falls to the Secretary of the
334 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
Treasury. He is expected to be the right hand of the Chan-
cellor of the Exchequer in all the most wearisome part of the
financial business of the House of Commons ; and we have
best authority for stating that, under two Chancellors of th<
Exchequer, very different from one another in many respect
Mr. Wilson performed this part of his duties with singular
ciency, zeal, and judgment.
The Financial Secretary of the Treasury is likewise e:
pected to answer all questions asked in the House as to tl
civil estimates — a most miscellaneous collection of figures,
any one may satisfy himself by glancing at them. Mr. Wilson's
astonishing memory and great power of lucid exposition en-
abled him to fulfil this part of his duty with very remarkable
efficiency. He gave the dates and the figures without any note,
and his exposition was uniformly simple, emphatic, and intelli-
gible, even on the most complicated subjects. The great rule,
he used to say, was to answer exactly the exact question ;
you attempted an elaborate exposition, collateral issues wei
necessarily raised, a debate ensued, and the time of the House
was lost.
Mr. Wilson's mercantile knowledge and mercantile sym-
pathies were found to be of much use in the consolidation
the Customs in 1853, and he took great interest in settling
scheme for the payment of the duties in cheques instead of
bank-notes, by which the circulation has been largely econc
mised and traders greatly benefited. During the autumn oi
1857, his long study of the currency question, and his first-ham
conversancy with the business of the City, were valuable aid*
to the Administration of the day in the anxious responsibility
and rapidly shifting scenes of an extreme commercial crisi;
It would be impossible to notice the number of measures ii
which he took part as Secretary of the Treasury, and equally
impossible to trace his precise share in them. That office en-
sures to its holder substantial power, but can rarely give him
legislative fame.
On two occasions during his tenure of office at the Treasury,
Mr. Wilson was offered a different post. In the autumn of 1856
he was offered the Chairmanship of Inland Revenue, a per-
JAMES WILSON 335
manent office of considerable value then vacant, which he de-
clined because he did not consider the income necessary, and
because (what some people would think odd) it did not afford
sufficient occupation. It was a " good pillow," he said, "but
he did not wish to lie down ". The other office offered him
was the Vice-Presidency of the Board of Trade in 1855, which
would have been a step to him in official rank, but which would
have entailed a new election, and he did not feel quite secure
that the electors of Westbury would again return him. He did
not, however, by any means wish for the change, as the Vice-
Presidency of the Board of Trade, though nominally superior,
is in real power far inferior to the Secretaryship of the Treasury.
In the general election of 1857, Mr. Wilson was returned
for Devonport, for which place he continued to sit till his de-
parture for India. He went out of office on the dissolution of
Lord Palmerston's Administration in the spring of 1858, and
took an active part in the Liberal opposition to Lord Derby's
Government, though it may be remarked that he carefully ab-
stained from using the opportunities afforded him by his long
experience at the Treasury, of harassing his less experienced
successors in financial office by needless and petty difficulties.
On the return of the Liberal party to power, Mr. Wilson
was asked to resume his post at the Treasury, but he declined,
as, after five years of laborious service, he wished to have an
office of which the details were less absorbing. He accepted,
however, the Vice-Presidency of the Board of Trade1 — an
office which is not in itself attractive, but which gives its pos-
sessor a sort of claim to be President of the Board at the next
vacancy. The office of President is frequently accompanied
by a seat in the Cabinet, and Mr. Wilson's reputation on all
subjects connected with trade was so firmly established that in
; his case it would have been practically impossible to pass him
! over, even if it had been wished. He had, however, secured so
j firm a position in official circles by his real efficiency, that the
i dispensers of patronage were, as he believed, likely to give him
whatever he desired as soon as the exigencies of party enabled
j them to do so.
1 He was at the same time made a Privy-Councillor.
336 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
He had not been long in office before he had good reason
for thinking that he would be offered by the Government the
office of Financial Member of the Council of India under very
peculiar circumstances. There had never before been such ai
officer. One member of Council had since 1833 been alwai
sent out from England, but he had always been a lawyer, an<
his functions were those of a jurist and a regulative admin-
istrator, not those of a financier. The mutiny of the Sepoj
in 1857 had, however, left behind it a deficit with which the
financiers of India did not seem to be able to cope, and whi<
a cumbrous financial system did not give them the best me
of vanquishing. There was a general impression that soi
one with an English training and English habits of busim
would have a better chance of overcoming the most pressii
difficulty of India than any one on the spot. And there
an equally general impression that if any one were to be
from England to India with such an object, Mr. Wilson w<
the right person. He united high financial reputation, coi
siderable knowledge of India acquired at the Board of Cor
trol, tried habits of business, long experience at the Engli<
Treasury, to the sagacious readiness in dealing with new sit
uations which self-made men commonly have, but which
commonly wanting in others.
On personal grounds Mr. Wilson was disinclined to accej
the office. He was on the threshold of the Cabinet here ;
was entitled by his long tenure of office at the Treasury to
pension which would merge in the salary of Indian Councillor
the emoluments of the latter office were not necessary to hii
his life was very heavily insured for the benefit of his famib
though he had never during his tenure of office at the Treasui
been connected directly or indirectly with any kind of
mercial undertaking (the Economist alone excepted), some ii
vestments which he made in land and securities, entirely
yond the range of politics, had been very fortunate ; since
year 1844 everything of a pecuniary kind in which he
been concerned had not only prospered, but remarkably pi
pered ; he felt himself sufficiently rich to pursue the career
prosperous usefulness and satisfied ambition that seemed to
JAMES WILSON 337
before him here. There was no consideration of private in-
terest which could induce him to undertake anxious and
dangerous duties in India ; he even ran some pecuniary risk in
leaving this country, as it was possible that in the vicissitudes
of newspaper property the Economist might again need the
attention of its proprietor and founder. On public grounds,
however, he believed that it was his duty to accept the office;
he took a keen interest in Indian finance; believed that the
i difficulties of it might be conquered, and thought that in even
\attempting to conquer them he would be doing the greatest and
most lasting public service that it was in his power to accom-
plish.
He accordingly accepted the office of Financial Member of
the Council of India, and proceeded to make somewhat melan-
choly arrangements for leaving this country. He broke up his
(establishment here, bade farewell to his constituents at Devon-
jport and to the inhabitants of his native place, attended some
(influential public meetings in towns deeply interested in the
(commerce of India, and on 2Oth October, 1859, left England,
| as it proved, for ever.
Of Mr. Wilson's policy in India it would not be proper to
j give more than a very brief sketch here. That policy is still
i fresh in the memory of the public ; it has been very frequently
explained and discussed in the Economist ; it is still being
t tried ; and, though he was fully persuaded of the expediency
of his measures, he would not have wished for too warm a
I eulogy of them while they are as yet untested by the event.
I In almost the last letter which the present writer received from
!(him, there was a sort of reprimand for permitting this journal
Ijto draw too great an attention to his plans, and to ascribe the
ji merit of them too exclusively to him, and too little to the
i j Government of which he was a member.
On his arrival in India he found that the Governor-General
i I was on a tour in the Upper Provinces of India, and before
{doing any business of importance at Calcutta he travelled
thither. This journey he thought very advantageous, because
| it gave him a great insight into the nature of the country, and
enabled him to consult the most experienced revenue officers
VOL. in. 22
338 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
of many large districts on their respective resources, and on the
safest mode of making those resources available to the public.
He was much struck with the capabilities of the country, ai
wrote to England in almost so many words " that it was a fii
country to tax". On the other hand, however, he was we
aware of the difficulty of his task. The only two possibl
modes of taxation are direct and indirect, and in the case
India there is a difficulty in adopting either. If we select ii
direct taxation and impose duties on consumable commoditie
the natives of India meet us by declining to consume. The
wants are few, and they will forego most of them if a tax
be evaded thereby. On the other hand, if we adopt in In<
a direct tax on property or income, there is great difficulty
finding out what each man's property or income is. In Ei
land we trust each person to tell us the amount of his incoi
but even here the results are not wholly satisfactory ; and
would be absurd to fancy that we can place as much relian<
upon the veracity of Orientals as upon that of Englishmen.
These difficulties, however, Mr. Wilson was prepared
meet. On i8th February, 1860, he proposed his Budget
the Legislative Council at Calcutta, and the reception given t4
it by all classes was remarkably favourable. He announced,
indeed, a scheme of heavy taxation, but the Indian public had
been living for a considerable time under a sentence of indefinite
taxation, and they were glad to know the worst. Anything
distinct was better than vague suspense, and, as usual, Mr.
Wilson contrived to make his meaning very distinct. His
bearing also exercised a great influence over the Anglo-Indian
public. In England he had been remarkable among official)
men for his constant animation and thorough naturalness
manner ; in his office he was as much himself as at a dinru
table or in the House of Commons ; he had no tinge of su]
cilious politeness or artificial blandness. In any new scene
action — especially in such a scene as British India — the
qualities were sure to tell beneficially. Plain directness
emphatic simplicity were the external qualities most likely
be useful at Calcutta, and these were Mr. Wilson's most
markable qualities.
JAMES WILSON 339
The principal feature of Mr. Wilson's Budget was the
Income Tax, which he avowedly framed after the English
fashion. It is true that but little reliance can, perhaps, be
placed on the statements of Orientals as to their wealth. It is
very possible that the complicated machinery of forms and
notices which is in use here may not be applicable in India.
All this Mr. Wilson well knew. But he thought that our
Indian subjects should have an opportunity of stating their
| income before they were taxed upon it. If they should state
I it untruly, or should decline to state it, it might be necessary
I to tax them arbitrarily. But he did not think it would be
I decent — that it would be civilised — to begin with an arbitrary
I assessment. By the Income Tax Act which he framed, it is
! enacted that other modes may be substituted if in any instance
he English mode of assessment should prove inapplicable. In
>ther words, if our Oriental fellow-subjects will not tell us the
ruth when they are asked, we must tax them as best we
:an, and they cannot justly complain of unfairness and in-
equality. We would have been mathematically just, if they
lad given us the means.
The reception of Mr. Wilson's Budget was universally
"avourable until the publication of the minute of Sir C. Tre-
relyan, which, as was inevitable, produced a serious reaction,
rleavy taxation can never be very pleasant, and in the Pre-
idency of Madras Sir Charles gave the sanction of the Govern-
nent — of the highest authority the people saw — to the hope
hat they would not be taxed. The prompt recall of Sir
Charles, however, did much to convince the natives of the firm
letermination of the English Government, and Mr. Wilson
loped that the ordeal of criticism through which his mea-
ures had to pass would ultimately be favourable to them,
t certainly secured them from the accusation of being pre-
pared in haste, but it purchased this benefit at the loss to the
Dublic of much precious time, and to Mr. Wilson of precious
icalth. Of the substance of this minute it is sufficient to say
hat its fundamental theory that additional taxation of any
tort was unnecessary in India, has scarcely been believed by
22*
340 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
any one except its author. Almost every one has deemed it
too satisfactory to be true.
On another point Mr. Wilson's Budget had been criticised
in England, though not in India. It has been considered to
be a protective Budget. The mistake has arisen from not
attending to what that Budget is. The changes made by Mr.
Wilson in the import duties were two. "The first was a re
duction from twenty to ten per cent, upon a long list of articl<
including haberdashery, millinery, and hosiery, all part of tl
cotton trade ; the second was an increase in the duty upoi
cotton yarn from five to ten per cent, thus creating a unifon
tariff of ten per cent." l Of these two, it is plain the
duction from twenty per cent, to ten was not a change th;
would operate as a protection to Indian industry ; and the ii
crease of the duty on yarn has a contrary tendency. Yarn
an earlier, cloth a later, stage of manufacture, and in Mi
Wilson's own words, "it is a low duty on yarn and a
duty on cloth that encourages native weaving". For tl
effect of the general system of high Customs duties in Indi
Mr. Wilson is not responsible, but his predecessors. What
did has no protective tendency.
If the Income Tax should, as may be fairly hoped, becoi
a permanent part of the financial system of India, it will sei
for a considerable period to keep Mr. Wilson's name alive the
So efficient an expedient must always attract the notice of tl
public, and must in some degree preserve the remembrance
the Minister by whom it was proposed. Mr. Wilson, howeve
undertook two other measures of very great importance.
of these has been frequently described as the introduction inl
India of the English system of public accounts. But it woi
be more truly described as the introduction of a rations
system of public accounts. There are three natural steps
national finance, which are certainly clearly marked in
English system, but which have a necessary existence in<
pendent of that recognition. These three are — first, the
estimate of future expenditure; secondly, what we call
Budget, that is, the official calculation of the income by whi<
1 Economist of 8th Sept., 1860, p. 977.
JAMES WILSON 341
the coming expenditure is to be defrayed ; thirdly, the audit,
which shows what the expenditure has been and how it has
been met. The system of finance which Mr. Wilson found in
India neglected these fundamental distinctions. There were
no satisfactory estimates of future expenditure, and no satis-
factory calculation of future income. In consequence, the
calculations of the official departments have been wrong by
millions sterling, and English statesmen have felt great diffi-
culty not only in saying how the deficit was to be removed,
but likewise in ascertaining what the amount of the deficit was.
At the time of his death Mr. Wilson was eagerly occupied in
endeavouring to introduce a better system.1
Mr. Wilson will likewise be remembered as the first
Minister who endeavoured to introduce into India a Govern-
ment paper currency. On 3rd March, 1860, he introduced
into the Legislative Council an elaborate plan for this purpose,
which, with a slight modification by Sir C. Wood — curious in
the theory of the currency, but practically not very important
—will speedily, it is probable, be the fundamental currency
law— the " Peel's Act " of British India.
The exact mode in which Mr. Wilson regarded these great
objects, will perhaps be better explained by two extracts from
his latest letters than by any other means. On 4th July, he
wrote to a friend : —
" Firmness and justice are the only policy for India : no vacillation,
or you are gone. They like to be governed ; and respect an iron hand, if
it be but equal and just. I have, I think, more confidence than ever that
the taxes will be established and collected, and without disturbance. But
the task is still an enormous one. I must retrench yet at least three and a
half millions, and get the same sum from my new taxes to make both ends
meet. I am putting the screw on very strongly, but rather by an improved
policy in army and police than in reductions of salaries and establishments,
which cannot be made. I have set myself five great points of policy to in-
troduce and carry out : —
"i. To extend a system of sound taxation to the great trading classes,
who hitherto have been exempted, though chiefly benefited by our enor-
mously increased civil expenditure.
" 2. To establish a paper currency.
1 His measures were adopted and are still in use to the great advant-
age of the finance system of India. (ED.)
342 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
" 3. To reform and remodel our financial system by a plan of annual
budgets and estimates, with a Pay Department to check issues, and keep
them within the authorised limits, — and an effective audit.
" 4. A great police system of semi-military organisation, but usual!}
of purely civil application, which, dear though it be, will be cheaper
half a million than our present wretched and expensive system, — and
which we shall be able to reduce our native army to at least one-third ;-
and by which alone we can utilise the natives as an arm of defence with-
out the danger of congregating idle organised masses.
" 5. Public works and roads, with a view to increased production
cotton, flax, wool, and European raw materials.
" The four first I have made great progress in : the latter must follo\
But you will call it ' a large order '. However, you have no idea of tl
increased capacity of the mind for undertaking a special service of this
kind when removed to a new scene of action, and when one throws off
the cares of engagements less or more trivial by which one is surround(
in ordinary life, and throws one's whole soul into such a special servk
and particularly when one feels assured of having the power to carry
out, I cannot tell you with what ease one determines the largest ai
gravest question here compared with in England ; and I am certain tl
the more one can exercise real power, there is by far the greater tendenc
to moderation, care, and prudence."
In a second letter, dated igth July, he wrote to the same
friend from Barrackpore : —
" The Indian Exchequer is a huge machine. The English Treasi
is nothing to it for complexity, diversity, and remoteness of the points
action. Our great enemies are time and distance ; and with all 01
frontier territories there is scarcely a day passes that we have not
account of some row or inroad. It is a most unwieldy Empire to
governed on the principle of forcing civilisation at every point of it. Oi
day it is the Frontier of Scinde and a quarrel with our native chiefs, whi(
our Resident must check ; another it is an intrigue between Herat ai
Cabul, with a report of Russian forces in the background ; the next thei
is a raid upon our Punjab frontiers to be chastised ; then come soi
accounts of coolness, or misunderstanding, or unreasonable demands fr
our ally in Nepaul ; then follow some inroads from the savage trit
which inhabit the mountains to the rear of Assam and up the Burram-
pootra ; then we have reported brawls in Burmah and Pegu, and disputes
among the hill tribes whose relations to the British and the Burmah
Governments are ill defined ; then we have Central India, with our loyal
chiefs Scindiah and Holkar, independent princes with most turbulei
populations, which could not be kept in order a day without the prest
of British troops and of the Governor-General's Agent. Besides all thes
we have among ourselves a thousand questions of internal administi
JAMES WILSON 343
I rendered more difficult by the ill-defined relations between the Supreme
I and the Subordinate Governments — the latter always striving to encroach,
I the former to hold its own. Hence, questions do not come before us
I simply on their merits, but often as involving these doubtful rights. Then
I we have Courts of Justice to reform, as well as all other institutions of a
I domestic kind not to reform alone, but to extend to new territories. Then
1 we have a deficit of ,£7,000,000, and had a Government teaching the
I people that all could be done without new taxes. But unfortunately all,
1 except the taxes, are a present certainty — they are a future contingency.
I What will they yield ? I have no precise knowledge. I think from three
I to four millions a year when in full bloom : this financial year not more
II than a million.
" I have now got a Military Finance Commission in full swing ; a
I Civil Finance Commission also going : I am reorganising the Finance, Pay,
I and Accountant-General's Department, in order to get all the advantage
I of the English system of estimates, Pay Office, and Audit : and this with
I as little disturbance of existing plans as possible. The latter is a point I
i have especially aimed at. On the whole, and almost without an exception,
I I have willing allies in all the existing Offices. No attempt that I see is
I anywhere made to thwart or impede.
" You can well understand, then, how full my hands are, if to all these
j you add the new currency arrangements ; you will not then wonder that
|j my health has rendered it necessary to come down here for a day or two
| to get some fresh air."
It will be observed that in the last extract Mr. Wilson
alludes to his impaired health. For some time after his arrival
in India he seemed scarcely to feel the climate. He certainly
did not feel it as much as might have been anticipated. He
worked extremely hard ; scarcely wrote a private letter, but
devoted the whole of his great energies to the business around
him. His letters for a considerable time abound with such
expressions as " Notwithstanding all my hard work, my health
is excellent ". From the commencement of the rainy season
at Calcutta, however, he ceased to be equally well, his state be-
gan to arouse the apprehensions of experienced observers, and
he was warned that he should retire for a short time to a
better climate. He would not, however, do so until his financial
measures had advanced sufficiently far for him to leave them.
His position was a very peculiar one. In general, if one ad-
ministrator leaves his post, another is found to fill it up. But
Mr. Wilson was a unique man at Calcutta. He was sent
there because he had certain special qualifications which no one
344 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
there possessed ; and, accordingly, he had no one to rely on in,
his peculiar functions save himself. His presence on the spot
was likewise very important The administration of a depart-;
ment can be frequently transacted by letter, but the organisa-
tion of new departments and new schemes requires the
unremitting attention of the organiser — the impulse of hi<
energy. The interest, too, which Mr. Wilson took in public
business was exceptionally great, and no one who knew hii
well would suppose that he would leave Calcutta while necessai
work, or what he deemed so, was to be done there.
Nor was labour the sole trial to which his constitution was
exposed. The success of measures so extensive as his, must
ever be a matter of anxious doubt until the event decides
and in his case there were some momentary considerations tc
aggravate that anxiety. There was no experience of sue!
taxation as he had proposed, and the effect of it must thei
fore be difficult to foresee. Moreover, for a brief period,
famine seemed to be imminent in Upper India, which must have
disturbed the whole operation of his financial schemes. In his
debilitated state of health this last source of anxiety seemed
much to weigh upon him.
About the middle of July he went for a week to Barrack-
pore, near Calcutta. The change was, however, too slight,
and, as might be expected, he returned to Calcutta without
any material benefit. From that time the disease gradually
augmented, and on the evening of 2nd August, he went to bed
never to rise from it again. For many days he continued to
be very ill, and his family experienced the usual alternations
of hope and fear. He was quite aware of his critical state,
and made all necessary arrangements with his habitual deliber-
ation and calmness.
Lord Canning saw him on the 9th for the last time, and
was much struck with the change which illness had made in
him. He believed that he saw death in his face, and was
deeply impressed with the vivid interest which, even in the last
stage of weakness, he took in public affairs, with his keen desire
for the success of his plans, and with the little merit which he
was disposed to claim for his own share in them.
JAMES WILSON 345
It was hoped that he would be strong enough to bear
removal, and it was intended to delay the mail steamer for a
few hours to take him to sea — the usual remedy at Calcutta
for diseases of the climate. But when the time came there
was no chance that his strength would be adequate to the
effort. During the whole of the nth he sank rapidly, and at
half-past six in the evening he breathed his last.
The mourning at Calcutta was more universal than had
ever been remembered. He had not been long in India, but
while he had been there he filled a conspicuous and great part ;
he had done so much, that there were necessarily doubts in
the minds of some as to the expediency of part of it. No
such doubts, however, were thought of now. " That he should
have come out to die here!" — "That he should have left a
great English career for this ! " — were the phrases in every
one's mouth. The funeral was the largest ever known at
Calcutta. It was attended by almost the entire population,
from the Governor-General downwards, and not a single voice,
on any ground whatever, dissented from the general grief.
Very little now remains to be said. A few scattered de-
tails, some of them perhaps trivial, must complete this sketch.
Mr. Wilson's face was striking, though not handsome.
His features were irregular, but had a peculiar look of mind
and energy, while a strongly marked brow and very large
eyebrows gave to all who saw him an unfailing impression of
massive power and firm determination.
Mr. Wilson's moral character in its general features re-
sembled his intellectual. He was not a man of elaborate
scruples and difficult doubts, and he did not much like those
who were. His conscientiousness was of a plain, but very
practical kind ; he had a single-minded rectitude which went
straight to the pith of a moral difficulty — which showed him
what he ought to do. On such subjects he was somewhat
intolerant of speculative reasoning. "The common-sense is
so and so," he used to say, and he did not wish to be plagued
with anything else. In one respect his manner did not uni-
formly give a true impression of him. He always succeeded
in conveying his meaning, in stating what he wished to have
346 MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
done and why he wished it ; he never failed to convince any
one of his inexhaustible vigour and his substantial ability ; but
he sometimes did fail in giving a true expression to his latent
generosity and real kindliness. He shrank almost nervously
from the display of feeling, and sometimes was thought by
casual observers to feel nothing, when in reality he was much
more sensitive than they were. Another peculiarity which
few persons would have attributed to him aided this mistake.
It may seem strange in a practised Secretary of the Treasury,
but he used to say that through life he had suffered far more
from shyness than from anything else. Only very close
observers could have discovered this, for his manner was
habitually impressive and unfaltering. But common acquaint-
ances, sometimes even persons who saw him on business,
erroneously imputed to unthinking curtness, that which was
due in truth to nervous hesitation.
With his subordinates in office he was, however, very
cordial. He discussed matters of business with them, listened
carefully to their suggestions or objections, and very frequently
was guided by their recommendations. He had no paltry
desire to monopolise the whole credit of what might be done.
He probably worked harder than any Secretary of the Treasury
before or since ; but so far from depressing those below him,
he encouraged their exertions, co-operated with them, and was
ever ready to bear hearty testimony to the tried merit of
efficient public servants. He was also quite willing to forget
the temporary misunderstandings which are so apt to occur
among earnest men who take different views of public affairs.
He was eminently tolerant. Though he had almost always a
strong conviction of his own, he never felt the least wish to
silence discussion. Believing that his own opinions were true,
he was only the more confident that the more the subject was
discussed, the more true they would be found to be. Few
men ever transacted so much important business with so little
of the pettiness of personal feeling.
In the foregoing sketch Mr. Wilson has of necessity been
regarded almost exclusively as a public man, but his private
life has many remarkable features, if it were proper to enlarge
JAMES WILSON 347
on them. His enjoyment of simple pleasures, of society, of
scenery, of his home, was very vivid. No one who saw him
in his unemployed moments would have believed that he was
one of the busiest public men of his time. He never looked
worn or jaded, and always contributed more than his share of
geniality and vivacity to the scene around him. Like Sir
Walter Scott, he loved a bright light ; and the pleasantest
society to him was that of the cheerful and the young.
The universal regret which has been expressed at Mr.
Wilson's death is the best tribute to his memory. It has been
universally felt that on his special subjects and for his peculiar
usefulness he was "a finished man," and in these respects he
has left few such behind him. The qualities which he had the
opportunity of displaying were those of an administrator and
a financier. But some of those who knew him best, believed
that he only wanted an adequate opportunity to show that he
had also many of the higher qualities of a statesman ; and it
was the feeling that he would perhaps have such an opportunity
which reconciled them to his departure for India. As will
have been evident from this narrative, he was placed in many
changing circumstances, and in the gradual ascent of life was
tried by many increasing difficulties. But at every step his
mind grew with the occasion. We at least believe that he
had a great sagacity and a great equanimity, which might have
been fitly exercised on the very greatest affairs. But it was
not so to be.
The intelligence of Mr. Wilson's death was formally com-
municated by the Indian to the Home Government in the
following despatch : —
" To the Right Honourable Sir Charles Wood, Bart., G.C.B., Secretary
of State for India.
" SIR, — The painful task is imposed upon us of announcing to Her
Majesty's Government the death of our colleague, the Right Honourable
James Wilson.
" 2. This lamentable event took place on the evening of Saturday,
the i ith, after an illness of a few days.
" 3. We enclose a copy of the notification by which we yesterday
communicated the mournful intelligence to the public. The funeral took
place at the time mentioned in the notification ; and the great respect
348 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JAMES WILSON
in which our lamented colleague was held was evinced by a very large
attendance of the general community, in addition to the public officers,
civil and military.
" 4. We are unable adequately to express our sense of the great loss
which the public interests have sustained in Mr. Wilson's death. We
do not doubt, however, that this will be as fully appreciated by Her
Majesty's Government, as it is by ourselves, and as we have every reason
to believe it will be by the community generally throughout India.
" 5. But we should not satisfy our feelings in communicating this si
occurrence to Her Majesty's Government, if we did not state our belief
that the fatal disease which has removed Mr. Wilson from amongst us
was in a great degree the consequence of his laborious application to the
duties of his high position, and of his conscientious determination not to
cease from the prosecution of the important measures of which he had
charge, until their success was ensured. Actuated by a self-denying
devotion to the objects for which he came out to this country, Mr.
Wilson continued to labour indefatigably long after the general state of
his health had become such as to cause anxiety to the physician who
attended him, and it was within a few days only after the Income Tax
had become law, and when, at the earnest request of his medical adviser,
he was preparing to remove from Calcutta for the remainder of the rainy
season, that he was seized with the illness that has carried him off.
"6. It is our sincere conviction that this eminent public servant
sacrificed his life in the discharge of his duty. We have, etc.,
" CANNING.
" H. B. E. FRERE.
" C. BEADON.
"FORT WILLIAM, \^th August."
THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT THE
PRESENT CRISIS.
CAUSES OF THE CIVIL WAR IN AMERICA.
ry?^J? r3«J<i£-*~>
\j& ,\£ -" BY J. LOTHROP MOTLEY MANWARING.
&& ~* ^
(National Review, October, 1861.)
IT is not at first easy for an ordinary Englishman to ap-
preciate adequately the favourite arguments which the most
cultivated and best American writers use at the present junc-
ture. It seems to him that they are arguments befitting
lawyers, not arguments befitting statesmen. They appear
only to prove that a certain written document, called the
Constitution of the United States, expressly forbids the con-
duct which the Southern States are consistently pursuing, and
that therefore such conduct is culpable as well as illegal.
Very few Englishmen will deny either the premiss or the con-
clusion considered in themselves. It is certain that the Con-
stitution does forbid what the slave States are doing ; it is
equally certain, that their policy is as mean, as unjustifiable,
and every way as discreditable, as was ever pursued by any
public bodies equally powerful and equally cultivated. But
nevertheless an argument from the mere letter of a written
Constitution will hardly convince any Englishman. He knows
that all written documents must be very meagre ; that the
best of them must often be unsatisfactory ; that most of them
contain many errors ; that the best of them are remarkable
for strange omissions ; that all of them will fail utterly when
applied to a state of things different from any which its authors
ever imagined. The complexity of politics is thoroughly com-
prehended by every Englishman — the complexity of our
history has engraved it on our mind ; the complexity of our
349
350 THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
polity is a daily memento of it — and no one in England will
be much impressed by any arguments which tacitly assume
that the limited clauses of an old State-paper can provide for
all coming cases, and for ever regulate the future.
It is worth while, however, to examine the American Con-
stitution at the present juncture. No remarkable aspect of
the great events which are occurring among our nearest
national kindred and our most important trading connexions
in our own times, can be wisely neglected ; and it will be easy
to show that the Constitution of the United States is now
failing from the necessary consequence of an inherent ineradic-
able defect ; that more than one of its thoughtful framers
perceived that it must fail under similar circumstances ; and
that the irremediable results of this latent defect have been
aggravated partly by the corruptions which the Constitution
has contracted in the progress of time, and yet more by
certain elaborate provisions which were believed to be the
best attainable safeguards against analogous dangers and
difficulties.
Like most of the great products of the Anglo-Saxon race,
the American Constitution was the result of a pressing neces-
sity, and was a compromise between two extreme plans for
meeting that necessity. It was framed in a time of gloom
and confusion. The " revolted colonies," as Englishmen then
called them, had been successful in their revolt ; but they had
been successful in nothing else. They had thrown off the
yoke of the English Government ; but they had founded no
efficient or solid government of their own. They had been
united by a temporary common sentiment — by a common
antipathy to the interference of the mother country ; but the
binding efficacy of that feeling ceased when their independence
of the mother country had been definitely recognised. Nor
was there any other strong bond of union which could supply
its place. The American colonies had been founded by very
different kinds of persons, at very different periods of English
history. They had respectively taken the impress of the class
of Englishmen who had framed them : Virginia had the mark
of the aristocratic class ; Massachusetts of the Puritan ;
THE PRESENT CRISIS 351
Pennsylvania of the Quakers. The modern colonies of England
are of a single type ; they are founded by a single class, from
a single motive. Those who now leave England are, with
some exceptions, but still for the most part and as a rule, a
rough and energetic race, who feel that they cannot earn as
much money as they wish in England, and who hope and
believe that they will be able to earn that money elsewhere.
They are driven from home by the want of a satisfactory sub-
sistence, and that subsistence is all they care or seek to find
elsewhere. To every other class but this, England is too
pleasant a residence for them to dream of leaving it for the
antipodes. With our early colonies it was otherwise. When
they were founded, England was a very unpleasant place for
very many people. As long as the now-balanced structure of
our composite society was in the process of formation, one
class obtained a temporary ascendency at one time, and
another class at another time. At each period they made
England an uncomfortable place of residence for all who did
not coincide in their notions of politics, and who would not
subscribe to their tenets of religion. At such periods the
dissident class threw off a swarm to settle in America ; and
thus our old colonies were first formed.
No one can be surprised that communities with such a
beginning should have acquired strong antipathies to one
another. Even at the present day, the antipathy of the inhabi-
tants of South Carolina to the people of Boston, the dislike of
Kentuckians to New Yorkers, has surprised attentive observers.
But when their independence was first recognised, such feel-
ings were infinitely more intense. The original founders of
the colonies had hated one another at home. Those colonies
were near neighbours in a rude country, and the occasional
collision of petty interests had kept alive the original antipathy
of each class to its antagonistic class, of each sect to its
antagonistic sect. M. de Tocqueville remarked, that even in
his time there was no national patriotism in America, but
only a State patriotism; and though, in 1833, this remark
was perhaps exaggerated, it would have been, fifty years
before, only the literal expression of an indisputable fact.
352 THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
The name " American " had scarcely as yet any political signi-
fication— it was a " geographical expression ".
Grave practical difficulties of detail, too, oppressed the new
community. The war with England had been commenced by
a body calling itself a Congress, but very different from the
elaborate and composite body which we now know by that
name. It was a simple committee of delegates from the
different States, which could recommend to those States what-
ever military measures it thought advisable, but had no greater
power or function whatever. It was in no sense a government.
It had no coercive jurisdiction, could compel nothing, and en-
force nothing. It was an advising council, which had no
resources of its own, and could only rely on its dignified posi-
tion, and the obvious necessity of united opposition to the
common enemy. But, as might be anticipated, so frail an
organisation was entirely inadequate to the rough purposes of
revolutionary warfare. It could not meet a pressing difficulty ;
and it did not meet it. It worked well when it was not
wanted — when all the States were unanimous ; but it was in-
sufficient when the States began to disagree — at the very
moment for which it was required.
The responsible leaders of the revolutionary struggle felt
the necessity of a closer bond ; and in March, 1781, nearly five
years after the Declaration of Independence, the first real
American Government was formed. It was called the Con-
federation, and was very simple in its structure. There w<
no complicated apparatus of President and Vice-president,
such as we are now familiar with ; no Supreme Court, no house
of Representatives. The Confederation rather resembl*
what existed previously than what exists at present. Then
was, as before, a committee of delegates from the differenl
States, and there was nothing else : this was the whole govern-
ment ; but this was not as before, simply a committee witl
powers of recommendation. It could by its own authoril
make peace and war, establish armies, contract debts, coil
money, issue a paper currency, and send ambassadors to foreigi
nations. It could in theory, and according to its letter, per-
form all the ordinary acts and functions of sovereignty. II
THE PRESENT CRISIS 353
did, in fact, perform the greatest act of sovereignty, as a lawyer
would reckon it, that could be conceived. By signing a peace
with England, it secured its own existence. Being a loose
aggregate of revolted colonies, it obtained a recognition by
the mother country against which these colonies had revolted.
In the face of Europe, and in the face of England more
especially, it maintained the appearance of an organised,
regular, and adequate government.
It really was, however, very inadequate. Some one has
said that the true way to test the practical operation of any
constitution is to ask, "How do you get money under it?"
This is certainly an American mode of testing a polity, and ac-
cording to this criterion the " perpetual Confederation " was an
egregious failure. " You could not get dollars by means of it
at all." The national Congress could incur liabilities, but it
could not impose taxation. It could, as we have explained,
raise an army, contract a debt, issue a credit currency ; but it
could not of itself, and by its own authority, levy a penny.
The States had retained in their own hands the exclusive power
of imposing taxes. Congress could only require the several
States to find certain quotas of money, and in the event of their
not finding them could go to war with them. As a theorist
would anticipate, the simplest alternative happened. The
States did not find the money, and the Congress did not go to
war with them. The debts of the Union were undischarged ;
the soldiers, even the French soldiers, who had achieved its in-
dependence, were unpaid ; and the financial conditions of the
Treaty of Independence with England were unfulfilled. Con-
gress could do nothing, and the States would do nothing.
Other smaller difficulties, too, were accumulating. The large
unoccupied territory of the American continent required care ;
England was irritated at the non-completion or the infraction
of several of the articles of peace ; petty quarrels between
the States on vexing minutiae were constantly beginning,
and were rarely ending. The impotence of Congress was
becoming proverbial, and the entire country was discour-
aged. In the correspondence of Washington and those
around him it is evident that they asked themselves with
VOL. III. 23
ring t
=
354 THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
doubt and despondency, " After all, will America be a
nation?"
Two schemes floated in the public mind for remedyin
these evils. It was the opinion of some of the wisest Ameri
statesmen, and especially of Hamilton, the greatest politi
philosopher among them, that it would be better to establish
an omnipotent Federal Government, which should be to Ameri
what the English Government was to England, which shoul
have the full legislative, the full executive, the full judici
power which a sovereign government possesses in ordina
States.1
1 As Hamilton's plan is not easily accessible in this country, and maj
have some interest at the present moment, when some persons, at leas
are desirous of attempting a similar experiment, we give it at length.
" The following paper was read by Col. Hamilton, as containing hii
ideas of a suitable plan of Government for the United States.
" i. The supreme legislative power of the United States of Ameri<
to be vested in two distinct bodies of men, the one to be called the
sembly, the other the senate, who, together, shall form the legislature
the United States, with power to pass all laws whatsoever, subject to the
negative hereafter mentioned.
" 2. The assembly to consist of persons elected by the people, to sen
for three years.
"3. The s«
behaviour ; their election to be made by electors chosen for that purj
by the people. In order to do this, the States to be divided into electk
districts. On the death, removal, or resignation of any senator, his plac
to be filled out of the district from which he came.
" 4. The supreme executive authority of the United States to
vested in a governor, to be elected to serve during good behaviour. His
election to be made by electors chosen by electors, chosen by the people
in the election districts aforesaid. His authorities and functions to be
follows : —
" To have a negative upon all laws about to be passed, and the exe-
cution of all laws passed ; to have the entire direction of war, whe
authorised, or begun ; to have, with the advice and approbation of tl
senate, the power of making all treaties ; to have the sole appointment of
the heads or chief officers of the departments of finance, war, and foreij
affairs ; to have the nomination of all other officers (ambassadors tc
foreign nations included) subject to the approbation or rejection of the
senate ; to have the power of pardoning all offences, except treason, whic
he shall not pardon without the approbation of the senate.
THE PRESENT CRISIS 355
Hamilton proposed that the " supreme legislative power
of the United States should be vested in two distinct bodies
of men," who should have power to pass all laws whatever,
subject to a veto in a governor or first magistrate. For the
choice of the members of these bodies, he would have divided
the country into electoral districts, and no State as such would
have elected a single representative to the united legislature,
or have been capable of any function or voice in the Constitu-
tion of the Union. "All laws of the particular States con-
trary to the Constitution of the Union or laws of the United
States were to be utterly void." And " the better to prevent
" 5. On the death, resignation, or removal of the governor, his author-
ities to be exercised by the president of the senate, until a successor be
appointed.
" 6. The senate to have the sole power of declaring war ; the power
of advising and approving all treaties ; the power of approving or rejecting
all appointments of officers, except the heads or chiefs of the departments
of finance, war, and foreign affairs.
" 7. The supreme judicial authority of the United States to be vested
in judges, to hold their offices during good behaviour, with adequate and
permanent salaries. This court to have original jurisdiction in all causes
of capture, and an appellative jurisdiction in all causes in which the
revenues of the general government, or the citizens of foreign nations, are
concerned.
" 8. The legislature of the United States to have power to institute
courts in each State, for the determination of all matters of general
concern.
" 9. The governors, senators, and all officers of the United States to
be liable to impeachment for mal and corrupt conduct ; and, upon con-
viction, to be removed from office, and disqualified from holding any place
of trust or profit. All impeachments to be tried by a court to consist of
the chief, or senior judge of the superior court of law in each State ; pro-
vided that such judge hold his place during good behaviour, and have a
permanent salary.
" 10. All laws of the particular States contrary to the constitution or
laws of the United States to be utterly void. And the better to prevent
such laws being passed, the governor or president of each State shall be
appointed by the general government, and shall have a negative upon the
laws about to be passed in the State of which he is governor, or president.
"ii. No State to have any forces, land or naval ; and the militia of
all the States to be under the sole and exclusive direction of the United
States ; the officers of which to be appointed and commissioned by them."
23*
356
THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
such laws being passed, the governor or president of each
State " was to be appointed by the general Government, was
to have a negative upon all laws " about to be passed therein ".
No State was to have any forces, land or naval ; and the
militia of all the States were to be under the exclusive direc-
tion of the general Government of the United States, which
alone was to appoint and commission their officers. In prac-
tice this scheme would have reduced the existing States to the
condition of mere municipalities ; they would have retained
extensive powers of interior regulation, but they would have
lost all the higher functions of government, all control over any
matters not exclusively their own ; they would have continued
to be, so to say, County Boards for county matters, but they
would have had no share in the sovereign direction of general
affairs. They would have been as restricted, as isolated as the
Corporations of Liverpool and Bristol are under the Constitu-
tion of England.
A theorist would perhaps be inclined to regret that some
such plan as that of Hamilton was not eventually chosen. At
the present moment political speculators in England are
singularly inclined to schemes of political unity. The striking
example of Italy has given a natural stimulus to them. We
have seen a great nation which had long been divided combine
into what, we hope, will be a permanent State at the bidding
of a few able and active men, and, as it seems to the many,
by a kind of political enchantment. The change, when re-
garded from a distance, has appeared so easy, that we under-
rate its real difficulties, and are inclined to erect one of the
most exceptional events in history into an ordinary precedent
arid example. But the state of America eighty years since
may easily show us why such events have been rare in history ;
why locality has been called an instinct in the human mind ;
why large States have almost always been produced by the
constraining vigour of some single conquering power. Each
of the States of North America was a little commonwealth,
with a vigorous political life. Each one of them had its
ministry, its opposition, its elections, its local questions ; each
had its own political atmosphere, each its peculiar ambitions.
THE PRESENT CRISIS 357
Even if the different States had been well disposed to one
another, it would have been difficult to induce all of them —
especially to induce the smaller among them — to give up this
local political animation. The Italian States seem to have
relinquished it ; but, in truth, they had little to relinquish.
They were despotically governed. None of them had within
their own boundaries that vast accumulation of ideas and
sentiments and hopes, of love and hatred, which we call a
" political life ". The best men in Tuscany were not sacrificing
a cherished career or an accustomed existence in favouring
the expulsion of the Grand Duke ; for so long as he remained
they had no influence. After his expulsion the question of
national unity or of local division could be considered fairly
and impartially. It was not so in America : there were in
every one of the States men who must have relinquished
evident power, attainable proximate ambition — the dearest
of ambitions, the power of governing the persons whom they
had known all their lives, and with whom they had all their
lives been in actual political competition — for the sake
of an unknown " general government " ; which was an
abstraction which could have excited no living attach-
ment, in which but a very few could take a prominent
or gratifying share. Nor, as we have explained, were the
different States mutually well disposed. The differences
of their origin still embittered, and long seemed likely
to embitter, the local squabbles of years. The saying
of the Swiss Antifederalist, " My shirt is dearer to me than my
coat ! " was the animating spirit of nine-tenths of North
America. The little State of Delaware refused even to con-
sider the abolition of the fifth article of the Confederation,
which preserved the separate existence and the primitive equality
of the separate States by enacting that each should have one
vote only. The plan of Hamilton could not be carried, and
he was too wise a statesman to regard it as much better than
a tempting dream.
The second extreme suggestion for amending the " per-
petual Confederation " would have been equivalent in practice
to a continuance of that Confederation very much as it was.
358 THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
Its theoretical letter proposed indeed to give additional powers
to the Central Congress, but the States were to be still the
component elements in the Constitution. The Congress was
still to have no other power than that of requiring from these
States what money it needed. It would still be compelled to
declare war against them if that money was in arrear. It
would still have been in the condition graphically delineated
by a contemporary statesman : " By this political compact the
United States in Congress have exclusive power for the
following purposes without being able to execute one of them.
.They may make and conclude treaties ; but can only recommend
the observance of them. They may appoint ambassadors;
but cannot defray even the expenses of their tables. They
may borrow money in their own name on the faith of the
Union ; but cannot pay a dollar. They may coin money ;
but they cannot purchase an ounce of bullion. They may
make war, and determine what number of troops are necessary,
but cannot raise a single soldier. In short, they may declare
everything, but do nothing." Thus the second suggestion for
remedying the pressing evils of America was as inefficient as
the first had been impracticable.
The selected Constitution was a mean between the two.
As the State Governments could not be abolished, and could
not be entirely divested of their sovereign rights, a new
Government was created, superior to them in certain specified
matters, and having independent means of action with refer-
ence to those matters, but in all other things leaving their
previous functions unrestricted, and their actual authority un-
impaired. By the active Constitution the central Congress
has the right of imposing certain specified revenues, and the
power of collecting them throughout each State by officers of
its exclusive appointment. It has, as under the Confederation,
the power of making peace and proclaiming war — of engaging
soldiers and contracting debts ; but it now has likewise a
power of collecting a revenue to remunerate those soldiers,
and to pay those debts by its own authority, and without the
consent of any subordinate body. It has not now to require
obedience from the States in their corporate capacity, but to
THE PRESENT CRISIS 359
compel the obedience of individuals throughout those States
in their natural isolation, and according to the ordinary
custom of Governments.
We can now understand the answer of an American
architect who was asked the difference between a Federation
and Union. "Why," he said, "a Federation is a Union
with a top to it." There is, in the United States, not simply
an assemblage of individual sovereign States, but also a
super-sovereign State, which has its officers side by side with
theirs, its revenue side by side with theirs, its law-courts side
by side with theirs, its authority on a limited number of
enumerated points superior even to theirs. No political in-
vention has been more praised than this one. It has been
truly described as the most valuable addition to the resources
of political philosophy ever made by professed constitution-
makers. Greater things have grown up among great , nations ;
studious thinkers have speculated on better devices ; but
nothing so remarkable was perhaps ever struck out on the
impulse of the moment by persons actually charged with the
practical duty of making a Constitution. American writers
are naturally proud of it ; and it would be easy to collect
from European writers of eminence an imposing series of
encomiums upon its excellence.
Yet now that we have before us the pointed illustration of
recent events, it is not difficult to see that such an institution
is only adapted to circumstances exceptionally favourable, and
that under a very probable train of circumstances it must fail
from inherent defect. It is essentially a collection of imperia
in imperio. It rather displays than conceals the grave disad-
vantages which have made that name so very unpopular.
Each State is a subordinate Republic, and yet the entire Union
is but a single Republic. Each State is in some sense a centre
of disunion. Each State attracts to itself a share of political
attachment, has separate interests, real or supposed, has a
separate set of public men anxious to increase its importance
— upon which their own depends, — anxious to weaken the
power of the United Government, by which theirs is over-
shadowed. At every critical period the sinister influence of
360 THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
the imperium in imperio will be felt ; at every such period tht
cry of each subordinate aggregate will be, "Our interests are
threatened, our authority diminished, our rights attacked".
A presidential election is the very event of all others to
excite these dangerous sentiments. It places the entire policy
of the Union upon a single hazard. A particular moment is
selected when the ruler for a term of years is to be chosen.
That ruler has very substantial power of various kinds ; he has
immense patronage, a legislative veto, great executive author-
ity, and, what is yet more to the present purpose, he has
supreme position in society, which indefinitely attracts hi<
popular choice, and indefinitely aggravates the intensity of tl
canvass. A homogeneous and simple State, with no subor-
dinate rivals within its frontiers, might well fear to encountt
such a struggle. What, then, must be the certain result in
Federal Union whenever a large minority of the States should
consider their rights and their interests to be identified with
the election or with the rejection of any one presidential candi-
date? What can we anticipate when the greatest dividing
force, the overt choice of a supreme ruler, after canvass an<
struggle and controversy, is applied to the most separable of
political communities, — to a disjointed aggregate of States,
whose local importance has been legally fostered, whose separ-
ate existence has been needfully cherished, whose political
vitality is older and more powerful than the bond of constitu-
tional union ? Surely, according to every canon of probability,
we must confidently anticipate a separation whenever the
sinister interest of a large and unconquerable sectionfof th<
States shall be attacked, or be conceived to be attacked,
the selection of a supreme head for the whole nation. In-
dependently of matters of detail, independently of the actual
power which every supreme magistrate possesses, it is too
much to expect that a considerable number of vigorous and
active communities will, if they can help it, be governed by a
person who is the symbol of the doctrine that they must hate
and fear, and who is just elected by their special foes precisely
because he is that symbol.
More than one of the most discerning of the framers of the
THE PRESENT CRISIS 361
American Constitution seems not only to have perceived the
inherent defects of the work in which he had participated, but
to have had a prevision of the real source from which ultimate
danger was to be foreboded. Most of the controversies in the
Convention which framed the Constitution had turned, in
several forms, on the various consequences of the very different
magnitude of the States which were about to join. The large
States were anxious to be strong ; the small States were fear-
ful of being 'weak. But Mr. Madison, one of the most
judicious men of that time, clearly perceived that, though this
was naturally the principal difficulty in securing the voluntary
adoption by the several States of any proposed Constitution,
it would not be an equally menacing danger to the continuance
of the Union when that Constitution was once established.
The small States shrank from binding themselves to a Union,
exactly because they felt that they must remain in it if they
entered. If they once contracted to combine with stronger
countries, the superior power of those countries would enforce
an adherence to the bargain. The really formidable danger
which threatened the American Union was the possibility of
a difference of opinion between classes of States of which no
one was immeasurably stronger than the other. This Madison
saw. He observed : —
" I would always exclude inconsistent principles in framing
a system of government The difficulty of getting its defects
amended are great, and sometimes insurmountable. The
Virginia State government was the first which was made, and
though its defects are evident to every person, we cannot get
it amended. The Dutch have made four several attempts to
amend their system without success. The few alterations
made in it were by tumult and faction, and for the worse.
If there was real danger, I would give the smaller States the
defensive weapons ; but there is none from that quarter. The
great danger to our general government is the great Southern
and Northern interests of the continent being opposed to
each other. Look to the votes in Congress, and most of them
stand divided by the geography of the country, not according
to the size of the States."
362 THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
It was not, indeed, very difficult for the eye of a practised
politician to discern the great diversity between the Northern
and Southern societies. It was even then conspicuous to the
eye of the least gifted observer. An accomplished French
writer, whose essay was written before the perceptions of all
of us were sharpened by recent events, has thus described it :
" Au Sud, le sol appartenait a de grands proprietaires entour£s
d'esclaves et de petits cultivateurs. Les substitutions et le
droit d'ainesse perpetuaient les richesses et le pouvoir dans
une aristocratic qui occupait presque toutes les fonctions
publiques. Le culte anglican etait celui de 1'Etat. La societe
et 1'Eglise 6taient constitutes d'une fa^on hierarchique. Au
Nord, au contraire, 1'esprit d'egalite dans la societe comme
dans 1'Eglise : ' Je crains beaucoup les effets de cette diversit6
de moeurs et destitutions,' ecrivait John Adams a Joseph
Hawley, le 25 novembre 1775; 'elle deviendra fatale si de
part et d'autre on ne met beaucoup de prudence, de tolerance,
de condescendance. Des changements dans les constitution*
du Sud seront necessaires si la guerre continue ; ils pourront
seuls rapprocher toutes les parties du continent.'" Probably,
however, no one in those times anticipated the rapidity witl
which those differences would develop, for no one apprehendee
the practical working of slavery. Many persons unquestion-
ably understood the immediate benefit with which it buys an
insidious admission into uncultivated countries ; but perha]
no one understood at how great price of ultimate evil th;
benefit would probably be purchased. No one could
expected to perceive that both the temporary benefit and the
ultimate disadvantages resembled one another in being oppose
to the continuance of the newly-formed Union ; for even al
the present day, and after a very painful experience, it is n<
steadily perceived by all of us.
Slavery is the one institution which effectually counteracts
the assimilative force to which all new countries are subject,-
that force which makes all men alike there, and which stam]
upon the communities themselves so many common features.
In such countries men are struggling with the wilderness
they are in daily conflict with the rough powers of nature, anc
THE PRESENT CRISIS 363
from them they acquire a hardness and a roughness somewhat
like their own. They cannot cultivate the luxuries of leisure,
for they have no leisure. They must be mending their fences,
or cooking their victuals, or mending their clothes. They
cannot be expected to excel in the graces of refinement, for
these require fastidious meditation and access to great examples,
and neither of these are possible to hard-worked men at the
end of the earth. A certain democracy in such circumstances
rises like a natural growth of the soil. An even equality in
mind and manners, if not in political institutions, is inevitably
forced upon those whose character is pressed upon by the
same rude forces, who have substantially the same difficulties,
who lead in all material points the same life. All are strug-
gling with the primitive difficulties of uncivilised existence,
and all are retarded by that struggle at the same low level of
instruction and refinement.
Slavery breaks this dead level, and it is the only available
device that does so. The owner of a few slaves, partly em-
ployed in the service of his house and partly in the cultivation
of his land, has a good deal of leisure, and is not exposed to
any very brutalising temptation. It is his interest to treat
his slaves well, and in ordinary circumstances he does treat
them well. They give him the means of refinement, and the
opportunities of culture : they receive from him good clothing,
a protective surveillance, and some little moral improvement.
Washington was such a slave-owner, and it is probable that
at Mount Vernon what may be called the temptation of slavery
presented itself in its strongest and most attractive form. At
all events, it is certain that, by the irresistible influence of
superior leisure and superior culture, the Virginian slave-owner
acquired a singular pre-eminence in the revolutionary struggle,
moved the bitter jealousy of all his contemporaries, and be-
stowed an indefinite benefit upon posterity. But even this
beneficial effect of slavery, momentary as it was, was not
beneficial to the Union as such : it did not strengthen, but
weakened the uniting bond ; it introduced an element of differ-
ence between State and State, which stimulated bitter envy,
and suggested constant division. In the correspondence of
364 THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
the first race of Northern statesmen, a dangerous jealousy of
the superior political abilities of the South is frequently to be
traced.
The immense price, however, which has been paid for the
short-lived benefit of slavery has been immeasurably more
dangerous to the Union than the benefit itself. As we all
perceive, it is tearing it in two. In the progress of time
slave-owning becomes an investment of mercantile capital,
and slaves are regarded, not as personal dependents, but as
impersonal things. The necessities of modern manufacture
require an immense production of raw material, and in certaii
circumstances slaves can be beneficially employed on a large
scale to raise that material. The evils of slavery are develope
at once. The owner of a few slaves whom he sees every
will commonly treat them kindly enough ; but the owner ol
several gangs, on several different plantations, has no similai
motive. His good feelings are not much appealed to in theii
favour ; he does not know them by name, he does not kno\
them by sight ; they are to him instruments of production,
which he bought at such and such a price, which cost so man]
dollars, which must be made to yield so many dollars. He is
often brutalised by working them cruelly ; he is still oftene
brutalised in other ways by the infinite temptations which
large mass of subject men and subject women inevitably offei
to tyranny and to lust. Nor in such a state of society d(
slavery monopolise the charm which at first attracted men to it.
When large capitals have been accumulated, there will be
without it sufficient opportunities for moderate leisure and for
reasonable refinement. Slavery buys its admission with the
attractions of Mount Vernon ; it develops its awful consequences
in lonely plantations on the banks of the Mississippi, whose
owner wants cotton, and wants only cotton ; where he himself,
or some manager whom he pays, employs himself in brutaliti<
to black men, and enjoys himself in brutalities to blac
women. The events of this year exhibit the result. Th<
probable disunion of the South and the North is but the ii
evitable consequence of the existing moral contrast. It is not
possible to retain in voluntary combination such a community
THE PRESENT CRISIS 365
as Massachusetts and communities whose ruling element is
such a slavery as that we have described.
We see, therefore, from this brief survey, that we have no
cause to wonder even at the almost magical consequences of
Mr. Lincoln's election. It was the sort of event which was
most likely to produce such consequences. A Republic of
United States which put up the first magistracy to periodical
popular election, was most likely to part asunder when funda-
mental contrasts in character, ideas, and habits had long been
growing rapidly between two very large classes of States, and
when one of these classes persisted in electing to the first place
in the Republic the very person who embodied the aim and
tendencies most odious to the other class. It is evident, too,
that the Northern and Southern States cannot hope to con-
tinue united under the present Constitution, or to form parts
of the same Federal Republic under any Constitution what-
ever. No free State can rule an unwilling dependency of
large size, except by excluding that dependency from all share
in its own freedom. If Ireland unanimously wished to with-
draw from the government of England, we could not rule it
without excluding its representatives from Parliament. We
know what the Irish members are now : we know that they
are not very convenient ; we know that they seem invented
to give trouble, but who can imagine a House of Commons
in which one hundred eager Irish members were united by a
consistent intention to make an English Government impos-
sible? who can imagine the Parliamentary consequences of so
great a voting power, used not for the purposes of con-
struction, but exclusively for those of destruction? who can
suppose that during a series of years we could keep any firm
administration at all with so powerful a force ever ready to
combine with every one who desired to pull down, and never
ready to combine with any one who wished to set up ? Yet
this is a faint example of what the American Congress would
be with a regularly organised Southern opposition retained
within the Union by force, but desirous to leave it, anxious to
destroy it ; never voting for any thing except with this ob-
ject; never voting against anything save on that account.
366 THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
And such would be the inevitable result of the victory of the
North. The Southern States are sure to preserve an intense
local feeling for many years. History shows that they have
always had it ; the occupations and the habits of such bodies
insure their having it. Even if the North were to conquer
them now, their whole political force for many years would
unquestionably be devoted to the attainment of disunion.
Who can doubt that they would eventually obtain it by ren-
dering all government impossible upon any lesser conditions ?
A free union is essentially voluntary. Sir Creswell Creswell
may decree the restitution of matrimonial rights ; but even he
would not venture to decree the enforcement on an unwilling
State of a promise to combine with another into a Parliamen-
tary union.
Some of the framers of the American Constitution, as we
have seen, foresaw its principal danger, and they did all which
they could to provide against it. They erected a Supreme
Court, a pre-eminent judicial tribunal, which is empowered to
decide causes between State and State, and between any State
and the Federal Government. And on many small, and on
some important, matters, this Court has worked very well ; il
has given able if not always satisfactory, judgments on varioi
points of State controversy ; it has provided a tolerably fail
umpire, and has thus prevented many small qucestiunt
from growing into grave questions. It was excellent upor
minor points ; it has been useless upon the greatest. When,
as recently, great passions have been aroused, great interest?
at stake, great issues clearly drawn out, a reference to the
Supreme Court has not even been contemplated. No judicial
establishment could, indeed, be useful in an extra-judicial
matter; no law decide what is beyond the competence of
law ; no supplementary provision, however ingenious, cure
the essential and inseparable defects of a Federal Union.
The steadily augmenting power of the lower orders in
America has naturally augmented the dangers of their Federal
Union. In almost all the States there was, at the time the
Constitution of the Union was originally framed, a property
qualification, in some States a high one, requisite for the pos-
THE PRESENT CRISIS 367
session of the most popular form of suffrage. Almost all these
qualifications have now been swept away, and a dead level
of universal suffrage runs, more or less, over the whole length
of the United States. The external consequences, as we all
know, have not been beneficial : the foreign policy of the Union
has been a perplexing difficulty to European nations, and
especially to England, for many years. Nor have the internal
consequences been better. The most enthusiastic advocates
of a democratic government will admit that it is both an im-
pulsive and a contentious government. Its special character-
istic is, that it places the entire control over the political action
of the whole State in the hands of the common labourers, who
are of all classes the least instructed — of all the most aggres-
sive— of all the most likely to be influenced by local animosity
— of all the most likely to exaggerate every momentary
sentiment — of all the least likely to be capable of a consider-
able toleration for the constant oppositions of opinion, the
not unfrequent differences of interests, and the occasional un-
reasonableness of other States. In democracies, local feuds are
commonly more lasting and more bitter than in States of
other kinds; and those enmities commonly become more
bitter in proportion to the greater nearness of relation, the
greater closeness of political connexion, and the greater con-
trast of disposition, temper, and internal circumstances.
What intensity of bitterness was then to be anticipated in
a so-called Union, in which two distinct sets of democracies
— the Southern and the Northern, the slaveholding and the
non-slaveholding — have been for many years augmenting in
contrast to, and increasing in antipathy to, one another!
The existing crisis is only the natural consequence, the inevit-
able development, of a long antagonism between these two
species of Republics, in both of which the most intolerant
members are absolute rulers, and each of which presented
characteristics which the hidden instincts of the other, even
more than its conscious opinion, regarded first as irritating
and then as dangerous. The progress of democracy has af-
fected not only the State Government, but the Federal
Government. The House of Representatives in the latter is
368
THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
elected by the same persons who choose the most popular
branch of the legislature in the former. As the State Govern-
ments have become more democratic, the Federal Governmei
has inevitably become more so likewise. To this gradu;
corruption of the American democracy it is principally owii
that Europe at large, and England especially, have m
grieved much at the close proximity of its probable fall,
perhaps rejoiced at the prospect of some marked change froi
a policy which was so inconvenient to its neighbours, whi(
must be attended to because its range was so wide, and tl
physical force under its direction was so large, but of whi<
the events were mean, the actors base, and the working ine3
plicable. A low vulgarity, indefinable but undeniable,
deeply displeased the cultivated mind of Europe; and tl
American Union will fall, if it does fall, little regretted eve
by those whose race is akin, whose language is identi<
whose weightiest opinions are on most subjects the same
theirs. The unpleasantness of mob government has neve
before been exemplified so conspicuously, for it never befoi
has worked upon so large a scene.
These latter truths are very familiar. The evils of d(
mocracy and the dangers of democracy are great commonplace
in our speculation, though also formidable perils in 01
practice. But it is not commonplace to observe, that the
isting crisis in America has been intensified almost as much
the precautions which the original founders of the Constitutic
took to ward off what they well knew to be the characte
istic evils of democracy, as by those evils themselves,
have been so much accustomed to hear the " United States
extolled as the special land of democratic liberty, to hear thei
Constitution praised as the unmixed embodiment of uncon-
trolled popular power, that we have forgotten how many
restrictive provisions that Constitution contains, and how
anxiously its framers endeavoured to provide against the spe
defects of a purely popular polity.
It is not too much to say that a valuable addition to
accumulations of Conservative oratory might be extracted froi
the debates of the Convention which framed the American
THE PRESENT CRISIS 369
volution. The two objects which its most intelligent framers
were mainly bent on attaining* were, security against the
momentary caprice of a purely numerical majority, and some
effective provision for the maintenance of a strong executive.
What would Mr. Bright say to the following speech of Mr.
Morris, not by any means the most conservative member of
the Convention ? —
" The two branches, so equally poised, cannot have their
due weight. It is confessed, on all hands, that the second
branch ought to be a check on the first ; for without its having
this effect it is perfectly useless. The first branch, originating
from the people, will ever be subject to precipitancy, change-
ability, and excess. Experience evinces the truth of this re-
mark, without having recourse to reading. This can only be
checked by ability and virtue in the second branch. On your
present system, can you suppose that one branch will possess
it more than the other? The second branch ought to be com-
posed of men of great and established property — an aristo-
cracy ; men who from pride will support consistency and per-
manency; and to make them completely independent, they
must be chosen for life, or they will be a useless body. Such
an aristocratic body will keep down the turbulency of demo-
cracy. But if you elect them for a shorter period, they will be
only a name, and we had better be without them. Thus con-
stituted, I hope they will show us the weight of aristocracy.
" History proves, I admit, that the men of large property
will uniformly endeavour to establish tyranny. How, then,
shall we ward off this evil ? Give them the second branch, and
you secure their weight for the public good. They become
responsible for their conduct, and this lust of power will ever
be checked by the democratic branch, and thus form a stability
in your Government. But if we continue changing our
measures by the breath of democracy, who will confide in our
engagements ? who will trust us ? Ask any person whether
he reposes any confidence in the Government of Congress, or
that of the State of Pennsylvania ; he will readily answer you,
no. Ask him the reason ; and he will tell you it is because he
has no confidence in their stability.
VOL. III. 24
370 THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
" You intend also that the second branch shall be incapable
of holding any office in the general Government. It is a dan-
gerous expedient. They ought to have every inducement to
be interested in your Government. Deprive them of this right,
and they will become inattentive to your welfare. The wealthy
will ever exist ; and you never can be safe unless you gratify
them as a body, in the pursuit of honour and profit. Prevent
them by positive institutions, and they will proceed in some
left-handed way. A son may want a place — you mean to pre-
vent him from promotion. They are not to be paid for their
services — they will in some way pay themselves ; nor is it
your power to prevent it. It is good policy that men of pro-
perty be collected in one body, to give them one common in-
fluence in your Government. Let vacancies be filled up, as
they happen, by the executive. Besides it is of little conse-
quence, on this plan, whether the States are equally represented
or not. If the State Governments have the division of many
of the loaves and fishes, and the General Government few, it
cannot exist. This Senate would be one of the baubles of the
general Government. If you choose them for seven years,
whether chosen by the people or the States, — whether by equal
suffrage or in any other proportion, — how will they be
check ? They will still have local and State prejudices. A
government by compact is no government at all. You may
as well go back to your Congressional Federal Government,
where, in the character of ambassadors, they may form trea-
ties for each State. I avow myself the advocate of a strong
Government."
This speech, striking as it is, is only a single specimen
and not, in several respects, the most striking of many whic
might be cited. The predominant feeling of the predominan
party in the Convention is clearly expressed in the singular!
complicated provisions of the Constitution which they framed.
Almost every clause of it bears witness to the anxiety of i
composers for an efficient executive, and for an adequat
guard against momentary popular feeling.
Unfortunately they either had not at their disposal, or di
not avail themselves of, the only effectual instruments f<
THE PRESENT CRISIS 371
either purpose. There is but one sufficient expedient against
the tyranny of the lower orders, and that is to place the pre-
dominant (though not necessarily the exclusive) power in the
hands of the higher orders. There must be some effectual
sovereign authority in every government. In England, for
example, the sovereign authority is the diffused respectable
higher middle-class, which, on the whole, is predominant in
the House of Commons, and in the Constituencies which
return it. Whatever this class emphatically wills, is immedi-
ately enacted. It hears representations from the great mass
of the orders which are below, it hears other and better ex-
pressed representations from the higher classes, which are
above it. But it uses these only as materials by which to
form a better judgment If the House of Commons distinctly
expresses an emphatic opinion, no other body or person or
functionary hopes to oppose it, or dreams of doing so. Our
security against tyranny is the reasonableness, the respectable
cultivation, the business-like moderation of this governing class
itself; if that class did not possess those qualities, the rest of
the community would be always in danger, and very frequently
be oppressed.
The framers of the American Constitution chose a very
different expedient. They placed the predominant power in A
the hands of the numerical majority of the population, and
hoped to restrain and balance it by paper checks and constitu-
tional stratagems. At the present time, almost every one of
their ingenious devices has aggravated the calamities of their
descendants.
The mode in which the President of the United States is
chosen is the most complicated which could well be imagined.
A reader of the Constitution, uninformed as to the circum-
stances of its origin and the intentions of its framers, would
imagine that complexity had sometimes been chosen as such,
and for its own sake. Each, however, of these singular details
was introduced with a very definite object.
" Each State," it is provided, " shall appoint, in such
manner as the legislature thereof may direct, a number of
electors equal to the whole number of senators and repre-
24*
372 THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
sentatives to which the State may be entitled in the Congress ;
but no senator or representative, or person holding an office
of trust or profit under the United States, shall be appointed
an elector.
" The electors shall meet in their respective States, and
vote by ballot for two persons, of whom one at least shall not
be an inhabitant of the same State with themselves. And
they shall make a list of all the persons voted for, and of the
number of votes for each : which list they shall sign and
certify, and transmit, sealed, to the seat of the Government of
the United States, directed to the President of the Senate.
The President of the Senate shall, in the presence of the Senate
and House of Representatives, open all the certificates ; and
the votes shall then be counted. The person having the
greatest number of votes shall be the President, if such number
be a majority of the whole number of electors appointed ; and
if there be more than one who have such majority, and have
an equal number of votes, then the House of Representatives
shall immediately choose by ballot one of them for President ;
and if no person have a majority, then, from the five highest
on the list, the said House shall in like manner choose the
President. But in choosing the President the votes shall be
taken by States, the representation from each State having one
vote ; a quorum for this purpose shall consist of a member or
members from two-thirds of the States, and a majority of all
the States shall be necessary to a choice. In every case, after
the choice of the President, the person having the greatest
number of votes of the electors shall be the Vice-president.
But if there should remain two or more who have equal
votes, the Senate shall choose from them by ballot the Vice-
president.
"The Congress may determine the time of choosing the
electors, and the day on which they shall give their votes :
which day shall be the same throughout the United States."
" In pursuance of the authority given by the latter clause,"
says Mr. Justice Story, " Congress in 1792 passed an act,
declaring that the electors shall be appointed in each State
within thirty- four days preceding the first Wednesday in
THE PRESENT CRISIS 373
December, in every fourth year succeeding the last election of
President, according to the apportionment of representatives
and senators then existing. The electors chosen are required
to meet and give their votes on the first said Wednesday of
December, in every fourth year succeeding the last election of
President, according to the apportionment of representatives
and senators then existing. The electors chosen are required
to meet and give their votes on the said first Wednesday of
December, at such place in each State as shall be directed by
the legislature thereof. They are then to make and sign three
certificates of all the votes by them given, and to seal up the
same, certifying on each that a list of the votes of such State
for President and Vice-president is contained therein ; and
shall appoint a person to take charge of and deliver one of
the same certificates to the President of the Senate at the seat of
Government, before the first Wednesday of January then next
ensuing ; another of the certificates is to be forwarded forth-
with by the post-orBce to the President of the Senate at the
seat of Government ; and the third is to be delivered to the
judge of the district in which the electors assembled. Other
auxiliary provisions are made by the same act for the due
transmission and preservation of the electoral votes, and
authenticating the appointment of the electors. The Presi-
dent's term of office is also declared to commence on the fourth
day of March next succeeding the day on which the votes of
the electors shall be given."
The details of these arrangements are involved, but their
purpose was simple. The framers wished the President to be
chosen, not by the primary electors, but by a body of secondary
electors, whom the primary were to choose, because they
thought that these chosen choosers would presumably be
persons especially likely to make a good choice. They like-
wise intended that an absolute majority (a majority, that is,
of more than one-half of the total number) should be requisite
for a valid election ; and if such majority could not be pro-
cured, that the House of Representatives, voting by States,
should make the choice (in which case an absolute majority of
all the States was likewise to be necessary) ; and lastly, they
374
THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
wished that an interval of many months — from November in
one year to March in the next — should be secured for the safe
transaction of the entire election.
Eyery part of this well-studied arrangement has produced
most unanticipated results, and none more so than the last
part. Nothing could be more reasonable than the regulation
that a long interval should be provided for the whole com-
plicated election ; since, if the choice unexpectedly lapsed to
the House of Representatives, much delay and consideration
would obviously be necessary. But the consequences have
been disastrous.
"At the outset of the quarrel," observes a recent writer,
" the Constitution occasioned a needless danger. The South
threatened to secede because Mr. Lincoln had been elected
President. Under almost any other free Constitution which
has ever existed, and certainly under every good one, the
executive authority, whose function it was to oppose secession,
would have been placed exclusively in the hands of those who
were desirous so to oppose it. At an instant of violent irrita-
tion, the dissentient minority were anxious to break loose
from the control of the majority. The majority were at that
time, whatever may be the case now, by no means fanatical,
or irritated, or overbearing. They wished to preserve the
Union, and under a well-framed constitution they would have
had the power of using the force of the State to preserve the
State. But not so under the American. An artificial
arrangement prolongs the reign of each President many
months after the election of his successor. In consequence,
the executive authority was, during a considerable and
critical interval, in the hands of those who by birth, habit, and
sympathy were leagued with the dissentient minority. Mr.
Buchanan and his ministers had always been attached to the
party of the South, and were the last persons to act decisively
against it. It is the opinion of many well-informed persons
that there was a sufficient Unionist party in several of the
seceding States to have prevented the present movement there,
if the Federal Government had acted with vigour and celerity.
And, whether this be so or not, it remains a singular defect in
THE PRESENT CRISIS 375
the working of the American Constitution, that it gave power
at the decisive moment to those least likely to use that power
well — that just when a revolt was impending, it placed the
whole executive influence and the whole military force in the
unfettered hands of the political associates of the revolters."
It is now known that the Southern officials, purposely dis-
tributed the fleet of the Union in distant countries, placed
stores of artillery where Southern rebels could easily take them,
purposely disorganised the Federal army. Nothing else could
be anticipated from an arrangement which placed the prepara-
tions for maintaining the Union in the exclusive control of the
persons desirous to break the Union.
The scheme, too, of a double election has failed of its in-
tended effect ; but has produced grave effects which were not
intended. The same writer observes :
" Nor does the accession of Mr. Lincoln place the executive
power precisely where we should wish to see it. At a crisis
such as America has never before seen, and as it is not, per-
haps, probable she will see again, the executive authority
should be in the hands of one of the most tried, trusted, and
experienced statesmen of the nation. Mr. Lincoln is a nearly
unknown man, who has been but little heard of, who has had
little experience, who may have nerve and judgment, or may
not have them, whose character, both moral and intellectual,
is an unknown quantity, who must, from his previous life and
defective education, be wanting in the liberal acquirements
and mental training which are principal elements of an en-
larged statesmanship. Nor is it true to say that the American
people are to blame for this — that they chose Mr. Lincoln,
and must endure the pernicious results. The Constitution is
as much to blame as the people, probably even more so.
The framers were wisely and warmly attached to the prin-
ciples of liberty, and, like all such persons, were extremely
anxious to guard against momentary gusts of popular opinion.
They were especially desirous that the President to whom
they were intrusting vast power should be the representative,
not of a small section of the community, but of a really pre-
dominant part of it They not only established a system of
376 THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
double election, in the hope that the ' electoral college ' (of
which the electors were chosen by the primary electors in
each State) would exercise a real discretion in the choice of
President, and be some check on popular ignorance and low
violence, but they likewise provided that an absolute majority
of that 'electoral college' (a majority, that is, greater than
one-half of the whole) should give their votes for the elected
candidate. The effect has been painfully different from the
design. In reality, the ' electoral college ' exercises no choice ;
every member of it is selected by the primitive constituency
because he will vote for a certain presidential candidate (for
Mr. Lincoln or Mr. Douglas, and so on), and he does nothing
but vote accordingly. The provision requiring the consent of
an absolute majority has had a still worse effect; it has not
been futile, for it has been pernicious. It has made it very
difficult to secure any election." l
If every candidate stood who wished, and every elector
voted for whom he pleased, there would be no election at all.
Each little faction would vote for its own particular favourite,
and no one would obtain the votes of half the whole nation.
A very complicated apparatus of preliminary meetings, called
caucuses, is therefore resorted to, and the working of these is
singularly disastrous.
Every man of any mark in the whole nation has many
enemies, some private, some public ; he is probably the head
of some section or minor party, and that minor party has its
own antagonists, its special opponents, who would dislike more
than anything else that its head should on a sudden become
the head of the State. Every statesman who has been long
tried in public life must have had to alienate many friends, to
irritate many applicants by necessary refusals, to say many
things which are rankling in many bosoms. Every great man
creates his own opposition ; and no great man, therefore, will
ever be President of the United States, except in the rarest
and most exceptional cases. The object of " President makers "
is to find a candidate who will conciliate the greatest number,
1 Economist, ist June, 1861.
THE PRESENT CRISIS 377
not the person for whom there is most to be said, but the
person against whom there is least to be said. In the English
State, there is no great office filled in at all the same way ; but
in the English Church there is. " Depend on it," said a shrewd
banker, not remarkable for theological zeal or scholastic
learning, " I would have been Archbishop of Canterbury, if I
had been in the Church. Some quiet, tame sort of man is al-
ways chosen ; and I never give offence to any one." If he did
not, he might have been President of the United States. The
mode in which all conspicuous merit is gradually eliminated
from the list of candidates was well illustrated at the election
of Mr. Pierce.
" The candidates on the democratic side were no less than
eight : General Cass, Mr. Buchanan, Mr. Douglas, Mr. Marcy,
Mr. Butler, Mr. Houston, Mr. Lane, and Mr. Dickenson ; all
men ' prominently known to their party,' and the three first
supported with great enthusiasm by large sections of that party
throughout the Union.
" The Convention appointed by the democratic party in
each State to decide which among these various candidates
should be recommended for their votes at the election, as-
sembled at Baltimore for their first meeting on the 1st of June,
1852. On that day General Cass obtained the greatest number of
votes at the first ballot, namely 116, out of the total of 288 ;
but a number far below the requisite majority. A few speci-
mens of the manner in which the votes fluctuated will not be
without interest. On the ninth ballot the votes were — Cass,
112; Buchanan, 87; Douglas, 39; Marcy, 28; Butler, i;
Houston, 8 ; Lane, 13 ; Dickenson, I. On the twenty-second
ballot— Cass, 33 ; Douglas, 80 ; Butler, 24 ; Lane, 1 1 ; Buchan-
an, 101 ; Marcy, 25; Housten, 10; Dickenson, I. On the
twenty-ninth ballot — Cass, 27. On the thirty-fifth ballot
— Cass, 131 ; Douglas, 52; Buchanan, 32.
" On this, the sixth day of the meeting (the proceedings of
and the scenes in which were fully and somewhat graphically
described by the public press of both parties), a new name ap-
peared for the first time upon the lists — that of Mr. Pierce, of
New Hampshire, a gentleman well known to his friends as a
378 THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
lawyer of ability ; also as having creditably fulfilled the dutii
of a member of the House of Representatives, and of the Sen-|
ate of the United States ; better known, however, as havi
joined the army as a volunteer on the breaking out of t
Mexican War, and as having commanded with distinction a
brigade in that war, with the rank of General. It will, never-
theless, imply no disrespect towards Mr. Pierce, if I repeal
what was the universal expression, according to the public
prints, throughout the Union, that no individual in the United
States could have been more surprised at Mr. Pierce's nomin;
tion for the exalted and responsible office of chief magistrate
of the Republic than Mr. Pierce himself. On the thirty-fifth
ballot, the first in which Mr Pierce's name appeared, he received
15 votes. On the forty-eight, he received only 55 votes;
but on the forty-ninth, the numbers voting for him were 283,
out of the total of 288 — a vote which five more would
have made unanimous.
" Mr. Pierce was accordingly recommended to the demo-
cratic Constituencies throughout the Union, and was elected by
a considerable majority over his Whig opponent; the numbers
being, for Mr. Pierce 1,504,47 1, and for General Scott 1,283,174."
What worse mode of electing a ruler could by possibility
have been selected ? If the wit of man had been set to devise
a system specially calculated to bring to the head of affairs
incompetent man at a pressing crisis, it could not have devi:
one more fit ; probably it would not have devised one as fit.
almost secures the rejection of tried and trained genius, and
most insures the selection of untrained and unknown mediocri
Nor is this the only mode, or even the chief mode, in whi
the carefully considered provisions of the American Constitutr
have, in fact, deprived the American people of the guidance ai
government of great statesmen, just when these were most
quired. It is not too much to say that, under the Ameri
Constitution, there was no opportunity for a great statesmai
As we have seen, he had no chance of being chosen President,
the artificial clauses of the Constitution, and the natural
principles of human nature, have combined to prevent that.
Nor is it worth a great man's while to be a President's minister.
THE PRESENT CRISIS 379
This is not because such a minister would be in apparent sub-
ordination to the President, who would probably be an inferior
man to him — for able men are continually ready to fill sub-
ordinate posts under constitutional monarchs, who are usually
very inferior men, and even under colonial governors, who are
rather inferior men — but because a President's minister has no
parliamentary career. As we know, the first member of the
Crown is with us the first man in Parliament, and is the ruler
of the English nation. In those English colonies which pos-
sess popular constitutions, the first minister is the most power-
ful man in the State — far more powerful than the so-called
governor. He is so because he is the accepted leader of the
colonial Parliament In consequence, whenever the English
nation, or a free English colony, is in peril, the first man in
England, or in the colony, at least the most trusted man is
raised at once to the most powerful place in the nation. On
the Continent of Europe, the advantage of this insensible
machinery is just beginning to be understood. Count Cavour
well knew and thoroughly showed how far the power of a parlia-
mentary Premier, supported by a willing and confiding parlia-
ment, is superior to all other political powers, whether in
despotic governments or in free. The American Constitution,
however, expressly prohibits the possibility of such a position.
It enacts, " That no person holding any office under the United
States shall be a member of either House during his continuance
in office ". In consequence, the position of a great parliament-
ary member who is responsible more or less for the due per-
formance of his own administrative functions, and also of all
lesser ones, is in America an illegal one. If a politician has
executive authority, he cannot enter Parliament ; if he is in
Parliament, he cannot possess executive authority. No man of
great talents and high ambition has therefore under the Con-
stitution of the United States a proper sphere for those talents, or
a suitable vista for that ambition. He cannot hope to be Presi-
dent, for the President is ex officio a poor creature ; he cannot
hope to be, mutatis mutandis, an English Premier, to be a Sir
R. Peel, or a Count Cavour, for the American law has declared
that in the United States there shall be no similar person.
380 THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
It appears that the Constitution-makers of North America
were not unnaturally misled by the political philosophy of
their day. It was laid down first that the legislative authority
and the executive authority ought to be perfectly distinct;
and secondly that in the English Constitution those authorities
were so distinct. Both dogmas had slid into accepted axioms,
and no one was bold enough to contest them. At that time
no speculative politician perfectly comprehended that the
essence of the English Constitution resided in the Englisl
Cabinet ; that so far from the executive power being entirely
distinct from the legislative power, the primary motive force
the supreme regulator of every thing, was precisely the sam<
in both. A select committee of the legislature chosen by th(
legislature is the highest administrative body, and exercises all
the powers of the sovereign executive that are tolerated by the
law. The advantage of this arrangement, though contrary to
a very old philosophical theory, is very great The whole
State will never work in harmony and in vigour while b}
possibility its two great powers — the power of legislating an<
the power of acting — can be declared in opposition to one
another ; and if they are independent, they will very often
in open antagonism, and be always in dread of it when the}
are not so. No government, it may be safely said, can be
strong as it should be when the enacting legislature and th<
acting executive are not subjected to a single effectual control.
The framers of the American Constitution did not perceive
this cardinal maxim. The admitted theory of that day
that the English Constitution was one of " checks and
balances " ; and the Americans, who were very willing to
take it as their model (the monarchial part excepted), hope
to balance their strong independent legislature by a strong
independent executive. They hoped, too, to prevent the in-
troduction into America of that parliamentary corruption—
that bribery of popular representatives by money and patron-
age, which filled so large a space in the thoughts of politicians
of the last century, and so large a space in the lives of some
of them. But though their intentions were excellent and
their reasons plausible, the effect of their regulations has been
THE PRESENT CRISIS 381
pernicious. By keeping the two careers of legislation and of
administration distinct, they have rendered the life of a high
politician, of a great statesman, aspiring to improve the laws
and to regulate the policy of a great country, with them an
impossibility. They have divided the greatest department of
practical life into two halves, and neither of them is worth a
man's having.
We see the effect. There is no body of respected states- . ;
men in America at this moment of their extreme need. It is \ '
not a fault that they have no great genius at their head. The
few marvellous statesmen of the world are of necessity rare,
and are not manufactured to order even by the bidding of an
awful crisis. But it is a fault that they have not one or more
possible parliamentary cabinets — several sets of trained men,
with considerable abilities and known character, whose policy
is decided, whose worth is tried, who have cast in their lot for
years with certain ideas, whose names are respected in every
household through Europe. In consequence of the unfortunate
caution of their Constitution-makers, America has no such men ;
and Italy has them or will soon have them ; but after a political
experience of seventy years the United States have none. They
have existed during two generations as a democracy without
ideals ; and are likely to die now a democracy without champions.
It is, however, only fair to observe, that the American
Constitution has one great excellence at this moment, not
indeed, as compared with the English Constitution, but as
compared with that degraded imitation of it which exists,
for example, in our Australian Colonies. In those govern-
ments the parliament is wholly unfit to choose an execu-
tive ; it has not patriotism enough to give a decent stability
to the government ; there are " ministerial crises " once a
week, and actual changes of administration once a month.
The suffrage has been lowered to such a point among the
refuse population of the gold colonies, that representative
government is there a very dubious blessing, if not a certain
and absolute curse. If such a parliament had met in such a
crisis as the American Congress lately had to face, it is both
possible and probable that no stable administration would
382 THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT
have been formed at all. Every possible ministry would have
been tried in succession ; and every one would have been re-
jected in succession. We might have witnessed debates as j
aimless, as absurd, as unpractical, in their tenor, as those of |
certain French Parliaments, without the culture and refine-
ment which made the latter more tolerable, though it could
not make them more wise.
The American Constitution has at least the merit of pre-
venting this last extreme of political degradation. Having
placed Mr. Lincoln, an unknown man, in power, it has at least \
prevented his being superseded, or its being proposed that he |
should be superseded by some other equally unknown man. i
The American Constitution necessitated the choice for the
first position at an awful crisis ; it has at least settled once
for all who he should be ; it has compelled a conclusive choice,
which an Australian Constitution would not have done.
But with this single item the aid which the American !
Constitution has given to Mr. Lincoln in his presidency begins
and ends. It has put him there, and it has kept him there
but it has done no more. He has had to carry on the govern-
ment with new subordinates ; for at every change of th<
American President, all the officials, from the cabinet minister
to the petty postmaster, are changed. So far from giving
him any special powers suitable to a civil war, it authori-
tatively declares that the right of the people to keep and
bear arms shall not be infringed ; that it shall be illegal " to
abridge the freedom of speech or of the press, or the right of
the people peaceably to assemble or to petition for a redress
of grievance". It does not permit the punishment of any
person, or the confiscation of his property, except after satis-
factory proof before a civil tribunal. Even now, at this earb
state of the civil contest, martial law has been declared ii
Missouri and habeus corpus suspended in Baltimore; the
property (slave-property, certainly, but still legal property
America) of Secessionists has been confiscated ; the liberty
speech is almost at an end ; the liberty of the press has ceasec
to exist. These last are indeed infractions of the law, not by
the administration, but by the mob ; it is they, and not Mr.
THE PRESENT CRISIS 383
Lincoln, who have burnt printers' offices and proscribed
dissentient individuals. But Mr. Lincoln and his ministers
have broken, and have been obliged to break, the law on
almost innumerable occasions, because that law provided
no suitable procedure for the extreme contingency of a
great civil war. The framers of the Constitution shrank
naturally, and perhaps not unwisely, from providing against
such an incalculable peril. They may have not unreasonably
feared that they might augment the probability of such a
calamity by recognising its possibility, even in order to provide
against it. But their omission must have been grievously
lamented by those who have had now to violate the law, for
it may hereafter expose them to imminent danger. The
English Parliament, in such an emergency, could and would
condone every well-intentioned and beneficial irregularity by an
act of indemnity. But the American Congress cannot do so.
Its powers are limited powers, defined by the letter of a docu-
ment ; and in that document there is nothing to authorise a
bill of indemnity — nor, indeed, could there be consistently
with the very nature of it By its fundamental conception,
the States should relinquish certain special powers to the
Federal Government, and those powers only ; if the Federal
Government could pass a bill of indemnity for infractions of
the law, it would have absolute power; it would be a
generally sovereign body, like the King, Lords, and Commons
of England ; it would have over the States of America, and
over their people, not a defined and limited superiority, but
an uncontrolled and unlimited one. Mr. Lincoln is, therefore,
in peril from the inseparable accidents of the office he holds ;
he is a President under a Constitution which could give him
only defined powers, and he is in a position requiring indefinite
powers ; he has therefore had to take his life in his hand, and
violate the law. At present, popular opinion approves of what
he has done; but the Republican party, of which he is the
head, has many bitter enemies. If his announced aim should
be successful, and he should re-establish the Union, those
enemies will be reinforced by the whole constitutional power
of the whole South, bitterly hostile to their vanquisher,
A
384 AMERICAN CONSTITUTION AT PRESENT CRISIS
bitterly aggrieved at the means by which they have been van-
quished. Against such a coalition of enemies it will
difficult to defend the illegal, the arbitrary, the impeachabl<
acts (for such, in the eye of American law, they are) of whi<
Mr. Lincoln has been guilty. We doubt much whether h<
can succeed in compelling the South to return to the Union
but if he should, he will have succeeded at his peril.
It is easy to sum up the results of this long discussiu,
We cannot regard the American Constitution with the defer-
f ence and the admiration with which all Americans used to rt
gard it, and with which many Northern Americans still regar<
I it. We admit that it has been beneficial to the America]
Republic as a bond of union ; it has prevented war, it h;
fostered commerce, it has made them a nation to be count<
with. But it always contained the seeds of disunion. Then
is no chance of saving such a polity when many States wisl
to separate from it, for the simple reason that its whole actio:
essentially depends on the voluntary union of all, or of nearly
all, the States. So far from its being wonderful that the pre'
sent rupture has happened now, it is rather wonderful that il
did not happen long since. It is rather surprising that a
Government, which in practice, though not in theory, is depen-
dent on the precarious consent of many distinct bodies, should
have lasted so long, than that it should break asunder now.
We see, too, that the American Constitution was, in its very
essence, framed upon an erroneous principle. Its wise founders
wished to guard against the characteristic evils of democracy ;
but they relied for this purpose upon ingenious devices and
superficial subtilties. They left the essence of the government
unchanged ; they left the sovereign people, sovereign still. As
has been shown in detail, the effect has been calamitous. Their
ingenuities have produced painful evils, and aggravated great
dangers ; but they have failed of their intended purpose— they
have neither refined the polity, nor restrained the people.
END OF VOL. III.
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