Literary studies; miscellaneous essays. Edited, with a prefatory memoir

presented to

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of Toronto

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Bertram 1R, Davis

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LITERARY STUDIES

VOL. I

WORKS BY WALTER BAGEHOT.

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the late RICHARD HOLT HUTTON. With Portrait. Seventh
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LITERARY STUDIES

(MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS)

BY

WALTER BAGEHOT

M A AND FELLOW OF UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, LONDON

EDITED, WITH A PREFATORY MEMOIR, BV

RICHARD HOLT HUTTON

IN T1IKKM VOLUMES
VOL. I.

NEW IMPRESSION

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.

39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON

NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA

1910

"'

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE.

Issued in "Silver Library," July, 1895; vol. i.
reprinted 4ugust, 1897 ; reissued in new style,
June, 1898; Reprinted February* 1902; September,
1905 ; and /#«£, 1910.

ADVERTISEMENT.

SEVERAL of the following Essays were published by
Mr. Bagehot himself in a volume which appeared in
1858, entitled, Estimates of some Englishmen and
Scotchmen— a volume which has now long been out
of print. The date of these and all other Essays repub-
lished in these volumes is given in the Table of Contents.
In preparing this edition I have been indebted to
the very carefully annotated edition of Mr. Bagehot's
works, brought out at Hartford, Connecticut, U.S.A.,
by Mr. Forrest Morgan, of the Travellers' Insurance
Society. In some cases I think the American editor
has missed Mr. Bagehot's meaning, and I have not,
therefore, accepted all his corrections. I have now
added three papers to this work which have not been
previously republished, those on Oxford, the Credit
Mobilier, and Lawyers. I have been urged to save the
fust of these from oblivion by friends of Mr. Bagehot,
who are specially good judges of the subject treated.

The portrait is from a photograph taken by Monsieur
Adolphe Beau in 1864.

R. H. H.

CONTENTS

THE FIRST VOLUME.

FAO»

PRELIMINARY MEMOIR (Fortnightly Revitw, October, 1877) . . ix

ESSAY

I. HARTLEY COLERIDGE (Prosptctivt Rtview, October, 1852) - i

II. SHAKESPEARE— THE MAN (Prospective Review, July, 1853) - 37

III. WILLIAM COWPBR (National Review, July, 1855) 87

IV. THE FIRST EDINBURGH REVIEWERS (National Review, Oc-

tober, 1855) . 144

V. EDWARD GIBBON (National Review, January, 1856) • . 188

VI. PERCY BYSSHB SHELLEY (National Rtview, October, 1856) - 246

MEMOIR

BY THE EDITOR.

IT is inevitable, I suppose, that the world should judge
of a man chiefly by what it has gained in him, and lost
by his death, even though a very little reflection might
sometimes show that the special qualities which made
him so useful to the world implied others of a yet
higher order, in which, to those who knew him well,
these more conspicuous characteristics must have been
well-nigh merged. And while, of course, it has given
me great pleasure, as it must have given pleasure to all
Bagehot's friends, to hear the Chancellor of the Ex-
chequer's evidently genuine tribute to his financial
sagacity in the Budget speech of 1877, and Lord
Granville's eloquent acknowledgments of the value of
Bagehot's political counsels as Editor of the Economist,
in the speech delivered at the London University on
May 9, 1877, I have sometimes felt somewhat un-
reasonably vexed that those who appreciated so well
what I may almost call the smallest part of him,
appeared to know so little of the essence of him, — of
the high-spirited, buoyant, subtle, speculative nature in
which the imaginative qualities were even more remark-
able than the judgment, and were, indeed, at the root of
all that was strongest in the judgment, — of the gay and

Memoir.

dashing humour which was the life of every conversation
in which he joined, — and of the visionary nature to
which the commonest things often seemed the most
marvellous, and the marvellous things the most in-
trinsically probable. To those who hear of Bagehot
only as an original political economist and a lucid
political thinker, a curiously false image of him must be
suggested. If they are among the multitude misled by
Carlyle, who regard all political economists as "the
dreary professors of a dismal science," they will probably
conjure up an arid disquisitionist on value and cost of
production; and even if assured of Bagehot's imaginative
power, they may perhaps only understand by the ex-
pression, that capacity for feverish preoccupation which
makes the mention of " Peel's Act " summon up to the
faces of certain fanatics a hectic glow, or the rumour of
paper currencies blanch others with the pallor of true
passion. The truth, however, is that the best qualities
which Bagehot had, both as economist and as politician,
were of a kind which the majority of economists and
politicians do not specially possess. I do not mean that
it was in any way an accident that he was an original
thinker in either sphere ; far from it. But I do think
that what he brought to political and economical science,
he brought in some sense from outside their normal
range, — that the man of business and the financier in
him fell within such sharp and well-defined limits, that
he knew better than most of his class where their special
weakness lay, and where their special functions ended.
This, at all events, I am quite sure of, that so far as his
judgment was sounder than other men's — and on many
subjects it was much sounder — it was so not in spite of,

Memoir.

but in consequence of, the excursive imagination and
vivid humour which are so often accused of betraying
otherwise sober minds into dangerous aberrations. In
him both lucidity and caution were directly traceable to
the force of his imagination.

Walter Bagehot was born at Langport on February
3, 1826. Langport is an old-fashioned little town in the
centre of Somersetshire, which in early days returned two
members to Parliament, until the burgesses petitioned
Edward I. to relieve them of the expense of paying their
members, — a quaint piece of economy of which Bagehot
frequently made humorous boast. The town is still a
close corporation, and calls its mayor by the old Saxon
name of Portreeve, and Bagehot himself became its
Deputy- Recorder, as well as a Magistrate for the
County Situated at the point where the river Parret
ceases to be navigable, Langport has always been a
centre of trade ; and here in the last century Mr. Samuel
Stuckey founded the Somersetshire Bank, which has
since spread over the entire county, and is now the
largest private bank of issue in England. Bagehot was
the only surviving child of Mr. Thomas Watson Bagehot,
who was for thirty years Managing Director and Vice-
Chairman of Stuckey's Banking Company, and was, as
Bagehot was fond of recalling, before he resigned that
position, the oldest joint-stock banker in the United
Kingdom. Bagehot succeeded his father as Vice-Chair-
man of the Bank, when the latter retired in his old age.
His mother, a Miss Stuckey, was a niece of Mr. Samuel
Stuckey, the founder of the Banking Company, and was
a very pretty and lively woman, who had, by her pre-
vious marriage with a son of Dr. Estlin of Bristol, been

xii Memoir.

brought at an early age into an intellectual atmosphere
by which she had greatly profited. There is no doubt
that Bagehot was greatly indebted to the constant and
careful sympathy in all his studies that both she and
his father gave him, as well as to a very studious dis-
position, for his future success. Dr. Prichard, the
well-known ethnologist, was her brother-in-law, and
her son's marked taste for science was first awakened in
Dr. Prichard's house in Park Row, where Bagehot
often spent his half-holidays while he was a school-
boy in Bristol. To Dr. Prichard's Races of Man
may, indeed, be first traced that keen interest in the
speculative side of ethnological research, the results
of which are best seen in Bagehot's book on Physics
and Politics.

I first met Bagehot at University College, London,
when we were neither of us over seventeen. I was
struck by the questions put by a lad with large dark
eyes and florid complexion to the late Professor De
Morgan, who was lecturing to us, as his custom was.
on the great difficulties involved in what we thought we
all understood perfectly — such, for example, as the
meaning of 0, of negative quantities, or the grounds of
probable expectation. Bagehot's questions showed that
he had both read and thought more on these subjects
than most of us, and I was eager to make his acquaint-
ance, which soon ripened into an intimate friendship,
in which there was never any intermission between that
time and his death. Some will regret that Bagehot did
not go to Oxford ; the reason being that his father, who
was a Unitarian, objected on principle to all doctrinal
tests, and would never have permitted a son of his to go

Memoir. xiii

to either of the older Universities while those tests were
required of the undergraduates. And I am not at all
sure that University College, London, was not at that
time a much more awakening place of education for
young men than almost any Oxford college. Bagehot
himself, I suspect, thought so. Fifteen years later he
wrote, in his essay on Shelley : " A distinguished pupil
of the University of Oxford once observed to us, ' The
use of the University of Oxford is that no one can over-
read himself there. The appetite for knowledge is
repressed.' ' And whatever may have been defective
in University College, London — and no doubt much was
defective — nothing of the kind could have been said of
it when we were students there. Indeed, in those years
London was a place with plenty of intellectual stimulus
in it for young men, while in University College itself
there was quite enough vivacious and original teaching
to make that stimulus available to the full. It is some-
times said that it needs the quiet of a country town
remote from the capital to foster the love of genuine
study in young men. But of this, at least, I am sure,
that Gower Street, and Oxford Street, and the New
Road, and the dreary chain of squares from Euston to
Bloomsbury, were the scenes of discussions as eager
and as abstract as ever were the sedate cloisters or the
flowery river-meadows of Cambridge or Oxford. Once,
I remember, in the vehemence of our argument as to
whether the so-called logical principle of identity (A is A)
were entitled to rank as " a law of thought " or only as a
postulate of language, Bagehot and I wandered up and
down Regent Street for something like two hours in the
vain attempt to find Oxford Street : —

xiv Memoir.

" And yet what days were those, Parmenides,
When we were young, when we could number friends
In all the Italian cities like ourselves,
When with elated hearts we joined your train,
Ye sun-born virgins, on the road of truth I
Then we could still enjoy, then neither thought
Nor outward things were closed and dead to us,
But we received the shock of mighty thoughts
On single minds with a pure natural joy ;
And if the sacred load oppressed our brain,
We had the power to feel the pressure eased,
The brow unbound, the thoughts flow free again
In the delightful commerce of the world." J

Bagehot. has himself described, evidently from his
own experience, the kind of life we lived in those days,
in an article on Oxford Reform : " So, too, in youth, the
real plastic energy is not in tutors, or lectures, or in
books ' got up,' but in Wordsworth and Shelley, in the
books that all read because all like ; in what all talk of
because all are interested; in the argumentative walk
or disputatious lounge ; in the impact of young thought
upon young thought, of fresh thought on fresh thought,
of hot thought on hot thought ; in mirth and refutation,
in ridicule and laughter ; for these are the free play of
the natural mind, and these cannot be got without a
college".2

The late Professor Sewell, when asked to give his
pupils some clear conception of the old Greek Sophists,
is said to have replied that he could not do this better
than by referring them to the Professors of University
College, London. I do not think there was much force
in the sarcasm, for though Professor T. Hewitt Key,

1 Matthew Arnold.

2 Prospective Review, No. 31, for August, 1852. Reprinted in this
work, vol. iii., p. 101.

Memoir. xv

whose restless and ingenious mind led him many a
wild dance after etymological Will-o'-the-wisps — I re-
member, for instance, his cheerfully accepting the
suggestion that "better" and "bad" (meliorand mains)
came from the same root, and accounting for it by the
probable disposition of hostile tribes to call everything
bad which their enemies called good, and everything
good which their enemies called bad — may have had in
him much of the brilliance, and something also, perhaps,
of the flightiness, of the old sophist, it would be hard to
imagine men more severe in exposing pretentious con-
ceits and dispelling dreams of theoretic omniscience,
than Professors De Morgan, Maiden, and Long. De
Morgan, who at that time was in the midst of his
controversy on formal logic with Sir William Hamilton,
was, indeed, characterised by the great Edinburgh
metaphysician as " profound in mathematics, curious in
logic, but wholly deficient in architectonic power " ;
yet, for all that, his lectures on the Theory of Limits
were a far better logical discipline for young men
than Sir William Hamilton's on the Law of the
Unconditioned or the Quantification of the Predicate.
Professor Maiden contrived to imbue us with a love of
that fastidious taste and that exquisite nicety in treating
questions of scholarship, which has, perhaps, been more
needed and less cultivated in Gower Street than any
other of the higher elements of a college education ;
while Professor Long's caustic irony, accurate and
almost ostentatiously dry learning, and profoundly
stoical temperament, were as antithetic to the temper
of the sophist as human qualities could possibly be.
The time of our college life was pretty nearly con-

xvi Memoir.

temporaneous with the life of the Anti-Corn-Law
League and the great agitation in favour of Free-trade.
To us this was useful rather from the general impulse
it gave to political discussion, and the literary curiosity
it excited in us as to the secret of true eloquence, than
because it anticipated in any considerable degree the
later acquired taste for economical science. Bagehot
and I seldom missed an opportunity of hearing together
the matchless practical disquisitions of Mr. Cobden —
lucid and homely, yet glowing with intense conviction,
— the profound passion and careless, though artistic,
scorn of Mr. Bright, and the artificial and elaborately
ornate periods, and witty, though somewhat ad captandum,
epigrams of Mr. W. J. Fox (afterwards M.P. for Oldham).
Indeed, we scoured London together to hear any kind
of oratory that had gained a reputation of its own, and
compared all we heard with the declamation of Burke
and the rhetoric of Macaulay, many of whose later
essays came out and were eagerly discussed by us while
we were together at college. In our conversations on
these essays, I remember that I always bitterly attacked,
while Bagehot moderately defended, the glorification of
compromise which marks all Macaulay's writings. Even
in early youth Bagehot had much of that "animated
moderation " which he praises so highly in his latest
work. He was a voracious reader, especially of history,
and had a far truer appreciation of historical conditions
than most young thinkers ; indeed, the broad historical
sense which characterised him from first to last, made
him more alive than ordinary students to the urgency
of circumstance, and far less disposed to indulge in
abstract moral criticism from a modern point of view.

Memoir. xvii

On theology, as on all other subjects, Bagehot was at
this time more conservative than myself, he sharing
his mother's orthodoxy, and I at that time accepting
heartily the Unitarianism of my own people. Theology
was, however, I think, the only subject on which, in
later life, we, to some degree at least, exchanged places,
though he never at any time, however doubtful he may
have become on some of the cardinal issues of historical
Christianity, accepted the Unitarian position. Indeed,
within the last two or three years of his life, he spoke
on one occasion of the Trinitarian doctrine as probably
the best account which human reason could render of
the mystery of the self-existent mind.

In those early days Bagehot's manner was often
supercilious. We used to attack him for his intellectual
arrogance — his vffpn we called it, in our college slang
— a quality which I believe was not really in him,
though he had then much of its external appearance.
Nevertheless his genuine contempt for what was intel-
lectually feeble was not accompanied by an even adequate
appreciation of his own powers. At college, however,
his satirical " Hear, hear," was a formidable sound in
the debating society, and one which took the heart out
of many a younger speaker ; and the ironical " How
much?" with which in conversation he would meet an
over-eloquent expression, was always of a nature to
reduce a man, as the mathematical phrase goes, to his
"lowest terms". In maturer life he became much
gentler and mellower, and often even delicately con-
siderate for others; but his inner scorn for ineffectual
thought remained, in some degree, though it was very
reticently expressed, to the last. For instance, I re-

VOL. I. 2

xviii Memoir.

member his attacking me for my mildness in criticising
a book which, though it professed to rest on a basis of
clear thought, really missed all its points. " There is a
pale, whitey-brown substance," he wrote to me, " in the
man's books, which people who don't think take for
thought, but it isn't ; " and he upbraided me much for
not saying plainly that the man was a muff. In his
youth this scorn for anything like the vain beating of
the wings in the attempt to think, was at its maximum.
It was increased, I think, by that which was one of his
greatest qualities, his remarkable " detachment " of
mind — in other words, his comparative inaccessibility
to the contagion of blind sympathy. Most men, more
or less unconsciously, shrink from even thinking what
they feel to be out of sympathy with the feelings of
their neighbours, unless under some strong incentive to
do so ; and in this way the sources of much true and
important criticism are dried up, through the mere
diffusion and ascendency of conventional but sincere
habits of social judgment. And no doubt for the greater
number of us this is much the best. We are worth
more for the purpose of constituting and strengthening
the cohesive power of the social bond, than we should
ever be worth for the purpose of criticising feebly — and
with little effect, perhaps, except the disorganising effect
of seeming ill-nature — the various incompetences and
miscarriages of our neighbours' intelligence. But
Bagehot's intellect was always far too powerful and
original to render him available for the function of mere
social cement ; and full as he was of genuine kindness
and hearty personal affections, he certainly had not in
any high degree that sensitive instinct as to what others

Memoir. xix

would feel, which so often shapes even the thoughts of
men, and still oftener their speech, into mild and com-
plaisant, but unmeaning and unfruitful, forms.

Thus it has been said that in his very amusing article
on Crabb Robinson, published in the Fortnightly Review
for August, 1869, he was more than a little rough in his
delineation of that quaint old friend of our earlier days.
And certainly there is something of the naturalist's
realistic manner of describing the habits of a new
species, in the paper, though there is not a grain of
malice or even depreciatory bias in it, and though there
is a very sincere regard manifested throughout. But
that essay will illustrate admirably what I mean by
saying that Bagehot's detachment of mind, and the
deficiency in him of any aptitude for playing the part of
mere social cement, tended to give the impression of an
intellectual arrogance which — certainly in the sense of
self-esteem or self-assertion — did not in the least belong
to him. In the essay I have just mentioned he describes
how Crabb Robinson, when he gave his somewhat famous
breakfast-parties, used to forget to make the tea, then
lost his keys, then told a long story about a bust of
Wieland, during the extreme agony of his guests'
appetites, and finally, perhaps, withheld the cup of tea
he had at last poured out, while he regaled them with a
poem of Wordsworth's or a diatribe against Hazlitt.
And Bagehot adds: "The more astute of his guests
used to breakfast before they came, and then there was
much interest in seeing a steady literary man, who did
not understand the region, in agonies at having to hear
three stories before he got his tea, one again between
his milk and his sugar, another between his butter and

Memoir.

his toast, and additional zest in making a stealthy
inquiry that was sure to intercept the coming delicacies
by bringing on Schiller and Goethe". The only " astute"
person referred to was, I imagine, Bagehot himself, who
confessed to me, much to my amusement, that this
was always his own precaution before one of Crabb
Robinson's breakfasts. I doubt if anybody else ever
thought of it. It was very characteristic in him
that he should have not only noticed — for that, of
course, any one might do— this weak element in Crabb
Robinson's breakfasts, but should have kept it so dis-
tinctly before his mind as to make it the centre, as it
were, of a policy, and the opportunity of a mischievous
stratagem to try the patience of others. It showed how
much of the social naturalist there was in him. If any
race of animals could understand a naturalist's account
of their ways and habits, and of the devices he adopted
to get those ways and habits more amusingly or in-
structively displayed before him, no doubt they would
think that he was a cynic ; and it was this intellectual
detachment, as of a social naturalist, from the society in
which he moved, which made Bagehot's remarks often
seem somewhat harsh, when, in fact, they were animated
not only by no suspicion of malice, but by the most cordial
and earnest friendliness. Owing to this separateness of
mind, he described more strongly and distinctly traits
which, when delineated by a friend, we expect to find
painted in the softened manner of one who is half dis-
posed to imitate or adopt them.

Yet, though I have used the word " naturalist " to
denote the keen and solitary observation with which
Bagehot watched society, no word describes him worse.

Memoir. xxi

if we attribute to it any of that coldness and stillness of
curiosity which we are apt to associate with scientific
vigilance. Especially in his youth, buoyancy, vivacity,
velocity of thought, were of the essence of the impression
which he made. He had high spirits and great capacities
for enjoyment, great sympathies indeed with the old
English Cavalier. In his Essay on Macaulay he paints
that character with profound sympathy : —

" What historian, indeed," he says, " has ever estimated the Cavalier
character ? There is Clarendon, the grave, rhetorical, decorous lawyer
— piling words, congealing arguments — very stately, a little grim. There
is Hume, the Scotch metaphysician, who has made out the best case for
such people as never were, for a Charles who never died, for a Strafford
who could never have been attainted, a saving, calculating North-
countryman, fat, impassive, who lived on eightpence a day. What have
these people to do with an enjoying English gentleman ? . . . Talk of the
ways of spreading a wholesome Conservatism throughout the country
.... as far as communicating and establishing your creed is con-
cerned, try a little pleasure. The way to keep up old customs is to enjoy
old customs ; the way to be satisfied with the present state of things is
to enjoy that state of things. Over the ' Cavalier ' mind this world
passes with a thrill of delight ; there is an exultation in a daily event,
zest in the • regular thing,' joy at an old feast." l

And that aptly represents himself. Such arrogance
as he seemed to have in early life was the arrogance as
much of enjoyment as of detachment of mind — the
insouciance of the old Cavalier as much at least as the
calm of a mind not accessible to the contagion of social
feelings. He always talked, in youth, of his spirits as
inconveniently high ; and once wrote to me that he did
not think they were quite as " boisterous " as they had
been, and that his fellow-creatures were not sorry for
the abatement ; nevertheless, he added, " I am quite

1 See vol. ii., p. 12, of this work.

xxii Memoir.

fat, gross, and ruddy". He was, indeed, excessively
fond of hunting, vaulting, and almost all muscular
effort, so that, his life would be wholly misconceived by
any one who, hearing of his " detachment " of thought,
should picture his mind as a vigilantly observant, far-
away intelligence, such as Hawthorne's, for example.
He liked to be in the thick of the melee when talk grew
warm, though he was never so absorbed in it as not to
keep his mind cool.

As I said, Bagehot was a Somersetshire man, with
all the richness of nature and love for the external glow
of life which the most characteristic counties of the
South-west of England contrive to give to their most
characteristic sons : —

" This north-west corner of Spain," he wrote once to a newspaper
from the Pyrenees, " is the only place out of England where I should
like to live. It is a sort of better Devonshire ; the coast is of the same
kind, the sun is more brilliant, the sea is more brilliant, and there are
mountains in the background. I have seen some more beautiful places
and many grander, but I should not like to live in them. As Mr. Emerson
puts it, * I do not want to go to heaven before my time '. My English
nature by early use and long habit is tied to a certain kind of scenery,
soon feels the want of it, and is apt to be alarmed as well as pleased at
perpetual snow and all sorts of similar beauties. But here, about San
Sebastian, you have the best England can give you (at least if you hold,
as I do, that Devonshire is the finest of our counties), and the charm,
the ineffable, indescribable charm of the South too. Probably the sun
has some secret effect on the nervous system that makes one inclined to
be pleased, but the golden light lies upon everything, and one fancies
that one is charmed only by the outward loveliness."

The vivacity and warm colouring of the landscapes
of the South of England certainly had their full share
in moulding his tastes, and possibly even his style.

Bagehot took the mathematical scholarship with his

Memoir. xxiii

Bachelor's degree in the University of London in 1846,
and the gold medal in Intellectual and Moral Philosophy
with his Master's degree in 1848, in reading for which
he mastered for the first time those principles of political
economy which were to receive so much illustration
from his genius in later years. But at this time philo-
sophy, poetry, and theology had, I think, a much greater
share of his attention than any narrow and more
sharply defined science. Shakespeare, Keats, Shelley
and Wordsworth, Coleridge, Martineau and John Henry
Newman, all in their way exerted a great influence over
his mind, and divided, not unequally, with the authors
whom he was bound to study — that is, the Greek
philosophers, together with Hume, Kant, J. S. Mill,
and Sir William Hamilton — the time at his disposal.
I have no doubt that for seven or eight years of his life
the Roman Catholic Church had a great fascination for
his imagination, though I do not think that he was ever
at all near conversion. He was intimate with all Dr.
Newman's writings. And of these the Oxford sermons,
and the poems in the Lyra Apostolica afterwards
separately published — partly, I believe, on account of
the high estimate of them which Bagehot had himself
expressed — were always his special favourites. The
little poetry he wrote — and it is evident that he never
had the kind of instinct for, or command of, language
which is the first condition of genuine poetic genius-
seems to me to have been obviously written under the
spell which Dr. Newman's own few but finely-chiselled
poems had cast upon him. If I give one specimen of
Bagehot's poems, it is not that I think it in any way an
adequate expression of his powers, but for a very different

xx iv Memoir.

reason, because it will show those who have inferred
from his other writings that his mind never deeply con-
cerned itself with religion, how great is their mistake.
Nor is there any real poverty of resource in these lines,
except perhaps in the awkward mechanism of some of
them. They were probably written when he was
twenty-three or twenty-four.

'•To THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH.
" * Casta inceste.' — Lucretius.

" Thy lamp of faith is brightly trimmed,
Thy eager eye is not yet dimmed,
Thy stalwart step is yet unstayed,

Thy words are well obeyed.

" Thy proud voice vaunts of strength from heaven,
Thy proud foes carp, * By hell's art given ' :
No Titan thou of earth-born bands,

Strange Church of hundred hands.

" Nursed without knowledge, born of night,
With hand of power and thoughts of light,
As Britain seas, far-reachingly

O'er-rul'st thou history.

" Wild as La Pucelle in her hour,
O'er prostrate realms with awe-girt power
Thou marchest steadfast on thy path

Through wonder, love, and wrath.

" And will thy end be such as hers,
O'erpowered by earthly mail-clad powers,
Condemned for cruel, magic art,

Though awful, bold of heart

•* Through thorn-clad Time's unending waste
With ardent step alone thou strayest,
As Jewish scape-goats tracked the wild,
Unholy, consecrate, defiled.

Memoir. xxv

" Use not thy truth in manner rude
To rule for gain the multitude,
Or thou wilt see that truth depart,

To seek some holier heart ;

" Then thou wilt watch thy errors lorn,
O'erspread by shame, o'erswept by scorn,
In lonely want without hope's smile,

As Tyre her weed-clad Isle.

" Like once thy chief, thou bear'st Christ's name ;
Like him thou hast denied his shame,
Bold, eager, skilful, confident,

Oh, now like him repent I "

That has certainly no sign of the hand of the master in
it, for the language is not moulded and vivified by the
thought, but the thought itself is fine. And there is
still better evidence than these lines would afford, of the
fascination which the Roman Catholic Church had for
Bagehot. A year or two later, in the letters on the coup
d'etat, to which I shall soon have to refer, there occurs
the following passage. (He is trying to explain how the
cleverness, the moral restlessness, and intellectual im-
patience of the French, all tend to unfit them for a
genuine Parliamentary government) : —

" I do not know that I can exhibit the way these qualities of the
French character operate on their opinions better than by telling you
how the Roman Catholic Church deals with them. I have rather
attended to it since I came here. It gives sermons almost an interest,
their being in French, and to those curious in intellectual matters, it is
worth observing. In other times, and even now in out-of-the-way Spain,
I suppose it may be true that the Catholic Church has been opposed to
inquiry and reasoning. But it is not so now and here. Loudly from the
pens of a hundred writers, from the tongues of a thousand pulpits, in
every note of thrilling scorn and exulting derision, she proclaims the
contrary. Be she Christ's workman or Antichrist's, she knows her work
too well. ' Reason, reason, reason 1 ' exclaims she to the philosophers of
(bis world. * Put in practice what you teach if you would have others

xxvi Memoir.

believe it. Be consistent. Do not prate to us of private judgment, when
you are but yourselves repeating what you heard in the nursery, ill-
mumbled remnants of a Catholic tradition. No ; exemplify what you
command ; inquire and make search. Seek, and we warn ye that ye will
never find, yet do as ye will. Shut yourselves up in a room, make your
mind a blank, go down (as you speak) into the depth of your conscious-
ness, scrutinise the mental structure, inquire for the elements of belief, —
spend years, your best years, in the occupation, — and, at length, when
your eyes are dim, and your brain hot, and your hands unsteady, then
reckon what you have gained. See if you cannot count on your fingers
the certainties you have reached ; reflect which of them you doubted
yesterday, which you may disbelieve to-morrow ; or, rather, make haste —
assume at random some essential credenda, — write down your inevitable
postulates, enumerate your necessary axioms, toil on, toil on, spin your
spider's web, adore your own soul, or, if ye prefer it, choose some
German nostrum ; try an intellectual intuition, or the pure reason, or the
intelligible ideas, or the mesmeric clairvoyance, and when so, or some-
how, you have attained your results, try them on mankind. Don't go out
into the byeways and hedges ; it is unnecessary. Ring a bell, call in the
servants, give them a course of lectures, cite Aristotle, review Descartes,
panegyrise Plato, and see if the bonne will understand you. It is you
that say Vox populi, vox Dei. You see the people reject you. Or,
suppose you succeed,— what you call succeeding. Your books are read ;
for three weeks, or even a season, you are the idol of the salons. Your
hard words are on the lips of women ; then a change comes — a new
actress appears at the Theatre Fran$ais or the Opera ; her charms eclipse
your theories ; or a great catastrophe occurs ; political liberty, it is said,
is annihilated. // faut se faire mouchard, is the observation of scoffers.
Anyhow you are forgotten. Fifty years may be the gestation of a philo-
sophy, not three its life. Before long, before you go to your grave, your
six disciples leave you for some newer master, or to set up for themselves.
The poorest priest in the remotest region of the Basses-Alpes has more
power over men's souls than human cultivation. His ill-mouthed masses
move women's souls — can you ? Ye scoff at Jupiter, yet he at least was
believed in, you have never been. Idol for idol, the dethroned is better than
the wwthroned. No, if you would reason, if you would teach, if you would
speculate, — come to us. We have our premises ready ; years upon years
before you were born, intellects whom the best of you delight to magnify,
toiled to systematise the creed of ages. Years upon years after you are
dead, better heads than yours will find new matter there to define, to

Memoir. xxvii

divide, to arrange. Consider the hundred volumes of Aquinas. Which
of you desire a higher life than that; — to deduce, to subtilise, discriminate,
systematise, and decide the highest truth, and tp be believed ? Yet such
was his luck, his enjoyment. He was what you would be. No, no,
credite, crcdite. Ours is the life of speculation. The cloister is the home
for the student. Philosophy is stationary, Catholicism progressive. You
call. We are heard, etc.* So speaks each preacher, according to his
ability. And when the dust and noise of present controversies have
passed away, and, in the interior of the night, some grave historian writes
out the tale of half-forgotten times, let him not forget to observe that, pro-
foundly as the mediaeval Church subdued the superstitious cravings of a
painful and barbarous age, in after-years she dealt more discerningly
still with the feverish excitement, the feeble vanities, and the dogmatic
impatience of an over-intellectual generation." *

It is obvious, I think, both from the poem, and from
these reflections, that what attracted Bagehot in the
Church of Rome was the historical prestige and social
authority which she had accumulated in believing and
uncritical ages for use in the unbelieving and critical
age in which we live, — while what he condemned and
dreaded in her was her tendency to use her power over
the multitude for purposes of a low ambition.

And as I am on this subject, this will be, I think, the
best opportunity I shall have to say what I have got to
say of Bagehot's later religious belief, without returning
to it when I have to deal with a period in which the
greatest part of his spare intellectual energy was given
to other subjects. I do not think that the religious
affections were very strong in Bagehot's mind, but the
primitive religious instincts certainly were. From child-
hood he was what he certainly remained to the last, in
spite of the rather antagonistic influence of the able,
scientific group of men from whom he learned so much

1 See " Letters on the Coup d'etat of 1851," vol. iii., p. 38.

•xxviii Memoir.

—a thorough transcendentalist, by which I mean one
who could never doubt that there was a real foundation
of the universe distinct from the outward show of its
superficial qualities, and that the substance is never
exhaustively expressed in these qualities. He often
repeats in his essays Shelley's fine line, "Lift not
the painted veil which those who live call life," and
the essence at least of the idea in it haunted him
from his very childhood. In the essay on " Hartley
Coleridge" — perhaps the most perfect in style of any of
his writings — he describes most powerfully, and evidently
in great measure from his own experience, the mysterious
confusion between appearances and realities which
so bewildered little Hartley, — the difficulty that he
complained of in distinguishing between the various
Hartleys,— "picture Hartley," "shadow Hartley," and
between Hartley the subject and Hartley the object, the
enigmatic blending of which last two Hartleys the child
expressed by catching hold of his own arm, and then
calling himself the " catch-me-fast Hartley". And in
dilating on this bewildering experience of the child's,
Bagehot borrows from his own recollections: —

" All children have a world of their own, as distinct from that of the
grown people who gravitate around them, as the dreams of girlhood from
our prosaic life, or the ideas of the kitten that plays with the falling
leaves, from those of her carnivorous mother that catches mice, and is
sedulous in her domestic duties. But generally about this interior
existence children are dumb. You have warlike ideas, but you cannot
say to a sinewy relative, ' My dear aunt, I wonder when the big bush in
the garden will begin to walk about ; I'm sure it's a Crusader, and I was
cutting it all the day with my steel sword. But what do you think,
aunt ? for I'm puzzled about its legs, because you see, aunt, it has only
one stalk — and besides, aunt, the leaves.' You cannot remark this in
secular life, but you hack at the infelicitous bush till you do not wholly

Memoir. xxix*

reject the idea that your small garden is Palestine, and yourself the most
adventurous of knights." 1

They have a tradition in the family that this is but a
fragment from Bagehot's own imaginative childhood,
and certainly this visionary element in him was very
vivid to the last. However, the transcendental or in-
tellectual basis of religious belief was soon strengthened
in him, as readers of his remarkable paper on Bishop
Butler will easily see, by those moral and retributive
instincts which warn us of the meaning and con-
sequences of guilt : —

"The moral principle," he wrote in that essay, "whatever may
be said to the contrary by complacent thinkers, is really and to most
men a principle of fear. . . . Conscience is the condemnation of ourselves;
we expect a penalty. As the Greek proverb teaches, ' Where there is
shame, there is fear '. . . . How to be free from this is the question.
How to get loose from this — how to be rid of the secret tie which binds
the strong man and cramps his pride, and makes him angry at the beauty
of the universe, which will not let him go forth like a great animal, like
the king of the forest, in the glory of his might, but which restrains him
with an inner fear and a secret foreboding that if he do but exalt himself
he shall be abased, if he do but set forth his own dignity he will offend
ONE who will deprive him of it. This, as has often been pointed out, is
the source of the bloody rites of heathendom." f

And then, after a powerful passage, in which he de-
scribes the sacrificial superstitions of men like Achilles,
he returns, with a flash of his own peculiar humour, to
Bishop Butler, thus : —

" Of course it is not this kind of fanaticism that we impute to a
prelate of the English Church; human sacrifices are not respectable,
and Achilles was not rector of Stanhope. But though the costume and
circumstances of life change, the human heart does not ; its feelings
remain. The same anxiety, the same consciousness of personal sin.

1 See vol. i., p. 3. * See vol. iii., p. 116.

xxx Memoir.

which lead, in barbarous times, to what has been described, show
themselves in civilised life as well. In this quieter period, their great
manifestation is scrupulosity ; " 1

which he goes on to describe as a sort of inexhaustible
anxiety for perfect compliance with the minutest'positive
commands which may be made the condition of forgive-
ness for the innumerable lapses of moral obligation. I
am not criticising the paper, or I should point out that
Bagehot failed in it to draw out the distinction between
the primitive moral instinct and the corrupt superstition
into which it runs ; but I believe that he recognised the
weight of this moral testimony of the conscience to a
divine Judge, as well as the transcendental testimony of
the intellect to an eternal substance of things, to the end
of his life. And certainly in the reality of human free-
will as the condition of all genuine moral life, he firmly
believed. In his Physics and Politics — the subtle and
original essay upon which, in conjunction with the
essay on the English Constitution, Bagehot's reputa-
tion as a European thinker chiefly rests — he repeatedly
guards himself (for instance, pp. 9, 10) against being
supposed to think that in accepting the principle of
evolution, he has accepted anything inconsistent either
with spiritual creation, or with the free-will of man. On
the latter point he adds : —

" No doubt the modern doctrine of the ' conservation of force,' if
applied to decision, is inconsistent with free-will ; if you hold that force
is ' never lost or gained,' you cannot hold that there is a real gain, a sort
of new creation of it in free volition. But I have nothing to do here
with the universal 'conservation of force'. The conception of the
nervous organs as stores of will-made power, does not raise or need so
vast a discussion." 2

1 See vol. iii., p. 117. * Physics and Politics, p. 10.

Memoir. xxxi

And in the same book he repeatedly uses the ex-
pression "Providence," evidently in its natural meaning,
to express the ultimate force at work behind the march
of "evolution ". Indeed, in conversation with me on this
subject, he often said how much higher a conception of
the creative mind, the new Darwinian ideas seemed to
him to have introduced, as compared with those con-
tained in what is called the argument from contrivance
and design. On the subject of personal immortality,
too, I do not think that Bagehot ever wavered. He
often spoke, and even wrote, of " that vague sense of
eternal continuity which is always about the mind, and
which no one could bear to lose," and described it as
being much more important to us than it even appears
to be, important as that is; for, he said, "when we think
we are thinking of the past, we are only thinking of a
future that is to be like it ". But with the exception of
these cardinal points, I could hardly say how much
Bagehot's mind was or was not affected by the great
speculative controversies of later years. Certainly he
became much more doubtful concerning the force of the
historical evidence of Christianity than I ever was, and
rejected, I think, entirely, though on what amount of
personal study he had founded his opinion I do not
know, the Apostolic origin of the fourth Gospel.
Possibly his mind may have been latterly in suspense
as to miracle altogether, though I am pretty sure that
he had not come to a negative conclusion. He belonged,
in common with myself, during the last years of his life,
to a society in which these fundamental questions were
often discussed ; but he seldom spoke in it, and told me
very shortly before his death that he shrank from such

xxxii Memoir.

discussions on religious points, feeling that, in debates
of this kind, they were not and could not be treated with
anything like thoroughness. On the whole, I think, the
cardinal article of his faith would be adequately repre-
sented even in the latest period of his life by the following
passage in his essay on Bishop Butler : —

" In every step of religious argument we require the assumption, the
belief, the faith, if the word is better, in an absolutely perfect Being; in
and by whom we are, who is omnipotent as well as most holy ; who
moves on the face of the whole world, and ruleth all things by the word
of his power. If we grant this, the difficulty of the opposition between
what is here called the natural and the supernatural religion is removed ;
and without granting it, that difficulty is perhaps insuperable. It follows
from the very idea and definition of an infinitely perfect Being, that he is
within us as well as without us, — ruling the clouds of the air and the
fishes of the sea, as well as the fears and thoughts of men ; smiling
through the smile of nature as well as warning with the pain of con-
science,—' sine qualitate, bonum ; sine quantitate, magnum ; sine indi-
gentia, creatorem ; sine situ, praesidentem ; sine habitu, omnia con-
tinentem ; sine loco, ubique totum ; sine tempore, sempiternum ; sine ulla
sui mutatione, mutabilia facientem, nihilque patientem '. If we assume
this, life is simple ; without this, all is dark." l

Evidently, then, though Bagehot held that the
doctrine of evolution by natural selection gave a higher
conception of the Creator than the old doctrine of
mechanical design, he never took any materialistic view
of evolution. One of his early essays, written while at
college, on some of the many points of the Kantian
philosophy which he then loved to discuss, concluded
with a remarkable sentence, which would probably have
fairly expressed, even at the close of his life, his profound
belief in God, and his partial sympathy with the agnostic
view that we are, in great measure, incapable of appre-

1 Vol. iii., p. 122.

Memoir. xxxiii

bending, more than very dimly, His mind or purposes : —
" Gazing after the infinite essence, we are like men
watching through the drifting clouds for a glimpse of
the true heavens on a drear November day ; layer after
layer passes from our view, but still the same immovable
grey rack remains ".

After Bagehot had taken his Master's degree, and
while he was still reading Law in London, and hesitat-
ing between the Bar and the family bank, there came
as Principal to University Hall (which is a hall of resi-
dence in connection with University College, London,
established by the Presbyterians and Unitarians after
the passing of the Dissenters' Chapel Act), the man
who had, I think, a greater intellectual fascination for
Bagehot than any of his contemporaries — Arthur Hugh
Clough, Fellow of Oriel College, Oxford, and author of
various poems of great genius, more or less familiar to
the public, though Clough is perhaps better known as
the subject of the exquisite poem written on his death
in 1861, by his friend Matthew Arnold — the poem to
which he gave the name of " Thyrsis " — than by even
the most popular of his own. Bagehot had subscribed
for the erection of University Hall, and took an active
part at one time on its council. Thus he saw a good
deal of Clough, and did what he could to mediate
between that enigma to Presbyterian parents — a college-
head who held himself serenely neutral on almost all
moral and educational subjects interesting to parents
and pupils, except the observance of disciplinary rules —
and the managing body who bewildered him and were
by him bewildered. I don't think either Bagehot or
Clough's other friends were very successful in their
VOL. i. 3

XXXIV

Memoir.

mediation, but he at least gained in Clough a cordial
friend, and a theme of profound intellectual and moral
interest to himself which lasted him his life, and never
failed to draw him into animated discussion long after
Clough's own premature death ; and I think I can trace
the effect which some of Clough's writings had on
Bagehot's mind to the very end of his career. There
were some points of likeness between Bagehot and
Clough, but many more of difference. Both had the
capacity for boyish spirits in them, and the florid colour
which usually accompanies a good deal of animal
vigour ; both were reserved men, with a great dislike of
anything like the appearance of false sentiment, and
both were passionate admirers of Wordsworth's poetry;
but Clough was slightly lymphatic, with a great tendency
to unexpressed and unacknowledged discouragement,
and to the paralysis of silent embarrassment when
suffering from such feelings, while Bagehot was keen,
and very quickly evacuated embarrassing positions, and
never returned to them. When, however, Clough was
happy and at ease, there was a calm and silent radiance
in his face, and his head was set with a kind of stateli-
ness on his shoulders, that gave him almost an Olympian
air ; but this would sometimes vanish in a moment into
an embarrassed taciturnity that was quite uncouth.
One of his friends declares that the man who was said
to be "a cross between a schoolboy and a bishop,"
must have been like Clough. There was in Clough,
too, a large Chaucerian simplicity and a flavour of
homeliness, so that now and then, when the light
shone into his eyes, there was something, in spite of
the air of fine scholarship and culture, which reminded

Memoir. xxxv

one of the best likenesses of Burns. It was of dough,
I believe, that Emerson was thinking (though, knowing
Clough intimately as he did, he was of course speaking
mainly in joke) when he described the Oxford of that
day thus : " ' Ah/ says my languid Oxford gentleman,
* nothing new, and nothing true, and no matter ' ". No
saying could misrepresent Clough's really buoyant and
simple character more completely than that ; but doubt-
less many of his sayings and writings, treating, as they
did, most of the greater problems of life as insoluble,
and enjoining a self-possessed composure under the
discovery of their insolubility, conveyed an impression
very much like this to men who came only occasionally
in contact with him. Bagehot, in his article on Crabb
Robinson, says that the latter, who in those days seldom
remembered names, always described Clough as "that
admirable and accomplished man — you know whom I
mean — the one who never says anything". And
certainly Clough was often taciturn to the last degree,
or if he opened his lips, delighted to open them only to
scatter confusion by discouraging, in words at least, all
that was then called earnestness — as, for example, by
asking : " Was it ordained that twice two should make
four, simply for the intent that boys and girls should be
cut to the heart that they do not make five ? Be con-
tent ; when the veil is raised, perhaps they will make
five ! Who knows ? " l

Clough's chief fascination for Bagehot was, I think,
that he had as a poet in some measure rediscovered, at
all events realised, as few ever realised before, the
enormous difficulty of finding truth — a difficulty which

1 Poems and Prose Remains of Arthur Hugh Clough, vol. i., p. 175.

xxxvi Memoir.

he somewhat paradoxically held to be enhanced rather
than diminished by the intensity of the truest modern
passion for it. The stronger the desire, he teaches, the
greater is the danger of illegitimately satisfying that
desire by persuading ourselves that what we wish to
believe, is true, and the greater the danger of ignoring
the actual confusions of human things : —

" Rules baffle instincts, instincts rules,
Wise men are bad, and good are fools,
Facts evil, wishes vain appear,
We cannot go, why are we here ?

«' Oh, may we, for assurance' sake,
Some arbitrary judgment take,
And wilfully pronounce it clear,
For this or that 'tis, we are here ?

" Or is it right, and will it do
To pace the sad confusion through,
And say, it does not yet appear
What we shall be — what we are here ? "

This warning to withhold judgment and not cheat
ourselves into beliefs which our own imperious desire
to believe had alone engendered, is given with every
variety of tone and modulation, and couched in all sorts
of different forms of fancy and apologue, throughout
Clough's poems. He insists on " the ruinous force of
the will" to persuade us of illusions which please us;
of the tendency of practical life to give us beliefs which
suit that practical life, but are none the truer for that ;
and is never weary of warning us that a firm belief in a
falsity can be easily generated : —

" Action will furnish belief, — but will that belief be the true one ?
This is the point, you know. However, it doesn't much matter.
What one wants, I suppose, is to predetermine the action,
So as to make it entail, not a chance belief, but the true one."

Memoir. xxxvii

This practical preaching, which Clough urges in season
and out of season, met an answering chord in Bagehot's
mind, not so much in relation to religious belief as in
relation to the over-haste and over-eagerness of human
conduct, and I can trace the effect of it in all his
writings, political and otherwise, to the end of his life.
Indeed, it affected him much more in later days than in
the years immediately following his first friendship with
Clough. With all his boyish dash, there was something
in Bagehot even in youth which dreaded precipitancy,
and not only precipitancy itself, but those moral situa-
tions tending to precipitancy which men who have no
minds of their own to make up, so often court. In later
life he pleased himself by insisting that, on Darwin's
principle, civilised men, with all the complex problems
of modern life to puzzle them, suspend their judgment
so little, and are so eager for action, only because they
have inherited from the earlier, simpler, and more
violent ages, an excessive predisposition to action un-
suited to our epoch and dangerous to our future develop-
ment. But it was Clough, I think, who first stirred in
Bagehot's mind this great dread of " the ruinous force
of the will," a phrase he was never weary of quoting,
and which might almost be taken as the motto of his
Physics and Politics, the great conclusion of which is
that in the "age of discussion," grand policies and high-
handed diplomacy and sensational legislation of all
kinds will become rarer and rarer, because discussion
will point out all the difficulties of such policies in
relation to a state of existence so complex as our own,
and will, in this way, tend to repress the excess of
practical energy handed down to us by ancestors, to

xxxviii Memoir.

whom life was a sharper, simpler, and more perilous
affair.

But the time for Bagehot's full adoption of the
suspensive principle in public affairs was not yet. In
1851 he went to Paris, shortly before the coup d'etat.
And while all England was assailing Louis Napoleon
(justly enough, as I think) for his perfidy, and his
impatience of the self-willed Assembly he could not
control, Bagehot was preparing a deliberate and very
masterly defence of that bloody and high-handed act.
Even Bagehot would, I think, if pressed judiciously in
later life, have admitted — though I can't say he ever
did — that the coup d'etat was one of the best illustrations
of " the ruinous force of the will," in engendering, or at
least crystallising, a false intellectual conclusion as to
the political possibilities of the future, which recent
history could produce. Certainly, he always spoke
somewhat apologetically of these early letters, though I
never heard him expressly retract their doctrine. In
1851 a knot of young Unitarians, of whom I was then
one, headed by the late Mr. J. Langton Sanford — after-
wards the historian of the Great Rebellion, who survived
Bagehot barely four months — had engaged to help for a
time in conducting the Inquirer, which then was, and
still is, the chief literary and theological organ of the
Unitarian body. Our regime was, I imagine, a time of
great desolation for the very tolerant and thoughtful
constituency for whom we wrote ; and many of them,
I am confident, yearned, and were fully justified in
yearning, for those better days when this tyranny of
ours should be overpast. Sanford and Osier did a good
deal to throw cold water on the rather optimist and

Memoir. xxxix

philanthropic politics of the most sanguine, because
the most benevolent and open-hearted, of Dissenters.
Roscoe criticised their literary work from the point of
view of a devotee of the Elizabethan poets; and I
attempted to prove to them in distinct heads, first,
that their laity ought to have the protection afforded
by a liturgy against the arbitrary prayers of their
ministers; and next, that at least the great majority
of their sermons ought to be suppressed, and the habit of
delivering them discontinued almost altogether. Only
a denomination of "just men" trained in tolerance for
generations, and in that respect, at least, made all but
" perfect," would have endured it at all ; but I doubt
if any of us caused the Unitarian body so much grief as
Bagehot, who never was a Unitarian, but who con-
tributed a series of brilliant letters on the coup d'etat,
in which he trod just as heavily on the toes of his
colleagues as he did on those of the public by whom
the Inquirer was taken. In those days he not only, as
I have already shown, eulogised the Catholic Church, but
he supported the Prince-President's military violence,
attacked the freedom of the Press in France, maintained
that the country was wholly unfit for true Parliamentary
government, and — worst of all, perhaps — insinuated a
panegyric on Louis Napoleon himself, asserting that he
had been far better prepared for the duties of a states-
man by gambling on the turf, than he would have been
by poring over the historical and political dissertations
of the wise and the good. This was Bagehot's day
of cynicism. The seven letters which he wrote on the
coup d'etat were certainly very exasperating, and yet
they were not caricatures of his real thought, for his

xl Memoir.

private letters at the time were more cynical still.
Crabb Robinson, in speaking of him, used ever after-
wards to describe him to me as "that friend of yours —
you know whom I mean, you rascal ! — who wrote those
abominable, those most disgraceful letters on the coup
d'etat— I did not forgive him for years after". Nor do I
wonder, even now, that a sincere friend of constitutional
freedom and intellectual liberty, like Crabb Robinson,
found them difficult to forgive. They were light and
airy, and even flippant, on a very grave subject. They
made nothing of the Prince's perjury; and they took
impertinent liberties with all the dearest prepossessions
of the readers of the Inquirer, and assumed their sym-
pathy just where Bagehot knew that they would be
most revolted by his opinions. Nevertheless, they had
a vast deal of truth in them, and no end of ability, and I
hope that there will be many to read them with interest
now that they are here republished. There is a good
deal of the raw material of history in them, and certainly
I doubt if Bagehot ever again hit the satiric vein of
argument so well. Here is a passage that will bear
taking out of its context, and therefore not so full of
the shrewd malice of these letters as many others, but
which will illustrate their ability. It is one in which
Bagehot maintained for the first time the view (which I
believe he subsequently almost persuaded English poli-
ticians to accept, though in 1852 it was a mere flippant
novelty, a paradox, and a heresy) that free institutions
are apt to succeed with a stupid people, and to founder
with a ready-witted and vivacious one. After broaching
this, he goes on : —

" I see you are surprised. You are going to say to me as Socrates

Memoir. xli

did to Polus, • My young friend, of course you are right, but will you
explain what you mean, as you are not yet intelligible ?' I will do so as
well as I can, and endeavour to make good what I say, not by an a priori
demonstration of my own, but from the details of the present and the
facts of history. Not to begin by wounding any present susceptibilities,
let me take the Roman character, for, with one great exception — I need
not say to whom I allude— they are the great political people of history.
Now is not a certain dulness their most visible characteristic ? What is
the history of their speculative mind ? A blank. What their literature ?
A copy. They have left not a single discovery in any abstract science,
not a single perfect or well-formed work of high imagination. The
Greeks, the perfection of human and accomplished genius, bequeathed to
mankind the ideal forms of self-idolising art ; the Romans imitated and
admired. The Greeks explained the laws of nature; the Romans
wondered and despised. The Greeks invented a system of numerals
second only to that now in use ; the Romans counted to the end of their
days with the clumsy apparatus which we still call by their name. The
Greeks made a capital and scientific calendar ; the Romans began their
month when the Pontifex Maximus happened to spy out the new moon.
Throughout Latin literature this is the perpetual puzzle— Why are we
free and they slaves ? — we praetors and they barbers ? Why do the
stupid people always win and the clever people always lose ? I need
not say that in real sound stupidity the English people are unrivalled.
You'll have more wit, and better wit, in an Irish street-row than
would keep Westminster Hall in humour for five weeks. . . . These
valuable truths are no discoveries of mine. They are familiar enough to
people whose business it is to know them. Hear what a doucr and aged
attorney says of your peculiarly promising barrister. ' Sharp ? Oh !
yes, yes : he's too sharp by half. He isn't soft, not a minute, isn't that
young man.' • What style, sir,' asked of an East India Director some
youthful aspirant for literary renown, ' is most to be preferred in the
composition of official despatches ?' ' My good fellow,' responded the
ruler of Hindostan, ' the style as we like, is the Humdrum.' "l

The permanent value of these papers is due to the
freshness of their impressions of the French capital, and
their true criticisms of Parisian journalism and society ;
their perverseness consists in this, that Bagehot steadily

1 See " Letters on the Coup d'Etat," vol. Hi., pp. 28, 31.

xlii Memoir.

ignored in them the distinction between the duty of
resisting anarchy, and the assumption of the Prince-
President that this could only be done by establishing
his own dynasty, and deferring sine die that great con-
stitutional experiment which is now once more, no
thanks to him or his Government, on its trial ; an ex-
periment which, for anything we see, had at least as
good a chance then as now, and under a firm and
popular chief of the executive like Prince Louis, would
probably have had a better chance then than it has now
under MacMahon. I need hardly say that in later life
Bagehot was by no means blind to the political short-,
comings of Louis Napoleon's regime, as the article
republished from the Economist, in the second appendix
to this volume, sufficiently proves. Moreover, he rejoiced
heartily in the moderation of the republican statesmen
during the severe trials of the months which just pre-
ceded his own death, in 1877, and expressed his sincere
belief — confirmed by the history of the last year and a
half — that the existing Republic has every prospect of
life and growth.

During that residence in Paris, Bagehot, though, as
I have said, in a somewhat cynical frame of mind, was
full of life and courage, and was beginning to feel his
own genius, which perhaps accounts for the air of reck-
lessness so foreign to him, which he never adopted
either before or since. During the riots he was a good
deal in the streets, and from a mere love of art helped
the Parisians to construct some of their barricades,
notwithstanding the fact that his own sympathy was
with those who shot down the barricades, not with
those who manned them. He climbed over the rails of

Memoir. xliii

the Palais Royal on the morning of 2nd December to
breakfast, and used to say that he was the only person
who did breakfast there on that day. Victor Hugo is
certainly wrong in asserting that no one expected Louis
Napoleon to use force, and that the streets were as full
as usual when the people were shot down, for the gates
of the Palais Royal were shut quite early in the day.
Bagehot was very much struck by the ferocious look of
the Montagnards.

"Of late," he wrote to me, "I have been devoting my entire
attention to the science of barricades, which 1 found amusing. They
have systematised it in a way which is pleasing to the cultivated intellect.
We had only one good day's fighting, and I naturally kept out of cannon-
shot. But I took a quiet walk over the barricades in the morning, and
superintended the construction of three with as much keenness as if I
had been clerk of the works. You've seen lots, of course, at Berlin, but
I should not think those Germans' were up to a real Montagnard, who is
the most horrible being to the eye I ever saw, — sallow, sincere, sour
fanaticism, with grizzled moustaches, and a strong wish to shoot you
rather than not. The Montagnards are a scarce commodity,, the real
race— only three or four, if so many, to a barricade. If you want a Satan
any odd time, they'll do ; only I hope that he don't believe in human
brotherhood. It is not possible to respect any one who does, and I
should be loth to confound the notion of our friend's solitary grandeur by
supposing him to fraternise," etc. " I think M. Buonaparte is entitled
to great praise. He has very good heels to his boots, and the French
just want treading down, and nothing else — calm, cruel, business-like
oppression, to take the dogmatic conceit out of their heads. The spirit
of generalisation which, John Mill tells us, honourably distinguishes the
French mind, has come to this, that every Parisian wants his head tapped
in order to get the formulae and nonsense out of it. And it would pay to
perform the operation, for they are very clever on what is within the
limit of their experience, and all that can be ' expanded ' in terms of it,
but beyond, it is all generalisation and folly. ... So I am for any
carnivorous government."

And again, in the same letter : —

xliv Memoir.

" Till the Revolution came I had no end of trouble to find conversa-
tion, but now they'll talk against everybody, and against the President
like mad— and they talk immensely well, and the language is like a razor»
capital if you are skilful, but sure to cut you if you aren't. A fellow can
talk German in crude forms, and I don't see it sounds an.y worse, but
this stuff is horrid unless you get it quite right. A French lady made a
striking remark to me : ' C'est une revolution qui a sauve la France.
Tons mes amis sont mis en prison? She was immensely delighted that
such a pleasing way of saving her country had been found."

Of course the style of these familiar private letters
conveys a gross caricature not only of Bagehot's maturer
mind, but even of the judgment of the published letters,
and I quote them only to show that at the time when
he composed these letters on the coup d'etat, Bagehot's
mood was that transient mood of reckless youthful
cynicism through which so many men of genius pass.
I do not think he had at any time any keen sympathy
with the multitude, i.e., with masses of unknown men.
And that he ever felt what has since then been termed
"the enthusiasm of humanity," the sympathy with
" the toiling millions of men sunk in labour and pain,"
he himself would strenuously have denied. Such
sympathy, even \vhen men really desire to feel it, is,
indeed, very much oftener coveted than actually felt by
men as a living motive ; and I am not quite sure that
Bagehot would have even wished to feel it. Neverthe-
less, he had not the faintest trace of real hardness about
him towards people whom he knew and understood.
He could not bear to give pain ; and when, in rare cases
by youthful inadvertence, he gave it needlessly, I have
seen how much and what lasting vexation it caused him.
Indeed, he was capable of great sacrifices to spare his
friends but a little suffering.

It was, I think, during his stay in Paris that Bagehot

Memoir. xlv

finally decided to give up the notion of practising at the
Bar, and to join his father in the Somersetshire Bank
and in his other business as a merchant and shipowner.
This involved frequent visits to London and Liverpool,
and Bagehot soon began to take a genuine interest in
the larger issues of commerce, and maintained to
the end that " business is much more amusing than
pleasure ". Nevertheless, he could not live without
the intellectual life of London, and never stayed more
than six weeks at a time in the country without finding
some excuse for going to town ; and long before his
death he made his home there. Hunting was the only
sport he really cared for. He was a dashing rider, and
a fresh wind was felt blowing through his earlier literary
efforts, as though he had been thinking in the saddle,
an effect wanting in his later essays, where you see
chiefly the calm analysis of a lucid observer. But
most of the ordinary amusements of young people he
detested. He used to say that he wished he could
think balls wicked, being so stupid as they were, and
all " the little blue and pink girls, so like each other,"
— a sentiment partly due, perhaps, to his extreme
shortness of sight.

Though Bagehot never doubted the wisdom of his
own decision to give up the law for the life of commerce,
he thoroughly enjoyed his legal studies in his friend the
late Mr. Justice Quain's chambers, and in those of the
present Vice-Chancellor, Sir Charles Hall, and he learnt
there a good deal that was of great use to him in later
life. Moreover, in spite of his large capacity for finance
and commerce, there were small difficulties in Bagehot's
way as a banker and merchant, which he felt somewhat

xlvi Memoir.

keenly.1 He was always absent-minded about minuticz.
For instance, to the last, he could not correct a proof
well, and was sure to leave a number of small inaccuracies,
harshnesses,and slipshodnesses in style, uncorrected. He
declared at one time that he was wholly unable to "add
up," and in his mathematical exercises in college he had
habitually been inaccurate in trifles. I remember Pro-
fessor Maiden, on returning one of his Greek exercises,
saying to him, with that curiously precise and emphatic
articulation which made every remark of his go so much
farther than that of our other lecturers : " Mr. Bagehot,
you wage an internecine war with your aspirates" —
not meaning, of course, that he ever left them out in
pronunciation, but that he neglected to put them in in
his written Greek. And to the last, even in his printed
Greek quotations, the slips of this kind were always
numerous. This habitual difficulty — due, I believe, to a
preoccupied imagination — in attending to small details,
made a banker's duties seem irksome and formidable to
him at first ; and even to the last, in his most effective
financial papers, he would generally get some one else
to look after the precise figures for him. But in spite
of all this, and in spite of a real attraction for the study
of law,»he was sure that his head would not stand the
hot Courts and heavy wigs which make the hot Courts
hotter, or the night-work of a thriving barrister in case
of success; and he was certainly quite right. Indeed,
had he chosen the Bar, he would have had no leisure
for those two or three remarkable books which have

1 In a letter to me of this date, he says : " I write this in my father's
counting-house. It is a queer life and takes much will doing the sums, but
not more than I looked for. It must do anyhow,"

Memoir. xlvii

made his reputation, — books which have been already
translated into all the literary and some of the unliterary
languages of Europe, and two of which are, I believe,
used as text-books in some of the American Colleges.1
Moreover, in all probability, his life would have been
much shorter into the bargain. Soon after his return
from Paris he devoted himself in earnest to banking
and commerce, and also began that series of articles,
first for the Prospective and then for the National Review
(which latter periodical he edited in conjunction with
me for several years), the most striking of which he
republished in 1858, under the awkward and almost
forbidding title of Estimates of some Englishmen and
Scotchmen — a book which never attracted the atten-
tion it deserved, and which has been long out of
print. In republishing most of these essays as I am
now doing, — and a later volume2 containing those essays
on statesmen and politicians which are omitted from
these volumes, — it is perhaps only fair to say that
Bagehot in later life used to speak ill, much too ill, of
his own early style. He used to declare that his early
style affected him like the " jogging of a cart without
springs over a very rough road," and no doubt in his
earliest essays something abrupt and spasmodic may
easily be detected. Still, this was all so inextricably
mingled with flashes of insight and humour which
could ill be spared, that I always protested against
any notion of so revising the essays as to pare down
their excrescences.

1 Since the first edition of this work was published, the Oxford Board
of Studies has made a text-book of Mr. Bagehot's English Constitution
for that University, and his Economic Studies is a text-book in the
University of Cambridge. 2 Biographical Studies.

xlviii Memoir.

I have never understood the comparative failure of
this volume of Bagehot's early essays ; and a compara-
tive failure it was, though I do not deny that, even at
the time, it attracted much attention among the most
accomplished writers of the day, and that I have been
urged to republish it, as I am now doing, by many of
the ablest men of my acquaintance,. Obviously, as I
have admitted, there are many faults of workmanship
in it. Now and then the banter is forced. Often
enough the style is embarrassed. Occasionally, per-
haps, the criticism misses its mark, or is over-refined.
But, taken as a whole, I hardly know any book that is
such good reading, that has so much lucid vision in it,
so much shrewd and curious knowledge of the world, so
sober a judgment and so dashing a humour combined.
Take this, for instance, out of the paper on " The First
Edinburgh Reviewers," concerning the judgment passed
by Lord Jeffrey on the poetry of Bagehot's favourite
poet, Wordsworth1: —

" The world has given judgment. Both Mr. Wordsworth and Lord
Jeffrey have received their rewards. The one had his own generation
— the laughter of men, the applause of drawing-rooms, the concurrence
of the crowd ; the other, a succeeding age, the fond enthusiasm of secret
students, the lonely rapture of lonely minds. And each has received
according to his kind. If all cultivated men speak differently because of
the existence of Wordsworth and Coleridge ; if not a thoughtful English
book has appeared for years without some trace for good or for evil of
their influence ; if sermon-writers subsist upon their thoughts ; if ' sacred,
poets thrive by translating their weaker portions into the speech of women ;
if, when all this is over, some sufficient part of their writing will ever be
fitting food for wild musing and solitary meditation, surely this is because
they possessed the inner nature — an « intense and glowing mind ' — ' the
vision and the faculty divine'. But if, perchance, in their weaker

1 Biographical Studies.

Memoir. xlix

moments the great authors of the Lyrical ballads did ever imagine that
the world was to pause because of their verses, that ' Peter Bell ' would
be popular in drawing-rooms, that ' Christabel ' would be perused in the
City, that people of fashion would make a hand-book of the Excursion,
it was well for them to be told at once that it was not so. Nature in-
geniously prepared a shrill artificial voice, which spoke in season and out
of season, enough and more than enough, what will ever be the idea of
the cities of the plain concerning those who live alone among the moun-
tains ; of the frivolous concerning the grave ; of the gregarious concerning
the recluse ; of those who laugh concerning those who laugh not ; of the
common concerning the uncommon ; of those who lend on usury con-
cerning those who lend not ; the notions of the world, of those whom it
not will reckon among the righteous. It said, • This won't do '. And so
in all times will the lovers of polished Liberalism speak concerning the
intense and lonely 'prophet'." *

I choose that passage because it illustrates so per-
fectly Bagehot's double vein, his sympathy with the
works of high imagination, and his clear insight into
that busy life which does not and cannot take note of
works of high imagination, and which would not do the
work it does, if it could. And this is the characteristic
of all the essays. How admirably, for instance, in his
essay on Shakespeare, does he draw out the individuality
of a poet who is generally supposed to be so completely
hidden in his plays ; and with how keen a satisfaction
does he discern and display the prosperous and practical
man in Shakespeare — the qualities which made him a
man of substance and a Conservative politician, as well
as the qualities which made him a great dramatist and
a great dreamer. No doubt Bagehot had a strong
personal sympathy with the double life. Somersetshire
probably never believed that the imaginative student,
the omnivorous reader, could prosper as a banker and a

1 See vol. i., p. 173.
VOL. I. 4

1 Memoir.

man of business, and it was a satisfaction to him to
show that he understood the world far better than the
world had ever understood him. Again, how delicate
is his delineation of Hartley Coleridge ; how firm and
clear his study of " Sir Robert Peel " ; ] and how graph-
ically he paints the literary pageant of Gibbon's tame
but splendid genius ! Certainly the literary taste of
England never made a greater blunder than when it
passed by this remarkable volume of essays with com-
paratively little notice.

In 1858, Bagehot married the eldest daughter of the
Right Honourable James Wilson, who died two years
later in India, whither he had gone as the financial
member of the Indian Council, to reduce to some extent
the financial anarchy which then prevailed there. This
marriage gave Bagehot nineteen years of undisturbed
happiness, and certainly led to the production of his
most popular and original, if not in every respect his
most brilliant books. It connected him with the higher
world of politics, without which he would hardly have
studied and written as he did on the English Constitu-
tion ; and by making him the Editor of the Economist,
it compelled him to give his whole mind as much to
the theoretic side of commerce and finance, as his own
duties had already compelled him to give it to the
practical side. But when I speak of his marriage as
the last impulse which determined his chief work in
life, I do not forget that he had long been prepared
both for political and for financial speculation by his
early education. His father, a man of firm and de-
liberate political convictions, had taken a very keen

1 See Biographical Studies.

Memoir. li

interest in the agitation for the great Reform Bill of
1832, and had materially helped to return a Liberal
member for his county after it passed. Probably no one
in all England knew the political history of the country
since the peace more accurately than he. Bagehot
often said that when he wanted any detail concerning
the English political history of the last half-century, he
had only to ask his father, to obtain it. His uncle, Mr.
Vincent Stuckey, too, was a man of the world, and
his house in Langport was a focus of many interests
during Bagehot's boyhood. Mr. Stuckey had begun life
at the Treasury, and was at one time private secretary to
Mr. Huskisson ; and when he gave up that career to
take a leading share in the Somersetshire Bank, he
kept up for a long time his house in London, and his
relations with political society there. He was fond of
his nephew, as was Bagehot of him ; and there was
always a large field of interests, and often there were
men of eminence, to be found in his house. Thus,
Bagehot had been early prepared for the wider field of
political and financial thought, to which he gave up so
much of his time after his marriage.

I need not say nearly as much on this later aspect
of Bagehot's life as I have done on its early and more
purely literary aspects, because his services in this
direction are already well appreciated by the public.
But this I should like to point out, that he could never
have written as he did on the English Constitution,
without having acutely studied living statesmen and
their ways of acting on each other ; that his book was
essentially the book of a most realistic, because a most
vividly imaginative, observer of the actual world of

Hi Memoir.

politics — the book of a man who was not blinded by
habit and use to the enormous difficulties in the way of
"government by public meeting," and to the secret of the
various means by which in practice those difficulties had
been attenuated or surmounted. It is the book of a
meditative man who had mused much on the strange
workings of human instincts, no less than of a quick
observer who had seen much of external life. Had he
not studied the men before he studied the institutions,
had he not concerned himself with individual statesmen
before he turned his attention to the mechanism of our
Parliamentary system, he could never have written his
book on the English Constitution.

I think the same may be said of his book on Physics
and Politics, a book in which I find new force and depth
every time I take it up afresh. It is true that Bagehot
had a keen sympathy with natural science, that he
devoured all Mr. Darwin's and Mr. Wallace's books,
and many of a much more technical kind, as, for ex-
ample, Professor Huxley's on the Principles of Physi-
ology, and grasped the leading ideas contained in them
with a firmness and precision that left nothing to be
desired. But after all, Physics and Politics could
never have been written without that sort of living
insight into man which was the life of all his earlier
essays. The notion that a " cake of custom," of rigid,
inviolable law, was the first requisite for a strong human
society, and that the very cause which was thus essential
for the first step of progress — the step towards unity — -
was the great danger of the second step — the step out
of uniformity — and was the secret of all arrested and
petrified civilisations, like the Chinese, is an idea which

Memoir. liii

first germinated in Bagehot's mind at the time he was
writing his cynical letters from Paris about stupidity
being the first requisite of a political people ; though I
admit, of course, that it could not have borne the fruit
it did, without Mr. Darwin's conception of a natural
selection through conflict, to help it on. Such passages
as the following could evidently never have been written
by a mere student of Darwinian literature, nor without
the trained imagination exhibited in Bagehot's literary
essays : —

" No one will ever comprehend the arrested civilisations unless he
sees the strict dilemma of early society. Either men had no law at all
and lived in confused tribes, hardly hanging together, or they had to
obtain a fixed law by processes of incredible difficulty. Those who sur-
mounted that difficulty soon destroyed all those that lay in their way
who did not. And then they themselves were caught in their own yoke.
The customary discipline which could only be imposed on any early men
by terrible sanctions, continued with those sanctions, and killed out of
the whole society the propensities to variation which are the principle of
progress. Experience shows how incredibly difficult it is to get men
really to encourage the principle of originality ; " l

and, as Bagehot held, for a very good reason, namely,
that without a long accumulated and inherited tendency
to discourage originality, society would never have
gained the cohesion requisite for effective common
action against its external foes. No one, I think, who
had not studied as Bagehot had in actual life, first, the
vast and unreasoning Conservatism of politically strong
societies, like that of rural England, and next, the
perilous mobility and impressibility of politically weak
societies, like that of Paris, would ever have seen as he

1 Physics and Politics, p. 57.

liv Memoir.

did the close connection of these ideas with Mr. Darwin's
principle of natural selection by conflict. And here I
may mention, by way of illustrating this point, that
Bagehot delighted in observing and expounding the
bovine slowness of rural England in acquiring a new
idea. Somersetshire, he used to boast, would not sub-
scribe £1000 " to be represented by an archangel " ;
and in one letter which I received from him during the
Crimean War, he narrated with great gusto an instance
of the tenacity with which a Somersetshire rustic stuck
to his own notion of what was involved in conquering
an enemy. "The Somersetshire view," he wrote, "of
the chance of bringing the war to a successful conclusion
is as follows : — Countryman: ' How old, zir, be the Zar?'
— Myself: 'About sixty-three'. — Countryman: 'Well,
now, I can't think however they be to take he. They
do tell I that Rooshia is a very big place, and if he doo
goo right into the middle of 'n, you could not take he,
not nohow.' I talked till the train came (it was at a
station), and endeavoured to show how the war might
be finished without capturing the Czar, but I fear with-
out effect. At last he said, ' Well, zir, I hope, as you do
say, zir, we shall take he/ as I got into the carriage."
It is clear that the humorous delight which Bagehot
took in this tenacity and density of rural conceptions,
was partly the cause of the attention which he paid to
the subject. No doubt there was in him a vein of
purely instinctive sympathy with this density, for
intellectually, he could not even have understood it.
Writing on the intolerable and fatiguing cleverness of
French journals, he describes in one of his Paris letters
the true enjoyment he felt in reading a thoroughly

Memoir.

stupid article in the Herald (a Tory paper now no more),
and I believe he was quite sincere. It was, I imagine,
a real pleasure to him to be able to preach, in his last
general work, that "a cake of custom," just sufficiently
stiff to make innovation of any kind very difficult, but
not quite stiff enough to make it impossible, is the true
condition of durable progress.

The coolness of his judgment, and his power of
seeing both sides of a question, undoubtedly gave
Bagehot's political opinions considerable weight with
both parties, and I am quite aware that a great majority
of the ablest political thinkers of the time would dis-
agree with me when I say, that personally I do not rate
Bagehot's sagacity as a practical politician nearly so
highly as I rate his wise analysis of the growth and
rationale of political institutions. Everything he wrote
on the politics of the day was instructive, but, to my
mind at least, seldom decisive, and, as I thought, often
not true. He did not feel, and avowed that he did not
feel, much sympathy with the masses, and he attached
far too much relative importance to the refinement of
the governing classes. That, no doubt, is most desir-
able, if you can combine it with a genuine consideration
for the interests of " the toiling millions of men sunk in
labour and pain ". But experience, I think, sufficiently
shows that they are often, perhaps even generally, incom-
patible ; and that democratic governments of very low
tone may consult more adequately the leading interests
of the " dim common populations " than aristocratic
governments of very high calibre. Bagehot hardly ad-
mitted this, and always seemed to me to think far more
of the intellectual and moral tone of governments, than

Ivi Memoir.

he did of the intellectual and moral interests of the people
governed.

Again, those who felt most profoundly Bagehot's
influence as a political thinker, would probably agree
with me that it was his leading idea in politics to dis-
courage anything like too much action of any kind,
legislative or administrative, and most of all anything
like an ambitious colonial or foreign policy. This was
not owing to any doctrinaire adhesion to the principle of
laissez-faire. He supported, hesitatingly no doubt, but
in the end decidedly, the Irish Land Bill, and never
belonged to that straitest sect of the Economists who
decry, as contrary to the laws of economy, and little
short of a crime, the intervention of Government in
matters which the conflict of individual self-interests
might possibly be trusted to determine. It was from
a very different point of view that he was so anxious to
deprecate ambitious policies, and curb the practical
energies of the most energetic of peoples. Next to
Clough, I think that Sir George Cornewall Lewis had
the most powerful influence over him in relation to
political principles. There has been no statesman in
our time whom he liked so much or regretted so deeply ;
and he followed him most of all in deprecating the
greater part of what is called political energy. Bagehot
held with Sir George Lewis that men in modern days
do a great deal too much ; that half the public actions,
and a great many of the private actions of men, had
better never have been done; that modern statesmen
and modern peoples are far too willing to burden them-
selves with responsibilities. He held, too, that men
have not yet sufficiently verified the principles on which

Memoir. Ivii

action ought to proceed, and that till they have done so,
it would be better far to act less. Lord Melbourne's
habitual query, " Can't you let it alone ? " seemed to
him, as regarded all new responsibilities, the wisest of
hints for our time. He would have been glad to find a
fair excuse for giving up India, for throwing the Colonies
on their own resources, and for persuading the English
people to accept deliberately the place of a fourth or
fifth-rate European power — which was not, in his
estimation, a cynical or unpatriotic wish, but quite the
reverse, for he thought that such a course would result
in generally raising the calibre of the national mind,
conscience, and taste. In his Physics and Politics
he urges generally, as I have before pointed out, that
the practical energy of existing peoples in the West, is
far in advance of the knowledge that would alone enable
them to turn that energy to good account. He wanted
to see the English a more leisurely race, taking more
time to consider all their actions, and suspending their
decisions on all great policies and enterprises till either
these were well matured, or, as he expected it to be
in the great majority of cases, the opportunity for
sensational action was gone by. He quotes from
Clough what really might have been taken as the
motto of his own political creed : —

" Old things need not be therefore true,
O brother men, nor yet the new ;
Ah, still awhile, th' old thought retain,
And yet consider it again ".

And in all this, if it were advanced rather as a
principle of education than as a principle of political
practice, there would be great force. But when he

Iviii Memoir.

applied this teaching, not to the individual but to the
State, not to encourage the gradual formation of a new
type of character, but to warn the nation back from a
multitude of practical duties of a simple though
arduous kind, such as those, for example, which we
have undertaken in India — duties, the value of which,
performed even as they are, could hardly be overrated,
if only because they involve so few debatable and
doubtful assumptions, and are only the elementary
tasks of the hewers of wood and drawers of water for
the civilisation of the future — I think Bagehot made
the mistake of attaching far too little value to the
moral instincts of a sagacious people, and too much to
the refined deductions of a singularly subtle intellect.
I suspect that the real effect of suddenly stopping the
various safety-valves, by which the spare energy of our
nation is diverted to the useful work of roughly civilis-
ing other lands, would be, not to stimulate the delibera-
tive understanding of the English people, but to stunt
its thinking as well as its acting powers, and render it
more frivolous and more vacant-minded than it is.

In the field of economy there are so many thinkers
who are far better judges of Bagehot's invaluable work
than myself, that I will say a very few words indeed
upon it. It is curious, but I believe it to be almost
universally true, that what may be called the primitive
impulse of all economic action, is generally also strong
in great economic thinkers and financiers — I mean the
saving, or at least the anti-spending, instinct. It is very
difficult to see why it should be so, but I think it is so.
No one was more large-minded in his view of finance
than Bagehot. He preached that, in the case of a rich

Memoir. Hx

country like England, efficiency was vastly more impor-
tant than the mere reduction of expenditure, and held
that Mr. Gladstone and other great Chancellors of the
Exchequer made a great deal too much of saving for
saving's sake. None the less he himself had the anti-
spending instinct in some strength, and he was evidently
pleased to note its existence in his favourite economic
thinker, Ricardo. Generous as Bagehot was — and no
one ever hesitated less about giving largely for an
adequate end — he always told me, even in boyhood,
that spending was disagreeable to him, and that it took
something of an effort to pay away money. In a letter
before me, he tells his correspondent of the marriage of
an acquaintance, and adds that the lady is a Dissenter,
" and therefore probably rich. Dissenters don't spend,
and quite right too." I suppose it takes some feeling of
this kind to give the intellect of a man of high capacity
that impulse towards the study of the laws of the
increase of wealth, without which men of any imagine
tion would be more likely to turn in other directions.
Nevertheless, even as an economist, Bagehot's most
original writing was due less to his deductions from the
fundamental axioms of the modern science, than to that
deep insight into men which he had gained in many
different fields. The essays, published in the Fort-
nightly Review for February and May, I8761— in which
he showed so powerfully how few of the conditions of
the science known to us as " political economy " have
ever been really applicable to any large portion of the
globe during the longest periods of human history —

l4'The Postulates of Political Economy," etc., published in his
Economic Studies after his death.

Ix Memoir.

furnish quite an original study in social history and in
human nature. His striking book, Lombard Street, is
quite as much a study of bankers and bill-brokers as
of the principles of banking. Take again, Bagehot's
view of the intellectual position and value of the capital-
ist classes. Every one who knows his writings in the
Economist, knows how he ridiculed the common impres-
sion that the chief service of the capitalist class — that
by which they earn their profits— is merely what the
late Mr. Senior used to call " abstinence/' that is, the
practice of deferring their enjoyment of their savings
in order that those savings may multiply themselves ;
and knows too how inadequate he thought it, merely to
add that when capitalists are themselves managers, they
discharge the task of " superintending labour" as well.
Bagehot held that the .capitalists of a commercial
country do — not merely the saving, and the work of
foremen in superintending labour, but all the difficult
intellectual work of commerce besides, and are so little
appreciated as they are, chiefly because they are a dumb
class who are seldom equal to explaining to. others the
complex processes by which they estimate the wants of
the community, and conceive how best to supply them.
He maintained that capitalists are the great generals of
commerce, that they plan its whole strategy, determine
its tactics, direct its commissariat, and incur the danger
of great defeats, as well as earn, if they do not always
gain, the credit of great victories.

Here again is a new illustration of the light which
Bagehot's keen insight into men, taken in connection
with his own intimate understanding of the commercial
field, brought into his economic studies, He brought

Memoir. Ixi

life into these dry subjects from almost every side ; for
instance, in writing to the Spectator, many years ago,
about the cliff scenery of Cornwall and especially about
the pretty harbour of Boscastle, with its fierce sea and
its two breakwaters — which leave a mere "Temple
Bar" for the ships to get in at — a harbour of which he
says that " the principal harbour of Liliput probably
had just this look," — he goes back in imagination at
once to the condition of the country at the time when a
great number of such petty harbours as these were
essential to such trade as there was, and shows that at
that time the Liverpool and London docks not only
could not have been built for want of money, but would
have been of no use if they had been built, since the
auxiliary facilities which alone made such emporia
useful did not exist. " Our old gentry built on their
own estates as they could, and if their estates were near
some wretched little haven, they were much pleased.
The sea was the railway of those days. It brought, as
it did to Ellangowan, in Dirk Hatteraick's time, brandy
for the men and pinners for the women, to the loneliest
of coast castles." It was by such vivid illustrations as
this of the conditions of a very different commercial
life from our own, that Bagehot lit up the "dismal
science," till in his hands it became both picturesque
and amusing.

Bagehot made two or three efforts to get into Parlia-
ment, but after an illness which he had in 1868 he
deliberately abandoned the attempt, and held, I believe
rightly, that his political judgment was all the sounder,
as well as his health the better, for a quieter life.
Indeed, he used to say of himself that it would be very

Ixii Memoir.

difficult for him to find a borough which would be will-
ing to elect him its representative, because he was
"between sizes in politics". Nevertheless in 1866 he
was very nearly elected for Bridgewater, but was by no
means pleased that he was so near success, for he stood
to lose, not to win, in the hope that if he and his party
were really quite pure, he might gain the seat on petition.
He did his very best, indeed, to secure purity, though
he failed. As a speaker, he did not often succeed. His
voice had no great compass, and his manner was some-
what odd to ordinary hearers; but at Bridgewater he
was completely at his ease, and his canvass and public
speeches were decided successes. His examination, too,
before the Commissioners sent down a year or two later
to inquire into the corruption of Bridgewater was itself
a great success. He not only entirely defeated the
somewhat eagerly pressed efforts of one of the Commis-
sioners, Mr. Anstey, to connect him with the bribery,
but he drew a most amusing picture of the bribable
electors whom he had seen only to shun. I will quote
a little bit from the evidence he gave in reply to what
Mr. Anstey probably regarded as home-thrusts : —

"42,018. (Mr. Anstey) Speaking from your experience of those
streets, when you went down them canvassing, did any of the people
say anything to you, or in your hearing, about money ? — Yes, one, I
recollect, standing at the door, who said, « I won't vote for gentlefolks
unless they do something for I. Gentlefolks do not come to I unless
they want something of I, and I won't do nothing for gentlefolks,
unless they do something for me.' Of course, I immediately retired
out of that house.

"42,019. That man did not give you his promise? — I retired im-
mediately ; he stood in the doorway sideways, as these rustics do.

"42,020. Were there many such instances? — One or two, I re-
member. One suggested that I might have a place. I immediately
retired from him.

Memoir. Ixiii

"42,021. Did anybody of a better class than those voters, privately,
of course, expostulate with you against your resolution to be pure ? — No,
nobody ever came to me at all.

" 42,022. But those about you, did any of them say anything of this
kind : ' Mr. Bagehot, you are quite wrong in putting purity of principles
forward. It will not do if the other side bribes ' ?— I might have been told
that I should be unsuccessful in the stream of conversation ; many people
may have told me that ; that is how I gathered that if the other side was
impure and we were pure, I should be beaten.

" 42,023. Can you remember the names of any who told you that ? —
No, I cannot, but I daresay I was told by as many as twenty people, and
we went upon that entire consideration."

To leave my subject without giving some idea of
Bagehot's racy conversation would be a sin. He in-
herited this gift, I believe, in great measure from his
mother, to whose stimulating teaching in early life
he probably owed also a great deal of his rapidity of
thought. A lady who knew him well, says that one
seldom asked him a question without his answer
making you either think or laugh, or both think and
laugh together. And this is the exact truth. His
habitual phraseology was always vivid. He used to
speak, for instance, of the minor people, the youths or
admirers who collect around a considerable man, as his
"fringe". It was he who invented the phrase "padding,"
to denote the secondary kind of article, not quite of the
first merit, but with interest and value of its own, with
which a judicious editor will fill up, perhaps, three-
quarters of his review. If you asked him what he
thought on a subject on which he did not happen to
have read or thought at all, he would open his large
eyes and say, " My mind is * to let ' on that subject,
pray tell me what to think " ; though you soon found
that this might be easier attempted than done. He

Ixiv Memoir.

used to say banteringly to his mother, by way of putting
her off at a time when she was anxious for him to
marry : " A man's mother is his misfortune, but his wife
is his fault ". He told me once, at a time when the
Spectator had perhaps been somewhat more eager or
sanguine on political matters than he approved, that he
always got his wife to " break" it to him on the Saturday
morning, as he found it too much for his nerves to en-
counter its views without preparation. Then his familiar
antitheses not unfrequently reminded me of Dickens's
best touches in that line. He writes to a friend, "Tell

that his policies went down in the Colombo, but

were fished up again. They are dirty, but valid." I
remember asking him if he had enjoyed a particular
dinner which he had rather expected to enjoy, but he

replied, " No, the sherry was bad; tasted as if L

had dropped his h's into it". His practical illustrations,
too, were full of wit. In his address to the Bridgewater
constituency, on the occasion when he was defeated by
eight votes, he criticised most happily the sort of bribery
which ultimately resulted in the disfranchisement of
the place.

" I can make allowance," he said, " for the poor voter ; he is most
likely ill-educated, certainly ill-off, and a little money is a nice treat to
him. What he does is wrong, but it is intelligible. What I do not
understand is the position of the rich, respectable, virtuous members of a
party which countenances these things. They are like the man who
stole stinking fish ; they commit a crime, and they get no benefit."

But perhaps the best illustration I can give of his
more sardonic humour was his remark to a friend who
had a church in the grounds near his house: — "Ah,
youVe got the church in the grounds ! I like that

Memoir. Ixv

It's well the tenants shouldn't be quite sure that the
landlord's power stops with this world." And his more
humorous exaggerations were very happy. I remem-
ber his saying of a man who was excessively fastidious
in rejecting under-done meat, that he once sent away a
cinder " because it was red " ; and he confided gravely
to an early friend that when he was in low spirits, it
cheered him to go down to the bank, and dabble his
hand in a heap of sovereigns. l But his talk had finer
qualities than any of these. One of his most intimate
friends — both in early life, and later in Lincoln's Inn —
Mr. T. Smith Osier, writes to me of it thus : —

" As an instrument for arriving at truth, I never knew anything
like a talk with Bagehot. It had just the quality which the farmers
desiderated in the claret, of which they complained that though it was
very nice, it brought them 'no forrader'; for Bagehot's conversation
did get you forward, and at a most amazing pace. Several ingredients
went to this ; the foremost was his power of getting to the heart of the
subject, taking you miles beyond your starting point in a sentence,
generally by dint of sinking to a deeper stratum. The next was his
instantaneous appreciation of the bearing of everything you yourself
said, making talk with him, as Roscoe once remarked, ' like riding a
horse with a perfect mouth '. But most unique of all was his power
of keeping up animation without combat. I never knew a power of
discussion, of co-operative investigation of truth, to approach to it. It
was all stimulus, and yet no contest."

1 Since the last edition of this work was published I have been re-
minded of more good sayings of my husband's. After a little accident,
when his head was caught between a cart and a lamp-post in the city, he
said : " Now I know what a nut feels like when it is going to be cracked ".
He used to say that " children's holidays are parents' schooltime," and
"business is more amusing than pleasure ".—E. BAGEHOT.
VOL. I. 5

Ixvi Memoir.

But I must have done ; and, indeed, it is next to
impossible to convey, even faintly, the impression of
Bagehot's vivid and pungent conversation to any one
who did not know him. It was full of youth, and yet
had all the wisdom of a mature judgment in it. The
last time we met, only five days before his death, I
remarked on the vigour and youthfulness of his look,
and told him he looked less like a contemporary of my
own than one of a younger generation. In a pencil-
note, the last I received from him, written from bed on
the next day but one, he said : " I think you must have
had the evil eye when you complimented me on my ap-
pearance. Ever since, I have been sickening, and am
now in bed with a severe attack on the lungs." Indeed,
well as he appeared to me, he had long had delicate
health, and heart disease was the immediate cause of
death. In spite of a heavy cold on his chest, he went
down to his father's for his Easter visit the day after I
last saw him, and he passed away painlessly in sleep on
the 24th March, 1877, aged fifty-one. It was at Herds
Hill, the pretty place west of the river Parret, that flows
past Langport, which his grandfather had made some
fifty years before, that he breathed his last. He had
been carried thither as an infant to be present when
the foundation stone was laid of the home which he
was never to inherit ; and now very few of his name
survive. Bagehot's family is believed to be the only one
remaining that has retained the old spelling of the
name, as it appears in Doomsday Book, the modern
form being Bagot. The Gloucestershire family of the
same name, from whose stock they are supposed to have
sprung, died out in the beginning of this century.

Memoir. Ixvii

Not very many perhaps, outside Bagehot's own inner
circle, will carry about with them that hidden pain, that
burden of emptiness, inseparable from an image which
has hitherto been one full of the suggestions of life and
power, when that life and power are no longer to be
found ; for he was intimately known only to the few.
But those who do will hardly find again in this world a
store of intellectual sympathy of so high a stamp, so
wide in its range and so full of original and fresh
suggestion, a judgment to lean on so real and so
sincere, or a friend so frank and constant, with so vivid
and tenacious a memory for the happy associations of
a common past, and so generous in recognising the
independent value of divergent convictions in the less
pliant present.

R. H. H.

15* November, 1878.

LITERARY STUDIES.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.1

(1852.)

HARTLEY COLERIDGE was not like the Duke of Wellington.3
Children are urged by the example of the great statesman
and warrior just departed — not indeed to neglect " their
book " as he did — but to be industrious and thrifty ; to
"always perform business," to "beware of procrastination,"
to "NEVER fail to do their best": good ideas, as may be
ascertained by referring to the masterly despatches on the
Mahratta transactions — " great events," as the preacher
continues, " which exemplify the efficacy of diligence even
in regions where the very advent of our religion is as yet
but partially made known ". But

" What a wilderness were this sad world,
If man were always man and never child ! " *

And it were almost a worse wilderness if there were not
some, to relieve the dull monotony of activity, who are
children through life ; who act on wayward impulse, and
whose will has never come ; who toil not and who spin not ;
who always have " fair Eden's simpleness " : and of such
was Hartley Coleridge. " Don't you remember," writes

1 Hartley Coleridge's Lives of the Northern Worthies. A new edition.
3 vols. Moxon.

3 This essay was published immediately after the death of the Duke
of Wellington.

1 Hartley Coleridge : '• Sonnet to Childhood ".

2 Literary Studies.

Gray to Horace Walpole, when Lord B. and Sir H. C. and
Viscount D., who are now great statesmen, were little dirty
boys playing at cricket ? For my part I do not feel one bit
older or wiser now than I did then." For as some apply
their minds to what is next them, and labour ever, and
attain to governing the Tower, and entering the Trinity
House, — to commanding armies, and applauding pilots, — so
there are also some who are ever anxious to-day about what
ought only to be considered to-morrow ; who never get on
whom the earth neglects, and whom tradesmen little esteem
who are where they were ; who cause grief, and are loved
that are at once a by-word and a blessing ; who do not live
in life, and it seems will not die in death : and of such was
Hartley Coleridge.

A curious instance of poetic anticipation was in this
instance vouchsafed to Wordsworth. When Hartley was
six years old, he addressed to him these verses, perhaps the
best ever written on a real and visible child : —

" O thou, whose fancies from afar are brought,
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel
And fittest to unutterable thought
The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol ;
Thou fairy voyager, that dost float
In such clear water that thy boat
May rather seem
To brood on air than on an earthly stream ;

0 blessed vision, happy child,
Thou art so exquisitely wild,

1 think of thee with many fears

For what may be thy lot in future years.

" O too industrious folly !
O vain and causeless melancholy !
Nature will either end thee quite,
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
Preserve for thee by individual right
A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.n

Hartley Coleridge.

And so it was. As often happens, being very little of a
boy in actual childhood, Hartley preserved into manhood and
age all of boyhood which he had ever possessed — its beaming
imagination and its wayward will. He had none of the
natural roughness of that age. He never played — partly
from weakness, for he was very small, but more from
awkwardness. His uncle Southey used to say he had two
left hands, and might have added that they were both use-
less. He could no more have achieved football, or mastered
cricket, or kept in with the hounds, than he could have
followed Charles's Wain or played pitch and toss with
Jupiter's satellites. Nor was he very excellent at school-
work. He showed, indeed, no deficiency. The Coleridge
family have inherited from the old scholar of Ottery St. Mary
a certain classical facility which could not desert the son of
Samuel Taylor. But his real strength was in his own mind.
All children have a world of their own, as distinct from that
of the grown people who gravitate around them as the dreams
of girlhood from our prosaic life ; as the ideas of the kitten
that plays with the falling leaves, from those of her car-
nivorous mother that catches mice and is sedulous in her
domestic duties. But generally about this interior existence
children are dumb. You have warlike ideas, but you cannot
say to a sinewy relative, " My dear aunt, I wonder when the
big bush in the garden will begin to walk about ; I'm sure
it's a crusader, and I was cutting it all the day with my steel
sword. But what do you think, aunt, for I'm puzzled about
its legs, because you see, aunt, it has only one stalk ; and
besides, aunt, the leaves." You cannot remark this in
secular life ; but you hack at the infelicitous bush till you do
not altogether reject the idea that your small garden is
Palestine, and yourself the most adventurous of knights.
Hartley had this, of course, like any other dreamy child, but
in his case it was accompanied with the faculty of speech,

Literary Studies.

and an extraordinary facility in continuous story-telling. In
the very earliest childhood he had conceived a complete out-
line of a country like England, whereof he was king himself,
and in which there were many wars, and rumours of wars,
and foreign relations and statesmen, and rebels and soldiers.
" My people, Derwent," he used to begin, " are giving me
much pain ; they want to go to war." This faculty, as was
natural, showed itself before he went to school, but he carried
on the habit of fanciful narration even into that bleak and
ungenial region. " It was not," says his brother, " by a
series of tales, but by one continuous tale, regularly
evolved, and possessing a real unity, that he enchained the
attention of his auditors, night after night, as we lay in bed,
for a space of years, and not unfrequently for hours together."
..." There was certainly," he adds, " a great variety
of persons sharply characterised, who appeared on the stage
in combination and not in succession." Connected, in
Hartley, with this premature development of the imagina-
tion, there was a singular deficiency in what may be called
the sense of reality. It is alleged that he hardly knew that
Ejuxrea, which is the name of his kingdom, was not as solid
a terra firma as Keswick or Ambleside. The deficiency
showed itself on other topics. His father used to tell a
story of his metaphysical questioning. When he was about
five years old, he was asked, doubtless by the paternal meta-
physician, some question as to why he was called Hartley.
" Which Hartley ? " replied the boy. « Why, is there more
than one Hartley ? " « Yes, there is a deal of Hartleys ;
there is Picture Hartley (Hazlitt had painted a picture of
him), and Shadow Hartley, and there's Echo Hartley, and
there's Catchmefast Hartley," seizing his own arm very
eagerly, and as if reflecting on the " summject and ommject,"
which is to say, being in hopeless confusion. We do not
hear whether he was puzzled and perplexed by such diffi-

Hartley Coleridge.

culties in later life ; and the essays which we are reviewing,
though they contain much keen remark on the detail of
human character, are destitute of the Germanic profundities ;
they do not discuss how existence is possible, nor enumerate
the pure particulars of the soul itself. But considering the
idle dreaminess of his youth and manhood, we doubt if
Hartley ever got over his preliminary doubts — ever properly
grasped the idea of fact and reality. This is not nonsense.
If you attend acutely, you may observe that in few things do
people differ more than in their perfect and imperfect realisa-
tion of this earth. To the Duke of Wellington a coat was a
coat ; " there was no mistake " ; no reason to disbelieve it ;
and he carried to his grave a perfect and indubitable per-
suasion that he really did (what was his best exploit), without
fluctuation, shave on the morning of the battle of Waterloo.
You could not have made him doubt it. But to many people
who will never be Field-Marshals, there is on such points,
not rational doubt, but instinctive questioning. " Who the
devil," said Lord Byron, " could make such a world ? No
one, I believe." " Cast your thoughts," says a very different
writer,1 " back on the time when our ancient buildings were
first reared. Consider the churches all around us ; how many
generations have passed since stone was put upon stone, till
the whole edifice was finished ! The first movers and instru-
ments of its erection, the minds that planned it, and the
limbs that wrought at it, the pious hands that contributed to
it, and the holy lips that consecrated it, have long, long ago
been taken away, yet we benefit by their good deed. Does
it not seem strange that men should be able, not merely by
acting on others, not by a continued influence carried on
through many minds in succession, but by a single direct act,
to come into contact with us, and, as if with their own hand,
to benefit us who live centuries later ? " Or again, speaking
1 John Henry Newman.

Literary Studies.

of the lower animals : " Can anything be more marvellous
or startling, than that we should have a race of beings about
us, whom we do but see, and as little know their state, or
can describe their interests or their destiny, as we can tell of
the inhabitants of the sun and moon ? It is indeed a very
overpowering thought, that we hold intercourse with creatures
who are as much strangers to us, as mysterious as if they
were the fabulous, unearthly beings, more powerful than
man, and yet his slaves, which Eastern superstitions have
invented. . . . Cast your thoughts abroad on the whole
number of them, large and small, in vast forests, or in the
water, or in the air, and then say whether the presence
of such countless multitudes, so various in their natures, so
strange and wild in their shapes, is not " as incredible as any-
thing can be. We go into a street, and see it thronged with
men, and we say, Is it true, are there these men ? We look
on a creeping river, till we say, Is there this river ? We enter
the law courts : we watch the patient Chancellor : we hear
the droning wigs : — surely this is not real, — this is a dream,
— nobody would do that, — it is a delusion. We are really,
as the sceptics insinuate, but " sensations and impressions,"
in groups or alone, that float up and down ; or, as the poet
teaches, phantoms and images, whose idle stir but mocks
the calm reality of the " pictures on the wall ". All this will
be called dreamy ; but it is exactly because it is dreamy that
we notice it. Hartley Coleridge was a dreamer : he began
with Ejuxrea, and throughout his years, he but slumbered
and slept. Life was to him a floating haze, a disputable
mirage : you must not treat him like a believer in stocks
and stones — you might as well say he was a man of
business.

Hartley's school education is not worth recounting ; but
beside and along with it there was another education, on
every side of him, singularly calculated to bring out the

Hartley Coleridge.

peculiar aptitudes of an imaginative mind, yet exactly, on
that very account, very little likely to bring it down to fact
and reality, to mix it with miry clay, or define its dreams by
a daily reference to the common and necessary earth. He
was bred up in the house of Mr. Southey, where, more than
anywhere else in all England, it was held that literature and
poetry are the aim and object of every true man, and that
grocery and other affairs lie beneath at a wholly immeasur-
able distance, to be attended to by the inferior animals. In
Hartley's case the seed fell on fitting soil. In youth, and
even in childhood, he was a not unintelligent listener to the
unspeakable talks of the Lake poets.

" It was so," writes his brother, " rather than by a
regular course of study, that he was educated ; by desultory
reading, by the living voice of Coleridge, Southey, and
Wordsworth, Lloyd, Wilson, and De Quincey ; and again,
by homely familiarity with townsfolk and countryfolk of
every degree ; lastly, by daily recurring hours of solitude —
by lonely wanderings with the murmur of the Brathay in his
ear."

Thus he lived till the time came that he should go to
Oxford, and naturally enough, it seems, he went up with
much hope and strong excitement ; for, quiet and calm as
seem those ancient dormitories, to him, as to many, the
going among them seemed the first entrance into the real
world — the end of torpidity — the beginning of life. He had
often stood by the white Rydal Water, and thought it was
coming, and now it was come in fact. At first his Oxford
life was prosperous enough. An old gentleman,1 who believes
that he too was once an undergraduate, well remembers how
Hartley's eloquence was admired at wine parties and break-
fast parties. " Leaning his head on one shoulder, turning up
his dark bright eyes, and swinging backwards and forwards
1 Rev. Alexander Dyce.

8 Literary Studies.

in his chair, he would hold forth by the hour, for no one
wished to interrupt him, on whatever subject might have
been started — either of literature, politics, or religion — with
an originality of thought, a force of illustration," which the
narrator doubts " if any man then living, except his father,
could have surpassed ". The singular gift of continuous con-
versation— for singular it is, if in any degree agreeable —
seems to have come to him by nature, and it was through
life the one quality which he relied on for attraction in
society. Its being agreeable is to be accounted for mainly by
its singularity ; if one knew any respectable number of
declaimers — if any proportion of one's acquaintance should
receive the gift of the English language, and " improve each
shining hour" with liquid eloquence, how we should regret
their present dumb and torpid condition ! If we are to be
dull — which our readers will admit to be an appointment of
providence — surely we will be dull in silence. Do not ser-
mons exist, and are they not a warning to mankind ?

In fact, the habit of common and continuous speech is a
symptom of mental deficiency. It proceeds from not know-
ing what is going on in other people's minds. S. T. Cole-
ridge, it is well known, talked to everybody, and to
everybody alike ; like a Christian divine, he did not regard
persons. "That is a fine opera, Mr. Coleridge," said a
young lady, some fifty years back. " Yes, ma'am ; and I
remember Kant somewhere makes a very similar remark, for,

as we know, the idea of philosophical infinity " Now,

this sort of talk will answer with two sorts of people — with
comfortable, stolid, solid people, who don't understand it at
all — who don't feel that they ought to understand it — who
feel that they ought not — that they are to sell treacle and
appreciate figs — but that there is this transcendental
superlunary sphere, which is known to others — which is now
revealed in the spiritual speaker, the unmitigated oracle, the

Hartley Coleridge.

evidently celestial sound. That the dreamy orator himself
has no more notion what is passing in their minds than they
have what is running through his, is of no consequence at
all. If he did know it, he would be silent ; he would be
jarred to feel how utterly he was misunderstood ; it would
break the flow of his everlasting words. Much better that
he should run on in a never-pausing stream, and that the
wondering rustics should admire for ever. The basis of the
entertainment is that neither should comprehend the other.
— But in a degree yet higher is the society of an omniscient
orator agreeable to a second sort of people, — generally young
men, and particularly — as in Hartley's case — clever under-
graduates. All young men like what is theatrical, and by a
fine dispensation all clever young men like notions. They
want to hear about opinions, to know about opinions. The
ever-flowing rhetorician gratifies both propensions. He is a
notional spectacle. Like the sophist of old, he is something
and says something. The vagabond speculator in all ages
will take hold on those who wish to reason, and want
premises — who wish to argue, and want theses — who desire
demonstrations, and have but presumptions. And so it was
acceptable enough that Hartley should make the low tones
of his musical voice glide sweetly and spontaneously through
the cloisters of Merton, debating the old questions, the
" fate, free-will, foreknowledge," — the points that Ockham
and Scotus propounded in these same enclosures — the com-
mon riddles, the everlasting enigmas of mankind. It
attracts the scorn of middle-aged men (who depart irpos ra i«pa,
and fancy they are wise), but it is a pleasant thing, that
impact of hot thought upon hot thought, of young thought
upon young thought, of new thought upon new thought. It
comes to the fortunate once, but to no one a second time
thereafter for ever.

Nor was Hartley undistinguished in the regular studies

io Literary Studies.

of the University. A regular, exact, accurate scholar he
never was ; but even in his early youth he perhaps knew
much more and understood much more of ancient literature
than seven score of schoolmasters and classmen. He had,
probably, in his mind a picture of the ancient world, or of
some of it, while the dry literati only know the combinations
and permutations of the Greek alphabet. There is a pleasant
picture of him at this epoch, recorded by an eye-witness.
" My attention," he narrates, " was at first aroused by seeing
from a window a figure flitting about amongst the trees and
shrubs of the garden with quick and agitated motion. This
was Hartley, who, in the ardour of preparing for his college
examination, did not even take his meals with the family,
but snatched a hasty morsel in his own apartment, and only
sought the free air when the fading daylight prevented him
from seeing his books. Having found who he was that so
mysteriously flitted about the garden, I was determined to
lose no time in making his acquaintance, and through the
instrumentality of Mrs. Coleridge I paid Hartley a visit in
what he called his den. This was a room afterwards
converted by Mr. Southey " — as what chink was not? —
"into a supplementary library, but then appropriated as a
study to Hartley, and presenting a most picturesque and
student-like disorder of scattered pamphlets and folios."
This is not a picture of the business-like reading man — one
wonders what fraction of his time he did read — but it was
probably the happiest period of his life. There was no coarse
prosaic action there. Much musing, little studying, — fair
scholarship, an atmosphere of the classics, curious fancies,
much perusing of pamphlets, light thoughts on heavy folios
— these make the meditative poet, but not the technical and
patient-headed scholar; yet, after all, he was happy, and
obtained a second class.

A more suitable exercise, as it would have seemed at first

Hartley Coleridge.

ii

sight, was supplied by that curious portion of Oxford routine,
the Annual Prize Poem. This, he himself tells us, was, in
his academic years, the real and single object of his ambition.
His reason is, for an autobiographical reason, decidedly
simple. " A great poet," he says, «* I should not have
imagined myself, for I knew well enough that the verses
were no great things." But he entertained at that period of
life — he was twenty-one— a favourable opinion of young
ladies; and he seems to have ascertained, possibly from
actual trial, that verses were not in themselves a very
emphatic attraction. Singular as it may sound, the ladies
selected were not only insensible to what is, after all, a
metaphysical line, the distinction between good poetry and
bad, but were almost indifferent to poetry itself. Yet the
experiment was not quite conclusive. Verses might fail in
common life, and yet succeed in the Sheldonian theatre. It
is plain that they would be read out ; it occurred to him, as
he naively relates, that if he should appear " as a prizeman,"
" as an intelligible reciter of poetry," he would be an object
of " some curiosity to the fair promenaders in Christchurch
Meadow " ; that the young ladies " with whom he was on
bowing and speaking terms might have felt a satisfaction in
being known to know me, which they had never experienced
before ". " I should," he adds, " have deemed myself a pro-
digious lion, and it was a character I was weak enough to
covet more than that of poet, scholar, or philosopher."

In fact, he did not get the prize. The worthy East
Indian who imagined that, in leaving a bequest for a prize
to poetry, he should be as sure of possessing poetry for his
money as of eggs, if he had chosen eggs, or butter, if he
had chosen butter, did not estimate rightly the nature of
poetry, or the nature of the human mind. The mechanical
parts of rhythm and metre are all that a writer can be certain
of producing, or that a purchaser can be sure of obtaining ;

12 Literary Studies.

and these an industrious person will find in any collection of
the Newdegate poems, together with a fine assortment of
similes and sentiments, respectively invented and enjoined
by Shem and Japhet for and to the use of after generations.
And there is a peculiar reason why a great poet (besides his
being, as a man of genius, rather more likely than another,
to find a difficulty in the preliminary technicalities of art)
should not obtain an academical prize, to be given for excel-
lent verses to people of about twenty-one. It is a bad
season. "The imagination," said a great poet of the very
age, " of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a
man is healthy, but there is a space of life between, in which
the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of
life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted." 1 And particularly
in a real poet, where the disturbing influences of passion and
fancy are most likely to be in excess, will this unhealthy
tinge be most likely to be excessive and conspicuous.
Nothing in the style of *' Endymion " would have a chance of
a prize ; there are no complete conceptions, no continuance
of adequate words. What is worse, there are no defined
thoughts, or aged illustrations. The characteristic of the
whole is beauty and novelty, but it is beauty which is not
formed, and novelty which is strange and wavering. Some
of these defects are observable in the copy of verses on the
" Horses of Lysippus," which Hartley Coleridge contributed
to the list of unsuccessful attempts. It does not contain so
much originality as we might have expected ; on such a topic
we anticipated more nonsense ; a little, we are glad to say,
there is, and also that there is an utter want of those even
raps which are the music of prize poems, — which were the
right rhythm for Pope's elaborate sense, but are quite unfit
for dreamy classics or contemplative enthusiasm. If Hart-
ley, like Pope, had been the son of a shopkeeper, he would
1 Keats in the Preface to " Endymion ".

Hartley Coleridge. 13

not have received the paternal encouragement, but rather a
reprimand, — " Boy, boy, these be bad rhymes" ; and so, too,
believed a grizzled and cold examiner.

A much worse failure was at hand. He had been elected
to a Fellowship, in what was at that time the only open
foundation in Oxford, Oriel College : an event which shows
more exact scholarship in Hartley, or more toleration in the
academical authorities for the grammatical delinquencies of
a superior man, than we should have been inclined, a priori,
to attribute to either of them. But it soon became clear
that Hartley was not exactly suited to that place. Decorum
is the essence, pomposity the advantage, of tutors. These
Hartley had not. Beside the serious defects which we shall
mention immediately, he was essentially an absent and
musing, and therefore at times a highly indecorous man ;
and though not defective in certain kinds of vanity, there was
no tinge in his manner of scholastic dignity. A school-
master should have an atmosphere of awe, and walk
wonderingly, as if he was amazed at being himself. But an
excessive sense of the ludicrous disabled Hartley altogether
from the acquisition of this valuable habit ; perhaps he never
really attempted to obtain it. He accordingly never became
popular as a tutor, nor was he ever described as " exercising
an influence over young persons". Moreover, however
excellently suited Hartley's eloquence might be to the society
of undergraduates, it was out of place at the Fellows' table.
This is said to be a dull place. The excitement of early
thought has passed away ; the excitements of active manhood
are unknown. A certain torpidity seems natural there. We
find too that, probably for something to say, he was in those
years rather fond of exaggerated denunciation of the powers
that be. This is not the habit most grateful to the heads of
houses. " Sir," said a great authority, " do you deny that
Lord Derby ought to be Prime Minister ? you might as well
VOL. i. 6

14 Literary Studies.

say, that I ought not to be Warden of So and So." These
habits rendered poor Hartley no favourite with the leading
people of his college, and no great prospective shrewdness
was required to predict that he would fare but ill, if any
sufficient occasion should be found for removing from the
place, a person so excitable and so little likely to be of
use in inculcating " safe " opinions among the surrounding
youth.

Unhappily, the visible morals of Hartley offered an easy
occasion. It is not quite easy to gather from the narrative
of his brother the exact nature or full extent of his moral
delinquencies ; but enough is shown to warrant, according
to the rules, the unfavourable judgment of the collegiate
authorities. He describes, probably truly, the commence-
ment of his errors — " I verily believe that I should have
gone crazy, silly, mad with vanity, had I obtained the prize
for my * Horses of Lysippus'. It was the only occasion in
my life wherein I was keenly disappointed, for it was the
only one upon which I felt any confident hope. I had made
myself very sure of it ; and the intelligence that not I but
Macdonald was the lucky man, absolutely stupefied me ; yet
I contrived for a time to lose all sense of my misfortunes in
exultation for Burton's success. ... I sang, I danced,
I whistled, I ran from room to room, announcing the great
tidings, and trying to persuade myself that I cared nothing
at all for my own case. But it would not do. It was bare
sands with me the next day. It was not the mere loss of
the prize, but the feeling or phantasy of an adverse destiny.
I foresaw that all my aims and hopes would prove
frustrate and abortive ; and from that time I date my
downward declension, my impotence of will, and my melan-
choly recklessness. It was the first time I sought relief in
wine, which, as usual in such cases, produced not so much
intoxication as downright madness." Cast in an uncongenial

Hartley Coleridge. 15

society, requiring to live in an atmosphere of respect and
affection — and surrounded by gravity and distrust — miscon-
strued and half tempted to maintain the misconstruction ;
with the waywardness of childhood without the innocency of
its impulses ; with the passions of manhood without the
repressive vigour of a man's will, — he lived as a woman lives
that is lost and forsaken, who sins ever and hates herself for
sinning, but who sins, perhaps, more on that very account ;
because she requires some relief from the keenness of her
own reproach ; because, in her morbid fancy, the idea is ever
before her ; because her petty will is unable to cope with the
daily craving and the horrid thought — that she may not lose
her own identity — that she may not give in to the rigid, the
distrustful, and the calm.

There is just this excuse for Hartley, whatever it may be
worth, that the weakness was hereditary. We do not as yet
know, it seems most likely that we shall never know, the
precise character of his father. But with all the discrepancy
concerning the details, enough for our purpose is certain of
the outline. We know that he lived many and long years a
prey to weaknesses and vice of this very description ; and
though it be false and mischievous to speak of hereditary
vice, it is most true and wise to observe the mysterious fact
of hereditary temptation. Doubtless it is strange that the
nobler emotions and the inferior impulses, their peculiar
direction or their proportionate strength, the power of a fixed
idea — that the inner energy of the very will, which seems to
issue from the inmost core of our complex nature, and to
typify, if anything does, the pure essence of the immortal
soul — that these and such as these should be transmitted by
material descent, as though they were an accident of the
body, the turn of an eye-brow or the feebleness of a joint, —
if this were not obvious, it would be as amazing, perhaps
more amazing, than any fact which we know ; it looks not

16 Literary Studies.

only like predestinated, but even heritable election. But,
explicable or inexplicable — to be wondered at or not wondered
at — the fact is clear ; tendencies and temptations are trans-
mitted even to the fourth generation both for good and for
evil, both in those who serve God and in those who serve
Him not. Indeed, the weakness before us seems essentially
connected — perhaps we may say on a final examination
essentially identical — with the dreaminess of mind, the in-
apprehensiveness of reality which we remarked upon before.
Wordsworth used to say, that " at a particular stage of his
mental progress he used to be frequently so wrapt into an
unreal transcendental world of ideas, that the external world
seemed no longer to exist in relation to him, and he had to
convince himself of its existence by clasping a tree or some-
thing that happened to be near him ". But suppose a mind
which did not feel acutely the sense of reality which others
feel, in hard contact with the tangible universe ; which was
blind to the distinction between the palpable and the impalp-
able, or rather lived in the latter in preference to, and nearly
to the exclusion of, the former. What is to fix such a mind,
what is to strengthen it, to give it a fulcrum ? To exert
itself, the will, like the arm, requires to have an obvious and
a definite resistance, to know where it is, why it is, whence
it comes, and whither it goes. " We are such stuff as dreams
are made of," says Prospero. So, too, the difficulty of
Shakespeare's greatest dreamer, Hamlet, is that he cannot
quite believe that his duty is to be done where it lies, and
immediately. Partly from the natural effect of a vision of a
spirit which is not, but more from native constitution and
instinctive bent, he is for ever speculating on the reality of
existence, the truth of the world. " How," discusses Kant,
" is Nature in general possible ? " and so asked Hamlet too.
With this feeling on his mind, persuasion is useless and
argument in vain. Examples gross as earth exhort him,

Hartley Coleridge. 17

but they produce no effect ; but he thinks and thinks the

more.

" Now whether it be
Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple
Of thinking too precisely on the event, —
A thought which quarter'd hath but one part wisdom
And ever three parts coward, — I do not know
Why yet I live to say, ' This thing's to do,'
Sith I have cause and will and strength and means
To do V »

Hartley himself well observes that on such a character
the likelihood of action is inversely as the force of the motive
and the time for deliberation. The stronger the reason, the
more certain the scepticism. Can anything be so certain ?
Does not the excess of the evidence alleged make it clear
that there is something behind, something on the other
side ? Search then diligently lest anything be overlooked.
Reflection " puzzles the will," Necessity " benumbs like a
torpedo " : and so

11 The native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action ".*

Why should we say any more ? We do but " chant
snatches of old tunes ". But in estimating men like the
Coleridges — the son even more than the father — we must
take into account this peculiar difficulty — this dreamy un-
belief— this daily scepticism — this haunting unreality — and
imagine that some may not be quite responsible either for
what they do, or for what they do not — because they are be-
wildered, and deluded, and perplexed, and want the faculty
as much to comprehend their difficulty as to subdue it.

1 Shakespeare : " Hamlet ". » Ibid.

1 8 Literary Studies.

The Oxford life of Hartley is all his life. The failure of
his prospects there, in his brother's words, " deprived him
of the residue of his years". The biography afterwards goes
to and fro — one attempt after another failing, some beginning
in much hope, but even the sooner for that reason issuing in
utter despair. His literary powers came early to full per-
fection. For some time after his expulsion from Oriel he
was resident in London, and the poems written there are
equal, perhaps are superior, to any which he afterwards pro-
duced. This sonnet may serve as a specimen : —

*' In the great city we are met again
Where many souls there are, that breathe and die
Scarce knowing more of Nature's potency
Than what they learn from heat or cold or rain,
The sad vicissitude of weary pain : —
For busy man is lord of ear and eye,
And what hath Nature, but the vast, void sky,
And the throng'd river toiling to the main ?
Oh ! say not so, for she shall have her part
In every smile, in every tear that falls,
And she shall hide her in the secret heart
Where love persuades and sterner duty calls ;
But worse it were than death or sorrow's smart,
To live without a friend within these walls."

He soon, however, went down to the lakes, and there,
except during one or two short intervals, he lived and died.
This exception was a residence at Leeds, during which he
brought out, besides a volume containing his best poems,
the book which stands at the head of our article — the Lives
of Northern Worthies. We selected the book, we confess,
with the view mainly of bringing a remarkable character
before the notice of our readers — but in itself the work is an
excellent one, and of a rare kind.

Books are for various purposes — tracts to teach, almanacs
to sell, poetry to make pastry, but this is the rarest sort of

Hartley Coleridge. ig

book, a book to read. As Dr. Johnson said, " Sir, a good
book is one you can hold in your hand, and take to the fire".
Now there are extremely few books which can, with any
propriety, be so treated. When a great author, as Grote or
Gibbon, has devoted a whole life of horrid industry to the
composition of a large history, one feels one ought not to
touch it with a mere hand — it is not respectful. The idea
of slavery hovers over the Decline and Fall. Fancy a
stiffly dressed gentleman, in a stiff chair, slowly writing that
stiff compilation in a stiff hand : it is enough to stiffen you
for life. Or is poetry readable ? Of course it is remember-
able ; when you have it in the mind, it clings ; if by heart,
it haunts. Imagery comes from it ; songs which lull the
ear, heroines that waste the time. But this Biographia is
actually read ; a man is glad to take it up, and slow to lay it
down ; it is a book which is truly valuable, for it is truly
pleasing ; and which a man who has once had it in his
library would miss from his shelves, not only in the common
way, by a physical vacuum, but by a mental deprivation.
This strange quality it owes to a peculiarity of style. Many
people give many theories of literary composition, and Dr.
Blair, whom we will read, is sometimes said to have ex-
hausted the subject ; but, unless he has proved the contrary,
we believe that the knack in style is to write like a human
being. Some think they must be wise, some elaborate, some
concise ; Tacitus wrote like a pair of stays ; some startle as
Thomas Carlyle, or a comet, inscribing with his tail. But
legibility is given to those who neglect these notions, and are
willing to be themselves, to write their own thoughts in their
own words, in the simplest words, in the words wherein they
were thought ; and such, and so great, was in this book the
magnanimity of Hartley.

As has been said, from his youth onwards, Hartley's out-
ward life was a simple blank. Much writing, and much

2O Literary Studies.

musing, some intercourse with Wordsworth, some talking to
undergraduate readers or Lake ladies, great loneliness, and
much intercourse with the farmers of Cumberland — these
pleasures, simple enough, most of them, were his life. The
extreme pleasure of the peasantry in his conversation, is
particularly remarked. " Aye, but Mr. Coleridge talks fine,"
observed one. " I would go through fire and water for Mr.
C.," interjected another. His father, with real wisdom, had
provided (in part, at least) for his necessary wants in the
following manner : —

" This is a codicil to my last will and testament.

" S. T. COLERIDGE.

"Most desirous to secure, as far as in me lies, for my dear son
Hartley, the tranquillity essential to any continued and successful exer-
tion of his literary talents, and which, from the like characters of our
minds in this respect, I know to be especially requisite for his happiness,
and persuaded that he will recognise in this provision that anxious
affection by which it is dictated, I affix this codicil to my last will
and testament. . . . And I hereby request them (the said trustees)
to hold the sum accruing to Hartley Coleridge from the equal division of
my total bequest between him, his brother Derwent, and his sister Sara,
after his mother's decease, to dispose of the interests or proceeds of the
same portion to or for the use of my dear son Hartley Coleridge, at such
time or times, in such manner, or under such conditions, as they, the
trustees above named, know to be my wish, and shall deem conducive to
the attainment of my object in adding the codicil, namely, the anxious
wish to ensure for my son the continued means of a home, in which I
comprise board, lodging, and raiment. Providing that nothing in this
codicil shall be so interpreted as to interfere with my son H. C.'s free-
dom of choice respecting his place of residence, or with his power of
disposing of his portion by will after his decease according as his own
judgments and affections may decide."

An excellent provision, which would not, however, by the
English law, have disabled the " said Hartley " from de-
priving himself of " the continued means of a home " by

Hartley Coleridge. 21

alienating the principal of the bequest ; since the jurispru-
dence of this country has no legal definition of "prodigality,"
and does not consider any person incompetent to manage his
pecuniary affairs unless he be quite and certainly insane.
Yet there undoubtedly are persons, and poor Hartley was one
of them, who though in general perfectly sane, and even with
superior powers of thought or fancy, are as completely unable
as the most helpless lunatic to manage any pecuniary
transactions, and to whom it would be a great gain to have
perpetual guardians and compulsory trustees. But such
people are rare, and few principles are so English as the
maxim de mini mis non curat lex.

He lived in this way for thirty years, or nearly so, but
there is nothing to tell of all that time. He died 6th January,
1849, and was buried in Grasmere churchyard — the quietest
place in England, " by the yews," as Arnold says, " that
Wordsworth planted, the Rotha with its big silent pools
passing by ". It was a shining January day when Hartley
was borne to the grave. " Keep the ground for us," said Mr.
Wordsworth to the sexton ; " we are old, and it cannot be
long."

We have described Hartley's life at length for a peculiar
reason. It is necessary to comprehend his character, to
appreciate his works ; and there is no way of delineating
character but by a selection of characteristic sayings and
actions. All poets, as is commonly observed, are delineated
in their poems, but in very different modes. Each minute
event in the melancholy life of Shelley is frequently alluded
to in his writings. The tender and reverential character of
Virgil is everywhere conspicuous in his pages. It is clear
that Chaucer was shrewd. We seem to have talked with
Shakespeare, though we have forgotten the facts of his life ;
but it is not by minute allusion, or a tacit influence, or a
genial and delightful sympathy, that a writer like Hartley

22 Literary Studies.

Coleridge leaves the impress of himself, but in a more direct
manner, which it will take a few words to describe.

Poetry begins in Impersonality. Homer is a voice — a
fine voice, a fine eye, and a brain that drew with light ; and
this is all we know. The natural subjects of the first art are
the scenes and events in which the first men naturally take
an interest. They don't care — who does ? — for a kind old
man ; but they want to hear of the exploits of their ancestors
— of the heroes of their childhood — of them that their fathers
saw — of the founders of their own land — of wars, and
rumours of wars — of great victories boldly won — of heavy
defeats firmly borne — of desperate disasters unsparingly
retrieved. So in all countries — Siegfried, or Charlemagne,
or Arthur — they are but attempts at an Achilles : the subject
is the same — the KAe'a dvfy>a>v and the death that comes to all.
But then the mist of battles passes away, and the sound of
the daily conflict no longer hurtles in the air, and a genera-
tion arises skilled with the skill of peace, and refined with
the refinement of civilisation, yet still remembering the old
world, still appreciating the old life, still wondering at the
old men, and ready to receive, at the hand of the poet, a new
telling of the old tale — a new idealisation of the legendary
tradition. This is the age of dramatic art, when men
wonder at the big characters of old, as schoolboys at the
words of ^schylus, and try to find in their own breasts the
roots of those monstrous, but artistically developed imperson-
ations. With civilisation too comes another change : men
wish not only to tell what they have seen, but also to express
what they are conscious of. Barbarians feel only hunger,
and that is not lyrical ; but as time runs on, arise gentler
emotions and finer moods and more delicate desires which
need expression, and require from the artist's fancy the
lightest touches and the most soothing and insinuating
words. Lyrical poetry, too, as we know, is of various kinds.

Hartley Coleridge. 23

Some, as the war song, approach to the epic, depict events
and stimulate to triumph ; others are love songs to pour out
wisdom, others sober to describe champagne ; some passive
and still, and expressive of the higher melancholy, as Gray's
" Elegy in a Country Churchyard ". But with whatever
differences of species and class, the essence of lyrical poetry
remains in all identical ; it is designed to express, and when
successful does express, some one mood, some single senti-
ment, some isolated longing in human nature. It deals not
with man as a whole, but with man piecemeal, with man in a
scenic aspect, with man in a peculiar light. Hence lyrical
poets must not be judged literally from their lyrics : they are
discourses ; they require to be reduced into the scale of
ordinary life, to be stripped of the enraptured element, to be
clogged with gravitating prose. Again, moreover, and in
course of time, the advance of ages and the progress of
civilisation appear to produce a new species of poetry which
is distinct from the lyrical, though it grows out of it, and
contrasted with the epic, though in a single respect it exactly
resembles it. This kind may be called the sclf-delincativc,
for in it the poet deals not with a particular desire, sentiment,
or inclination in his own mind, not with a special phase of
his own character, not with his love of war, his love of ladies,
his melancholy, but with his mind viewed as a whole, with
the entire essence of his own character. The first requisite
of this poetry is truth. It is, in Plato's phrase, the soul
" itself by itself" aspiring to view and take account of the
particular notes and marks that distinguish it from all other
souls. The sense of reality is necessary to excellence ; the
poet being himself, speaks like one who has authority ; he
knows and must not deceive. This species of poetry, of
course, adjoins on the lyrical, out of which it historically
arises. Such a poem as the " Elegy " is, as it were, on the
borders of the two ; for while it expresses but a single emo-

24 Literary Studies.

tion, meditative, melancholy, you seem to feel that this
sentiment is not only then and for a moment the uppermost,
but (as with Gray it was) the habitual mood, the pervading
emotion of his whole life. Moreover, in one especial
peculiarity, this sort of poetry is analogous to the narrative
or epic. No two things certainly can, in a general aspect, be
more distantly removed one from another, the one dealing in
external objects and stirring events, the other with the still-
ness and repose of the poet's mind ; but still in a single
characteristic the two coincide. They describe character, as
the painters say, in mass. The defect of the drama is, that
it can delineate only motion. If a thoughtful person will
compare the character of Achilles, as we find it in Homer,
with the more surpassing creations of dramatic invention,
say with Lear or Othello, he will perhaps feel that character
in repose, character on the lonely beach, character in marble,
character in itself, is more clearly and perfectly seen in the
epic narrative, than in the conversational drama. It of
course requires immense skill to make mere talk exhibit a
man as he is erapwv a<£ap. Now this quality of epic poetry
the self-delineative precisely shares with it. It describes a
character — the poet's — alone by itself. And therefore, when
the great master in both kinds did not hesitate to turn aside
from his " high argument " to say —

" More safe I sing with mortal voice unchanged
To hoarse or mute, though fallen on evil days," l

pedants may prose as they please about the "impropriety"
of " interspersing " species of composition which are by
nature remote ; but Milton felt more profoundly that in its
treatment of character the egotistical poetry is allied to the
epic ; that he was putting together elements which would

1 Paradise Lost,

Hartley Coleridge. 25

harmoniously combine ; that he was but exerting the same
faculties in either case — being guided thereto by a sure
instinct, the desire of genius to handle and combine every
one of the subjects on which it is genius.

Now it is in this self-delineative species of poetry that,
in our judgment, Hartley Coleridge has attained to nearly, if
not quite, the highest excellence ; it pervades his writings
everywhere. But a few sonnets may be quoted to exemplify
it: —

14 We parted on the mountains, as two streams
From one clear spring pursue their several ways ;
And thy fleet course has been through many a maze
In foreign lands, where silvery Padus gleams
To that delicious sky, whose glowing beams
Brightened the tresses that old poets praise,
Where Petrarch's patient love and artful lays,
And Ariosto's song of many themes,
Moved the soft air. — But I, a lazy brook,
As close pent up within my native dell,
Have crept along from nook to shady nook,
Where flow'rets blow and whispering Naiads dwell.
Yet now we meet that parted were so wide,
For rough and smooth to travel side by side.

" Once I was young, and fancy was my all,
My love, my joy, my grief, my hope, my feai\
And ever ready as an infant's tear,
Whate'er in Fancy's kingdom might befall,
Some quaint device had Fancy still at call,
With seemly verse to greet the coming cheer ;
Such grief to sooth, such airy hope to rear,
To sing the birth-song, or the funeral
Of such light love, it was a pleasant task ;
But ill accord the quirks of wayward glee
That wears affliction for a wanton mask,
With woes that bear not Fancy's livery ;
With Hope that scorfts of Fate its fate to ask
But is itself its own sure destiny.

26 Literary Studies.

" Too true it is my time of power was spent
In idly watering weeds of casual growth,
That wasted energy to desperate sloth
Declined, and fond self-seeking discontent ;
That the huge debt for all that nature lent
I sought to cancel, — and was nothing loth,
To deem myself an outlaw, severed both
From duty and from hope, — yea, blindly sent
Without an errand where I would to stray : —
Too true it is, that knowing now my state,
I weakly mourn the sin I ought to hate,
Nor love the law I yet would fain obey :
But true it is, above all law and fate
Is Faith, abiding the appointed day.

•* Long time a child, and still a child when years
Had painted manhood on my cheek, was I :
For yet I lived like one not born to die,
A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears ;
No hope I needed, and I knew no fears.
But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep, and waking,
I waked to sleep no more, at once o'ertaking
The vanguard of my age, with all arrears
Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man,
Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is grey,
For I have lost the race I never ran ;
A rathe December blights my lagging May ;
And still I am a child, tho' I be old,
Time is my debtor for my years untold."

Indeed, the whole series of sonnets with which the
earliest and best work of Hartley began is (with a casual
episode on others) mainly and essentially a series on him-
self. Perhaps there is something in the structure of the
sonnet rather adapted to this species of composition. It is
too short for narrative, too artificial for the intense passions,
too complex for the simple, too elaborate for the domestic ;
but in an impatient world where there is not a premium on
self-describing, who so would speak of himself must be wise

Hartley Coleridge. 27

and brief, artful and composed — and in these respects he will
be aided by the concise dignity of the tranquil sonnet.

It is remarkable that in this, too, Hartley Coleridge resem-
bled his father. Turn over the early poems of S. T. Coleridge,
the minor poems (we exclude " The Ancient Mariner " and
" Christabel," which are his epics), but the small shreds which
Bristol worshipped and Cottle paid for, and you will be dis-
heartened by utter dulness. Taken on a decent average, and
perhaps excluding a verse here and there, it really seems to
us that they are inferior to the daily works of the undeserving
and multiplied poets. If any reader will peruse any six of
the several works intituled Poems by a Young Gentleman,
we believe he will find the refined anonymity less insipid than
the small productions of Samuel Taylor. There will be less
puff and less ostentation. The reputation of the latter was
caused not by their merit but by their time. Fifty years ago
people believed in metre, and it is plain that Coleridge
(Southey may be added, for that matter) believed in it also ;
the people in Bristol said that these two were wonderful men,
because they had written wonderfully small verses ; — and
such is human vanity, that both for a time accepted the
creed. In Coleridge, who had large speculative sense, the
hallucination was not permanent — there are many traces
that he rated his Juvenilia at their value ; but poor Southey,
who lived with domestic women, actually died in the delusion
that his early works were perfect, except that he tried to
" amend " the energy out of "Joan of Arc," which was the
only good thing in it. His wife did not doubt that he had
produced stupendous works. Why, then, should he ? But
experience has now shown that a certain metrical facility,
and a pleasure in the metrical expression of certain senti-
ments, are in youth extremely common. Many years ago,
Mr. Moore is reported to have remarked to Sir Walter Scott,
that hardly a magazine was then published which did not

28 Literary Studies.

contain verses that would have made a sensation when they
were young men. " Confound it, Tom," was the reply,
" what luck it was we were born before all these fellows."
And though neither Moore nor Scott are to be confounded
with the nameless and industrious versifiers of the present
day, yet it must be allowed that they owed to their time and
their position — to the small quantity of rhyme in the market
of the moment, and the extravagant appreciation of their early
productions — much of that popular encouragement which
induced them to labour upon more excellent compositions
and to train themselves to write what they will be remem-
bered by. But, dismissing these considerations, and
returning to the minor poems of S. T. Coleridge, although
we fearlessly assert that it is impossible for any sane man to
set any value on — say the " Religious Musings " — an absurd
attempt to versify an abstract theory, or the essay on the
Pixies, who had more fun in them than the reader of it could
suspect — it still is indisputable that scattered here and there
through these poems, there are lines about himself (lines, as
he said in later life, " in which the subjective object views
itself subjectivo-objectively ") which rank high in that form of
art. Of this kind are the " Tombless Epitaph," for example,
or the lines, —

" To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assigned
Energic Reason and a shaping mind,
The daring ken of truth ; the Patriot's part,
And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart ;
Sloth-jaundiced all ! and from my graspless hand
Drop friendship's priceless pearls, like hour-glass sand.
I weep, yet stoop not ! the faint anguish flows,
A dreamy pang in morning's fev'rish doze ; " l

and so on. In fact, it would appear that the tendency to,
and the faculty for, self-delineation are very closely connected

1 " Lines on a Friend " (November, 1794).

Hartley Coleridge. 29

with the dreaminess of disposition and impotence of character
which we spoke of just now. Persons very subject to these
can grasp no external object, comprehend no external being ;
they can do no external thing, and therefore they are left to
themselves. Their own character is the only one which
they can view as a whole, or depict as a reality ; of every
other they may have glimpses, and acute glimpses, like the
vivid truthfulness of particular dreams; but no settled ap-
preciation, no connected development, no regular sequence
whereby they may be exhibited on paper or conceived in
the imagination. If other qualities are supposed to be
identical, those will be most egotistical who only know them-
selves ; the people who talk most of themselves will be those
who talk best.

In the execution of minor verses, we think we could show
that Hartley should have the praise of surpassing his father;
but nevertheless it would be absurd, on a general view, to
compare the two men. Samuel Taylor was so much bigger;
what there was in his son was equally good, perhaps, but
then there was not much of it; outwardly and inwardly he
was essentially little. In poetry, for example, the father has
produced two longish poems, which have worked themselves
right down to the extreme depths of the popular memory,
and stay there very firmly, in part from their strangeness,
but in part from their power. Of Hartley, nothing of this
kind is to be found — he could not write connectedly; he
wanted steadiness of purpose, or efficiency of will, to write
so voluntarily; and his genius did not, involuntarily, and out
of its unseen workings, present him with continuous crea-
tions; on the contrary, his mind teemed with little fancies,
and a new one came before the first had attained any enor-
mous magnitude. As his brother observed, he wanted "back
thought ". " On what plan, Mr. Coleridge, are you arranging
your books ? " inquired a lady. " Plan, madam ? I have no
VOL. i. 7

30 Literary Studies.

plan : at first I had a principle ; but then I had another, and
now I do not know." The same contrast between the
" shaping mind " of the father, and the gentle and minute
genius of the son, is said to have been very plain in their
conversation. That of Samuel Taylor was continuous,
diffused, comprehensive.

" Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless motion,
Nothing before and nothing behind, but the sky and the ocean."

" Great talker, certainly," said Hazlitt, " if you will let him
start from no data, and come to no conclusion." The talk
of Hartley, on the contrary, though continuous in time, was
detached in meaning; stating hints and observations on
particular subjects ; glancing lightly from side to side, but
throwing no intense light on any, and exhausting none. It
flowed gently over small doubts and pleasant difficulties,
rippling for a minute sometimes into bombast, but lightly
recovering and falling quietly in " melody back".

By way, it is likely, of compensation to Hartley for this
great deficiency in what his father imagined to be his own
forte — the power of conceiving a whole — Hartley possessed,
in a considerable degree, a species of sensibility to which
the former was nearly a stranger. " The mind ol S. T.
Coleridge," says one who had every means of knowing and
observing, " was not in the least under the influence of
external objects." Except in the writings produced during
daily and confidential intimacy with Wordsworth (an excep-
tion that may be obviously accounted for), no trace can per-
haps be found of any new image or metaphor from natural
scenery. There is some story too of his going for the first
time to York, and by the Minster, and never looking up at
it. But Hartley's poems exhibit a great sensibility to a
certain aspect of exterior nature, and great fanciful power of
presenting that aspect in the most charming and attractive

Hartley Coleridge. 31

forms. It is likely that the London boyhood of the elder
Coleridge was, — added to a strong abstractedness which was
born with him, — a powerful cause in bringing about the
curious mental fact, that a great poet, so susceptible to every
other species of refining and delightful feeling, should have
been utterly destitute of any perception of beauty in land-
scape or nature. We must not forget that S. T. Coleridge
was a bluecoat boy, — what do any of them know about
fields ? And similarly, we require in Hartley's case, before
we can quite estimate his appreciation of nature, to consider
his position, his circumstances, and especially his time.

Now it came to pass in those days that William Words-
worth went up into the hills. It has been attempted in
recent years to establish that the object of his life was to
teach Anglicanism. A whole life of him has been written
by an official gentleman, with the apparent view of establish-
ing that the great poet was a believer in rood-lofts, an idolater
of piscinae. But this is not capable of rational demonstra-
tion. Wordsworth, like Coleridge, began life as a heretic,
and as the shrewd Pope unfallaciously said, "once a heretic,
always a heretic". Sound men are sound from the first;
safe men are safe from the beginning, and Wordsworth
began wrong. His real reason for going to live in the
mountains was certainly in part sacred, but it was not in
the least Tractarian : —

11 For he with many feelings, many thoughts,
Made up a meditative joy, and found
Religious meanings in the forms of nature ".3

His whole soul was absorbed in the one idea, the one feeling,
the one thought, of the sacredness of hills.

1 Coleridge : " Fears in Solitude " (1798).

32 Literary Studies.

" Early had he learned
To reverence the volume that displays
The mystery, the life which cannot die ;
But in the mountains did he feel his faith.
All things responsive to the writing, there
Breathed immortality, revolving life,
And greatness still revolving ; infinite ;
There littleness was not.

• •••••

" —In the after-day

Of boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn,
And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crags,
He sate, an4 e'en in their fixed lineaments
Or from the power of a peculiar eye,
Or by creative feeling overborne,
Or by predominance of thought oppressed,
E'en in their fixed and steady lineaments
He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind,
Expression ever varying 1 " *

• ••>••

" A sense sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man,
A motion and a spirit that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things." 2

The defect of this religion is, that it is too abstract for
the practical, and too bare for the musing. The worship of
sensuous beauty — the southern religion — is of all sentiments
the one most deficient in his writings. His poetry hardly
even gives the charm, the entire charm, of the scenery in
which he lived. The lighter parts are little noticed : the
rugged parts protrude. The bare waste, the folding hill, the

1 Wordsworth's " Excursion".
' " Tintern Abbey."

Hartley Coleridge. 33

rough lake, Helvellyn with a brooding mist, Ulswater in a
grey day : these are his subjects. He took a personal in-
terest in the corners of the universe. There is a print of
Rembrandt said to represent a piece of the Campagna, a
mere waste, with a stump and a man, and under is written
" Tacet et loquitur " ; and thousands will pass the old print-
shop where it hangs, and yet have a taste for paintings, and
colours, and oils : but some fanciful students, some lonely
stragglers, some long-haired enthusiasts, by chance will
come, one by one, and look, and look, and be hardly able to
take their eyes from the fascination, so massive is the shade,
so still the conception, so firm the execution. Thus is it
with Wordsworth and his poetry. Tacet et loquitur. Fashion
apart, the million won't read it. Why should they ? — they
could not understand it. Don't put them out, — let them
buy, and sell, and die ; — but idle students, and enthusiastic
wanderers, and solitary thinkers, will read, and read, and
read, while their lives and their occupations hold. In truth,
his works are the Scriptures of the intellectual life ; for that
same searching, and finding, and penetrating power which
the real Scripture exercises on those engaged, as are the
mass of men, in practical occupations and domestic ties, do
his works exercise on the meditative, the solitary, and the
young.

" His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills " *

And he had more than others —

" That blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lightened : that serene and blessed mood

1 " Feast of Brougham Castle."

34 Literary Studies.

In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul ;
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things "-1

And therefore he has had a whole host of sacred imitators.
Mr. Keble, for example, has translated him for women. He
has himself told us that he owed to Wordsworth the tendency
ad sanctiora which is the mark of his own writings ; and in
fact he has but adapted the tone and habit of reverence which
his master applied to common objects and the course of the
seasons, to sacred objects and the course of the ecclesiastical
year, — diffusing a mist of sentiment and devotion altogether
delicious to a gentle and timid devotee. Hartley Coleridge
is another translator. He has applied to the sensuous
beauties and seductive parts of external nature the same
cultus which Wordsworth applied to the bare and the
abstract. It is —

"That fair beauty which no eye can see,
Of that sweet music which no ear can measure ".a

It is, as it were, female beauty in wood and water ; it is
Rydal Water on a shining day ; it is the gloss of the world
with the knowledge that it is gloss : the sense of beauty, as
in some women, with the feeling that yet it is hardly
theirs : —

" The vale of Tempe had in vain been fair,
Green Ida never deemed the nurse of Jove,
Each fabled stream, beneath its covert grove,
Had idly murmured to the idle air ;

1 " Tintern Abbey." a Hartley Coleridge : " Sonnet ",

Hartley Coleridge. 35

The shaggy wolf had kept his horrid lair

In Delphi 's cell and old Trophonius* cave,

And the wild wailing of the Ionian wave

Had never blended with the sweet despair

Of Sappho's death-song, — if the sight inspired

Saw only what the visual organs show ;

If heaven-born phantasy no more required

Than what within the sphere of sense may grow.

The beauty to perceive of earthly things,

The mounting soul must heavenward prune her wings." a

And he knew it himself: he has sketched the essence of his
works : —

" Whither is gone the wisdom and the power,
That ancient sages scattered with the notes
Of thought-suggesting lyres ? The music floats
In the void air ; e'en at this breathing hour,
In every cell and every blooming bower,
The sweetness of old lays is hovering still ;
But the strong soul, the self-constraining will,
The rugged root that bare the winsome flower,
Is weak and withered. Were we like the Fays
That sweetly nestle in the fox-glove bells,
Or lurk and murmur in the rose-lipped shells
Which Neptune to the earth for quit-rent pays ;
Then might our pretty modern Philomels
Sustain our spirits with their roundelays."

We had more to say of Hartley : we were to show that
his " Prometheus " was defective ; that its style had no Greek
severity, no defined outline ; that he was a critic as well as
a poet, though in a small detached way, and what is odd
enough, that he could criticise in rhyme. We were to make
plain how his heart was in the right place, how his love-
affairs were hopeless, how he was misled by his friends ; but
our time is done, and our space is full, and these topics must
" go without day " of returning. We may end as we began.

1 Hartley Coleridge : " Sonnet ".

36 Literary Studies.

There are some that are bold and strong and incessant and
energetic and hard, and to these is the world's glory ; and
some are timid and meek and impotent and cowardly and
rejected and obscure. " One man esteemeth one day above
another, another esteemeth every day alike." And so of
Hartley, whom few regarded ; he had a resource, the still-
ness of thought, the gentleness of musing, the peace of
nature.

" To his side the fallow deer
Came and rested without fear ;
The eagle, lord of land and sea,
Stooped down to pay him fealty ;
And both the undying fish that swim,
In Bowscale-tarn did wait on him ;
The pair were servants of his eye,
In their immortality ;
And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright,
Moved to and fro for his delight.
He knew the rocks which Angels haunt
Upon the mountains visitant.
He hath kenned them taking wing,
And into caves where Fairies sing
He hath entered ; and been told
By voices how men lived of old.
Among the heavens his eye can see
The face of thing that is to be,
And if that men report him right
His tongue could whisper words of might.
— Now another day is come,
Fitter hope and nobler doom,
He hath thrown aside his crook,
And hath buried deep his book." l

" And now the streams may sing for others' pleasure,
The hills sleep on in their eternity." 3

He is gone from among them,

" Feast of Brougham Castle."
Hartley Coleridge : " Sonnet ".

37

SHAKESPEARE— THE MAN.1

THE greatest of English poets, it is often said, is but a name.
" No letter of his writing, no record of his conversation, no
character of him drawn with any fulness by a contemporary,"
have been extracted by antiquaries from the piles of rubbish
which they have sifted. Yet of no person is there a clearer
picture in the popular fancy. You seem to have known
Shakespeare — to have seen Shakespeare — to have been
friends with Shakespeare. We would attempt a slight
delineation of the popular idea which has been formed, not
from loose tradition or remote research, not from what some
one says some one else said that the poet said, but from data
which are at least undoubted, from the sure testimony of his
certain works.

Some extreme sceptics, we know, doubt whether it is
possible to deduce anything as to an author's character from
his works. Yet surely people do not keep a tame steam-
engine to write their books ; and if those books were really
written by a man, he must have been a man who could write
them ; he must have had the thoughts which they express,
have acquired the knowledge they contain, have possessed
the style in which we read them. The difficulty is a defect

1 Shakespeare et son Temps : Etude Litteraire. Par M. Guizot. Paris,
1852.

Notes and Emendations to the Text of Shakespeare's Plays from
early Manuscript Corrections in a Copy of the Folio, 1632, in the Possession
ofR. Payne Collier, Esq., F.S.A. London, 1853.

38 Literary Studies.

of the critics. A person who knows nothing or an author he
has read, will not know much of an author whom he has
seen.

First of all, it may be said that Shakespeare's works
could only be produced by a first-rate imagination working
on a first-rate experience. It is often difficult to make out
whether the author of a poetic creation is drawing from fancy,
or drawing from experience ; but for art on a certain scale,
the two must concur. Out of nothing, nothing can be
created. Some plastic power is required, however great may
be the material. And when such works as " Hamlet " and
" Othello," still more, when both they and others not
unequal, have been created by a single mind, it may be fairly
said, that not only a great imagination but a full conver-
sancy with the world was necessary to their production.
The whole powers of man under the most favourable
circumstances, are not too great for such an effort. We may
assume that Shakespeare had a great experience.

To a great experience one thing is essential, an expe-
riencing nature. It is not enough to have opportunity, it is
essential to feel it. Some occasions come to all men ; but
to many they are of little use, and to some they are none.
What, for example, has experience done for the distinguished
Frenchman, the name of whose essay is prefixed to this
paper ? M. Guizot is the same man that he was in 1820, or,
we believe, as he was in 1814. Take up one of his lectures,
published before he was a practical statesman ; you will be
struck with the width of view, the amplitude and the solidity
of the reflections ; you will be amazed that a mere literary
teacher could produce anything so wise ; but take up after-
wards an essay published since his fall — and you will be
amazed to find no more. Napoleon the First is come and
gone — the Bourbons of the old regime have come and gone
— the Bourbons of the new regime have had their turn.

Shakespeare — The Man. 39

M. Guizot has been first minister of a citizen king ; he has
led a great party ; he has pronounced many a great discours
that was well received by the second elective assembly in the
world. But there is no trace of this in his writings. No
one would guess from them that their author had ever left
the professor's chair. It is the same, we are told, with small
matters : when M. Guizot walks the street, he seems to see
nothing; the head is thrown back, the eye fixed, and the
mouth working. His mind is no doubt at ;work, but it is
not stirred by what is external. Perhaps it is the internal
activity of mind that overmasters the perceptive power.
Anyhow there might have been an emente in the street and he
would not have known it ; there have been revolutions in his
life, and he is scarcely the wiser. Among the most frivolous
and fickle of civilised nations he is alone. They pass from
the game of war to the game of peace, from the game of
science to the game of art, from the game of liberty to the
game of slavery, from the game of slavery to the game of
license ; he stands like a schoolmaster in the playground,
without sport and without pleasure, firm and sullen, slow
and awful.

A man of this sort is a curious mental phenomenon. He
appears to get early — perhaps to be born with — a kind of
dry schedule or catalogue of the universe ; he has a ledger
in his head, and has a title to which he can refer any
transaction ; nothing puzzles him, nothing comes amiss to
him, but he is not in the least the wiser for anything. Like
the book-keeper, he has his heads of account, and he knows
them, but he is no wiser for the particular items. After a
busy day, and after a slow day, after a few entries, and after
many, his knowledge is exactly the same : take his opinion
of Baron Rothschild, he will say : " Yes, he keeps an account
with us ; " of Humphrey Brown : " Yes, we have that
account, too ". Just so with the class of minds which we are

40 Literary Studies.

speaking of, and in greater matters. Very early in life they
come to a certain and considerable acquaintance with the
world ; they learn very quickly all they can learn, and natu-
rally they never, in any way, learn any more. Mr. Pitt is,
in this country, the type of the character. Mr. Alison, in a
well-known passage, makes it a matter of wonder that he
was fit to be a Chancellor of the Exchequer at twenty-three,
and it is a great wonder. But it is to be remembered that
he was no more fit at forty-three. As somebody said, he did
not grow, he was cast. Experience taught him nothing,
and he did not believe that he had anything to learn. The
habit of mind in smaller degrees is not very rare, and might
be illustrated without end. Hazlitt tells a story of West, the
painter, that is in point : When some one asked him if he
had ever been to Greece, he answered : " No ; I have read
a descriptive catalogue of the principal objects in that country,
and I believe I am as well conversant with them as if I had
visited it ". No doubt he was just as well conversant, and
so would be any doctrinaire.

But Shakespeare was not a man of this sort. If he
walked down a street, he knew what was in that street.
His mind did not form in early life a classified list of all the
objects in the universe, and learn no more about the universe
ever after. From a certain fine sensibility of nature, it is
plain that he took a keen interest not only in the general and
coarse outlines of objects, but in their minutest particulars
and gentlest gradations. You may open Shakespeare and
find the clearest proofs of this ; take the following :—

•'When last the young Orlando parted from you,
He left a promise to return again
Within an hour ; and, pacing through the forest,
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befel ! he threw his eye aside,
And, mark, what object did present itself 1

Shakespeare — The Man. 41

Under an oak, whose boughs were mossed with age.

And high top bald with dry antiquity,

A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,

Lay sleeping on his back : about his neck

A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself,

Who with her head, nimble in threats, approach'd

The opening of his mouth ; but suddenly

Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,

And with indented glides did slip away

Into a bush : under which bush's shade

A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,

Lay crouching, head on ground, with cat-like watch,

When that the sleeping man should stir ; for 'tis

The royal disposition of that beast,

To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead :

This seen," etc., etc. l

Or the more celebrated description of the hunt : —

«• And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles,
How he outruns the wind, and with what care
He cranks and crosses, with a thousand doubles :
The many musits through the which he goes
Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.

" Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,
And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell ;
And sometimes sorteth with a herd of deer ;
Danger deviseth shifts ; wit waits on fear :

" For thee his smell with others being mingled,
The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry, till they have singled.
With much ado, the cold fault cleanly out ;
Then do they spend their mouths : Echo replies
As if another chase were in the skies.

1 "As You Like It," iv. 3.

42 Literary Studies.

" By this, poor Wat, far off, upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
To harken if his foes pursue him still ;
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear ;
And now his grief may be compared well
To one sore sick that hears the passing bell.

" Then thou shalt see the dew-bedaddled wretch
Turn and return, indenting with the way ;
Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay :
For misery is trodden on by many,
And being low, never relieved by any." l

It is absurd, by the way, to say we know nothing about
the man who wrote that ; we know that he had been after a
hare. It is idle to allege that mere imagination would tell
him that a hare is apt to run among a flock of sheep, or that
its so doing disconcerts the scent of hounds. But no single
citation really represents the power of the argument. Set
descriptions may be manufactured to order, and it does not
follow that even the most accurate or successful of them was
really the result of a thorough and habitual knowledge of the
object. A man who knows little of Nature may write one
excellent delineation, as a poor man may have one bright
guinea. Real opulence consists in having many. What
truly indicates excellent knowledge, is the habit of constant,
sudden, and almost unconscious allusion, which implies
familiarity, for it can arise from that alone, — and this very
species of incidental, casual, and perpetual reference to " the
mighty world of eye and ear," 2 is the particular characteristic
of Shakespeare.

In this respect Shakespeare had the advantage of one
whom, in many points, he much resembled — Sir Walter
Scott. For a great poet, the organisation of the latter was
very blunt ; he had no sense of smell, little sense of taste,

1 " Venus and Adonis." a Wordsworth : " Tintern Abbey ".

Shakespeare — The Man. 43

almost no ear for music (he knew a few, perhaps three,
Scotch tunes, which he avowed that he had learnt in sixty
years, by hard labour and mental association), and not much
turn for the minutiae of Nature in any way. The effect of
this may be seen in some of the best descriptive passages of
his poetry, and we will not deny that it does (although pro-
ceeding from a sensuous defect), in a certain degree, add to
their popularity. He deals with the main outlines and great
points of Nature, never attends to any others, and in this
respect he suits the comprehension and knowledge of many
who know only those essential and considerable outlines.
Young people, especially, who like big things, are taken with
Scott, and bored by Wordsworth, who knew too much. And
after all, the two poets are in proper harmony, each with his
own scenery. Of all beautiful scenery the Scotch is the
roughest and barest, as the English is the most complex and
cultivated. What a difference is there between the minute
and finished delicacy of Rydal Water and the rough
simplicity of Loch Katrine ! It is the beauty of civilisation
beside the beauty of barbarism. Scott has himself pointed
out the effect of this on arts and artists.

44 Or sec yon weather-beaten hind,
Whose sluggish herds before him wind,
Whose tattered plaid and rugged cheek
His Northern clime and kindred speak ;
Through England's laughing meads he goes,
And England's wealth around him flows ;
Ask if it would content him well,
At ease in those gay plains to dwell,
Where hedgerows spread a verdant screen,
And spires and forests intervene,
And the neat cottage peeps between ?
No, not for these would he exchange
His dark Lochaber's boundless range,
Not for fair Devon's meads forsake
Ben Nevis grey and Garry's lake.

44 Literary Studies.

" Thus while I ape the measures wild
Of tales that charmed me yet a child,
Rude though they be, still, with the chime,
Return the thoughts of early time ;
And feelings roused in life's first day,
Glow in the line and prompt the lay.
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower,
Which charmed my fancy's wakening hour.
Though no broad river swept along,
To claim perchance heroic song ;
Though sighed no groves in summer gale,
To prompt of love a softer tale ;
Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed
Claimed homage from a shepherd's reed,
Yet was poetic impulse given
By the green hill and clear blue heaven.
It was a barren scene and wild,
Where naked cliffs were rudely piled,
But ever and anon between,
Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green ;
And well the lonely infant knew
Recesses where the wallflower grew,
And honeysuckle loved to crawl
Up the low crag and ruined wall.

•' From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask
The classic poet's well-conned task ?
Nay, Erskine, nay — On the wild hill
Let the wild heathbell flourish still ;
Cherish the tulip, prune the vine,
But freely let the woodbine twine,
And leave untrimmed the eglantine.
Nay, my friend, nay — Since oft thy praise
Hath given fresh vigour to my lays,
Since oft thy judgment could refine
My flattened thought or cumbrous line,
Still kind, as is thy wont, attend,
And in the minstrel spare the friend.
Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale,
Flow forth, flow unrestrained, my tale." *

* " Marmion," Introduction to canto iii.

Shakespeare — The Man. 45

And this is wise, for there is beauty in the North as well as
in the South. Only it is to be remembered that the beaiity
of the Trossachs is the result of but a few elements — say
birch and brushwood, rough hills and narrow dells, much
heather and many stones — while the beauty of England is
one thing in one district and one in another ; is here the
combination of one set of qualities, and there the harmony of
opposite ones, and is everywhere made up of many details
and delicate refinements ; all which require an exquisite
delicacy of perceptive organisation, a seeing eye, a minutely
hearing ear. Scott s is the strong admiration of a rough
mind ; Shakespeare's, the nice minuteness of a susceptible
one.

A perfectly poetic appreciation of nature contains two
elements, a knowledge of facts, and a sensibility to charms.
Everybody who may have to speak to some naturalists will
be well aware how widely the two may be separated. He
will have seen that a man may study butterflies and forget
that they are beautiful, or be perfect in the " Lunar theory "
without knowing what most people mean by the moon.
Generally such people prefer the stupid parts of nature —
worms and Cochin-China fowls. But Shakespeare was not
obtuse. The lines —

" Daffodils

That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath," 1

seem to show that he knew those feelings of youth, to which
beauty is more than a religion.

In his mode of delineating natural objects Shakespeare is
curiously opposed to Milton. The latter, who was still by

1 " A Winter's Tale." iv. 3.
VOL. I. 8

46 Literary Studies.

temperament, and a schoolmaster by trade, selects a beauti-
ful object, puts it straight out before him and his readers,
and accumulates upon it all the learned imagery of a
thousand years ; Shakespeare glances at it and says
something of his own. It is not our intention to say that,
as a describer of the external world, Milton is inferior ; in
set description we rather think that he is the better. We
only wish to contrast the mode in which the delineation is
effected. The one is like an artist who dashes off any
number of picturesque sketches at any moment ; the other
like a man who has lived at Rome, has undergone a
thorough training, and by deliberate and conscious effort,
after a long study of the best masters, can produce a few
great pictures. Milton, accordingly, as has been often
remarked, is careful in the choice of his subjects ; he knows
too well the value of his labour to be very ready to squander
it ; Shakespeare, on the contrary, describes anything that
comes to hand, for he is prepared for it whatever it may be,
and what he paints he paints without effort. Compare any
passage from Shakespeare — for example, those quoted
before — and the following passage from Milton : —

" Southward through Eden went a river large,
Nor changed its course, but through the shaggy hill
Passed underneath ingulfed ; for God had thrown
That mountain as His garden mould, high raised
Upon the rapid current, which through veins
Of porous earth, with kindly thirst up-drawn,
Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill
Watered the garden ; thence united fell
Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood,
Which from its darksome passage now appears
And now divided into four main streams
Runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm
And country, whereof here needs no account ;
But rather to tell how, — if art could tell, —
How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks,

Shakespeare — The Man. 47

Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold,

With mazy error under pendent shades

Ran nectar, visiting each plant ; and fed

Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice art

In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon

Poured forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain,

Both where the morning sun first warmly smote

The open field, and where the unpierced shade

Imbrowned the noontide bowers. Thus was this place

A happy rural seat of various view ;

Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm ;

Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind,

Hung amiable (Hesperian fables true,

If true, here only), and of delicious taste :

Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks

Grazing the tender herb, were interposed :

Or palmy hillock, or the flowery lap

Of some irriguous valley spread her store ;

Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.*' '

Why, you could draw a map of it. It is not " Nature boon,''
but " nice art in beds and curious knots " ; it is exactly the
old (and excellent) style of artificial gardening, by which any
place can be turned into trim hedgerows, and stiff borders,
and comfortable shades ; but there are no straight lines in
Nature or Shakespeare. Perhaps the contrast may be
accounted for by the way in which the two poets acquired
their knowledge of scenes and scenery. We think we
demonstrated before that Shakespeare was a sportsman, but
if there be still a sceptic or a dissentient, let him read the
following remarks on dogs : —

" My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,
So flewed, so sanded ; and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew,
Crook-kneed and dewlapped like Thessalian bulls ;

1 Paradise Lost, book iv.

48 Literary Studies.

Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells,
Each under each. A cry more tunable
Was never holloa'd to nor cheered with horn
In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly." J

" Judge when you hear."2 It is evident that the man
who wrote this was a judge of dogs, was an out-of-door
sporting man, full of natural sensibility, not defective in
11 daintiness of ear," and above all things, apt to cast on
Nature random, sportive, half-boyish glances, which reveal
so much, and bequeath such abiding knowledge. Milton,
on the contrary, went out to see Nature. He left a narrow
cell, and the intense study which was his " portion in this
life," to take a slow, careful, and reflective walk. In his
treatise on education he has given us his notion of the way
in which young people should be familiarised with natural
objects. " But," he remarks, " to return to our institute ;
besides these constant exercises at home, there is another
opportunity of gaining pleasure from pleasure itself abroad ;
in those vernal seasons of the year when the air is calm and
pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness against Nature, not
to go out and see her riches and partake in her rejoicing in
heaven and earth. I should not therefore be a persuader to
them of studying much in these, after two or three years,
that they have well laid their grounds, but to ride out in
companies, with prudent and staid guides, to all quarters of
the land ; learning and observing all places of strength, all
commodities of building and of soil, for towns and tillage,
harbours and ports of trade. Sometimes taking sea as far
as our navy, to learn there also what they can in the prac-
tical knowledge of sailing and of sea-fight." Fancy "the
prudent and staid guides ". What a machinery for making
pedants. Perhaps Shakespeare would have known that the
conversation would be in this sort : " I say, Shallow, that

1 " Midsummer Night's Dream," iv. I. *Ibid.t next line.

Shakespeare — The Man. 49

mare is going in the knees. She has never been the same
since you larked her over the fivebar, while Moleyes was
talking clay and agriculture. I do not hate Latin so much,
but I hate ' argillaceous earth ' ; and what use is that to a
fellow in the Guards, / should like to know ? " Shakespeare
had himself this sort of boyish buoyancy. He was not
" one of the staid guides ". We might further illustrate it.
Yet this would be tedious enough, and we prefer to go on
and show what we mean by an experiencing nature in rela-
tion to men and women, just as we have striven to indicate
what it is in relation to horses and hares.

The reason why so few good books are written, is that so
few people that can write know anything. In general an
author has always lived in a room, has read books, has
cultivated science, is acquainted with the style and senti-
ments of the best authors, but he is out of the way of em-
ploying his own eyes and ears. He has nothing to hear and
nothing to see. His life is a vacuum. The mental habits
of Robert Southey, which about a year ago were so exten-
sively praised in the public journals, are the type of literary
existence, just as the praise bestowed on them shows the
admiration excited by them among literary people. He wrote
poetry (as if anybody could) before breakfast ; he read during
breakfast. He wrote history until dinner ; he corrected proof-
sheets between dinner and tea ; he wrote an essay for the
Quarterly afterwards ; and after supper, by way of relaxa-
tion, composed the " Doctor" — a lengthy and elaborate jest.
Now, what can any one think of such a life — except how
clearly it shows that the habits best fitted for communicating
information, formed with the best care, and daily regulated
by the best motives, are exactly the habits which are likely
to afford a man the least information to communicate.
Southey had no events, no experiences. His wife kept house
and allowed him pocket-money, just as if he had been a

50 Literary Studies.

German professor devoted to accents, tobacco, and the dates
of Horace's amours. «And it is pitiable to think that so
meritorious a life was only made endurable by a painful delu-
sion. He thought that day by day, and hour by hour, he was
accumulating stores for the instruction and entertainment of
a long posterity. His epics were to be in the hands of all
men, and his history of Brazil, the " Herodotus of the South
American Republics ". As if his epics were not already dead,
and as if the people who now cheat at Valparaiso care a
real who it was that cheated those before them. Yet it was
only by a conviction like this that an industrious and cali-
graphic man (for such was Robert Southey), who might
have earned money as a clerk, worked all his days for half a
clerk's wages, at occupation much duller and more laborious.
The critic in The Vicar of Wakefield lays down that you
should always say that the picture would have been better
if the painter had taken more pains ; but in the case of the
practised literary man, you should often enough say that the
writings would have been much better if the writer had taken
less pains. He says he has devoted his life to the subject —
the reply is : " Then you have taken the best way to prevent
your making anything of it ". Instead of reading studiously
what Burgersdicius and ^ncesidemus said men were, you
should have gone out yourself, and seen (if you can see)
what they are.

After all, the original way of writing books may turn out
to be the best. The first author, it is plain, could not have
taken anything from books, since there were no books for
him to copy from ; he looked at things for himself. Anyhow,
the modern system fails, for where are the amusing books
from voracious students and habitual writers ? Not that we
mean exactly to say that an author's hard reading is the
cause of his writing that which is hard to read. This would
be near the truth, but not quite the truth. The two are con-

Shakespeare — The Man. 51

comitant effects of a certain defective nature. Slow men
read well, but write ill. The abstracted habit, the want of
keen exterior interests, the aloofness of mind from what is
next it, all tend to make a man feel an exciting curiosity and
interest about remote literary events, the toil of scholastic
logicians, and the petty feuds of Argos and Lacedaemon ;
but they also tend to make a man very unable to explain
and elucidate those exploits for the benefit of his fellows.
What separates the author from his readers, will make it
proportionably difficult for him to explain himself to them.
Secluded habits do not tend to eloquence; and the indifferent
apathy which is so common in studious persons is exceed-
ingly unfavourable to the liveliness of narration and illustra-
tion which is needed for excellence in even the simpler sorts
of writing. Moreover, in general it will perhaps be found
that persons devoted to mere literature commonly become
devoted to mere idleness. They wish to produce a great
work, but they find they cannot. Having relinquished every-
thing to devote themselves to this, they conclude on trial
that this is impossible. They wish to write, but nothing
occurs to them. Therefore they write nothing, and they do
nothing. As has been said, they have nothing to do. Their
life has no events, unless they are very poor. With any
decent means of subsistence, they have nothing to rouse
them from an indolent and musing dream. A merchant
must meet his bills, or he is civilly dead and uncivilly re-
membered. But a student may know nothing of time and
be too lazy to wind up his watch. In the retired citizen's
journal in Addison's Spectator, we have the type of this way
of spending the time: Mem. Morning 8 to 9, "Went into
the parlour and tied on my shoe-buckles ". This is the sort
of life for which studious men commonly relinquish the pur-
suits of business and the society of their fellows.

Yet all literary men are not tedious, neither are they all

52 Literary Studies.

slow. One great example even these most tedious times
have luckily given us, to show us what may be done by a
really great man even now, the same who before served as
an illustration — Sir Walter Scott. In his lifetime people
denied he was a poet, but nobody said that he was not "the
best fellow " in Scotland — perhaps that was not much — or
that he had not more wise joviality, more living talk, more
graphic humour, than any man in Great Britain. " Wher-
ever we went," said Mr. Wordsworth, " we found his name
acted as an open sesame, and I believe that in the character
of the sheriff's friends, we might have counted on a hearty
welcome under any roof in the border country." Never
neglect to talk to people with whom you are casually thrown,
was his precept, and he exemplified the maxim himself. " I
believe," observes his biographer, " that Scott has some-
where expressed in print his satisfaction, that amid all the
changes of our manners, the ancient freedom of personal
intercourse may still be indulged between a master and an
out-of-door servant; but in truth he kept by the old fashion,
even with domestic servants, to an extent which I have
hardly ever seen practised by any other gentleman. He
conversed with his coachman if he sat by him, as he often
did, on the box — with his footman, if he chanced to be in
the rumble. Indeed, he did not confine his humanity to his
own people ; any steady-going servant of a friend of his was
soon considered as a sort of friend too, and was sure to have
a kind little colloquy to himself at coming or going." " Sir
Walter speaks to every man as if he was his blood relation,"
was the expressive comment of one of these dependants. It
was in this way that he acquired the great knowledge of
various kinds of men, which is so clear and conspicuous in
his writings ; nor could that knowledge have been acquired
on easier terms, or in any other way. No man could de-
scribe the character of Dandie Dinmont; without having

Shakespeare — The Man. 53

been in Lidderdale. Whatever has been once in a book
may be put into a book again ; but an original character,
taken at first hand from the sheepwalks and from Nature,
must be seen in order to be known. A man, to be able to
describe — indeed, to be able to know — various people in life,
must be able at sight to comprehend their essential features,
to know how they shade one into another, to see how they
diversify the common uniformity of civilised life. Nor does
this involve simply intellectual or even imaginative pre-
requisites, still less will it be facilitated by exquisite senses
or subtle fancy. What is wanted is, to be able to appreciate
mere clay — which mere mind never will. If you will de-
scribe the people, — nay, if you will write for the people, you
must be one of the people. You must have led their life,
and must wish to lead their life. However strong in any
poet may be the higher qualities of abstract thought or con-
ceiving fancy, unless he can actually sympathise with those
around him, he can never describe those around him. Any
attempt to produce a likeness of what is not really liked by
the person who is describing it, will end in the creation of
what may be correct, but is not living — of what may be
artistic, but is likewise artificial.

Perhaps this is the defect of the works of the greatest
dramatic genius of recent times — Goethe. His works are
too much in the nature of literary studies ; the mind is often
deeply impressed by them, but one doubts if the author was.
He saw them as he saw the houses of Weimar and the plants
in the act of metamorphosis. He had a clear perception of
their fixed condition and their successive transitions, but he
did not really (if we may so speak) comprehend their motive
power. So to say, he appreciated their life, but not their
liveliness. Niebuhr, as is well known, compared the most
elaborate of Goethe's works — the novel Wilhelm Meister —
to a menagerie of tame animals, meaning thereby, as we

54 Literary Studies.

believe, to express much the same distinction. He felt that
there was a deficiency in mere vigour and rude energy. We
have a long train and no engine — a great accumulation of
excellent matter, arranged and ordered with masterly skill,
but not animated with over-buoyant and unbounded play.
And we trace this not to a defect in imaginative power, a
defect which it would be a simple absurdity to impute to
Goethe, but to the tone of his character and the habits of
his mind. He moved hither and thither through life, but
he was always a man apart. He mixed with unnumbered
kinds of men, with courts and academies, students and
women, camps and artists, but everywhere he was with
them, yet not of them. In every scene he was there, and he
made it clear that he was there with a reserve and as a
stranger. He went there to experience. As a man of
universal culture and well skilled in the order and classifica-
tion of human life, the fact of any one class or order being
beyond his reach or comprehension seemed an absurdity,
and it was an absurdity. He thought that he was equal to
moving in any description of society, and he was equal to
it ; but then on that exact account he was absorbed in
none. There were none of surpassing and immeasurably
preponderating captivation. No scene and no subject were
to him what Scotland and Scotch nature were to Sir Walter
Scott. " If I did not see the heather once a year, I should
die," said the latter ; but Goethe would have lived without it,
and it would not have cost him much trouble. In every one
of Scott's novels there is always the spirit of the old moss
trooper — the flavour of the ancient border; there is the
intense sympathy which enters into the most living moments
of the most living characters — the lively energy which
becomes the energy of the most vigorous persons delineated.
" Marmion " was " written " while he was galloping on
horseback. It reads as if it were so.

Shakespeare — The Man. 55

Now it appears that Shakespeare not only had that various
commerce with, and experience of men, which was common
both to Goethe and to Scott, but also that he agrees with the
latter rather than with the former in the kind and species of
that experience. He was not merely with men, but of men ; he
was not a " thing apart," l with a clear intuition of what was
in those around him ; he had in his own nature the germs and
tendencies of the very elements that he described. He knew
what was in man, for he felt it in himself. Throughout all his
writings you see an amazing sympathy with common people,
rather an excessive tendency to dwell on the common features
of ordinary lives. You feel that common people could have
been cut out of him, but not without his feeling it ; for it would
have deprived him of a very favourite subject — of a portion of
his ideas to which he habitually recurred.

" Leon. What would you with me, honest neighbour ?

Dog. Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you, that
decerns you nearly.

Leon. Brief, I pray you ; for you see 'tis a busy time with me.

Dog. Marry, this it is, sir.

Verg. Yes, in truth it is, sir.

Leon. What is it, my good friends ?

Dog. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter: an old
man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt, as, God help, I would desire they
were ; but, in faith, honest as the skin between his brows.

Verg. Yes, I thank God, I am as honest as any man living, that is an
old man, and no honester than I.

Dog. Comparisons are odorous : — palabras, neighbour Verges.

Leon. Neighbours, you are tedious.

Dog. It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor duke's
officers ; but, truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I
could find in my heart to bestow it all of your worship.

Leon. I would fain know what you have to say.
Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your worship's
presence, have ta'en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina.

1 Byron : " Don Juan," i., cxciv.

56 Literary Studies.

Dog. A good old man, sir ; he will be talking ; as they say, When the
age is in, the wit is out ; God help us 1 it is a world to see ! — Well said,
i' faith, neighbour Verges : — well, God's a good man ; an two men ride of
a horse, one must ride behind :— An honest soul, i' faith, sir ; by my troth
he is, as ever broke bread ; but God is to be worshipped : All men are not
alike ; alas, good neighbour !

Leon. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too far short of you.

Dog. Gifts that God gives,"— etc., etc. l

" Stafford. Ay, sir.

Cade. By her he had two children at one birth.
Staff. That's false.
Cade. Ay, there's the question ; but, I say, 'tis true :

The elder of them, being put to nurse,
Was by a beggar-woman stol'n away :
And, ignorant of his birth and parentage,
Became a bricklayer, when he came to age ;
His son am I ; deny it, if you can.

Dick. Nay, 'tis too true ; therefore he shall be king.
Smith. Sir, he made a chimney in my father's house, and the bricks
are alive at this day to testify it ; therefore, deny it not." 2

Shakespeare was too wise not to know that for most of the
purposes of human life stupidity is a most valuable element.
He had nothing of the impatience which sharp logical
narrow minds habitually feel when they come across those
who do not apprehend their quick and precise deductions.
No doubt he talked to the stupid players, to the stupid door-
keeper, to the property man, who considers paste jewels
" very preferable, besides the expense " — talked with the
stupid apprentices of stupid Fleet Street, and had much
pleasure in ascertaining what was their notion of " King
Lear". In his comprehensive mind it was enough if every
man hitched well into his own place in human life. If every
one were logical and literary, how would there be scavengers,

1 " Much Ado about Nothing," iii. 5.
* " 3 King Henry VI.," iv. ».

Shakespeare — The Man. 57

or watchmen, or caulkers, or coopers ? Narrow minds will
be "subdued to what" they "work in". The "dyer's
hand " l will not more clearly carry off its tint, nor will what
is moulded more precisely indicate the confines of the mould.
A patient sympathy, a kindly fellow-feeling for the narrow
intelligence necessarily induced by narrow circumstances —
a narrowness which, in some degrees, seems to be inevitable,
and is perhaps more serviceable than most things to the wise
conduct of life — this, though quick and half-bred minds may
despise it, seems to be a necessary constituent in the com-
position of manifold genius. " How shall the world be
served ? " asks the host in Chaucer. We must have cart-
horses as well as race-horses, draymen as well as poets. It
is no bad thing, after all, to be a slow man and to have one
idea a year. You don't make a figure, perhaps, in argu-
mentative society, which requires a quicker species of
thought, but is that the worse ?

" Hoi. Via, Goodman Dull ; thou hast spoken no word all this while.
Dull. Nor understood none either, sir.
Hoi. Allans, we will employ thee.

Dull. I'll make one in a dance or so, or I will play on the tabor to
the worthies, and let them dance the hay.

Hoi. Most dull, honest Dull, to our sport away." *

And such, we believe, was the notion of Shakespeare.

S. T. Coleridge has a nice criticism which bears on this
point. He observes that in the narrations of uneducated
people in Shakespeare, just as in real life, there is a want of
prospectiveness and a superfluous amount of regressiveness.
People of this sort are unable to look a long way in front of
them, and they wander from the right path. They get on
too fast with one half, and then the other hopelessly lags.
They can tell a story exactly as it is told to them (as an

1 Shakespeare : " Sonnet," cxi.
1 •' Love's Labour's Lost," v. I.

58 Literary Studies.

animal can go step by step where it has been before), but
they can't calculate its bearings beforehand, or see how it is
to be adapted to those to whom they are speaking, nor do
they know how much they have thoroughly told and how
much they have not. " I went up the street, then I went
down the street ; no, first went down and then — but you do
not follow me ; I go before you, sir." Thence arises the
complex style usually adopted by persons not used to narra-
tion. They tumble into a story and get on as they can.
This is scarcely the sort of thing which a man could foresee.
Of course a metaphysician can account for it, and, like
Coleridge, assure you that if he had not observed it, he
could have predicted it in a moment ; but, nevertheless, it is
too refined a conclusion to be made out from known premises
by common reasoning. Doubtless there is some reason why
negroes have woolly hair (and if you look into a philosophical
treatise, you will find that the author could have made out
that it would be so, if he had not, by a mysterious mis-
fortune, known from infancy that it was the fact), — still one
could never have supposed it oneself. And in the same
manner, though the profounder critics may explain in a
satisfactory and refined manner, how the confused and un-
dulating style of narration is peculiarly incident to the mere
multitude, yet it is most likely that Shakespeare derived his
acquaintance with it from the fact, from actual hearing, and
not from what may be the surer, but is the slower, process
of metaphysical deduction. The best passage to illustrate
this is that in which the nurse gives a statement of Juliet's
age ; but it will not exactly suit our pages. The following
of Mrs. Quickly will suffice : —

" Tilly-fally, Sir John, never tell me ; your ancient swaggerer comes
not in my doors. I was before Master Tizzick, the Deputy, the other
day ; and, as he said to me, — it was no longer ago than Wednesday last,
— Neighbour Quickly, says he ; — Master Dumb, our minister, was by

Shakespeare — The Man. 59

then ; — Neighbour Quickly, says he, receive those that are civil ; for, saith
he, you are in an ill name : — now, he said so, I can tell you whereupon ;
for, says he, you are an honest woman, and well thought on ; therefore
take heed to what guests you receive : Receive, says he, no swaggering
companions. — There comes none here ; — you would bless you to hear
what he said : — no, I'll no swaggerers." l

Now, it is quite impossible that this, any more than the
political reasoning on the parentage of Cade, which was cited
before, should have been written by one not habitually and
sympathisingly conversant with the talk of the illogical
classes. Shakespeare felt, if we may say so, the force of
the bad reasoning. He did not, like a sharp logician,
angrily detect a flaw, and set it down as a fallacy of re-
ference or a fallacy of amphibology. This is not the English
way, though Dr. Whately's logic has been published so long
(and, as he says himself, must now be deemed to be irrefut-
able, since no one has ever offered any refutation of it). Yet
still people in this country do not like to be committed to
distinct premises. They like a Chancellor of the Exchequer
to say : " It has during very many years been maintained by
the honourable member for Montrose that two and two make
four, and I am free to say, that I think there is a great deal
to be said in favour of that opinion ; but, without committing
her Majesty's Government to that proposition as an abstract
sentiment, I will go so far as to assume two and two are not
sufficient to make five, which with the permission of the
House, will be a sufficient basis for all the operations which
I propose to enter upon during the present year ". We have
no doubt Shakespeare reasoned in that way himself. Like
any other Englishman, when he had a clear course before
him, he rather liked to shuffle over little hitches in the argu-
ment, and on that account he had a great sympathy with
those who did so too. He would never h^ive interrupted

» «• a King Henry VI.,'1 ii. 4-

60 Literary Studies.

Mrs. Quickly ; he saw that her mind was going to and fro
over the subject ; he saw that it was coming right, and this
was enough for him, and will be also enough of this topic for
our readers.

We think we have proved that Shakespeare had an enor-
mous specific acquaintance with the common people ; that
this can only' be obtained by sympathy. It likewise has a
further condition.

In spiritedness, the style of Shakespeare is very like to that
of Scott. The description of a charge of cavalry in Scott reads,
as was said before, as if it was written on horseback. A play
by Shakespeare reads as if it were written in a playhouse. The
great critics assure you that a theatrical audience must be kept
awake, but Shakespeare knew this of his own knowledge.
When you read him, you feel a sensation of motion, a convic-
tion that there is something "up," a notion that not only is
something being talked about, but also that something is being
done. We do not imagine that Shakespeare owed this quality
to his being a player, but rather that he became a player because
he possessed this quality of mind. For after, and notwith-
standing, every thing which has been, or maybe, said against the
theatrical profession, it certainly does require from those who
pursue it a certain quickness and liveliness of mind. Mimics
are commonly an elastic sort of persons, and it takes a little
levity of disposition to enact even the " heavy fathers ". If a
boy joins a company of strolling players, you may be sure that
he is not a " good boy " ; he may be a trifle foolish, or a thought
romantic, but certainly he is not slow. And this was in truth
the case with Shakespeare. They say, too, that in the begin-
ning he was a first-rate link-boy ; and the tradition is affecting,
though we fear it is not quite certain. Anyhow, you feel about
Shakespeare that he could have been a link-boy. In the same
way you feel ht&may have been a player. You are sure at once
that he could not have followed any sedentary kind of life. But

Shakespeare — The Man. 61

wheresoever there was anything acted in earnest or in jest, by
way of mock representation or by way of serious reality, there
he found matter for his mind. If anybody could have any
doubt about the liveliness of Shakespeare, let them consider
the character of Falstaff. When a man has created that with-
out a capacity for laughter, then a blind man may succeed in
describing colours. Intense animal spirits are the single senti-
ment (if they be a sentiment) of the entire character. If most
men were to save up all the gaiety of their whole lives, it would
come about to the gaiety of one speech in Falstaff. A morose
man might have amassed many jokes, might have observed
many details of jovial society, might have conceived a Sir John,
marked by rotundity of body, but could hardly have imagined
what we call his rotundity of mind. We mean that the animal
spirits of Falstaff give him an easy, vague, diffusive sagacity
which is peculiar to him. A morose man, lago, for example,
may know anything, and is apt to know a good deal ; but what
he knows is generally all in corners. He knows number I,
number 2, number 3, and so on, but there is not anything con-
tinuous, or smooth, or fluent in his knowledge. Persons con-
versant with the works of Hazlitt will know in a minute what
we mean. Everything which he observed he seemed to observe
from a certain soreness of mind ; he looked at people because
they offended him ; he had the same vivid notion of them that
a man has of objects which grate on a wound in his body. But
there is nothing at all of this in Falstaff; on the contrary,
everything pleases him, and everything is food for a joke.
Cheerfulness and prosperity give an easy abounding sagacity of
mind which nothing else does give. Prosperous people bound
easily over all the surface of things which their lives present to
them ; very likely they keep to the surface ; there are things
beneath or above to which they may not penetrate or attain,
but what is on any part of the surface, that they know well.
" Lift not the painted veil which those who live call life," l and
» Shelley: "Sonnet" (1818).

VOL. i. 9

62 Literary Studies.

they do not lift it. What is sublime or awful above, what is
" sightless and drear" 1beneath, — these they may not dream of.
Nor is any one piece or corner of life so well impressed on them
as on minds less happily constituted. It is only people who
have had a tooth out, that really know the dentist's waiting-
room. Yet such people, for the time at least, know nothing
but that and their tooth. The easy and sympathising friend
who accompanies them knows everything; hints gently at the
contents of the Times, and would cheer you with Lord Palmer-
ston's replies. So, on a greater scale, the man of painful
experience knows but too well what has hurt him, and where
and why ; but the happy have a vague and rounded view of
the round world, and such was the knowledge of Falstaff.

It is to be observed that these high spirits are not a mere
excrescence or superficial point in an experiencing nature ; on
the contrary, they seem to be essential, if not to its idea or
existence, at least to its exercise and employment. How are
you to know people without talking to them, but how are you
to talk to them without tiring yourself? A common man is
exhausted in half an hour ; Scott or Shakespeare could have
gone on for a whole day. This is, perhaps, peculiarly necessary
for a painter of English life. The basis of our national
character seems to be a certain energetic humour, which may
be found in full vigour in old Chaucer's time, and in great per-
fection in at least one of the popular writers of this age, and
which is, perhaps, most easily described by the name of our
greatest painter — Hogarth. It is amusing to see how entirely
the efforts of critics and artists fail to naturalise in England
any other sort of painting. Their efforts are fruitless ; for the
people painted are not English people : they may be Italians,
or Greeks, or Jews, but it is quite certain that they are
foreigners. We should not fancy that modern art ought to
resemble the mediaeval. So long as artists attempt the same
1 Shelley: "Sonnet" (1818).

Shakespeare — The Man. 63

class of paintings as Raphael, they will not only be inferior to
Raphael, but they will never please, as they might please, the
English people. What we want is what Hogarth gave us— a
representation of ourselves. It may be that we are wrong, that
we ought to prefer something of the old world, some scene in
Rome or Athens, some tale from Carmel or Jerusalem ; but,
after all, we do not. These places are, we think, abroad, and
had their greatness in former times ; we wish a copy of what
now exists, and of what we have seen. London we know, and
Manchester we know, but where are all these ? It is the same
with literature, Milton excepted, and even Milton can hardly
be called a popular writer; all great English writers describe
English people, and in describing them, they give, as they
must give, a large comic element ; and, speaking generally,
this is scarcely possible, except in the case of cheerful and
easy-living men. There is, no doubt, a biting satire, like that
of Swift, which has for its essence misanthropy. There is the
mockery of Voltaire, which is based on intellectual contempt;
but this is not our English humour — it is not that of Shake-
speare and Falstaff; ours is the humour of a man who laughs
when he speaks, of flowing enjoyment, of an experiencing
nature.

Yet it would be a great error if we gave anything like an
exclusive prominence to this aspect of Shakespeare. Thus he
appeared to those around him — in some degree they knew that
he was a cheerful, and humorous, and happy man ; but of his
higher gift they knew less than we. A great painter of men
must (as has been said) have a faculty of conversing, but he
must also have a capacity for solitude. There is much of man-
kind that a man can only learn from himself. Behind every
man's external life, which he leads in company, there is another
which he leads alone, and which he carries with him apart.
We see but one aspect of our neighbour, as we see but one
side of the moon ; in either case there is also a dark half,

64 Literary Studies.

which is unknown to us. We all come down to dinner, but
each has a room to himself. And if we would study the
internal lives of others, it seems essential that we should
begin with our own. If we study this our datum, if we
attain to see and feel how this influences and evolves itself
in our social and (so to say) public life, then it is possible
that we may find in the lives of others the same or analogous
features ; and if we do not, then at least we may suspect
that those who want them are deficient likewise in the secret
agencies which we feel produce them in ourselves. The
metaphysicians assert, that people originally picked up the
idea of the existence of other people in this way. It is
orthodox doctrine that a baby says : " I have a mouth,
mamma has a mouth : therefore Pm the same species as
mamma. I have a nose, papa has a nose : therefore papa is
the same genus as me." But whether or not this ingenious
idea really does or does not represent the actual process by
which we originally obtain an acquaintance with the existence
of minds analogous to our own, it gives unquestionably the
process by which we obtain our notion of that part of those
minds which they never exhibit consciously to others, and
which only becomes predominant in secrecy and solitude and
to themselves. Now, that Shakespeare has this insight into
the musing life of man, as well as into his social life, is easy
to prove ; take, for instance, the following passages : —

" This battle fares like to the morning's war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light ;
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night.
Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea,
Forc'd by the tide to combat with the wind ;
Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea
Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind :
Sometime, the flood prevails ; and then, the wind :
Now, one the better ; then, another best ;

Shakespeare — The Man. 65

Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,

Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered ;

So is the equal poise of this fell war.

Here on this molehill will I sit me down.

To whom God will, there be the victory !

For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too,

Have chid me from the battle ; swearing both

They prosper best of all when I am thence.

Would I were dead ! if God's good will were so ;

For what is in this world but grief and woe ?

Oh God I methinks it were a happy life,

To be no better than a homely swain :

To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,

Thereby to see the minutes how they run :

How many make the hour full complete,

How many hours bring about the day,

How many days will finish up the year,

How many years a mortal man may live.

When this is known, then to divide the time :

So many hours must I tend my flock ;

So many hours must I take my rest ;

So many hours must I contemplate ;

So many hours must I sport myself;

So many days my ewes have been with young ;

So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean ;

So many years ere I shall shear the fleece ;

So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,

Pass'd over to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah, what a life were this 1 how sweet ! how lovely !

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep

Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy

To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery ?

O yes, it doth ; a thousand-fold it doth.

And to conclude, — the shepherd's homely curds,

His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,

His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,

All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,

66 Literary Studies.

If far beyond a prince's delicates,

His viands sparkling in a golden cup,

His body couched in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him." l

«' A fool, a fool !— I met a fool i' the forest,
A motley fool ! — a miserable world ; —
As I do live by food, I met a fool ;
Who laid him down and basked him in the sun,
And railed on lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms, — and yet a motley fool.
' Good-morrow, fool,' quoth I : ' No, sir,' quoth he,
4 Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me fortune : *
And then he drew a dial from his poke,
And looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says, very wisely, ' It is ten o'clock :
Thus may we see,' quoth he, ' how the world wags ;
'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine ;
And after an hour more, 'twill be eleven ;
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot,
And thereby hangs a tale.' When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep-contemplative ;
And I did laugh, sans intermission,
An hour by his dial." 2

No slight versatility of mind and pliancy of fancy could
pass at will from scenes such as these to the ward of East-
cheap and the society which heard the chimes at midnight.
One of the reasons of the rarity of great imaginative works
is that in very few cases is this capacity for musing solitude
combined with that of observing mankind. A certain con-
stitutional though latent melancholy is essential to such a
nature. This is the exceptional characteristic in Shakespeare.
All through his works you feel you are reading the popular

i "3 King Henry VI.," ii. 5.
«"As You Like It," ii. 7.

Shakespeare — The Man. 67

author, the successful man ; but through them all there is a
certain tinge of musing sadness pervading, and, as it were,
softening their gaiety. Not a trace can be found of " eating
cares" or narrow and mind-contracting toil, but everywhere
there is, in addition to shrewd sagacity and buoyant wisdom,
a refining element of chastening sensibility, which prevents
sagacity from being rough, and shrewdness from becoming
cold. He had an eye for either sort of life : —

" Why, let the stricken deer go weep,

The hart ungalled play ;
For some must watch, and some must sleep,
Thus runs the world away." l

In another point also Shakespeare, as he was, must be
carefully contrasted with the estimate that would be formed
of him from such delineations as that of Falstaff, and that
was doubtless frequently made by casual, though only by
casual, frequenters of the Mermaid. It has been said that
the mind of Shakespeare contained within it the mind of
Scott ; it remains to be observed that it contained also the
mind of Keats. For, beside the delineation of human life,
and beside also the delineation of Nature, there remains also
for the poet a third subject — the delineation of fancies. Of
course these, be they what they may, are like to, and were
originally borrowed from, either man or Nature— from one
or from both together. We know but two things in the
simple way of direct experience, and whatever else we know
must be in some mode or manner compacted out of them.
Yet " books are a substantial world, both pure and good/'
and so are fancies too. In all countries, men have devised
to themselves a whole series of half-divine creations — myth-
ologies Greek and Roman, fairies, angels, beings who may be,
for aught we know, but with whom, in the meantime, we
can attain to no conversation. The most known of these

1 " Hamlet," iii. 2.

68 Literary Studies.

mythologies are the Greek, and what is, we suppose, the
second epoch of the Gothic, the fairies ; and it so happens
that Shakespeare has dealt with them both, and in a re-
markable manner. We are not, indeed, of those critics who
profess simple and unqualified admiration for the poem of
" Venus and Adonis ''. It seems intrinsically, as we know it
from external testimony to have been, a juvenile production,
written when Shakespeare's nature might be well expected
to be crude and unopened. Power is shown, and power of
a remarkable kind ; but it is not displayed in a manner that
will please or does please the mass of men. In spite of the
name of its author, the poem has never been popular — and
surely this is sufficient. Nevertheless, it is remarkable as a
literary exercise, and as a treatment of a singular, though
unpleasant subject. The fanciful class of poems differ from
others in being laid, so far as their scene goes, in a perfectly
unseen world. The type of such productions is Keats's
" Endymion ". We mean that it is the type, not as giving
the abstract perfection of this sort of art, but because it
shows and embodies both its excellences and defects in a
very marked and prominent manner. In that poem there
are no passions and no actions, there is no art and no life ;
but there is beauty, and that is meant to be enough, and to a
reader of one and twenty it is enough and more. What are
exploits or speeches ? what is Caesar or Coriolanus ? what is
a tragedy like " Lear," or a real view of human life in any
kind whatever, to people who do not know and do not care
what human life is ? In early youth it is, perhaps, not true
that the passions, taken generally, are particularly violent, or
that the imagination is in any remarkable degree powerful ;
but it is certain that the fancy (which though it be, in the
last resort, but a weak stroke of that same faculty, which,
when it strikes hard, we call imagination, may yet for this
purpose be looked on as distinct) is particularly wakeful, and

Shakespeare — The Man. 69

that the gentler species of passions are more absurd than
they are afterwards. And the literature of this period of
human life runs naturally away from the real world ; away
from the less ideal portion of it, from stocks and stones, and
aunts and uncles, and rests on mere half-embodied senti-
ments, which in the hands of great poets assume a kind of
semi-personality, and are, to the distinction between things
and persons, " as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water
unto wine ". l The Sonnets of Shakespeare belong
exactly to the same school of poetry. They are not the
sort of verses to take any particular hold upon the mind
permanently and for ever, but at a certain period they take
too much. For a young man to read in the spring of the
year among green fields and in gentle air, they are the ideal.
As First of April poetry they are perfect.

The "Midsummer Night's Dream" is of another order.
If the question were to be decided by " Venus and Adonis,"
in spite of the unmeasured panegyrics of many writers, we
should be obliged in equity to hold, that as a poet of mere
fancy Shakespeare was much inferior to the late Mr. Keats
and even to meaner men. Moreover, we should have been
prepared with some refined reasonings to show that it was
unlikely that a poet with so much hold on reality, in life and
Nature, both in solitude and in society, should have also a
similar command over wwreality : should possess a command
not only of flesh and blood, but of the imaginary entities
which the self-inworking fancy brings forth — impalpable
conceptions of mere mind : qucedam simulacra miris pallentia
modis,2 thin ideas, which come we know not whence, and are
given us we know not why. But, unfortunately for this in-
genious, if not profound suggestion, Shakespeare, in fact,
possessed the very faculty which it tends to prove that he

1 Tennyson : " Locksley Hall ".
* Lucretius, i. 24.

70 Literary Studies.

would not possess. He could paint Poins and Falstaff, but
he excelled also in fairy legends. He had such

" Seething brains ;
Such shaping fantasies as apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends ". l

As, for example, the idea of Puck, or Queen Mab, of Ariel, or
such a passage as the following : —

" Puck. How now, spirit 1 whither wander you ?
Fai. Over hill, over dale,

Thorough bush, thorough briar,

Over park, over pale,

Thorough flood, thorough fire,

I do wander everywhere,

Swifter than the moones sphere ;

And I serve the fairy queen,

To dew her orbs upon the green :

The cowslips tall her pensioners be

In their gold coats spots you see ;

Those be rubies, fairy favours,

In those freckles live their savours :
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits, I'll be gone ;
Our queen and all our elves come here anon.

Puck. The king doth keep his revels here to-night ;
Take heed the queen come not within his sight.
For Oberon is passing fell and wrath,
Because that she, as her attendant, hath
A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king ;
She never had so sweet a changeling :
And jealous Oberon would have the child
Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild :
But she, perforce, withholds the loved boy,
Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy
And now they never meet in grove, or green,
By fountain clear, or spangled star-light sheen

1 " Midsummer Night's Dream," v. I.

Shakespeare — The Man. 71

But they do square ; that all their elves, for fear,
Creep into acorn-cups, and hide them there.

Fai. Either I mistake your shape and making quite.
Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite
Call'd Robin Good-fellow : are you not he
That fright the maidens of the villagery ;
Skim milk ; and sometimes labour in the quern.
And bootless make the breathless housewife churn ;
And sometimes make the drink to bear no barm ;
Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm ?
Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck,
You do their work, and they shall have good luck :
Are not you he ?

Puck. Thou speak'st aright ;

I am that merry wanderer of the night.
I jest to Oberon, and make him smile,
When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,
Neighing in likeness of a filly foal :
And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl,
In very likeness of a roasted crab ;
And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob,
And on her wither'd dew-lap pour the ale.
The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,
Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me ;
Then slip I from beneath, down topples she,
And tailor cries, and falls into a cough ;
And then the whole quire hold their hips, and loffe ;
And waxen in their mirth, and neeze and swear
A merrier hour was never wasted there. —
But room, Fairy, here comes Oberon.

Fai. And here my mistress : — Would that he were gone ! "!

Probably he believed in these things. Why not ?
Everybody else believed in them then. They suit our
climate. As the Greek mythology suits the keen Attic sky,
the fairies, indistinct and half-defined, suit a land of wild
mists and gentle airs. They confuse the " maidens of the
villagery" ; they are the paganism of the South of England.

1 " Midsummer Night's Dream," ii. i.

72 Literary Studies.

Can it be made out what were Shakespeare's political
views ? We think it certainly can, and that without diffi-
culty. From the English historical plays, it distinctly
appears that he accepted, like everybody then, the Constitu-
tion of his country. His lot was not cast in an age of
political controversy, nor of reform. What was, was from
of old. The Wars of the Roses had made it very evident
how much room there was for the evils incident to an
hereditary monarchy, for instance, those of a controverted
succession, and the evils incident to an aristocracy, as want
of public spirit and audacious selfishness, to arise and
continue within the realm of England. Yet they had not
repelled, and had barely disconcerted, our conservative
ancestors. They had not become Jacobins ; they did not
concur — and history, except in Shakespeare, hardly does
justice to them — in Jack Cade's notion that the laws should
come out of his mouth, or that the commonwealth was to be
reformed by interlocutors in this scene.

" Geo. I tell thee, Jack Cade the clothier means to dress the Com-
monwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap on it.

John. So he had need, for 'tis threadbare. Well, I say it was never
a merry world in England since gentlemen came up.

Geo. O miserable age ! Virtue is not regarded in handycraftsmen.

John. The nobility think scorn to go in leather aprons.

Geo. Nay more : the king's council are no good workmen.

John. True ; and yet it is said, Labour in thy vocation ; which is as
much as to say, as let the magistrates be labouring men, and therefore
should we be magistrates.

Geo. Thou hast hit it, for there is no better sign of a brave mind
than a hard hand.

John. I see them ! I see them ! " l

The English people did see them, and know them, and
therefore have rejected them. An audience which, bond fide,
entered into the merit of this scene, would never believe in

1 " a King Henry VI.," iv. 2.

Shakespeare — The Man. 73

everybody's suffrage. They would know that there is such
a thing as nonsense, and when a man has once attained to
that deep conception, you may be sure of him ever after. And
though it would be absurd to say that Shakespeare originated
this idea, or that the disbelief in simple democracy is owing
to his teaching or suggestions, yet it may, nevertheless, be
truly said, that he shared in the peculiar knowledge of men
— and also possessed the peculiar constitution of mind —
which engender this effect. The author of " Coriolanus" never
believed in a mob, and did something towards preventing
anybody else from doing so. But this political idea was not
exactly the strongest in Shakespeare's mind. We think he
had two other stronger, or as strong. First, the feeling of
loyalty to the ancient polity of this country — not because
it was good, but because it existed. In his time, people
no more thought of the origin of the monarchy than they
did of the origin of the Mendip Hills. The one had
always been there, and so had the other. God (such was
the common notion) had made both, and one as much as
the other. Everywhere, in that age, the common modes
of political speech assumed the existence of certain utterly
national institutions, and would have been worthless and
nonsensical except on that assumption. This national habit
appears as it ought to appear in our national dramatist. A
great divine tells us that the Thirty-nine Articles are "forms
of thought"; inevitable conditions of the religious under-
standing: in politics, "kings, lords, and commons" are, no
doubt, "forms of thought," to the great majority of English-
men ; in these they live, and beyond these they never
move. You can't reason on the removal (such is the notion)
of the English Channel, nor St. George's Channel, nor can
you of the English Constitution, in like manner. It is to
most of us, and to the happiest of us, a thing immutable,
and such, no doubt, it was to Shakespeare, which, if any

74 Literary Studies.

one would have proved, let him refer at random to any page
of the historical English plays.

The second peculiar tenet which we ascribe to his political
creed, is a disbelief in the middle classes. We fear he had
no opinion of traders. In this age, we know, it is held that
the keeping of a shop is equivalent to a political education.
Occasionally, in country villages, where the trader sells every-
thing, he is thought to know nothing, and has no vote; but
in a town where he is a householder (as, indeed, he is in the
country), and sells only one thing — there we assume that he
knows everything. And this assumption is, in the opinion
of some observers, confirmed by the fact. Sir Walter Scott
used to relate, that when, after a trip to London, he returned
to Tweedside, he always found the people in that district
knew more of politics than the Cabinet. And so it is with
the mercantile community in modern times. If you are a
Chancellor of the Exchequer, it is possible that you may be
acquainted with finance ; but if you sell figs it is certain that
you will. Now we nowhere find this laid down in Shake-
speare. On the contrary, you will generally find that when a
" citizen" is mentioned, he generally does or says something
absurd. Shakespeare had a clear perception that it is pos-
sible to bribe a class as well as an individual, and that
personal obscurity is but an insecure guarantee for political
disinterestedness.

" Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,
His private arbours and new-planted orchards
On this side Tiber ; he hath left them you,
And to your heirs for ever : common pleasures,
To walk abroad and recreate yourselves.
Here was a Caesar ! when comes such another ?" l

He everywhere speaks in praise of a tempered and ordered
and qualified polity, in which the pecuniary classes have a

1 "Julius Caesar," iii. 2.

Shakespeare — The Man. 75

certain influence, but no more, and shows in every page a
keen sensibility to the large views and high-souled energies,
the gentle refinements and disinterested desires, in which
those classes are likely to be especially deficient. He is
particularly the poet of personal nobility, though, throughout
his writings, there is a sense of freedom, just as Milton is
the poet of freedom, though with an underlying reference to
personal nobility; indeed, we might well expect our two
poets to combine the appreciation of a rude and generous
liberty with that of a delicate and refined nobleness, since it
is the union of these two elements that characterises our
society and their experience.

There are two things— good-tempered sense and ill-
tempered sense. In our remarks on the character of Falstaff,
we hope we have made it very clear that Shakespeare had
the former ; we think it nearly as certain that he possessed
the latter also. An instance of this might be taken from
that contempt for the perspicacity of the bourgeoisie which
we have just been mentioning. It is within the limits of
what may be called malevolent sense, to take extreme and
habitual pleasure in remarking the foolish opinions, the
narrow notions, and fallacious deductions which seem to
cling to the pompous and prosperous man of business. Ask
him his opinion of the currency question, and he puts " bills "
and " bullion " together in a sentence, and he does not seem
to care what he puts between them. But a more proper
instance of (what has an odd sound), the malevolence of
Shakespeare is to be found in the play of " Measure for
Measure ". We agree with Hazlitt, that this play seems to
be written, perhaps more than any other, con amore, and
with a relish ; and this seems to be the reason why, notwith-
standing the unpleasant nature of its plot, and the absence
of any very attractive character, it is yet one of the plays
which take hold on the mind most easily and most power-

76 Literary Studies.

fully. Now the entire character of Angelo, which is the
expressive feature of the piece, is nothing but a successful
embodiment of the pleasure, the malevolent pleasure, which
a warm-blooded and expansive man takes in watching the
rare, the dangerous and inanimate excesses of the constrained
and cold-blooded. One seems to see Shakespeare, with his
bright eyes and his large lips and buoyant face, watching
with a pleasant excitement the excesses of his thin-lipped
and calculating creation, as though they were the excesses
of a real person. It is the complete picture of a natural
hypocrite, who does not consciously disguise strong impulses,
but whose very passions seem of their own accord to have
disguised themselves and retreated into the recesses of the
character, yet only to recur even more dangerously when
their proper period is expired, when the will is cheated into
security by their absence, and the world (and, it may be, the
" judicious person " himself) is impressed with a sure reliance
in his chilling and remarkable rectitude.

It has, we believe, been doubted whether Shakespeare
was a man much conversant with the intimate society of
women. Of course no one denies that he possessed a great
knowledge of them — a capital acquaintance with their ex-
cellences, faults, and foibles ; but it has been thought that
this was the result rather of imagination than of society, of
creative fancy rather than of perceptive experience. Now
that Shakespeare possessed, among other singular qualities,
a remarkable imaginative knowledge of women, is quite
certain, for he was acquainted with the soliloquies of women.
A woman we suppose, like a man, must be alone, in order to
speak a soliloquy. After the greatest possible intimacy and
experience, it must still be imagination, or fancy at least,
which tells any man what a woman thinks of herself and to
herself. There will still — get as near the limits of confidence
or observation as you can — be a space which must be filled

Shakespeare — The Man. 77

up from other means. Men can only divine the truth —
reserve, indeed, is a part of its charm. Seeing, therefore,
that Shakespeare had done what necessarily and certainly
must be done without experience, we were in some doubt
whether he might not have dispensed with it altogether. A
grave reviewer cannot know these things. We thought
indeed of reasoning that since the delineations of women in
Shakespeare were admitted to be first-rate, it should follow,
— at least there was a fair presumption, — that no means or
aid had been wanting to their production, and that conse-
quently we ought, in the absence of distinct evidence, to
assume that personal intimacy as well as solitary imagination
had been concerned in their production. And we meant to
cite the " questions about Octavia," which Lord Byron, who
thought he had the means of knowing, declared to be
" women all over ".

But all doubt was removed and all conjecture set to rest
by the coming in of an ably-dressed friend from the external
world, who mentioned that the language of Shakespeare's
women was essentially female language ; that there were
certain points and peculiarities in the English of cultivated
English women, which made it a language of itself, which
must be heard familiarly in order to be known. And he
added, " Except a greater use of words of Latin derivation,
as was natural in an age when ladies received a learned
education, a few words not now proper, a few conceits that
were the fashion of the time, and there is the very same
English in the women's speeches in Shakespeare ". He
quoted—

" Think not I love him, though I ask for him ;
'Tis but a peevish boy : — yet he talks well ; —
But what care I for words ? yet words do well,
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
It is a pretty youth : — not very pretty : —
VOL. I. IO

78 Literary Studies.

But, sure, he's proud ; and yet his pride becomes him ;

He'll make a proper man : The best thing in him

Is his complexion ; and faster than his tongue

Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.

He is not tall ; yet for his years he's tall :

His leg is but so-so : and yet 'tis well.

There was a pretty redness in his lip ;

A little riper and more lusty red

Than that mix'd in his cheek ; 'twas just the difference

Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask.

There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him

In parcels as I did, would have gone near

To fall in love with him : but, for my part,

I love him not, nor hate him not ; and yet

I have more cause to hate him than to love him :

For what had he to do to chide at me ?

He said, my eyes were black, and my hair black,

And, now I am remember'd, scorn'd at me :

I marvel, why I answer'd not again :

But that's all one ; " l

and the passage of Perdita's cited before about the daffodils
that—

" take

The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim,

But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,

Or Cytherea's breath ; "

and said that these were conclusive. But we have not, our-
selves, heard young ladies converse in that manner.

Perhaps it is in his power of delineating women, that
Shakespeare contrasts most strikingly with the greatest master
of the art of dialogue in antiquity — we mean Plato. It will,
no doubt, be said that the delineation of women did not fall
within Plato's plan ; that men's life was in that age so
separate and predominant that it could be delineated by itself
and apart ; and no doubt these remarks are very true. But

1 " As You Like It," iii. 5.

Shakespeare — The Man. 79

what led Plato to form that plan ? What led him to select
that peculiar argumentative aspect of life, in which the
masculine element is in so high a degree superior ? We
believe that he did it because he felt that he could paint that
kind of scene much better than he could paint any other. If
a person will consider the sort of conversation that was held
in the cool summer morning, when Socrates was knocked up
early to talk definitions and philosophy with Protagoras, he
will feel, not only that women would fancy such dialogues to
be certainly stupid, and very possibly to be without meaning,
but also that the side of character which is there presented is
one from which not only the feminine but even the epicene
element is nearly, if not perfectly, excluded. It is the intellect
surveying and delineating intellectual characteristics. We
have a dialogue of thinking faculties ; the character of every
man is delineated by showing us, not his mode of action or
feeling, but his mode of thinking, alone and by itself. The
pure mind, purged of all passion and affection, strives to view
and describe others in like manner ; and the singularity is,
that the likenesses so taken are so good, — that the accurate
copying of the merely intellectual effects and indications of
character gives so true and so firm an impression of the
whole character, — that a daguerreotype of the mind should
almost seem to be a delineation of the life. But though in
the hand of a consummate artist, such a way of representation
may in some sense succeed in the case of men, it would
certainly seem sure to fail in the case of women. The mere
intellect of a woman is a mere nothing. It originates nothing,
it transmits nothing, it retains nothing ; it has little life of
its own, and therefore it can hardly be expected to attain any
vigour. Of the lofty Platonic world of the ideas, which the
soul in the old doctrine was to arrive at by pure and con-
tinuous reasoning, women were never expected to know
anything. Plato (though Mr. Grote denies that he was a

80 Literary Studies.

practical man) was much too practical for that ; he reserved
his teaching for people whose belief was regulated and induced
in some measure by abstract investigations ; who had an
interest in the pure and (as it were) geometrical truth itself ;
who had an intellectual character (apart from and accessory
to their other character) capable of being viewed as a large
and substantial existence, Shakespeare's being, like a woman's,
worked as a whole. He was capable of intellectual abstracted-
ness, but commonly he was touched with the sense of earth.
One thinks of him as firmly set on our coarse world of
common clay, but from it he could paint the moving essence
of thoughtful feeling — which is the best refinement of the
best women. Imogen or Juliet would have thought little of
the conversation of Gorgias.

On few subjects has more nonsense been written than on
the learning of Shakespeare. In former times, the established
tenet was, that he was acquainted with the entire range of
the Greek and Latin classics, and familiarly resorted to
Sophocles and ^Eschylus as guides and models. This creed
reposed not so much on any painful or elaborate criticism of
Shakespeare's plays, as on one of the a priori assumptions,
permitted to the indolence of the wise old world. It was;
then considered clear, by all critics, that no one could write
good English who could not also write bad Latin. Question-
ing scepticism has rejected this axiom, and refuted with
contemptuous facility the slight attempt which had been made
to verify this case of it from the evidence of the plays them-
selves. But the new school, not content with showing that
Shakespeare was no formed or elaborate scholar, propounded1
the idea that he was quite ignorant, just as Mr. Croker
" demonstrates " that Napoleon Bonaparte could scarcely
write or read. The answer is, that Shakespeare wrote his
plays, and that those plays show not only a very powerful,
but also a very cultivated mind. A hard student Shakespeare:

Shakespeare — The Man. 81

was not, yet he was a happy and pleased reader of interesting
books. He was a natural reader ; when a book was dull he
put it down, when it looked fascinating he took it up, and
the consequence is, that he remembered and mastered what
he read. Lively books, read with lively interest, leave strong
and living recollections ; the instructors, no doubt, say that
they ought not to do so, and inculcate the necessity of dry
reading. Yet the good sense of a busy public has practi-
cally discovered that what is read easily is recollected easily,
and what is read with difficulty is remembered with more. It
is certain that Shakespeare read the novels of his time, for
he has founded on them the stories of his plays ; he read
Plutarch, for his words still live in the dialogue of the
" proud Roman " plays ; and it is remarkable that Montaigne
is the only philosopher that Shakespeare can be proved to
have read, because he deals more than any other philosopher
with the first impressions of things which exist. On the
other hand, it may be doubted if Shakespeare would have
perused his commentators. Certainly, he would have never
read a page of this review, and we go so far as to doubt
whether he would have been pleased with the admirable
discourses of M. Guizot, which we ourselves, though ardent
admirers of his style and ideas, still find it a little difficult to
read ; — and what would he have thought of the following
speculations of an anonymous individual, whose notes have
been recently published in a fine octavo by Mr. Collier, and,
according to the periodical essayists, " contribute valuable
suggestions to the illustration of the immortal bard " ?

**THE Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA
"Acr I. SCENE I.

" P. 92. The reading of the subsequent line has hitherto been

* *Tis true ; for you are over boots in love ' ;

but the manuscript corrector of the Folio, 1632, has changed it to
' 'Tis true ; tut you are over boots in love,'

82 Literary Studies.

which seems more consistent with the course of the dialogue ; for
Proteus, remarking that Leander had been ' more than over shoes in
love,' with Hero, Valentine answers, that Proteus was even more deeply
in love than Leander. Proteus observes of the fable of Hero and
Leander —

' That's a deep story of a deeper love,
For he was more than over shoes in love '.

Valentine retorts —

' "Tis true ; but you are over boots in love '.

For instead of but was perhaps caught by the compositor from the
preceding line."

It is difficult to fancy Shakespeare perusing a volume of
such annotations, though we allow that we admire them
ourselves. As to the controversy on his school learning, we
have only to say, that though the alleged imitations of the
Greek tragedians are mere nonsense, yet there is clear
evidence that Shakespeare received the ordinary grammar-
school education of his time, and that he had derived from
the pain and suffering of several years, not exactly an
acquaintance with Greek or Latin, but, like Eton boys, a
firm conviction that there are such languages.

Another controversy has been raised as to whether
Shakespeare was religious. In the old editions it is com-
monly enough laid down that, when writing his plays, he
had no desire to fill the Globe Theatre, but that his
intentions were of the following description. " In this
play," " Cymbeline," " Shakespeare has strongly depicted the
frailties of our nature, and the effect of vicious passions on
the human mind. In the fate of the Queen we behold the
adept in perfidy justly sacrificed by the arts she had, with
unnatural ambition, prepared for others ; and in reviewing
her death and that of Cloten, we may easily call to mind the
words of Scripture," etc. And of " King Lear" it is observed
with great confidence, that Shakespeare, " no doubt, intended
to mark particularly the afflicting character of children's

Shakespeare — The Man. 83

ingratitude to their parents, and the conduct of Goneril and
Regan to each other ; especially in the former's poisoning
the latter, and laying hands on herself, we are taught that
those who want gratitude towards their parents (who gave
them their being, fed them, nurtured them to mans estate)
will not scruple to commit more barbarous crimes, and easily
to forget that, by destroying their body, they destroy their
soul also ". And Dr. Ulrici, a very learned and illegible
writer, has discovered that in every one of his plays Shake-
speare had in view the inculcation of the peculiar sentiments
and doctrines of the Christian religion, and considers the
" Midsummer Night's Dream '* to be a specimen of the lay
or amateur sermon. This is what Dr. Ulrici thinks of
Shakespeare ; but what would Shakespeare have thought of
Dr. Ulrici ? We believe that " Via, goodman Dull," is
nearly the remark which the learned professor would have
received from the poet to whom his very careful treatise is
devoted. And yet, without prying into the Teutonic
mysteries, a gentleman of missionary aptitudes might be
tempted to remark that in many points Shakespeare is
qualified to administer a rebuke to people of the prevalent
religion. Meeting a certain religionist is like striking the
corner of a wall. He is possessed of a firm and rigid
persuasion that you must leave off this and that, stop, cry,
be anxious, be advised, and, above all things, refrain from
doing what you like, for nothing is so bad for any one as
that. And in quite another quarter of the religious hemi-
sphere, we occasionally encounter gentlemen who have most
likely studied at the feet of Dr. Ulrici, or at least of an
equivalent Gamaliel, and who, when we, or such as we,
speaking the language of mortality, remark of a pleasing
friend : " Nice fellow, so and so ! Good fellow as ever
lived ! " reply sternly, upon an unsuspecting reviewer, with
— " Sir, is he an earnest man ? " To which, in some cases,

84 Literary Studies.

we are unable to return a sufficient answer. Yet Shake-
speare, differing, in that respect at least, from the disciples
of Carlyle, had, we suspect, an objection to grim people, and
we fear would have liked the society of Mercutio better than
that of a dreary divine, and preferred Ophelia or " that
Juliet '' to a female philanthropist of sinewy aspect. And,
seriously, if this world is not all evil, he who has understood
and painted it best must probably have some good. If the
underlying and almighty essence of this world be good, then
it is likely that the writer who most deeply approached to
that essence will be himself good. There is a religion of
week-days as well as of Sundays, of "cakes and ale"1 as
well as of pews and altar cloths. This England lay before
Shakespeare as it lies before us all, with its green fields, and
its long hedgerows, and its many trees, and its great towns,
and its endless hamlets, and its motley society, and its long
history, and its bold exploits, and its gathering power, and
he saw that they were good. To him, perhaps, more than to
any one else, has it been given to see that they were a great
unity, a great religious object ; that if you could only descend
to the inner life, to the deep things, to the secret principles
of its noble vigour, to the essence of character, to what we
know of Hamlet and seem to fancy of Ophelia, we might, so
far as we are capable of so doing, understand the nature
which God has made. Let us, then, think of him not as a
teacher of dry dogmas, or a sayer of hard sayings, but as —

" A priest to us all,
Of the wonder and bloom of the world " — 2

a teacher of the hearts of men and women ; one from whom
may be learned something of that inmost principle that ever
modulates —

1 " Twelfth Night," iii. 2.

» Matthew Arnold : " The Youth of Nature ",

Shakespeare — The Man. 85

" With murmurs of the air,
And motions of the forests and the sea,
And voice of living beings, and woven hymns,
Of night and day and the deep heart of man ". >

We must pause, lest our readers reject us, as the Bishop
of Durham the poor curate, because he was " mystical and
confused''.

Yet it must be allowed that Shakespeare was worldly,
and the proof of it is, that he succeeded in the world.
Possibly this is the point on which we are most richly
indebted to tradition. We see generally indeed in Shake-
speare's works the popular author, the successful dramatist ;
there is a life and play in his writings rarely to be found,
except in those who have had habitual good luck, and who,
by the tact of experience, feel the minds of their readers at
every word, as a good rider feels the mouth of his horse.
But it would have been difficult quite to make out whether
the profits so accruing had been profitably invested — whether
the genius to create such illusions was accompanied with the
care and judgment necessary to put out their proceeds properly
in actual life. We could only have said that there was a
general impression of entire calmness and equability in his
principal works, rarely to be found where there is much
pain, which usually makes gaps in the work and dislocates
the balance of the mind. But happily here, and here almost
alone, we are on sure historical ground. The reverential
nature of Englishmen has carefully preserved what they
thought the great excellence of their poet — that he made a
fortune. 2 It is certain that Shakespeare was proprietor of

Shelley: "Alastor".

3 The only antiquarian thing which can be fairly called an anecdote
of Shakespeare is, that Mrs. Alleyne, a shrewd woman in those times, and
married to Mr. Alleyne, the founder of Dulwich Hospital, was one day, in
the absence of her husband, applied to on some matter by a player who
gave a reference to Mr. Hemmings (the " notorious " Mr. Hammings, the

86 Literary Studies.

the Globe Theatre — that he made money there, and invested
the same in land at Stratford-on-Avon, and probably no
circumstance in his life ever gave him so much pleasure. It
was a great thing that he, the son of the wool-comber, the
poacher, the good-for-nothing, the vagabond (for so we fear
the phrase went in Shakespeare's youth), should return upon
the old scene a substantial man, a person of capital, a free-
holder, a gentleman to be respected, and over whom even a
burgess could not affect the least superiority. The great
pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do.
Why did Mr. Disraeli take the duties of the Exchequer with
so much relish ? Because people said he was a novelist, an
ad captandum man, and — monstrum horrendum ! — a Jew,
that could not add up. No doubt it pleased his inmost soul
to do the work of the red-tape people better than those who
could do nothing else. And so with Shakespeare: it pleased
him to be respected by those whom he had respected with
boyish reverence, but who had rejected the imaginative man —
on their own ground and in their own subject, by the only title
which they would regard — in a word, as a moneyed man.
We seem to see him eyeing the burgesses with good-
humoured fellowship and genial (though suppressed and
half-unconscious) contempt, drawing out their old stories,
and acquiescing in their foolish notions, with everything in
his head and easy sayings upon his tongue, — a full mind
and a deep dark eye, that played upon an easy scene — now
in fanciful solitude, now in cheerful society ; now occupied
with deep thoughts, now, and equally so, with trivial re-
creations, forgetting the dramatist in the man of substance,
and the poet in the happy companion; beloved and even
respected, with a hope for every one and a smile for all.

commentators say) and to Mr. Shakespeare of the Globe, and that the
latter, when referred to, said : " Yes, certainly, he knew him, and he was a
rascal and good-for-nothing ". The proper speech of a substantial man,
such as it is worth while to give a reference to.

WILLIAM COWPER.1

(i855.)

FOR the English, after all, the best literature is the English.
We understand the language ; the manners are familiar to
us ; the scene at home ; the associations our own. Of
course, a man who has not read Homer is like a man who
has not seen the ocean. There is a great object of which he
has no idea. But we cannot be always seeing the ocean.
Its face is always large ; its smile is bright ; the ever-
sounding shore sounds on. Yet we have no property in
them. We stop and gaze ; we pause and draw our breath ;
we look and wonder at the grandeur of the other world ; but
we live on shore. We fancy associations of unknown things
and distant climes, of strange men and strange manners.
But we are ourselves. Foreigners do not behave as we
should, nor do the Greeks. What a strength of imagination,
what a long practice, what a facility in the details of fancy is
required to picture their past and unknown world! They are
deceased. They are said to be immortal, because they have
written a good epitaph ; but they are gone. Their life and
their manners have passed away. We read with interest in
the catalogue of the ships —

* Poetical Works of William Cowper. Edited by Robert Bell. J. W.
Parker and Son.

The Life of William Cowper, with Selections from his Correspondence.
Being volume i. of the Library of Christian Biography, superintended by
the Rev. Robert Bickersteth. Seeley, Jackson and Co.

88 Literary Studies.

" The men of Argos and Tyrintha next.
And of Hermione, that stands retired
With Asine, within her spacious bay ;
Of Epidaurus, crowned with purple vines,
And of Traezena, with the Achaian youth
Of sea-begirt <fl£gina, and with thine
Maseta, and the dwellers on thy coast,
Waveworn Eiona? ; . . .
And from Caristus and from Styra came
Their warlike multitudes, in front of whom
Elphenor marched, Calchodon's mighty son.
With foreheads shorn and wavy locks behind,
They followed, and alike were eager all
To split the hauberk with the shortened spear." *

But they are dead. " ' So am not I,' said the foolish fat
scullion."2 We are the English of the present day. We have
cows and calves, corn and cotton ; we hate the Russians ;
we know where the Crimea is ; we believe in Manchester the
great. A large expanse is around us ; a fertile land of corn
and orchards, and pleasant hedgerows, and rising trees, and
noble prospects, and large black woods, and old church
towers. The din of great cities comes mellowed from
afar. The green fields, the half-hidden hamlets, the gentle
leaves, soothe us with "a sweet inland murmur".8 We
have before us a vast seat of interest, and toil, and beauty,
and power, and this our own. Here is our home. The use of
foreign literature is like the use of foreign travel. It imprints
in early and susceptible years a deep impression of great, and
strange, and noble objects; but we cannot live with these. They
do not resemble our familiar life ; they do not bind themselves
to our intimate affection ; they are picturesque and striking,
like strangers and wayfarers, but they are not of our home, or

1 Iliad, book ii., Cowper's translation, revised by Southey.

2 Tristram Shandy, book iv., chap. viir
a Wordsworth : " Tintern Abbey ".

William Cowper. 8g

homely; they cannot speak to our "business and bosoms";1
they cannot touch the hearth of the soul. It would be better
to have no outlandish literature in the mind than to have it
the principal thing. We should be like accomplished vaga-
bonds without a country, like men with a hundred acquaint-
ances and no friends. We need an intellectual possession
analogous to our own life; which reflects, embodies, improves
it ; on which we can repose ; which will recur to us in the
placid moments — which will be a latent principle even in the
acute crises of life. Let us be thankful if our researches in
foreign literature enable us, as rightly used they will enable
us, better to comprehend our own. Let us venerate what is
old, and marvel at what is far. Let us read our own books.
Let us understand ourselves.

With these principles, if such they may be called, in our
minds, we gladly devote these early pages of our journal 2 to
the new edition of Cowper with which Mr. Bell has favoured
us. There is no writer more exclusively English. There is
no one — or hardly one, perhaps — whose excellences are more
natural to our soil, and seem so little able to bear trans-
plantation. We do not remember to have seen his name
in any continental book. Professed histories of English
literature, we dare say, name him ; but we cannot recall any
such familiar and cursory mention as would evince a real
knowledge and hearty appreciation of his writings.

The edition itself is a good one. The life of Cowper,
which is prefixed to it, though not striking, is sensible. The
notes are clear, explanatory, and, so far as we know, accurate.
The special introductions to each of the poems are short and
judicious, and bring to the mind at the proper moment the
passages in Cowper's letters most 'clearly relating to the

1 Bacon : Dedication to Essay.

* This was the second article in the first number of the National
Review.

go Literary Studies.

work in hand. The typography is not very elegant, but it is
plain and business-like. There is no affectation of cheap
ornament.

The little book which stands second on our list belongs
to a class of narratives written for a peculiar public, incul-
cating peculiar doctrines, and adapted, at least in part, to a
peculiar taste. We dissent from many of these tenets, and
believe that they derive no support, but rather the contrary,
from the life of Cowper. In previous publications, written
for the same persons, these opinions have been applied to
that melancholy story in a manner which it requires strong
writing to describe. In this little volume they are more
rarely expressed, and when they are it is with diffidence,
tact, and judgment.

Only a most pedantic critic would attempt to separate the
criticism on Cowper's works from a narrative of his life.
Indeed, such an attempt would be scarcely intelligible.
Cowper's poems are almost as much connected with his
personal circumstances as his letters, and his letters are as
purely autobiographical as those of any man can be. If all
information concerning him had perished save what his
poems contain, the attention of critics would be diverted
from the examination of their interior characteristics to a
conjectural dissertation on the personal fortunes of the
author. The Germans would have much to say. It would
be debated in Tubingen who were the Three Hares, why
" The Sofa " was written, why John Gilpin was not called
William. Halle would show with great clearness that there
was no reason why he should be called William ; that it
appeared by the bills of mortality that several other persons
born about the same period had also been called John ; and
the ablest of all the professors would finish the subject with
a monograph showing that) there was a special fitness in the
name John, and that any one with the aesthetic sense who

William Cowper. 91

(like the professor) had devoted many years exclusively to
the perusal of the poem, would be certain that any other
name would be quite " paralogistic, and in every manner
impossible and inappropriate ". It would take a German to
write upon the Hares.

William Cowper, the poet, was born on 26th November,
1731, at his father's parsonage, at Berkhampstead. Of his
father, who was chaplain to the king, we know nothing of
importance. Of his mother, who had been named Donne,
and was a Norfolk lady, he has often made mention, and it
appears that he regarded the faint recollection which he
retained of her — for she died early — with peculiar tenderness.
In later life, and when his sun was going down in gloom
and sorrow, he recurred eagerly to opportunities of intimacy
with her most distant relatives, and wished to keep alive the
idea of her in his mind. That idea was not of course very
definite ; indeed, as described in his poems, it is rather the
abstract idea of what a mother should be, than anything else ;
but he was able to recognise her picture, and there is a sug-
gestion of cakes and sugar-plums, which gives a life and
vividness to the rest. Soon after her death he was sent to a
school kept by a man named Pitman, at which he always
described himself as having suffered exceedingly from the
cruelty of one of the boys. He could never see him, or think
of him, he has told us, without trembling. And there must
have been some solid reason for this terror, since — even in
those days, when TUTTTUI meant " I strike," and " boy " de-
noted a thing to be beaten — this juvenile inflicter of secret
stripes was actually expelled. From Mr. Pitman, Cowper,
on account of a weakness in the eyes, which remained with
him through life, was transferred to the care of an oculist, —
a dreadful fate even for the most cheerful boy, and certainly
not likely to cure one with any disposition to melancholy ;
hardly indeed can the boldest mind, in its toughest hour of

92 Literary Studies*

manly fortitude, endure to be domesticated with an operation
chair. Thence he went to Westminster, of which he has left
us discrepant notices, according to the feeling for the time
being uppermost in his mind. From several parts of the
" Tirocinium," it would certainly seem that he regarded the
whole system of public school teaching not only with specu-
lative disapproval, but with the painful hatred of a painful
experience. A thousand genial passages in his private
letters, however, really prove the contrary ; and in a
changing mood of mind, the very poem which was expressly
written to " recommend private tuition at home " gives some
idea of school happiness.

«• Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise,
We love the play-place of our early days ;
The scene is touching, and the heart is stone
That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
The wall on which we tried our graving skill,
The very name we carved subsisting still,
The bench on which we sat while deep employed,
Though mangled, hacked, and hewed, not yet destroyed
The little ones unbuttoned, glowing hot,
Playing our games, and on the very spot,
As happy as we once, to kneel and draw
The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw ;
To pitch the ball into the grounded hat,
Or drive it devious with a dextrous pat ;
The pleasing spectacle at once excites
Such recollections of our own delights,
That viewing it, we seem almost t' obtain
Our innocent sweet simple years again.
This fond attachment to the well-known place,
Whence first we started into life's long race,
Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway,
We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day."

Probably we pursue an insoluble problem in seeking a
suitable education for a morbidly melancholy mind. At first
it seems a dreadful thing to place a gentle and sensitive

William Cowper. 93

nature in contact, in familiarity, and even under the rule of
coarse and strong buoyant natures. Nor should this be in
general attempted. The certain result is present suffering,
and the expected good is remote and disputable. Neverthe-
less, it is no artificial difficulty which we here encounter —
none which we can hope by educational contrivances to meet
or vanquish. The difficulty is in truth the existence of the
world. It is the fact, that by the constitution of society the
bold, the vigorous, and the buoyant, rise and rule ; and that
the weak, the shrinking, and the timid, fall and serve. In
after-life, in the actual commerce of men, even too in those
quiet and tranquil pursuits in which a still and gentle mind
should seem to be under the least disadvantage, in philosophy
and speculation, the strong and active, who have confidence
in themselves and their ideas, acquire and keep dominion.
It is. idle to expect that this will not give great pain — that
the shrinking and timid, who are often just as ambitious as
others, will not repine — that the rough and strong will not
often consciously inflict grievous oppression — will not still
more often, without knowing it, cause to more tremulous
minds a refined suffering which their coarser texture could
never experience, which it does not sympathise with, nor
comprehend. Sometime in life — it is but a question of a
very few years at most — this trial must be undergone. There
may be a short time, more or less, of gentle protection and
affectionate care, but the leveret grows old — the world waits
at the gate — the hounds are ready, and the huntsman too,
and there is need of strength, and pluck, and speed. Cowper
indeed, himself, as we have remarked, does not, on an atten-
tive examination, seem to have suffered exceedingly. In
subsequent years, when a dark cloud had passed over him,
he was apt at times to exaggerate isolated days of melan-
choly and pain, and fancy that the dislike which he enter-
tained for the system of schools, by way of speculative prin-

VOL. I. II *

94 Literary Studies.

ciple, was in fact the result of a personal and suffering ex-
perience. But, as we shall have (though we shall not, in
fact, perhaps use them all) a thousand occasions to observe,
he had, side by side with a morbid and melancholy humour,
an easy nature, which was easily satisfied with the world as
he found it, was pleased with the gaiety of others, and liked
the sight of, and sympathy with, the more active enjoyments
which he did not care to engage in or to share. Besides,
there is every evidence that cricket and marbles (though he
sometimes in his narratives suppresses the fact, in con-
descension to those of his associates who believed them to
be the idols of wood and stone which are spoken of in the
prophets) really exercised a laudable and healthy supremacy
over his mind. The animation of the scene — the gay alert-
ness which Gray looked back on so fondly in long years of
soothing and delicate musing, exerted, as the passage which
we cited shows, a great influence over a genius superior to
Gray's in facility and freedom, though inferior in the " little
footsteps"1 of the finest fancy, — in the rare and carefully
hoarded felicities, unequalled save in the immeasurable
abundance of the greatest writers. Of course Cowper was
unhappy at school, as he was unhappy always ; and of course,
too, we are speaking of Westminster only. For Dr. Pitman
and the oculist there is nothing to say.

In scholarship Cowper seems to have succeeded. He
was not, indeed, at all the sort of man to attain to that bold,
strong-brained, confident scholarship which Bentley carried
to such an extreme, and which, in almost every generation
since, some Englishman has been found of hard head and

1 " There scattered oft, the earliest of the year,

By hands unseen are showers of violets found;
The redbreast loves to build and warble there,

And little footsteps lightly print the ground." —
Verse in Gray's " Elegy," cancelled by him. (Forrest Morgan.)

\

William Cowper.

stiff-clayed memory to keep up and perpetuate. His friend
Thurlow was the man for this pursuit, and the man to pro-
long the just notion that those who attain early proficiency
in it are likely men to become Lord Chancellors. Cowper's
scholarship was simply the general and delicate impression
which the early study of the classics invariably leaves on a
nice and susceptible mind. In point of information it was
strictly of a common nature. It is clear that his real know-
ledge was mostly confined to the poets, especially the ordi-
nary Latin poets and Homer, and that he never bestowed
any regular attention on the historians, or orators, or philoso-
phers of antiquity, either at school or in after years. Nor
indeed would such a course of study have in reality been
very beneficial to him. The strong, analytic, comprehensive,
reason-giving powers which are required in these dry and
rational pursuits were utterly foreign to his mind. All that
was congenial to him, he acquired in the easy intervals of
apparent idleness. The friends whom he made at West-
minster, and who continued for many years to be attached
to him, preserved the probable tradition that he was a gentle
and gradual, rather than a forcible or rigorous learner.

The last hundred years have doubtless seen a vast change
in the common education of the common boy. The small
and pomivorous animal which we so call is now subjected
to a treatment very elaborate and careful,— that contrasts
much with the simple alternation of classics and cuffs which
was formerly so fashionable. But it may be doubted whether
for a peculiar mind such as Cowper's, on the intellectual side
at least, the tolerant and corpuscular theory of the last cen-
tury was not preferable to the intolerant and never-resting
moral influence that has succeeded to it. Some minds learn
most when they seem to learn least. A certain, placid, un-
conscious, equable in-taking of knowledge suits them, and
alone suits them. To succeed in forcing such men to attain

96 Literary Studies.

great learning is simply impossible; for you cannot put the
fawn into the " Land Transport". The only resource is to
allow them to acquire gently and casually in their own way;
and in that way they will often imbibe, as if by the mere
force of existence, much pleasant and well-fancied know-
ledge.

From Westminster Cowper went at once into a solicitor's
office. Of the next few years (he was then about eighteen)
we do not know much. His attention to legal pursuits was,
according to his own account, not very profound; yet it
could not have been wholly contemptible, for his evangelical
friend, Mr. Newton, who, whatever may be the worth of his
religious theories, had certainly a sound, rough judgment on
topics terrestrial, used in after years to have no mean opinion
of the value of his legal counsel. In truth, though nothing
could be more out of Cowper's way than abstract and recon-
dite jurisprudence, an easy and sensible mind like his would
find a great deal which was very congenial to it in the well-
known and perfectly settled maxims which regulate and rule
the daily life of common men. No strain of capacity or
stress of speculative intellect is necessary for the appre-
hension of these. A fair and easy mind, which is placed
within their reach, will find it has learnt them, without know-
ing when or how.

After some years of legal instruction, Cowper chose to
be called to the bar, and took chambers in the Temple
accordingly. He never, however, even pretended to practise.
He passed his time in literary society, in light study, in
tranquil negligence. He was intimate with Colman, Lloyd,
and other wits of those times. He wrote an essay in the
Connoisseur, the kind of composition then most fashionable,
especially with such literary gentlemen as were most careful
not to be confounded with the professed authors. In a word,
he did " nothing," as that word is understood among the

William Cowpet. $7

vigorous, aspiring, and trenchant part of mankind. Nobody
could seem less likely to attain eminence. Every one must
have agreed that there was no harm in him, and few could
have named any particular good which it was likely that he
would achieve. In after days he drew up a memoir of his
life, in which he speaks of those years with deep self-reproach.
It was not, indeed, the secular indolence of the time which
excited his disapproval. The course of life had not made
him more desirous of worldly honours, but less; and nothing
could be further from his tone of feeling than regret for not
having strenuously striven to attain them. He spoke of
those years in the Puritan manner, using words which liter-
ally express the grossest kind of active Atheism in a vague
and vacant way; leaving us to gather from external sources
whether they are to be understood in their plain and literal
signification, or in that out-of-the-way and technical sense
in which they hardly have a meaning. In this case the
external evidence is so clear that there is no difficulty. The
regrets of Cowper had reference to offences which the healthy
and sober consciences of mankind will not consider to de-
serve them. A vague, literary, omnitolerant idleness was
perhaps their worst feature. He was himself obliged to own
that he had always been considered " as one religiously
inclined, if not actually religious," * and the applicable testi-
mony, as well as the whole form and nature of his character,
forbid us to ascribe to him the slightest act of license or
grossness. A reverend biographer has called his life at this
time, " an unhappy compound of guilt and wretchedness ".
But unless the estimable gentleman thinks it sinful to be a
barrister and wretched to live in the Temple, it is not easy
to make out what he would mean. In point of intellectual
cultivation, and with a view to preparing himself for writing
his subsequent works, it is not possible he should have spent
1 Autobiography.

Literary Studies.

his time better. He then acquired that easy, familiar know-
ledge of terrestrial things — the vague and general informa-
tion of the superficies of all existence — the acquaintance
with life, business, hubbub, and rustling matter-of-fact, which
seem odd in the recluse of Olney — and enliven so effectually
the cucumbers of the " Task ". It has been said that at
times every man wishes to be a man of the world, and even
the most rigid critic must concede it to be nearly essential to
a writer on real life and actual manners. If a man has not
seen his brother, how can he describe him ? As this world
calls happiness and blamelessness, it is not easy to fancy a
life more happy — at least with more of the common elements
of happiness, or more blameless than those years of Cowper.
An easy temper, light fancies, — hardly as yet broken by
shades of melancholy brooding;— an enjoying habit, rich
humour, literary, but not pedantic companions, a large scene
of life and observation, polished acquaintance and attached
friends : these were his, and what has a light life more ? A
rough hero Cowper was not and never became, but he was
then, as ever, a quiet and tranquil gentleman. If De
Beranger's doctrine were true, " Le bonheur tient au savoir-
vivre," there were the materials of existence here. What,
indeed, would not De Beranger have made of them ?

One not unnatural result or accompaniment of such a life
was that Cowper fell in love. There were in those days two
young ladies, cousins of Cowper, residents in London, to one
of whom, the Lady Hesketh of after years, he once wrote : —
" My dear Cousin, — I wonder how it happened, that much
as I love you, I was never in love with you ". No similar
providence protected his intimacy with her sister. Theodora
Cowper, "one of the cousins with whom he and Thurlow
used to giggle and make giggle in Southampton Row," J was
a handsome and vigorous damsel. " What ! " said her
1 Southey, quoting a letter of Cowper to Lady Hesketh.

William Cowper. gg

father, " what will you do if you marry William Cowper? "
meaning, in the true parental spirit, to intrude mere pecuniary
ideas. " Do, sir!" she replied. "Wash all day, and ride out
on the great dog all night!" a spirited combination of
domestic industry and exterior excitement. It is doubtful,
however, whether either of these species of pastime and
occupation would have been exactly congenial to Cowper.
A gentle and refined indolence must have made him an
inferior washerman, and perhaps to accompany the canine
excursions of a wife "which clear-starched," would have
hardly seemed enough to satisfy his accomplished and placid
ambition. At any rate, it certainly does seem that he was
not a very vigorous lover. The young lady was, as he
himself oddly said : —

" Through tedious years of doubt and pain,
Fixed in her choice and faithful . . . but in vain ".

The poet does indeed partly allude to the parental scruples
of Mr. Cowper, her father ; but house-rent would not be so
high as it is, if fathers had their way. The profits of builders
are eminently dependent on the uncontrollable nature of the
best affections ; and that intelligent class of men have had a
table compiled from trustworthy data, in which the chances
of parental victory are rated at *oooooooooi, and those ot
the young people themselves at '999999999, — in fact, as
many nines as you can imagine. " It has been represented
to me," says the actuary, "that few young people ever
marry without some objection, more or less slight, on the
part of their parents ; and from a most laborious calculation,
from data collected in quarters both within and exterior to
the bills of mortality, I am led to believe that the above
figures represent the state of the case accurately enough to
form a safe guide for the pecuniary investments of the
gentlemen," etc., etc. It is not likely that Theodora Cowper

loo Literary Studies.

understood decimals, but she had a strong opinion in favour
of her cousin, and a great idea, if we rightly read the now
obscure annals of old times, that her father's objections
might pretty easily have been got over. In fact, we think
so even now, without any prejudice of affection, in our cool
and mature judgment. Mr. Cowper the aged had nothing
to say, except that the parties were cousins — a valuable
remark, which has been frequently repeated in similar cases,
but which has not been found to prevent a mass of matches
both then and since. Probably the old gentleman thought
the young gentleman by no means a working man, and
objected, believing that a small income can only be made
more by unremitting industry, — and the young gentleman,
admitting this horrid and abstract fact, and agreeing, though
perhaps tacitly, in his uncle's estimate of his personal pre-
dilections, did not object to being objected to. The nature
of Cowper was not, indeed, passionate. He required beyond
almost any man the daily society of amiable and cultivated
women. It is clear that he preferred such gentle excitement
to the rough and argumentative pleasures of more masculine
companionship. His easy and humorous nature loved and
learned from female detail. But he had no overwhelming
partiality for a particular individual. One refined lady, the
first moments of shyness over, was nearly as pleasing as
another refined lady. Disappointment sits easy on such a
mind. Perhaps, too, he feared the anxious duties, the
rather contentious tenderness of matrimonial existence. At
any rate, he acquiesced. Theodora never married. Love
did not, however, kill her— at least, if it did, it was a long
time at the task, as she survived these events more than
sixty years. She never, seemingly, forgot the past.

But a dark cloud was at hand. If there be any truly
painful fact about the world now tolerably well established
by ample experience and ample records, it is that an

William Cow per. . 101

intellectual and indolent happiness is wholly denied to the
children of men. That most valuable author, Lucretius,
who has supplied us and others with an inexhaustible supply
of metaphors on this topic, ever dwells on the life of his gods
with a sad and melancholy feeling that no such life was pos-
sible on a crude and cumbersome earth. In general, the two
opposing agencies are marriage and money ; either of these
breaks the lot of literary and refined inaction at once and for
ever. The first of these, as we have seen, Cowper had
escaped. His reserved and negligent reveries were still free,
at least from the invasion of affection. To this invasion,
indeed, there is commonly requisite the acquiescence or con-
nivance of mortality ; but all men are born, not free and
equal, as the Americans maintain, but, in the Old World at
least, basely subjected to the yoke of coin. It is in vain that
in this hemisphere we endeavour after impecuniary fancies.
In bold and eager youth we go out on our travels. We visit
Baalbec, and Paphos, and Tadmor, and Cythera, — ancient
shrines and ancient empires, seats of eager love or gentle
inspiration. We wander far and long. We have nothing
to do with our fellow-men. What are we, indeed, to diggers
and counters ? We wander far ; we dream to wander for
ever, but we dream in vain. A surer force than the subtlest
fascination of fancy is in operation. The purse-strings tie us
to our kind. Our travel-coin runs low, and we must return,
away from Tadmor and Baalbec back to our steady, tedious
industry and dull work, to " la vieille Europe (as Napoleon
said) qui m'ennuie ". It is the same in thought. In vain
we seclude ourselves in elegant chambers, in fascinating
fancies, in refined reflections. "By this time,'* says Cowper,
" my patrimony being nearly all spent, and there being no
appearance that I should ever repair the damage by a fortune
of my own getting, I began to be a little apprehensive of
approaching want." However little one is fit for it, it is

IO2 Literary Studies.

necessary to attack some drudgery. The vigorous and
sturdy rouse themselves to the work. They find in its
regular occupation, clear decisions, and stern perplexities,
a bold and rude compensation for the necessary loss or
diminution of light fancies and delicate musings, —

" The sights which youthful poets dream,
On summer eve by haunted stream "^

But it was not so with Cowper. A peculiar and slight
nature unfitted him for so rough and harsh a resolution.
The lion may eat straw like the ox, and the child put his
head on the cockatrice' den ; but will even then the light
antelope be equal to the heavy plough ? Will the gentle
gazelle, even in those days, pull the slow waggon of ordinary
occupation ?

The outward position of Cowper was, indeed, singularly
fortunate. Instead of having to meet the long labours of an
open profession, or the anxious decisions of a personal
business, he had the choice among several lucrative and
quiet public offices, in which very ordinary abilities would
suffice, and scarcely any degree of incapacity would entail
dismissal, or reprimand, or degradation. It seemed at first
scarcely possible that even the least strenuous of men should
be found unequal to duties so little arduous or exciting. He
has himself said —

" Lucrative offices are seldom lost
For want of powers proportioned to the post ;
Give e'en a dunce the employment he desires,
And he soon finds the talents it requires :
A business with an income at its heels,
Furnishes always oil for its own wheels ",z

The place he chose was called the Clerkship of the Journals
of the House of Lords, one of the many quiet haunts which

1 Milton: "L'Allegro". * " Retirement.

William Cowper. 103

then slumbered under the imposing shade of parliamentary
and aristocratic privilege. Yet the idea of it was more than
he could bear.

" In the beginning," he writes, " a strong opposition to my friend's
right of nomination began to show itself. A powerful party was formed
among the Lords to thwart it, in favour of an old enemy of the family,
though one much indebted to its bounty ; and it appeared plain that, if
we succeeded at last, it would only be by fighting our ground by inches.
Every advantage, as I was told, would be sought for, and eagerly seized,
to disconcert us. I was bid to expect an examination at the bar of the
House, touching my sufficiency for the post I had taken. Being neces-
sarily ignorant of the nature of that business, it became expedient that I
should visit the office daily, in order to qualify myself for the strictest
scrutiny. All the horror of my fears and perplexities now returned. A
thunderbolt would have been as welcome to me as this intelligence. I
knew, to demonstration, that upon these terms the clerkship of the
journals was no place for me. To require my attendance at the bar of
the House, that I might there publicly entitle myself to the office, was,
in effect, to exclude me from it. In the meantime, the interest of my
friend, the honour of his choice, my own reputation and circumstances,
all urged me forward ; all pressed me to undertake that which I saw to
be impracticable. They whose spirits are formed like mine, to whom a
public exhibition of themselves, on any occasion, is mortal poison, may
have some idea of the horrors of my situation ; others can have none.

" My continual misery at length brought on a nervous fever : quiet
forsook me by day, and peace by night ; a finger raised against me was
more than I could stand against. In this posture of mind, I attended
regularly at the office ; where, instead of a soul upon the rack, the most
active spirits were essentially necessary for my purpose. I expected no
assistance from anybody there., all the inferior clerks being under the
influence of my opponent ; and accordingly I received none. The
journal books were indeed thrown open to me — a thing which could not
be refused ; and from which, perhaps, a man in health, and with a head
turned to business, might have gained all the information he wanted ; but
it was not so with me. I read without perception, and was so distressed,
that, had every clerk in the office been my friend, it could have availed
me little ; for I was not in a condition to receive instruction, much less to
elicit it out of manuscripts, without direction. Many months went over
me thus employed ; constant in the use of means, despairing as to the
issue.**

104 Literary Studies.

As the time of trial drew near, his excitement rapidly
increased. A short excursion into the country was attended
with momentary benefit ; but as soon as he returned to town
he became immediately unfit for occupation, and as unsettled
as ever. He grew first to wish to become mad, next to
believe that he should become so, and only to be afraid that
the expected delirium might not come on soon enough to
prevent his appearance for examination before the Lords, — a
fear, the bare existence of which shows how slight a barrier
remained between him and the insanity which he fancied
that he longed for. He then began to contemplate suicide,
and not unnaturally called to mind a curious circumstance.

" I well recollect, too," he writes, " that when I was about eleven
years of age, my father desired me to read a vindication of self-murder,
and give him my sentiments upon the question : I did so, and argued
against it. My father heard my reasons, and was silent, neither approv-
ing nor disapproving; from whence I inferred that he sided with the
author against me ; though all the time, I believe, the true motive for his
conduct was, that he wanted, if he could, to think favourably of the state
of a departed friend, who had some years before destroyed himself, and
whose death had struck him with the deepest affliction. But this solution
of the matter never once occurred to me, and the circumstance now
weighed mightily with me."

And he made several attempts to execute his purpose, all
which are related in a " Narrative," which he drew up after
his recovery ; and of which the elaborate detail shows a
strange and most painful tendency to revive the slightest
circumstances of delusions which it would have been most
safe and most wholesome never to recall. The curiously
careful style, indeed, of the narration, as elegant as that of
the most flowing and felicitous letter, reminds one of nothing
so much as the studiously beautiful and compact handwriting
in which Rousseau used to narrate and describe the most
incoherent and indefinite of his personal delusions. On the
whole, nevertheless — for a long time, at lea'st — it does not

William Cowper. 105

seem that the life of Cowper was in real danger. The
hesitation and indeterminateness of nerve which rendered
him liable to these fancies, and unequal to ordinary action,
also prevented his carrying out these terrible visitations to
their rigorous and fearful consequences. At last, however,
there seems to have been possible, if not actual danger.

" Not one hesitating thought now remained, but I fell greedily to the
execution of my purpose. My garter was made of a broad piece of scar-
let binding, with a sliding buckle, being sewn together at the ends ; by
the help of the buckle I formed a noose, and fixed it about my neck,
straining it so tight that I hardly left a passage for my breath, or for the
blood to circulate ; the tongue of the buckle held it fast. At each corner
of the bed was placed a wreath of carved work, fastened by an iron pin,
which passed up through the midst of it : the other part of the garter,
which made a loop, I slipped over one of these, and hung by it some
seconds, drawing up my feet under me, that they might not touch the
floor ; but the iron bent, and the carved work slipped off, and the garter
with it. I then fastened it to the frame of the tester, winding it round,
and tying it in a strong knot. The frame broke short, and let me down
again.

" The third effort was more likely to succeed. I set the door open,
which reached within a foot of the ceiling ; by the help of a chair I could
command the top of it, and the loop being large enough to admit a large
angle of the door, was easily fixed so as not to slip off again. I pushed
away the chair with my feet, and hung at my whole length. While I
hung there, I distinctly heard a voice say three times, "TVs over!'
Though I am sure of the fact, and was so at the time, yet it did not at all
alarm me, or affect my resolution. I hung so long that I lost all sense,
all consciousness of existence.

" When I came to myself again, I thought myself in hell ; the sound
of my own dreadful groans was all that I heard, and a feeling like that
produced by a flash of lightning just beginning to seize upon me, passed
over my whole body. In a few seconds I found myself fallen on my face
to the floor. In about half a minute I recovered my feet : and, reeling
and staggering, tumbled into bed again.

" By the blessed providence of God, the garter which had held me
till the bitterness of temporal death was past, broke just before eternal
death had taken place upon me. The stagnation of the blood under one
eye, in a broad crimson spot, and a red circle round my neck, showed

io6 Literary Studies.

plainly that I had been on the brink of eternity. The latter, indeed,
might have been occasioned by the pressure of the garter, but the former
was certainly the effect of strangulation ; for it was not attended with the
sensation of a bruise, as it must have been, had I, in my fall, received one
in so tender a part. And I rather think the circle round my neck was
owing to the same cause ; for the part was not excoriated, not at all in
pain.

" Soon after I got into bed, I was surprised to hear a noise in the
dining-room, where the laundress was lighting a fire ; she had found the
door unbolted, notwithstanding my design to fasten it, and must have
passed the bed-chamber door while I was hanging on it, and yet never
perceived me. She heard me fall, and presently came to ask me if I was
well ; adding, she feared I had been in a fit.

" I sent her to a friend, to whom I related the whole affair, and
dispatched him to my kinsman at the coffee-house. As soon as the latter
arrived, I pointed to the broken garter, which lay in the middle of the
room, and apprised him also of the attempt I had been making. His
words were : ' My dear Mr. Cowper, you terrify me ! To be sure you
cannot hold the office at this rate, — where is the deputation ? ' I gave
him the key of the drawer where it was deposited ; and his business
requiring his immediate attendance, he took it away with him ; and thus
ended all my connection with the Parliament office."

It must have been a strange scene ; for, so far as appears,
the outward manners of Cowper had undergone no remark-
able change. There was always a mild composure about
them, which would have deceived any but the most experienced
observer; and it is probable that Major Cowper, his "kinsman "
and intimate friend, had very little or no suspicion of the
conflict which was raging beneath his tranquil and accom-
plished exterior. What a contrast is the " broad piece of
scarlet binding" and the red circle, " showing plainly that I
had been on the brink of eternity," tc the daily life of the
easy gentleman " who contributed some essays to the
St. James's Magazine, and more than one to the St. James's
Chronicle," living " soft years " on a smooth superficies of
existence, away from the dark realities which are, as it were,
the skeleton of our life,— which seem to haunt us like a

William Cowper. 107

death's head throughout the narrative that has been
quoted !

It was doubtless the notion of Cowper's friends, that
when all idea of an examination before the Lords was
removed, by the abandonment of his nomination to the office
in question, the excitement which that idea had called forth
would very soon pass away. But that notion was an error.
A far more complicated state of mind ensued. If we may
advance a theory on a most difficult as well as painful topic,
we would say that religion is very rarely the proximate or
impulsive cause of madness. The real and ultimate cause
(as we speak) is of course that unknown something which
we variously call pre-disposition, or malady, or defect. But
the critical and exciting cause seems generally to be some
comparatively trivial external occasion, which falls within
the necessary lot and life of the person who becomes mad.
The inherent excitability is usually awakened by some petty
casual stimulant, which looks positively not worth a thought —
certainly a terribly slight agent for the wreck and havoc
which it makes. The constitution of the human mind is
such, that the great general questions, problems, and diffi-
culties of our state of being are not commonly capable of
producing that result. They appear to lie too far in the
distance, to require too great a stretch of imagination, to be
too apt (for the very weakness of our minds' sake, perhaps)
to be thrust out of view by the trivial occurrences of this
desultory world, — to be too impersonal, in truth, to cause the
exclusive, anxious, aching occupation which is the common
prelude and occasion of insanity. Afterwards, on the other
hand, when the wound is once struck, when the petty
circumstance has been allowed to work its awful consequence,
religion very frequently becomes the predominating topic of
delusion. It would seem as if, when the mind was once set
apart by the natural consequences of the disease, and secluded

io8 Literary Studies.

from the usual occupations of, and customary contact with,
other minds, it searched about through all the universe for
causes of trouble and anguish. A certain pain probably
exists ; and even in insanity, man is so far a rational being
that he seeks and craves at least the outside and semblance
of a reason for a suffering, which is really and truly without
reason. Something must be found to justify its anguish to
itself. And naturally the great difficulties inherent in the
very position of man in this world, and trying so deeply the
faith and firmness of the wariest and wisest minds, are ever
ready to presentplausible justifications or causeless depression.
An anxious melancholy is not without very perplexing
sophisms and very painful illustrations, with which a morbid
mind can obtain not only a fair logical position, but even
apparent argumentative victories, on many points, over the
more hardy part of mankind. The acuteness of madness soon
uses these in its own wretched and terrible justification. No
originality of mind is necessary for so doing. Great and
terrible systems of divinity and philosophy lie round about
us, which, if true, might drive a wise man mad — which read
like professed exculpations of a contemplated insanity.

" To this moment," writes Cowper, immediately after the
passage which has been quoted, " I had felt no concern of a
spiritual kind." But now a conviction fell upon him that he
was eternally lost. " All my worldly sorrows," he says,
" seemed as if they had never been ; the terrors which
succeeded them seemed so great and so much more afflicting.
One moment I thought myself expressly excluded by one
chapter ; next by another." He thought the curse of the
barren fig-tree was pronounced with an especial and designed
reference to him. All day long these thoughts followed him.
He lived nearly alone, and his friends were either unaware of
the extreme degree to which his mind was excited, or unalive
to the possible alleviation with which new scenes and cheerful

William Cowper. log

society might have been attended. He fancied the people in
the street stared at and despised him — that ballads were
made in ridicule of him — that the voice of his conscience was
eternally audible. He then bethought him of a Mr. Madan,
an evangelical minister, at that time held in much estimation,
but who afterwards fell into disrepute by the publication of a
work on marriage and its obligations (or rather its wow-
obligations), which Cowper has commented on in a con-
troversial poem. That gentleman visited Cowper at his
request, and began to explain to him the gospel.

" He spoke," says Cowper, " of original sin, and the corruption of
every man born into the world, whereby every one is a child of wrath.
I perceived something like hope dawning in my heart. This doctrine
set me more on a level with the rest of mankind, and made my condi-
tion appear less desperate.

" Next he insisted on the all-atoning efficacy of the blood of Jesus,
and His righteousness, for our justification. While I heard this part
of his discourse, and the Scriptures on which he founded it, my heart
began to burn within me ; my soul was pierced with a sense of my
bitter ingratitude to so merciful a Saviour ; and those tears, which I
thought impossible, burst forth freely. I saw clearly that my case re-
quired such a remedy, and had not the least doubt within me but that
this was the gospel of salvation.

" Lastly, he urged the necessity of a lively faith in Jesus Christ ;
not an assent only of the understanding, but a faith of application, an
actually laying hold of it, and embracing it as a salvation wrought out
for me personally. Here I failed, and deplored my want of such a
faith. He told me it was the gift of God, which he trusted He would
bestow upon me. I could only reply, ' I wish He would ' : a very
irreverent petition, but a very sincere one, and such as the blessed God,
in His due time, was pleased to answer."

It does not appear that previous to this conversation he
had ever distinctly realised the tenets which were afterwards
to have so much influence over him. For the moment they
produced a good effect, but in a few hours their novelty was
over — the dark hour returned, and he awoke from slumber

VOL. I. 12

lio Literary Studies.

with a "stronger alienation from God than ever". The
tenacity with which the mind in moments of excitement
appropriates and retains very abstract tenets, that bear even
in a slight degree on the topic of its excitement, is as remark-
able as the facility and accuracy with which it apprehends
them in the midst of so great a tumult. Many changes and
many years rolled over Cowper — years of black and darl<
depression, years of tranquil society, of genial labour, of
literary fame, but never in the lightest or darkest hour was
he wholly unconscious of the abstract creed of Martin
Madan. At the time indeed, the body had its rights, and
maintained them.

" While I traversed the apartment, expecting every moment that
the earth would open her mouth and swallow me, my conscience scaring
me, and the city of refuge out of reach and out of sight, a strange and
horrible darkness fell upon me. If it were possible that a heavy blow
could light on the brain without touching the skull, such was the sensa-
tion I felt. I clapped my hand to my forehead, and cried aloud, through
the pain it gave me. At every stroke my thoughts and expressions
became more wild and incoherent ; all that remained clear was the sense
of sin, and the expectation of punishment. These kept undisturbed
possession all through my illness, without interruption or abatement."

It is idle to follow details further. The deep waters had
passed over him, and it was long before the face of his mind
was dry or green again.

He was placed in a lunatic asylum, where he continued
many months, and which he left apparently cured. After
some changes of no moment, but which by his own account
evinced many traces of dangerous excitement, he took up his
abode at Huntingdon, with the family of Unwin ; and it is
remarkable how soon the taste for easy and simple, yet not
wholly unintellectual society, which had formerly character-
ised him, revived again. The delineation cannot be given in
any terms but his own : —

William Cowpcr. in

" We breakfast commonly between eight and nine ; till eleven, we
read either the Scripture, or the sermons of some faithful preacher oi
these holy mysteries ; at eleven we attend divine service, which is per-
formed here twice every day ; and from twelve to three we separate, and
amuse ourselves as we please. During that interval, I either read, in my
own apartment, or walk, or ride, or work in the garden. We seldom sit
an hour after dinner, but if the weather permits, adjourn to the garden,
where, with Mrs. Unwin and her son, I have generally the pleasure of
religious conversation till tea-time. If it rains, or is too windy for
walking, we either converse within doors, or sing some hymns of
Martin's collection, and by the help of Mrs. Unwin's harpsichord, make
up a tolerable concert, in which our hearts, I hope, are the best and most
musical performers. After tea we sally forth to walk in good earnest.
Mrs. Unwin is a good walker, and we have generally travelled about four
miles before we see home again. When the days are short, we make this
excursion in the former part of the day, between church time and dinner.
At night we read, and converse, as before, till supper, and commonly
finish the evening either with hymns, or a sermon, and last of all the
family are called to prayers. I need not tell you, that such a life as this
is consistent with the utmost cheerfulness ; accordingly we are all happy,
and dwell together in unity as brethren. Mrs. Unwin has almost a
maternal affection for me, and I have something very like a filial one for
her, and her son and I are brothers. Blessed be the God of our salvation
for such companions, and for such a life— above all, for a heart to like
it." »

The scene was not however to last as it was. Mr.
Unwin, the husband of Mrs. Unwin, was suddenly killed
soon after, and Cowper removed with Mrs. Unwin to Olney,
where a new epoch of his life begins.

The curate of Olney at this time was John Newton, a
man of great energy of mind, and well known in his genera-
tion for several vigorous books, and still more for a very
remarkable life. He had been captain of a Liverpool slave
ship — an occupation in which he had quite energy enough to
have succeeded, but was deeply influenced by serious motives,
and became one of the strongest and most active of the Low

1 Letter to Mrs. Cowper, zoth October, 1766.

H2 Literary Studies.

Church clergymen of that day. He was one of those men
who seem intended to make excellence disagreeable. He
was a converting engine. The whole of his own enormous
vigour of body — the whole steady intensity of a pushing,
impelling, compelling, unoriginal mind — all the mental or
corporeal exertion he could exact from the weak or elicit from
the strong, were devoted to one sole purpose — the effectual
impact of the Calvinistic tenets on the parishioners of Olney.
Nor would we hint that his exertions were at all useless.
There is no denying that there is a certain stiff, tough,
agricultural, clayish English nature, on which the aggressive
divine produces a visible and good effect. The hardest and
heaviest hammering seems required to stir and warm that
close and coarse matter. To impress any sense of the super-
natural on so secular a substance is a great good, though
that sense be expressed in false or irritating theories. It is
unpleasant, no doubt, to hear the hammering ; the bystanders
are in an evil case ; you might as well live near an iron-ship
yard. Still, the blows do not hurt the iron. Something of
the sort is necessary to beat the coarse ore into a shining and
useful shape ; certainly that does so beat it. But the case is
different when the hundred-handed divine desires to hit
others. The very system which, on account of its hard
blows, is adapted to the tough and ungentle, is by that very
reason unfit for the tremulous and tender. The nature of
many men and many women is such that it will not bear the
daily and incessant repetition of some certain and indisput-
able truths. The universe has of course its dark aspect.
Many tremendous facts and difficulties can be found which
often haunt the timid and sometimes incapacitate the feeble.
To be continually insisting on these, and these only, will
simply render both more and more unfit for the duties to
which they were born. And if this is the case with certain
fact and clear truth, how much more with uncertain error

William Cowper. 113

and mystic exaggeration ! Mr. Newton was alive to the
consequences of his system : " I believe my name is up
about the country for preaching people mad ; for whether it
is owing to the sedentary life women lead here, etc. etc., I
suppose we have near a dozen in different degrees dis-
ordered in their heads, and most of them, I believe, truly
gracious people M.1 He perhaps found his peculiar views
more generally appreciated among this class of young ladies
than among more healthy and rational people, and clearly
did not wholly condemn the delivering them, even at this
cost, from the tyranny of the " carnal reason ".

No more dangerous adviser, if this world had been
searched over, could have been found for Cowper. What
the latter required was prompt encouragement to cheerful
occupation, quiet amusement, gentle and unexhausting
society. Mr. Newton thought otherwise. His favourite
motto was Perimus in licitis. The simple round of daily
pleasures and genial employments which give instinctive
happiness to the happiest natures, and best cheer the
common life of common men, was studiously watched and
scrutinised with the energy of a Puritan and the watchful-
ness of an inquisitor. Mr. Newton had all the tastes and
habits which go to form what in the Catholic system is
called a spiritual director. Of late years it is well known
that the institution, or rather practice, of confession, has
expanded into a more potent and more imperious organisa-
tion. You are expected by the priests of the Roman
Church not only to confess to them what you have done,
but to take their advice as to what you shall do. The
future is under their direction, as the past was beneath
their scrutiny. This was exactly the view which Mr. Newton
took of his relation to Cowper. A natural aptitude for dicta-
tion— a steady, strong, compelling decision, — great self-
1 Letter to Thornton.

H4 Literary Studies.

command, and a sharp perception of all impressible points
in the characters of others, — made the task of guiding
" weaker brethren " a natural and pleasant pursuit. To sup-
pose that a shrinking, a wounded, and tremulous mind, like
that of Cowper's, would rise against such bold dogmatism,
such hard volition, such animal nerve, is to fancy that the
beaten slave will dare the lash which his very eyes in-
stinctively fear and shun. Mr. Newton's great idea was that
Cowper ought to be of some use. There was a great deal
of excellent hammering hammered in the parish, and it was
sinful that a man with nothing to do should sit tranquil.
Several persons in the street had done what they ought not ;
football was not unknown ; cards were played ; flirtation was
not conducted " improvingly ". It was clearly Cowper's duty
to put a stop to such things. Accordingly he made him a
parochial implement ; he set him to visit painful cases, to
attend at prayer-meetings, to compose melancholy hymns,
even to conduct or share in conducting public services him-
self. It never seems to have occurred to him that so fragile
a mind would be unequal to the burden — that a bruised reed
does often break ; or rather, if it did occur to him, he regarded
it as a subterranean suggestion, and expected a supernatural
interference to counteract the events at which it hinted. Yet
there are certain rules and principles in this world which
seem earthly, but which the most excellent may not on that
account venture to disregard. The consequence of placing
Cowper in exciting situations was a return of his excitement.
It is painful to observe, that though the attack resembled in
all its main features his former one, several months passed
before Mr. Newton would permit any proper physical
remedies to be applied, and then it was too late. We need
not again recount details. Many months of dark despond-
ency were to be passed before he returned to a simple and
rational mind.

William Cowper. 115

The truth is, that independently of the personal activity
and dauntless energy which made Mr. Newton so little likely
to sympathise with such a mind as Cowper's, the former lay
under a still more dangerous disqualification for Cowper's
predominant adviser, viz., an erroneous view of his case.
His opinion exactly coincided with that which Cowper first
heard from Mr. Madan during his first illness in London.
This view is in substance that the depression which Cowper
originally suffered from was exactly what almost all man-
kind, if they had been rightly aware of their true condition,
would have suffered also. They were " children of wrath,"
just as he was ; and the only difference between them was,
that he appreciated his state and they did not, — showing, in
fact, that Cowper was not, as common persons imagined, on
the extreme verge of insanity, but, on the contrary, a particu-
larly rational and right-seeing man. " So far/' Cowper says,
with one of the painful smiles which make his " Narrative "
so melancholy, "my condition was less desperate." That
is, his counsellors had persuaded him that his malady was
rational, and his sufferings befitting his true position, — no
difficult task, for they had the poignancy of pain and the
pertinacity of madness on their side : the efficacy of their
arguments was less when they endeavoured to make known
the sources of consolation. We have seen the immediate
effect of the first exposition of the evangelical theory of
faith. When applied to the case of the morbidly-despairing
sinner, that theory has one argumentative imperfection which
the logical sharpness of madness will soon discover and point
out. The simple reply is : "I do not feel the faith which you
describe. I wish I could feel it ; but it is no use trying to
conceal the fact, I am conscious of nothing like it." And
this was substantially Cowper's reply on his first interview
with Mr. Madan. It was a simple denial of a fact solely
accessible to his personal consciousness; and, as such, un-

Ii6 Literary Studies.

answerable. And in this intellectual position (if such it can
be called) his mind long rested. At the commencement of
his residence at Olney, however, there was a decided change.
Whether it were that he mistook the glow of physical re-
covery for the peace of spiritual renovation, or that some
subtler and deeper agency was, as he supposed, at work, the
outward sign is certain ; and there is no question but that
during the first months of his residence at Olney, and his
daily intercourse with Mr. Newton, he did feel, or supposed
himself to feel, the faith which he was instructed to deem
desirable, and he lent himself with natural pleasure to the
diffusion of it among those around him. But this theory of
salvation requires a metaphysical postulate, which to many
minds is simply impossible. A prolonged meditation on un-
seen realities is sufficiently difficult, and seems scarcely the
occupation for which common human nature was intended ;
but more than this is said to be essential. The medi-
tation must be successful in exciting certain feelings of a
kind peculiarly delicate, subtle, and (so to speak) unstable.
The wind bloweth where it listeth ; but it is scarcely more
partial, more quick, more unaccountable, than the glow of
an emotion excited by a supernatural and unseen object.
This depends on the vigour of imagination which has to
conceive that object — on the vivacity of feeling which has to
be quickened by it — on the physical energy which has to
support it. The very watchfulness, the scrupulous anxiety
to find and retain the feeling, are exactly the most unfavour-
able to it. In a delicate disposition like that of Cowper,
such feelings revolt from the inquisition of others, and
shrink from the stare of the mind itself. But even this
was not the worst. The mind of Cowper was, so to speak,
naturally terrestrial. If a man wishes for a nice appreciation
of the details of time and sense, let him consult Cowper's
miscellaneous letters. Each simple event of every day — each

William Cowper. 117

petty object of external observation or inward suggestion, is
there chronicled with a fine and female fondness, a wise and
happy faculty, let us say, of deriving a gentle happiness from
the tranquil and passing hour. The fortunes of the hares —
Bess who died young, and Tiney who lived to be nine years
old — the miller who engaged their affections at once, his
powdered coat having charms that were irresistible — the
knitting-needles of Mrs. Unwin — the qualities] of his friend
Hill, who managed his money transactions —

" An honest man, close buttoned to the chin,
Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within " —

live in his pages, and were the natural, insensible, un-
biassed occupants of his fancy. It is easy for a firm and
hard mind to despise the minutiae of life, and to pore and
brood over an abstract proposition. It may be possible for
the highest, the strongest, the most arduous imagination to
live aloof from common things — alone with the unseen world,
as some have lived their whole lives in memory with a world
which has passed away. But it seems hardly possible that
an imagination such as Cowper's — which was rather a de-
tective fancy, perceiving the charm and essence of things
which are seen, than an eager, actuating, conceptive power,
embodying, enlivening, empowering those which are not
seen — should leave its own home — the domus et tellus — the
sweet fields and rare orchards which it loved, — and go out
alone apart from all flesh into the trackless and fearful and
unknown Infinite. Of course, his timid mind shrank from it
at once, and returned to its own fireside. After a little, the
idea that he had a true faith faded away. Mr. Newton, with
misdirected zeal, sought to revive it by inciting him to devo-
tional composition ; but the only result was the volume of
" Oiney Hymns" — a very painful record, of which the
burthen

n8 Literary Studies.

" My former hopes are fled,
My terror now begins ;
I feel, alas ! that I am dead
In trespasses and sins.

« And whither shall I fly ?

I hear the thunder roar ;
The law proclaims destruction nigh,
And vengeance at the door."

"The Preacher'' himself did not conceive such a store of
melancholy forebodings.

The truth is, that there are two remarkable species of
minds on which the doctrine of Calvinism acts as a deadly
and fatal poison. One is the natural, vigorous, bold,
defiant, hero-like character, abounding in generosity, in
valour, in vigour, and abounding also in self-will, and pride,
and scorn. This is the temperament which supplies the
world with ardent hopes and keen fancies, with springing
energies, and bold plans, and noble exploits ; but yet, under
another aspect and in other times, is equally prompt in
desperate deeds, awful machinations, deep and daring
crimes. It one day is ready by its innate heroism to
deliver the world from any tyranny ; the next it " hungers
to become a tyrant" in its turn. Yet the words of the poet
are ever true and are ever good, as a defence against the
cold narrators who mingle its misdeeds and exploits, and
profess to believe that each is a set-off and compensation for
the other. You can ever say : —

" Still he retained,

'Mid much abasement, what he had received
From Nature, an intense and glowing mind ". *

It is idle to tell such a mind that, by an arbitrary irre-
spective election, it is chosen to happiness or doomed to

1 Wordsworth : Excursion, book i.

William Cowper. 119

perdition. The evil and the good in it equally revolt at
such terms. It thinks: "Well, if the universe be a tyrant,
if one man is doomed to misery for no fault, and the next is
chosen to pleasure for no merit — if the favouritism of time
be copied into eternity — if the highest heaven be indeed like
the meanest earth, — then, as the heathen say, it is better to
suffer injustice than to inflict it, better to be the victims of
the eternal despotism than its ministers, better to curse in
hell than serve in heaven". And the whole burning soul
breaks away into what is well called Satanism — into wildness,
and bitterness, and contempt.

Cowper had as little in common with this proud, Titanic,
aspiring genius as any man has or can have, but his mind
was equally injured by the same system. On a timid,
lounging, gentle, acquiescent mind, the effect is precisely the
contrary — singularly contrasted, but equally calamitous. " I
am doomed, you tell me, already. One way or other the
matter is already settled. It can be no better, and it is as
bad as it can be. Let me alone ; do not trouble me at least
these few years. Let me at least sit sadly and bewail myself.
Action is useless. I will brood upon my melancholy and be
at rest ; " the soul sinks into " passionless calm and silence
unreproved," l flinging away " the passionate tumult of a
clinging hope," a which is the allotted boon and happiness of
mortality. It was, as we believe, straight towards this terrible
state that Mr. Newton directed Cowper. He kept him
occupied with subjects which were too great for him ; he
kept him away from his natural life ; he presented to him
views and opinions but too well justifying his deep and dark
insanity; he convinced him that he ought to experience
emotions which were foreign to his nature ; he had nothing
to add by way of comfort, when told that those emotions did
not and could not exist. Cowper seems to have felt this.
1 Shelley : " The Sunset ". 2 Ibid. : " Alastor ".

I2o Literary Studies.

His second illness commenced with a strong dislike to his
spiritual adviser, and it may be doubted if there ever was
again the same cordiality between them. Mr. Newton, too,
as was natural, was vexed at Cowper's calamity. His
reputation in the " religious world " was deeply pledged to
conducting this most " interesting case " to a favourable
termination. A failure was not to be contemplated, and yet
it was obviously coming and coming. It was to no purpose
that Cowper acquired fame and secular glory in the literary
world. This was rather adding gall to bitterness. The
unbelievers in evangelical religion would be able to point to
one at least, and that the best known among its proselytes,
to whom it had not brought peace — whom it had rather con-
firmed in wretchedness. His literary fame, too, took Cowper
away into a larger circle, out of the rigid decrees and narrow
ordinances of his father-confessor, and of course the latter
remonstrated. Altogether there was not a cessation, but a
decline and diminution of intercourse. But better, accord-
ing to the saying, had they " never met or never parted ". 1
If a man is to have a father-confessor, let him at least choose
a sensible one. The dominion of Mr. Newton had been
exercised, not indeed with mildness, or wisdom, or discrimina-
tion, but, nevertheless, with strong judgment and coarse
acumen — with a bad choice of ends, but at least a vigorous
selection of means. Afterwards it was otherwise. In the
village of Olney there was a schoolmaster, whose name often
occurs in Cowper's letters, — a foolish, vain, worthy sort of
man : what the people of the west call a " scholard," that is,
a man of more knowledge and less sense than those about
him. He sometimes came to Cowper to beg old clothes,
sometimes to instruct him with literary criticisms, and is
known in the " Correspondence " as " Mr. Teedon, who reads
the Monthly Review ," " Mr. Teedon, whose smile is fame ".
1 Burns : " Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ".

William Cowper. 121

Yet to this man, whose harmless follies his humour had
played with a thousand times, Cowper, in his later years, and
when the dominion of Mr. Newton had so far ceased as to
leave him, after many years, the use of his own judgment,
resorted for counsel and guidance. And the man had visions,
and dreams, and revelations ! But enough of such matters.

The peculiarity of Cowper's life is its division into marked
periods. From his birth to his first illness he may be said
to have lived in one world, and for some twenty years after-
wards, from his thirty-second to about his fiftieth year, in a
wholly distinct one. Much of the latter time was spent in
hopeless despondency. His principal companions during
that period were Mr. Newton, about whom we have been
writing, and Mrs. Unwin, who may be said to have broken
the charmed circle of seclusion in which they lived by inciting
Cowper to continuous literary composition. Of Mrs. Unwin
herself ample memorials remain. She was, in truth, a most
excellent person — in mind and years much older than the
poet — as it were by profession elderly, able in every species of
preserve, profound in salts, and pans, and jellies ; culinary by
taste ; by tact and instinct motherly and housewifish. She
was not however without some less larderiferous qualities.
Lady Hesketh and Lady Austen, neither of them very
favourably prejudiced critics, decided so. The former has
written : " She is very far from grave ; on the contrary, she
is cheerful and gay, and laughs de bon cosur upon the smallest
provocation. Amidst all the little puritanical words which
fall from her de terns en terns, she seems to have by nature
a great fund of gaiety. ... I must say, too, that she
seems to be very well read in the English poets, as appears
by several little quotations which she makes from time to
time, and has a true taste for what is excellent in that way."
This she showed by persuading Cowper to the composition
of his first volume.

122 Literary Studies.

As a poet, Cowper belongs, though with some differences,
to the school of Pope. Great question, as is well known,
has been raised whether that very accomplished writer was
a poet at all ; and a secondary and equally debated question
runs side by side, whether, if a poet, he were a great one.
With the peculiar genius and personal rank of Pope we have
in this article nothing to do. But this much may be safely
said, that according to the definition which has been ven-
tured of the poetical art, by the greatest and most accom-
plished master of the other school, his works are delicately
finished specimens of artistic excellence in one branch of it.
" Poetry," says Shelley, who was surely a good judge, " is
the expression of the imagination,"1 by which he meant, of
course, not only the expression of the interior sensations
accompanying the faculty's employment, but likewise, and
more emphatically, the exercise of it in the delineation of
objects which attract it. Now society, viewed as a whole,
is clearly one of those objects. There is a vast assemblage
of human beings, of all nations, tongues, and languages,
each with ideas, and a personality and a cleaving mark of
its own, yet each having somewhat that resembles some-
thing of all, much that resembles a part of many — a motley
regiment, of various forms, of a million impulses, passions,
thoughts, fancies, motives, actions; a "many-headed mon-
ster thing " ; 2 a Bashi Bazouk array ; a clown to be laughed
at; a hydra to be spoken evil of; yet, in fine, our all — the
very people of the whole earth. There is nothing in nature
more attractive to the fancy than this great spectacle and
congregation. Since Herodotus went to and fro to the best
of his ability over all the earth, the spectacle of civilisation
has ever drawn to itself the quick eyes and quick tongues of
seeing and roving men. Not only, says Goethe, is man
ever interesting to man, but "properly there is nothing else
1 Defence of Poetry. * Lady of the Lake, canto vi.

William Cowper. 123

interesting". There is a distinct subject for poetry — at least
according to Shelley's definition — in selecting and working
out, in idealising, in combining, in purifying, in intensifying
the great features and peculiarities which make society, as a
whole, interesting, remarkable, fancy-taking. No doubt it
is not the object of poetry to versify the works of the eminent
narrators, " to prose," according to a disrespectful descrip-
tion, " o'er books of travelled seamen," to chill you with
didactic icebergs, to heat you with torrid sonnets. The diffi-
culty of reading such local narratives is now great — so great
that a gentleman in the reviewing department once wished
" one man would go everywhere and say everything," in
order that the limit of his labour at least might be settled
and defined. And it would certainly be much worse if palm-
trees were of course to be in rhyme, and the dinner of the
migrator only recountable in blank verse. We do not wish
this. We only maintain that there are certain principles,
causes, passions, affections, acting on and influencing com-
munities at large, permeating their life, ruling their principles,
directing their history, working as a subtle and wandering
principle over all their existence. These have a somewhat
abstract character, as compared with the soft ideals and
passionate incarnations of purely individual character, and
seem dull beside the stirring lays of eventful times in which
the earlier and bolder poets delight. Another cause co-
operates. The tendency of civilisation is to pare away the
oddness and license of personal character, and to leave a
monotonous agreeableness as the sole trait and comfort of
mankind. This obviously tends to increase the efficacy of
general principles, to bring to view the daily efficacy of con-
stant causes, to suggest the hidden agency of subtle ab-
stractions. Accordingly, as civilisation augments and philo-
sophy grows, we commonly find a school of "common-sense"
poets, as they may be called, arise and develop, who proceed

Literary Studies.

to depict what they see around them, to describe its natura
naturans, to delineate its natura naturata, to evolve produc-
tive agencies, to teach subtle ramifications. Complete, as
the most characteristic specimen of this class of poets, stands
Pope. He was, some one we think has said, the sort of
person we cannot even conceive existing in a barbarous age.
His subject was not life at large, but fashionable life. He
described the society in which he was thrown — the people
among whom he lived. His mind was a hoard of small
maxims, a quintessence of petty observations. When he
described character, he described it, not dramatically, nor as
it is in itself; but observantly and from without, calling up
in the mind not so much a vivid conception of the man, of
the real, corporeal, substantial being, as an idea of the idea
which a metaphysical bystander might refine and excruciate
concerning him. Society in Pope is scarcely a society of
people, but of pretty little atoms, coloured and painted with
hoops or in coats — a miniature of metaphysics, a puppet-
show of sylphs. He elucidates the doctrine, that the tendency
of civilised poetry is towards an analytic sketch of the exist-
ing civilisation. Nor is the effect diminished by the pervading
character of keen judgment and minute intrusive sagacity;
for no great painter of English life can be without a rough
sizing of strong sense, or he would fail from want of sym-
pathy with his subject. Pope exemplifies the class and type
of "common-sense" poets who substitute an animated "cata-
logue raisonne " of working thoughts and operative principles
— a sketch of the then present society, as a whole and as
an object, for the K\ea avSpwv the tale of which is one subject
of early verse, and the stage effect of living, loving, passion-
ate, impetuous men and women, which is the special topic
of another.

What Pope is to our fashionable and town life, Cowper
is to our domestic and rural life. This is perhaps the reason

William Cowper. 125

why he is so national. It has been said no foreigner can
live in the country. We doubt whether any people, who felt
their whole heart and entire exclusive breath of their exist-
ence to be concentrated in a great capital, could or would
appreciate such intensely provincial pictures as are the entire
scope of Cowper's delineation. A good many imaginative
persons are really plagued with him. Everything is so com-
fortable; the tea-urn hisses so plainly, the toast is so warm,
the breakfast so neat, the food so edible, that one turns away,
in excitable moments, a little angrily from anything so quiet,
tame, and sober. Have we not always hated this life? What
can be worse than regular meals, clock-moving servants, a
time for everything, and everything then done, a place for
everything, without the Irish alleviation — " Sure, and I'm
rejiced to say, that's jist and exactly where it isn't," a com-
mon gardener, a slow parson, a heavy assortment of near
relations, a placid house flowing with milk and sugar — all
that the fates can stuff together of substantial comfort, and
fed and fatted monotony? Aspiring and excitable youth
stoutly maintains it can endure anything much better than
the " gross fog Boeotian " — the torpid, in-door, tea-tabular
felicity. Still a great deal of tea is really consumed in the
English nation. A settled and practical people are distinctly
in favour of heavy relaxations, placid prolixities, slow com-
forts. A state between the mind and the body, something
intermediate half-way from the newspaper to a nap — this is
what we may call the middle-life theory of the influential
English gentleman — the true aspiration of the ruler of the

world.

" Tis then the understanding takes repose
In indolent vacuity of thought,
And sleeps and is refreshed. Meanwhile the face
Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask
Of deep deliberation." *

1 " The Task."
VOL. I. 13

126 Literary Studies.

It is these in-door scenes, this common world, this gentle
round of " calm delights," the trivial course of slowly-moving
pleasures, the petty detail of quiet relaxation, that Cowper
excels in. The post-boy, the winter's evening, the news-
paper, the knitting needles, the stockings, the waggon —
these are his subjects. His sure popularity arises from his
having held up to the English people exact delineations of
what they really prefer. Perhaps one person in four hundred
understands Wordsworth, about one in eight thousand may
appreciate Shelley, but there is no expressing the small
fraction who do not love dulness, who do not enter into —

" Home-born happiness,
Fireside enjoyments, intimate delights,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted evening know ". l

His objection to the more exciting and fashionable
pleasures was perhaps, in an extreme analysis, that they
put him out. They were too great a task for his energies —
asked too much for his spirits. His comments on them
rather remind us of Mr. Rushworth's — Miss Austen's heavy
hero— remark on the theatre : " I think we went on much
better by ourselves before this was thought of, doing, doing,
doing nothing ".a

The subject of these pictures, in point of interest, may be
what we choose to think it, but there is no denying great
merit to the execution. The sketches have the highest
merit— suitableness of style. It would be absurd to describe
a post-boy as a sonneteer his mistress — to cover his plain
face with fine similes— to put forward the " brow of Egypt "
—to stick metaphors upon him, as the Americans upon
General Washington. The only merit such topics have
room for is an easy and dextrous plainness— a sober suit of
1 " The Task." 2 Mansfield Park, chap. xix.

William Cowper. 127

well-fitting expressions — a free, working, flowing, picturesque
garb of words adapted to the solid conduct of a sound and
serious world, and this merit Cowper's style has. On the
other hand, it entirely wants the higher and rarer excellences
of poetical expression. There is none of the choice art which
has studiously selected the words of one class of great poets,
or the rare, untaught, unteachable felicity which has vivified
those of others. No one, in reading Cowper, stops as if to
draw his breath more deeply over words which do not so
much express or clothe poetical ideas, as seem to intertwine,
coalesce, and be blended with, the very essence of poetry
itself.

Of course a poet could not deal in any measure with such
subjects as Cowper dealt with, and not become inevitably, to
a certain extent, satirical. The ludicrous is in some sort the
imagination of common life. The " dreary intercourse "* of
which Wordsworth makes mention, would be dreary, unless
some people possessed more than he did the faculty of
making fun. A universe in which Dignity No. I conversed
decorously with Dignity No. II. on topics befitting their
state, would be perhaps a levee of great intellects and a tea-
table of enormous thoughts ; but it would want the best
charm of this earth — the medley of great things and little, of
things mundane and things celestial, things low and things
awful, of things eternal and things of half a minute. It is
in this contrast that humour and satire have their place —
pointing out the intense unspeakable incongruity of the
groups and juxtapositions of our world. To all of these
which fell under his own eye, Cowper was alive. A gentle
sense of propriety and consistency in daily things was
evidently characteristic of him ; and if he fail of the highest
success in this species of art, it is not from an imperfect
treatment of the scenes and conceptions which he touched,

»"Tintern Abbey."

128 Literary Studies.

but from the fact that the follies with which he deals are not
the greatest follies — that there are deeper absurdities in
human life than "John Gilpin" touches upon — that the super-
ficial occurrences of ludicrous life do not exhaust, or even
deeply test, the mirthful resources of our minds and fortunes.

As a scold, we think Cowper failed. He had a great idea
of the use of railing, and there are many pages of laudable
invective against various vices which we feel no call what-
ever to defend. But a great vituperator had need to be a
hater ; and of any, real rage, any such gall and bitterness as
great and irritable satirists have in other ages let loose upon
men, of any thorough, brooding, burning, abiding detestation,
he was as incapable as a tame hare. His vituperation reads
like the mild man's whose wife ate up his dinner, " Really,
sir, I feel quite angry /" Nor has his language any of the
sharp intrusive acumen which divides in sunder both soul
and spirit, and makes fierce and unforgetable reviling.

Some people may be surprised, notwithstanding our
lengthy explanation, at hearing Cowper treated as of the
school of Pope. It has been customary, at least with some
critics, to speak of him as one of those who recoiled from the
artificiality of that great writer, and at least commenced a
return to a simple delineation of outward nature. And of
course there is considerable truth in this idea. The poetry
(if such it is) of Pope would be just as true if all the trees
were yellow and all the grass flesh-colour. He did not care
for " snowy scalps," or " rolling streams," or " icy halls," or
"precipice's gloom". Nor, for that matter, did Cowper
either. He, as Hazlitt most justly said, was as much afraid
of a shower of rain as any man that ever lived. At the same
time, the fashionable life described by Pope has no Deference
whatever to the beauties of the material universe, never
regards them, could go on just as well in the soft, sloppy,
gelatinous existence which Dr. Whewell (who knows) says

William Cowper. 129

is alone possible in Jupiter and Saturn. But the rural life
of Cowper's poetry has a constant and necessary reference to
the country, is identified with its features, cannot be sepa-
rated from it even in fancy. Green fields and a slow river
seem all the material of beauty Cowper had given him. But
what was more to the purpose, his attention was well con-
centrated upon them. As he himself said, he did not go
more than thirty miles from home for twenty years, and very
seldom as far. He was, therefore, well able to find out all
that was charming in Olney and its neighbourhood, and as
it presented nothing which is not to be found in any of the
fresh rural parts of England, what he has left us is really a
delicate description and appreciative delineation of the simple
essential English country.

However, it is to be remarked that the description of
nature in Cowper differs altogether from the peculiar delinea-
tion of the same subject, which has been so influential in
more recent times, and which bears, after its greatest master,
the name Wordsworthian. To Cowper Nature is simply a
background, a beautiful background no doubt, but still
essentially a locus in quo — a space in which the work and
mirth of life pass and are performed. A more professedly
formal delineation does not occur than the following : —

" O Winter 1 ruler of the inverted year,
Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled,
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds,
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,
But urged by storms along its slippery way ;
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest,
And dreaded as thou art. Thou boldest the sun
A prisoner in the yet undawning east,
Shortening his journey between morn and noon.

130 Literary Studies.

And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,

Down to the rosy west ; but kindly still

Compensating his loss with added hours

Of social converse and instructive ease,

And gathering, at short notice, in one group

The family dispersed, and fixing thought,

Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares

I crown thee King of intimate delights,

Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness,

And all the comforts that the lowly roof

Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours

Of long uninterrupted evening know.

No rattling wheels stop short before these gates." 1

After a very few lines he returns within doors to the occupa-
tion of man and woman — to human tasks and human
pastimes. To Wordsworth, on the contrary, Nature is a
religion. So far from being unwilling to treat her as a
special object of study, he hardly thought any other equal or
comparable. He was so far from holding the doctrine that
the earth was made for men to live in, that it would rather
seem as if he thought men were created to see the earth.
The whole aspect of Nature was to him a special revelation
of an immanent and abiding power — a breath of the
pervading art — a smile of the Eternal Mind — according to
the lines which every one knows, —

" A sense sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused ;
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man :
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things ".2

Of this haunting, supernatural, mystical view of Nature
Cowper never heard. Like the strong old lady who said,

1 " The Task." * Wordsworth : " Tintern Abbey ".

William Cowper. 131

"She was born before nerves were invented/' he may be
said to have lived before the awakening of the detective
sensibility -which reveals this deep and obscure doctrine.

In another point of view, also, Cowper is curiously con-
trasted with Wordsworth, as a delineator of Nature. The
delineation of Cowper is a simple delineation. He makes a
sketch of the object before him, and there he leaves it.
Wordsworth, on the contrary, is not satisfied unless he
describe not only the bare outward object which others see,
but likewise the reflected high-wrought feelings which that
object excites in a brooding, self-conscious mind. His sub-
ject was not so much Nature, as Nature reflected by
Wordsworth. Years of deep musing and long introspection
had made him familiar with every shade and shadow in the
many-coloured impression which the universe makes on
meditative genius and observant sensibility. Now these
feelings Cowper did not describe, because, to all appearance,
he did not perceive them. He had a great pleasure in
watching the common changes and common aspects of
outward things, but he was not invincibly prone to brood and
pore over their reflex effects upon his own mind.

" A primrose by the river's brim,
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more." *

According to the account which Cowper at first gave of
his literary occupations, his entire design was to communi-
cate the religious views to which he was then a convert. He
fancied that the vehicle of verse might bring many to listen
to truths which they would be disinclined to have stated to
them in simple prose. And however tedious the recurrence
of these theological tenets may be to the common reader, it
is certain that a considerable portion of Cowper's peculiar
popularity may be traced to their expression. He is the one

1 Wordsworth: " Peter Bell ".

132 Literary Studies.

poet of a class which have no poets. In that once large and
still considerable portion of the English world which regards
the exercise of the fancy and the imagination as dangerous —
snares, as they speak — distracting the soul from an intense
consideration of abstract doctrine, Cowper's strenuous incul-
cation of those doctrines has obtained for him a certain
toleration. Of course all verse is perilous. The use of
single words is harmless, but the employment of two, in such
a manner as to form a rhyme — the regularities of interval
and studied recurrence of the same sound, evince an attention
to time, and a partiality to things of sense. Most poets
must be prohibited ; the exercise of the fancy requires
watching. But Cowper is a ticket-of-leave man. He has
the chaplain's certificate. He has expressed himself "with
the utmost propriety". The other imaginative criminals
must be left to the fates, but he may be admitted to the
sacred drawing-room, though with constant care and
scrupulous surveillance. Perhaps, however, taken in connec-
tion with his diseased and peculiar melancholy, these tenets
really add to the artistic effect of Cowper's writings. The
free discussion of daily matters, the delicate delineation of
domestic detail, the passing narrative of fugitive occurrences,
would seem light and transitory, if it were not broken by the
interruption of a terrible earnestness, and relieved by the dark
background of a deep and foreboding sadness. It is scarcely
artistic to describe the " painted veil which those who live
call life," ! and leave wholly out of view and undescribed
"the chasm sightless and drear,"2 which lies always be-
neath and around it.

It is of "The Task" more than of Cowper's earlier volume

of poems that a critic of his poetry must more peculiarly be

understood to speak. All the best qualities of his genius are

there concentrated, and the alloy is less than elsewhere. He

1 Shelley : " Sonnet," 1813.

William Cowper. 133

was fond of citing the saying of Dryden, that the rhyme had
often helped him to a thought — a great but very perilous
truth. The difficulty is, that the rhyme so frequently helps
to the wrong thought — that the stress of the mind is recalled
from the main thread of the poem, from the narrative, or
sentiment, or delineation, to some wayside remark or fancy,
which the casual resemblance of final sound suggests. This
is fatal, unless either a poet's imagination be so hot and
determined as to bear down upon its objects, and to be
unwilling to hear the voice of any charmer who might
distract it, or else the nature of the poem itself should be of
so desultory a character that it does not much matter about
the sequence of the thought — at least within great and
ample limits, as in some of Swift's casual rhymes, where the
sound is in fact the connecting link of unity. Now Cowper
is not often in either of these positions ; he always has a
thread of argument on which he is hanging his illustrations,
and yet he has not the exclusive interest or the undeviating
energetic downrightness of mind which would ensure his
going through it without idling or turning aside ; conse-
quently the thoughts which the rhyme suggests are
constantly breaking in upon the main matter, destroying the
emphatic unity which is essential to rhythmical delineation.
His blank verse of course is exempt from this defect, and
there is moreover something in the nature of the metre which
fits it for the expression of studious and quiet reflection.
"The Task" too was composed at the healthiest period of
Cowper's later life, in the full vigour of his faculties, and
with the spur that the semi-recognition of his first volume had
made it a common subject of literary discussion, whether he
was a poet or not. Many men could endure — as indeed all
but about ten do actually in every generation endure — to be
without this distinction ; but few could have an idea that it
was a frequent point of argument whether they were duly

134 Literary Studies.

entitled to possess it or not, without at least a strong desire
to settle the question by some work of decisive excellence.
This " The Task" achieved for Cowper. Since its publication
his name has been a household word — a particularly house-
hold word in English literature. The story of its composition
is connected with one of the most curious incidents in
Cowper's later life, and has given occasion to a good deal of
writing.

In the summer of 1781 it happened that two ladies called
at a shop exactly opposite the house at Olney where Cowper
and Mrs. Unwin resided. One of these was a familiar and
perhaps tame object, — a Mrs. Jones, — the wife of a neigh-
bouring parson ; the other, however, was so striking, that
Cowper, one of the shyest and least demonstrative of men,
immediately asked Mrs. Unwin to invite her to tea. This
was a great event, as it would appear that few or no social
interruptions, casual or contemplated, then varied what Cow-
per called the "duality of his existence". This favoured
individual was Lady Austen, a person of what Mr. Hayley
terms "colloquial talents" ; in truth an energetic, vivacious,
amusing, and rather handsome lady of the world. She had
been much in France, and is said to have caught the facility
of manner and love of easy society, which is the unchanging
characteristic of that land of change. She was a fascinating
person in the great world, and it is not difficult to imagine
she must have been an excitement indeed at Olney. She
was, however, most gracious ; fell in love, as Cowper says,
not only with him but with Mrs. Unwin ; was called " Sister
Ann," laughed and made laugh, was every way so great an
acquisition that his seeing her appeared to him to show
" strong marks of providential interposition ". He thought
her superior to the curate's wife, who was a " valuable per-
son," but had a family, etc., etc. The new acquaintance
had much to contribute to the Olney conversation. She had

William Cowper. 135

seen much of the world, and probably seen it well, and had
at least a good deal to narrate concerning it. Among other
interesting matters, she one day recounted to Cowper the
story of John Gilpin, as one which she had heard in child-
hood, and in a short time the poet sent her the ballad, which
every one has liked ever since. It was written, he says, no
doubt truly, in order to relieve a fit of terrible and uncommon
despondency ; but altogether, for a few months after the
introduction of this new companion, he was more happy and
animated than at any other time after his first illness.
Clouds, nevertheless, began to show themselves soon. The
circumstances are of the minute and female kind, which it
would require a good deal of writing to describe, even if \ve
knew them perfectly. The original cause of misconstruction
was a rather romantic letter of Lady Austen, drawing a
sublime picture of what she expected from Cowper's friend-
ship. Mr. Scott, the clergyman at Olney, who had taken
the place of Mr. Newton, and who is described as a dry and
sensible man, gave a short account of what he thought was
the real embroilment. " Who," said he, " can be surprised
that two women should be daily in the society of one man
and then quarrel with one another ? " Cowper's own
description shows how likely this was.

" From a scene of the most uninterrupted retirement," he says to
Mr. Unwin, " we have passed at once into a state of constant engage-
ment. Not that our society is much multiplied ; the addition of an
individual has made all this difference. Lady Austen and we pass our
days alternately at each other's chdteau. In the morning I walk with
one or other of the ladies, and in the afternoon wind thread. Thus did
Hercules, and thus probably did Samson, and thus do I ; and were both
those heroes living, I should not fear to challenge them to a trial of skill
in that business, or doubt to beat them both. As to killing lions and
other amusements of that kind, with which they were so delighted, I
should be their humble servant and beg to be excused."

Things were in this state when she suggested to him the

136 Literary Studies.

composition of a new poem of some length in blank verse,
and on being asked to suggest a subject, said : " Well, write
upon that sofa," whence is the title of the first book of "The
Task". According to Cowper's own account, it was this
poem which was the cause of the ensuing dissension.

" On her first settlement in our neighbourhood, I made it my own
particular business (for at that time I was not employed in writing,
having published my first volume, and not begun my second) to pay my
devoirs to her ladyship every morning at eleven. Customs very soon
become laws. I began « The Task ' ; for she was the lady who gave me the
Sofa for a subject. Being once engaged in the work, I began to feel the
inconvenience of my morning attendance. We had seldom breakfasted
ourselves till ten : and the intervening hour was all the time that I could
find in the whole day for writing ; and occasionally it would happen that
the half of that hour was all that I could secure for the purpose. But
there was no remedy. Long usage had made that which at first was
optional, a point of good manners, and consequently of necessity, and I
was forced to neglect ' The Task,' to attend upon the Muse who had
inspired the subject. But she had ill health, and before I had quite
finished the work was obliged to repair to Bristol."

And it is possible that this is the true account of the
matter. Yet we fancy there is a kind of awkwardness and
constraint in the manner in which it is spoken of. Of course
the plain and literal portion of mankind have set it down at
once that Cowper was in love with Lady Austen, just as
they married him over and over again to Mrs. Unwin. But
of a strong passionate love, as we have before explained,
we do not think Cowper capable, and there are certainly no
signs of it in this case. There is, however, one odd circum-
stance. Years after, when no longer capable of original
composition, he was fond of hearing all his poems read to
him except "John Gilpin ". There were recollections, he
said, connected with those verses which were too painful.
Did he mean, the worm that dieth not — the reminiscence of
the animated narratress of that not intrinsically melancholy
legend ?

William Cowper. 137

The literary success of Cowper opened to him a far
larger circle of acquaintance, and connected him in close
bonds with many of his relations, who had looked with an
unfavourable eye at the peculiar tenets which he had adopted,
and the peculiar and recluse life which he had been advised
to lead. It is to these friends and acquaintance that we owe
that copious correspondence on which so much of Cowper's
fame at present rests. The complete letter-writer is now an
unknown animal. In the last century, when communications
were difficult, and epistles rare, there were a great many
valuable people who devoted a good deal of time to writing
elaborate letters. You wrote letters to a man whom you
knew nineteen years and a half ago, and told him what you
had for dinner, and what your second cousin said, and how
the crops got on. Every detail of life was described and
dwelt on, and improved. The art of writing, at least of
writing easily, was comparatively rare, which kept the
number of such compositions within narrow limits. Sir
Walter Scott says he knew a man who remembered that
the London post-bag once came to Edinburgh with only
one letter in it. One can fancy the solemn conscientious
elaborateness with which a person would write, with the
notion that his letter would have a whole coach and a whole
bag to itself, and travel two hundred miles alone, the ex-
clusive object of a red guard's care. The only thing like it
now — the deferential minuteness with which one public
office writes to another, conscious that the letter will travel
on her Majesty's service three doors down the passage —
sinks by comparison into cursory brevity. No administrative
reform will be able to bring even the official mind of these
days into the grave inch-an-hour conscientiousness with
which a confidential correspondent of a century ago related
the growth of apples, the manufacture of jams, the appear-
ance of flirtations, and other such things. All the ordinary

Literary Studies.

incidents of an easy life were made the most of; a party
was epistolary capital, a race a mine of wealth. So deeply
sentimental was this intercourse, that it was much argued
whether the affections were created for the sake of the ink,
or ink for the sake of the affections. Thus it continued
for many years, and the fruits thereof are written in the
volumes of family papers, which daily appear, are praised as
" materials for the historian," and consigned, as the case
may be, to posterity or oblivion. All this has now passed
away. Sir Rowland Hill is entitled to the credit, not only
of introducing stamps, but also of destroying letters. The
amount of annotations which will be required to make the
notes of this day intelligible to posterity is a wonderful idea,
and no quantity of comment will make them readable. You
might as well publish a collection of telegrams. The careful
detail, the studious minuteness, the circumstantial statement
of a former time, is exchanged for a curt brevity or only
half-intelligible narration. In old times, letters were written
for people who knew nothing and required to be told every-
thing. Now they are written for people who know everything
except the one thing which the letter is designed to explain
to them. It is impossible in some respects not to regret the
old practice. It is well that each age should write for itself
a faithful account of its habitual existence. We do this to a
certain extent in novels, but novels are difficult materials for
an historian. They raise a cause and a controversy as to
how far they are really faithful delineations. Lord Macaulay
is even now under criticism for his use of the plays of the
seventeenth century. Letters are generally true on certain
points. The least veracious man will tell truly the colour
of his coat, the hour of his dinner, the materials of his shoes.
The unconscious delineation of a recurring and familiar life
is beyond the reach of a fraudulent fancy. Horace Walpole
was not a very scrupulous narrator; yet it was too much

William Cowper. 139

trouble even for him to tell lies on many things. His
set stories and conspicuous scandals are no doubt often
unfounded, but there is a gentle undercurrent of daily
unremarkable life and manners which he evidently assumed
as a datum for his historical imagination. Whence posterity
will derive this for the times of Queen Victoria it is difficult
to fancy. Even memoirs are no resource ; they generally
leave out the common life, and try at least to bring out the
uncommon events.

It is evident that this species of composition exactly
harmonised with the temperament and genius of Cowper.
Detail was his forte and quietness his element. Accordingly,
his delicate humour plays over perhaps a million letters,
mostly descriptive of events which no one else would have
thought worth narrating, and yet which, when narrated,
show to us, and will show to persons to whom it will be yet
more strange, the familiar, placid, easy, ruminating, pro-
vincial existence of our great-grandfathers. Slow, Olney
might be, — indescribable, it certainly was not. We seem to
have lived there ourselves.

The most copious subject of Cowper's correspondence is
his translation of Homer. This was published by sub-
scription, and it is pleasant to observe the healthy facility
with which one of the shyest men in the world set himself
to extract guineas from every one he had ever heard of. In
several cases he was very successful. The University of
Oxford, he tells us, declined, as of course it would, to
recognise the principle of subscribing towards literary
publications ; but other public bodies and many private
persons were more generous. It is to be wished that their
aid had contributed to the production of a more pleasing
work. The fact is, Cowper was not like Agamemnon. The
most conspicuous feature in the Greek heroes is a certain
brisk, decisive activity, which always strikes and always

Literary Studies.

likes to strike. This quality is faithfully represented in the
poet himself. Homer is the briskest of men. The Germans
have denied that there was any such person ; but they have
never questioned his extreme activity. " From what you
tell me, sir," said an American, " I should like to have read
Homer. I should say he was a go-ahead party." Now
this is exactly what Cowper was not. His genius was
domestic, and tranquil, and calm. He had no sympathy,
or little sympathy, even with the common, half-asleep
activities of a refined society ; an evening party was too
much for him ; a day's hunt a preposterous excitement. It
is absurd to expect a man like this to sympathise with the
stern stimulants of a barbaric age, with a race who fought
because they liked it, and a poet who sang of fighting
because he thought their taste judicious. As if to make
matters worse, Cowper selected a metre in which it would
be scarcely possible for any one, however gifted, to translate
Homer. The two kinds of metrical composition most
essentially opposed to one another are ballad poetry and
blank verse. The very nature of the former requires a
marked pause and striking rhythm. Every line should have
a distinct end and a clear beginning. It is like martial
music, there should be a tramp in the verv versification
of it.

"Armour rusting in his halls,

On the blood of Clifford calls ;

' Quell the Scot,' exclaims the lance,

Bear me to the heart of France,

Is the longing of the shield :

Tell thy name, thou trembling field,

Field of death, where'er thou be,

Groan thou with our victory." *

And this is the tone of Homer. The grandest of human
1 Wordsworth : " Feast of Brougham Castle ".

William Cowper. 141

tongues marches forward with its proudest steps : the clearest
tones call forward — the most marked of metres carries him
on : —

" Like a reappearing star»
Like a glory from afar — " *

he ever heads, and will head, " the flock of war ".2 Now
blank verse is the exact opposite of all this. Dr. Johnson
laid down that it was verse only to the eye, which was a bold
dictum. But without going this length it will be safe to
say, that of all considerable metres in our language it has the
least distinct conclusion, least decisive repetition, the least
trumpet-like rhythm ; and it is this of which Cowper made
choice. He had an idea that extreme literalness was an
unequalled advantage, and logically reasoned that it was
easier to do this in that metre than in any other. He did
not quite hold with Mr. Cobbett that the " gewgaw fetters of
rhyme were invented by the monks to enslave the people " ;
but as a man who had due experience of both, he was aware
that it is easier to write two lines of different endings than
two lines of the same ending, and supposed that by taking
advantage of this to preserve the exact grammatical meaning
of his author, he was indisputably approximating to a good
translation. "Whether," he writes, " a translation of Homer
may be best executed in blank verse or in rhyme is a question
in the decision of which no man finds difficulty who has ever
duly considered what translation ought to be, or who is in
any degree practically acquainted with those kinds of versi-
fication. ... No human ingenuity can be equal to the
task of closing every couplet with sounds homotonous,
expressing at the same time the full sense, and only the full
sense, of the original." And if the true object of translation
were to save the labour and dictionaries of construing school-

1 Wordsworth : " Feast of Brougham Castle ". 2 Ibid.

VOL. I. 14

J42 Literary Studies.

boys, there is no question but this slavish adherence to the
original would be the most likely to gain the approbation of
those diminutive but sure judges. But if the object is to
convey an idea of the general tone, scope, and artistic effect
of the original, the mechanical copying of the details is as
likely to end in a good result as a careful cast from a dead
man's features to produce a living and speaking being. On
the whole, therefore, the condemnation remains, that Homer
is not dull, and Cowper is.

With the translation of Homer terminated all the brightest
period of Cowper's life. There is little else to say. He under-
took an edition of Milton — a most difficult task, involving the
greatest and most accurate learning, in theology, in classics,
in Italian — in a word, in all ante-Miltonic literature. By far
the greater portion of this lay quite out of Cowper's path. He
had never been a hard student, and his evident incapacity for
the task troubled and vexed him. A man who had never been
able to assume any real responsibility was not likely to feel
comfortable under the weight of a task which very few men
would be able to accomplish. Mrs. Unwin too fell into a
state of helplessness and despondency ; and instead of relying
on her for cheerfulness and management, he was obliged to
manage for her, and cheer her. His mind was unequal to
the task. Gradually the dark cloud of melancholy, which
had hung about him so long, grew and grew, and extended
itself day by day. In vain Lord Thurlow, who was a likely
man to know, assured him that his spiritual despondency was
without ground ; he smiled sadly, but seemed to think that
at any rate he was not going into Chancery. In vain Hay ley,
a rival poet, but a good-natured, blundering, well-intentioned,
incoherent man, went to and fro, getting the Lord Chief
Justice and other dignitaries to attest, under their hands,
that they concurred in Thurlow's opinion. In vain, with far
wiser kindness, his relatives, especially many of his mother's

William Cuwper. 143

family, from whom he had been long divided, but who
gradually drew nearer to him as they were wanted, endeavoured
to divert his mind to healthful labour and tranquil society.
The day of these things had passed away — the summer was
ended. He became quite unequal to original composition,
and his greatest pleasure was hearing his own writings read
to him. After a long period of hopeless despondency he died
on 25th April, in the first year of fhis century ; and if he
needs an epitaph, let us say, that not in vain was he
Nature's favourite. As a higher poet sings : —

" And all day long I number yet,
All seasons through, another debt,
Which I, wherever thou art met,

To thee am owing ;
An instinct call it, a blind sense,
A happy, genial influence,
Coming one knows not how nor whence,

Nor whither going.

" If stately passions in me burn,
And one chance look to thee should turn,
I drink out of an humbler urn,

A lowlier pleasure ;
The homely sympathy that heeds
The common life our nature breeds ;
A wisdom fitted to the needs
Of hearts at leisure." !

1 Wordsworth : " To the Daisy ".

144

THE FIRST EDINBURGH REVIEWERS.1

(1855-)

IT is odd to hear that the Edinburgh Review was once
thought an incendiary publication. A young generation,
which has always regarded the appearance of that periodical
as a grave constitutional event (and been told that its com-
position is entrusted to Privy Councillors only), can scarcely
believe, that once grave gentlemen kicked it out of doors —
that the dignified classes murmured at " those young men "
starting such views, abetting such tendencies, using such ex-
pressions— that aged men said : " Very clever, but not at all
sound ". Venerable men, too, exaggerate. People say the
Review was planned in a garret, but this is incredible.
Merely to take such a work into a garret would be incon-
sistent with propriety ; and the tale that the original con-
ception, the pure idea to which each number is a quarterly
aspiration, ever was in a garret is the evident fiction of
reminiscent ages — striving and failing to remember.

1 A Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith. By his daughter, Lady
Holland. With a Selection from his Letters. Edited by Mrs. Austin.
2 vols. Longmans.

Lord Jeffrey's Contributions to the " Edinburgh Review ". A new
Edition in one volume. Longmans.

Lord Brougham's Collected Works, vols. i., ii., iii. Lives of Philo-
sophers of the Reign of George III. Lives of Men of Letters of the
Reign of George III. Historical Sketches of the Statesmen who flourished
in the Reign of George III. Griffin.

The Rev. Sydney Smith's Miscellaneous Works. Including his Con-
tributions to the " Edinburgh Review ". Longmans.

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 145

Review writing is one of the features of modern literature.
Many able men really give themselves up to it. Comments
on ancient writings are scarcely so common as formerly ; no
great part of our literary talent is devoted to the illustration
of the ancient masters ; but what seems at first sight less
dignified, annotation on modern writings was never so
frequent. Hazlitt started the question, whether it would
not be as well to review works which did not appear, in lieu
of those which did — wishing, as a reviewer, to escape the
labour of perusing print, and, as a man, to save his fellow-
creatures from the slow torture of tedious extracts. But,
though approximations may frequently be noticed — though
the neglect of authors and independence of critics are on
the increase — this conception, in its grandeur, has never
been carried out. We are surprised at first sight, that
writers should wish to comment on one another ; it appears
a tedious mode of stating opinions, and a needless confusion
of personal facts with abstract arguments; and some, especi-
ally authors who have been censured, say that the cause is
laziness — that it is easier to write a review than a book — and
that reviewers are, as Coleridge declared, a species of mag-
gots, inferior to bookworms, living on the delicious brains of
real genius. Indeed, it would be very nice, but our world
is so imperfect. This idea is wholly false. Doubtless it is
easier to write one review than one book : but not, which is
the real case, many reviews than one book. A deeper cause
must be looked for.

In truth, review writing but exemplifies the casual
character of modern literature. Everything about it is
temporary and fragmentary. Look at a railway stall ; you
see books of every colour — blue, yellow, crimson, " ring-
streaked, speckled, and spotted," on every subject, in every
style, of every opinion, with every conceivable difference,
celestial or sublunary, maleficent, beneficent — but all small.

146 Literary Studies.

People take their literature in morsels, as they take sand-
wiches on a journey. The volumes, at least, you can see
clearly, are not intended to be everlasting. It may be all
very well for a pure essence like poetry to be immortal in a
perishable world; it has no feeling; but paper cannot endure
it, paste cannot bear it, string has no heart for it. The race
has made up its mind to be fugitive, as well as minute.
What a change from the ancient volume ! —

"That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid,
These ample clasps, of solid metal made ;
The close-press'd leaves, unoped for many an age,
The dull red edging of the well-fill'd page ;
On the broad back the stubborn ridges roll'd,
Where yet the title stands in tarnish'd gold ". l

And the change in the appearance of books has been
accompanied — has been caused — by a similar change in
readers. What a transition from the student of former
ages ! — from a grave man, with grave cheeks and a con-
siderate eye, who spends his life in study, has no interest
in the outward world, hears nothing of its din, and cares
nothing for its honours, who would gladly learn and gladly
teach, whose whole soul is taken up with a few books of
"Aristotle and his Philosophy," — to the merchant in the
railway, with a head full of sums, an idea that tallow is
" up," a conviction that teas are " lively," and a mind
reverting perpetually from the little volume which he reads
to these mundane topics, to the railway, to the shares, to the
buying and bargaining universe. We must not wonder that
the outside of books is so different, when the inner nature
of those for whom they are written is so changed.

It is indeed a peculiarity of our times, that we must
instruct so many persons. On politics, on religion, on all

1 Crabbe ; " The Library".

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 147

less important topics still more, every one thinks himself
competent to think, — in some casual manner does think, — to
the best of our means must be taught to think — rightly. Even
if we had a profound and far-seeing statesman, his deep ideas
and long-reaching vision would be useless to us, unless we
could impart a confidence in them to the mass of influential
persons, to the unelected Commons, the unchosen Council,
who assist at the deliberations of the nation. In religion
the appeal now is not to the technicalities of scholars, or the
fiction of recluse schoolmen, but to the deep feelings, the
sure sentiments, the painful strivings of all who think and
hope. And this appeal to the many necessarily brings with
it a consequence. We must speak to the many so that they
will listen — that they will like to listen — that they will
understand. It is of no use addressing them with the forms
of science, or the rigour of accuracy, or the tedium of ex-
haustive discussion. The multitude are impatient of system,
desirous of brevity, puzzled by formality. They agree with
Sydney Smith: "Political economy has become, in the hands
of Malthus and Ricardo, a school of metaphysics. All seem
agreed what is to be done; the contention is, how the subject
is to be divided and defined. Meddle with no such matters"
We are not sneering at " the last of the sciences " ; we are
concerned with the essential doctrine, and not with the
particular instance. Such is the taste of mankind.

We may repeat ourselves.

There is, as yet, no Act of Parliament compelling a bond
fide traveller to read. If you wish him to read, you must
make reading pleasant. You must give him short views,
and clear sentences. It will not answer to explain what all
the things which you describe are not. You must begin by
saying what they are. There is exactly the difference between
the books of this age, and those of a more laborious age, that
we feel between the lecture of a professor and the talk of the

148 Literary Studies,

man of the world — the former profound, systematic, suggest-
ing all arguments, analysing all difficulties, discussing all
doubts, — very admirable, a little tedious, slowly winding an
elaborate way, the characteristic effort of one who has hived
wisdom during many studious years, agreeable to such as
he is, anything but agreeable to such as he is not : the
latter, the talk of the manifold talker, glancing lightly from
topic to topic, suggesting deep things in a jest, unfolding
unanswerable arguments in an absurd illustration, expound-
ing nothing, completing nothing, exhausting nothing, yet
really suggesting the lessons of a wider experience, em-
bodying the results of a more finely tested philosophy,
passing with a more Shakespearian transition, connecting
topics with a more subtle link, refining on them with an
acuter perception, and what is more to the purpose, pleasing
all that hear him, charming high and low, in season and out
of season, with a word of illustration for each and a touch of
humour intelligible to all, — fragmentary yet imparting what
he says, allusive yet explaining what he intends, disconnected
yet impressing what he maintains. This is the very model
of our modern writing. The man of the modern world is
used to speak what the modern world will hear ; the writer
of the modern world must write what that world will indul-
gently and pleasantly peruse.

In this transition from ancient writing to modern, the
review-like essay and the essay-like review fill a large space.
Their small bulk, their slight pretension to systematic com-
pleteness, their avowal, it might be said, of necessary incom-
pleteness, the facility of changing the subject, of selecting
points to attack, of exposing only the best corner for defence,
are great temptations. Still greater is the advantage of "our
limits ". A real reviewer always spends his first and best
pages on the parts of a subject on which he wishes to write,
the easy comfortable parts which he knows. The formidable

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 149

difficulties which he acknowledges, you foresee by a strange
fatality that he will only reach two pages before the end ; to
his great grief there is no opportunity for discussing them.
As a young gentleman, at the India House examination,
wrote " Time up " on nine unfinished papers in succession,
so you may occasionally read a whole review, in every
article of which the principal difficulty of each successive
question is about to be reached at the conclusion. Nor can
any one deny that this is the suitable skill, the judicious
custom of the craft.

Some may be inclined to mourn over the old days of
systematic arguments and regular discussion. A "field-day"
controversy is a fine thing. These skirmishes have much
danger and no glory. Yet there is one immense advantage.
The appeal now is to the mass of sensible persons. Professed
students are not generally suspected of common-sense ; and
though they often show acuteness in their peculiar pursuits,
they have not the various experience, the changing imagina-
tion, the feeling nature, the realised detail which are necessary
data for a thousand questions. Whatever we may think on
this point, however, the transition has been made. The
Edinburgh Review was, at its beginning, a material step in
the change. Unquestionably, the Spectator and Taller , and
such-like writings, had opened a similar vein, but their size
was too small. They could only deal with small fragments,
or the extreme essence of a subject. They could not give a
view of what was complicated, or analyse what was involved.
The modern man must be told what to think — shortly, no
doubt— but he must be told it. The essay-like criticism of
modern times is about the length which he likes. The
Edinburgh Review, which began the system, may be said to
be, in this country, the commencement on large topics of
suitable views for sensible persons.

The circumstances pf the time were especially favourable

150 Literary Studies.

to such an undertaking. Those years were the commence-
ment of what is called the Eldonine period. The cold and
haughty Pitt had gone down to the grave in circumstances
singularly contrasting with his prosperous youth, and he had
carried along with him the inner essence of half-liberal prin-
ciple, which had clung to a tenacious mind from youthful
associations, and was all that remained to the Tories of
abstraction or theory. As for Lord Eldon, it is the most
difficult thing in the world to believe that there ever was such
a man. It only shows how intense historical evidence is, that
no one really doubts it. He believed in everything which it is
impossible to believe in — in the danger of Parliamentary
Reform, the danger of Catholic Emancipation, the danger of
altering the Court of Chancery, the danger of altering the
Courts of Law, the danger of abolishing capital punishment
for trivial thefts, the danger of making landowners pay their
debts, the danger of making anything more, the danger of
making anything less. It seems as if he maturely thought :
""Now I know the present state of things to be consistent with
the existence of John Lord Eldon; but if we begin altering that
state, I am sure I do not know that it will be consistent ".
As Sir Robert Walpole was against all committees of inquiry
on the simple ground, "If they once begin that sort of thing,
who knows who will be safe ? " — so that great Chancellor (still
remembered in his own scene) looked pleasantly down from
the woolsack, and seemed to observe : " Well, it is a queer
thing that I should be here, and here I mean to stay ". With
this idea he employed, for many years, all the abstract
intellect of an accomplished lawyer, all the practical bonhomie
of an accomplished courtier, all the energy of both professions,
all the subtlety acquired in either, in the task of maintaining
John Lord Eldon in the Cabinet, and maintaining a Cabinet
that would suit John Lord Eldon. No matter what change
or misfortunes happened to the Royal house, — whether the

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 151

most important person in court politics was the old King
or the young King, Queen Charlotte or Queen Caroline —
whether it was a question of talking grave business to
the mutton of George III., or queer stories beside the
champagne of George IV., there was the same figure.
To the first he was tearfully conscientious, and at the second
the old northern circuit stories (how old, what outlasting
tradition shall ever say ?) told with a cheerful bonhomie, and
a strong conviction that they were ludicrous, really seem to
have pleased as well as the more artificial niceties of the
professed wits. He was always agreeable, and always
serviceable. No little peccadillo offended him : the ideal,
according to the satirist, of a " good-natured man," l he
cared for nothing until he was himself hurt. He ever
remembered the statute which absolves obedience to a king
de facto. And it was the same in the political world. There
was one man who never changed. No matter what politicians
came and went — and a good many, including several that
are now scarcely remembered, did come and go — the
" Cabinet-maker," as men called him, still remained. " As
to Lord Liverpool being Prime Minister," continued Mr.
Brougham, " he is no more Prime Minister than I am. I
reckon Lord Liverpool as a sort of member of opposition ;
and after what has recently passed, if I were required, I
should designate him as ' a noble lord with whom I have the
honour to act '. Lord Liverpool may have collateral influence,
but Lord Eldon has all the direct influence of the Prime
Minister. He is Prime Minister to all intents and purposes,
and he stands alone in the full exercise of all the influence of
that high situation. Lord Liverpool has carried measures
against the Lord Chancellor ; so have I. If Lord Liverpool
carried the Marriage Act, I carried the Education Bill," etc.,
etc. And though the general views of Lord Eldon may be
1 Hazlitt on Eldon in the " Spirit of the Age ".

Literary Studies.

described -though one can say at least negatively and
intelligibly that he objected to everything proposed, and
never proposed anything himself— the arguments are such
as it would require great intellectual courage to endeavour at
all to explain. What follows is a favourable specimen.
" Lord Grey," says his biographer, l " having introduced a
bill for dispensing with the declarations prescribed by the
Acts of 25 and 30 Car. II., against the doctrine of Tran-
substantiation and the Invocation of Saints, moved the
second reading of it on the loth of June, when the Lord
Chancellor again opposed the principle of such a measure,
urging that the law which had been introduced under Charles
II. had been re-enacted in the first Parliament of William
III., the founder of our civil and religious liberties. It had
been thought necessary for the preservation of these, that
Papists should not be allowed to sit in Parliament, and some
test was necessary by which it might be ascertained whether
a man was a Catholic or Protestant. The only possible test
for such a purpose was an oath declaratory of religious belief,
and, as Dr.Paley had observed, it was perfectly just to have
a religious test of a political creed. He entreated the House
not to commit the crime against posterity of transmitting to
them in an impaired and insecure state the civil and religious
liberties of England." And this sort of appeal to Paley
and King William is made the ground — one can hardly say
the reason — for the most rigid adherence to all that was
established.

It may be asked : How came the English people to endure
this ? They are not naturally illiberal ; on the contrary,
though slow and cautious, they are prone to steady improve-
ment, and not at all disposed to acquiesce in the unlimited
perfection of their rulers. On a certain imaginative side,
unquestionably, there is or was a strong feeling of loyalty, of

1 Twiss.

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 153

attachment to what is old, love for what is ancestral, belief
in what has been tried. But the fond attachment to the past
is a very different idea from a slavish adoration of the present.
Nothing is more removed from the Eldonine idolatry of the
status quo than the old cavalier feeling of deep idolatry for
the ancient realm — that half-mystic idea that consecrated
what it touched ; the moonlight, as it were, which —

11 Silver'd the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And many an oak that grew thereby ". '

Why, then, did the English endure the everlasting Chan-
cellor ?

The fact is, that Lord Eldon's rule was maintained a
great deal on the same motives as that of Louis Napoleon.
One can fancy his astonishment at hearing it said, and his
cheerful rejoinder : " That whatever he was, and Mr. Brougham
was in the habit of calling him strange names, no one should
ever make him believe that he was a Bonaparte ". But, in
fact, he was, like the present Emperor, the head of what we
call the party of order. Everybody knows what keeps Louis
Napoleon in his place. It is not attachment to him, but
dread of what he restrains — dread of revolution. The present
may not be good, and having such newspapers — you might
say no newspapers — is dreadful ; but it is better than no
trade, bankrupt banks, loss of old savings ; your mother
beheaded on destructive principles ; your eldest son shot on
conservative ones. Very similar was the feeling of English-
men in the year 1800. They had no liking at all for the
French system. Statesmen saw its absurdity, holy men
were shocked at its impiety, mercantile men saw its effect
on the five per cents. Everybody was revolted by its cruelty.
That it came across the Channel was no great recommenda-

1 Introduction to " Kenilworth," from Evans's Old Ballads. (Forrest
Morgan.)

154 Literary Studies.

tion. A witty writer of our own time says, that if a still
Mussulman, in his flowing robes, wished to give his son a
warning against renouncing his faith, he would take the
completest, smartest, dapperest French dandy out of the
streets of Pera, and say : " There, my son, if ever you come
to forget God and the Prophet, you may come to look like
that ". Exactly similar in old conservative speeches is the
use of the French Revolution. If you proposed to alter any-
thing, of importance or not of importance, legal or social,
religious or not religious, the same answer was ready :
"You see what the French have come to. They made
alterations ; if we make alterations, who knows but we may
end in the same way ? " It was not any peculiar bigotry in
Lord Eldon that actuated him, or he would have been
powerless ; still less was it any affected feeling which he put
forward (though, doubtless, he was aware of its persuasive
potency, and worked on it most skilfully to his own ends) •
it was genuine, hearty, craven fear ; and he ruled naturally
the commonplace Englishman, because he sympathised in
his sentiments, and excelled him in his powers.

There was, too, another cause beside fear which then in-
clined, and which in similar times of miscellaneous revolution
will ever incline, subtle rather than creative intellects to a
narrow conservatism. Such intellects require an exact creed ;
they want to be able clearly to distinguish themselves from
those around them, to tell to each man where they differ, and
why they differ ; they cannot make assumptions ; they can-
not, like the merely practical man, be content with rough and
obvious axioms ; they require a theory. Such a want it is
difficult to satisfy in an age of confusion and tumult, when
old habits are shaken, old views overthrown, ancient assump-
tions rudely questioned, ancient inferences utterly denied,
when each man has a different view from his neighbour,
when an intellectual change has set father and son at

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 155

variance, when a man's own household are the special foes
of his favourite and self-adopted creed. A bold and original
mind breaks through these vexations, and forms. for itself a
theory satisfactory to its notions, and sufficient for its wants.
A weak mind yields a passive obedience to those among
whom it is thrown. But a mind which is searching without
being creative, which is accurate and logical enough to see
defects, without being combinative or inventive enough to
provide remedies — which, in the old language, is discrimi-
native rather than discursive — is wholly unable, out of the
medley of new suggestions, to provide itself with an adequate
belief; and it naturally falls back on the status quo. This
is, at least, clear and simple and defined ; you know at any
rate what you propose — where you end — why you pause ; —
an argumentative defence it is, doubtless, difficult to find ;
but there are arguments on all sides ; the world is a medley
of arguments; no one is agreed in which direction to alter
the world ; what is proposed is as liable to objection as what
exists ; nonsense for nonsense, the old should keep its
ground : and so in times of convulsion, the philosophic
scepticism — the ever-questioning hesitation of Hume and
Montaigne — the subtlest quintessence of the most restless
and refining abstraction — becomes allied to the stupidest,
crudest acquiescence in the present and concrete world. We
read occasionally in conservative literature (the remark is as
true of religion as of politics) alternations of sentences, the
first an appeal to the coarsest prejudice, — the next a subtle
hint to a craving and insatiable scepticism. You may trace
this even in Vesey junior. Lord Eldon never read Hume or
Montaigne, but sometimes, in the interstices of cumbrous
law, you may find sentences with their meaning, if not in
their manner ; " Dumpor's case always struck me as extra-
ordinary ; but if you depart from Dumpor's case, what is
there to prevent a departure in every direction ? "

156 Literary Studies.

The glory of the Edinburgh Review is that from the first
it steadily set itself to oppose this timorous acquiescence in
the actual system. On domestic subjects the history of the
first thirty years of the nineteenth century is a species of duel
between the Edinburgh Review and Lord Eldon. All the
ancient abuses which he thought it most dangerous to impair,
they thought it most dangerous to retain. " To appreciate the
value of the Edinburgh Review" says one of the founders,1
" the state of England at the period when that journal began
should be had in remembrance. The Catholics were not
emancipated. The Corporation and Test Acts were unre-
pealed. The game-laws were horribly oppressive ; steel-
traps and spring-guns were set all over the country ;
prisoners tried for their lives could have no counsel. Lore]
Eldon and the Court of Chancery pressed heavily on man-
kind. Libel was punished by the most cruel and vindictive
imprisonments. The principles of political economy were
little understood. The laws of debt and conspiracy were on
the worst footing. The enormous wickedness of the slave-
trade was tolerated. A thousand evils were in existence
which the talents of good and noble men have since lessened
or removed : and these efforts have been not a little assisted
by the honest boldness of the Edinburgh Review." And
even more characteristic than the advocacy of these or any
other partial or particular reforms is the systematic opposi-
tion of the Edinburgh Review to the crude acquiescence in
the status quo ; the timorous dislike to change because it was
change ; to the optimistic conclusion, " that what is, ought
to be" ; the sceptical query : " How do you know that what
you say will be any better ? "

In this defence of the principle of innovation, a defence
which it requires great imagination (or, as we suggested, the
looking across the Channel) to conceive the efficacy of now,
1 Sydney Smith.

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 157

the Edinburgh Review was but the doctrinal organ of the
Whigs. A great deal of philosophy has been expended in
endeavouring to fix and express theoretically the creed of
that party : various forms of abstract doctrine have been
drawn out, in which elaborate sentence follows hard on
elaborate sentence, to be set aside, or at least vigorously
questioned by the next or succeeding inquirers. In truth
Whiggism is not a creed, it is a character. Perhaps as long
as there has been a political history in this country there
have been certain men of a cool, moderate, resolute firmness,
not gifted with high imagination, little prone to enthusiastic
sentiment, heedless of large theories and speculations, care-
less of dreamy scepticism ; with a clear view of the next step,
and a wise intention to take it ; a strong conviction that the
elements of knowledge are true, and a steady belief that the
present world can, and should be, quietly improved.

These are the Whigs. A tinge of simplicity still clings
to the character; of old it was the Country Party. The
limitation of their imagination is in some sort an advantage
to such men; it confines them to a simple path, prevents
their being drawn aside by various speculations, restricts
them to what is clear and intelligible, and at hand. " I can-
not," said Sir S. Romilly, " be convinced without argu-
ments, and I do not see that either Burke or Paine advance
any." He was unable to see that the most convincing argu-
ments—and some of those in the work of Burke which he
alludes to, l are certainly sound enough— may be expressed
imaginatively, and may work a far firmer persuasion than
any neat and abstract statement. Nor are the intellectual
powers of the characteristic element in this party exactly of
the loftiest order; they have no call to make great dis-
coveries, or pursue unbounded designs, or amaze the world

1 Reflection* upon the Revolution in France,
VOL. I. 15

Literary Studies.

by some wild dream of empire and renown. That terrible
essence of daring genius, such as we see it in Napoleon,
and can imagine it in some of the conquerors of old time,
is utterly removed from their cool and placid judgment. In
taste they are correct, — that is, better appreciating the com-
plete compliance with explicit and ascertained rules, than
the unconscious exuberance of inexplicable and unforeseen
beauties. In their own writings, they display the defined
neatness of the second order, rather than the aspiring hardi-
hood of the first excellence. In action they are quiet and
reasonable rather than inventive and overwhelming. Their
power, indeed, is scarcely intellectual; on the contrary, it
resides in what Aristotle would have called their ^0os, and
we should call their nature. They are emphatically pure-
natured and firm-natured. Instinctively casting aside the
coarse temptations and crude excitements of a vulgar earth,
they pass like a September breeze across the other air, cool
and refreshing, unable, one might fancy, even to comprehend
the many offences with which all else is fainting and op-
pressed. So far even as their excellence is intellectual, it
consists less in the supereminent possession of any single
talent or endowment, than in the simultaneous enjoyment
and felicitous adjustment of many or several; — in a certain
balance of the faculties which we call judgment or sense,
which placidly indicates to them what should be done, and
which is not preserved without an equable calm, and a
patient, persistent watchfulness. In such men the moral
and intellectual nature half become one. Whether, accord-
ing to the Greek question, manly virtue can be taught or
not, assuredly it has never been taught to them ; it seems a
native endowment; it seems a soul — a soul of honour — as
we speak, within the exterior soul ; a fine impalpable essence,
more exquisite than the rest of the being; as the thin pillar
of the cloud, more beautiful than the other blue of heaven,

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 159

governing and guiding a simple way through the dark wilder-
ness of our world.

To descend from such elevations, among people Sir
Samuel Romilly is the best-known type of this character.
The admirable biography of him made public his admirable
virtues. Yet it is probable that among the aristocratic Whigs,
persons as typical of the character can be found. This
species of noble nature is exactly of the kind which hereditary
associations tend to purify and confirm; just that casual,
delicate, placid virtue, which it is so hard to find, perhaps so
sanguine to expect, in a rough tribune of the people. De-
fects enough there are in this character, on which we shall
say something; yet it is wonderful to see what an influence
in this sublunary sphere it gains and preserves. The world
makes an oracle of its judgment. There is a curious living
instance of this. You may observe that when an ancient
liberal, Lord John Russell, or any of the essential sect, has
done anything very queer, the last thing you would imagine
anybody would dream of doing, and is attacked for it, he
always answers boldly, "Lord Lansdowne said I might";
or if it is a ponderous day, the eloquence runs, " A noble
friend with whom I have ever had the inestimable advantage
of being associated from the commencement (the infantile
period, I might say) of my political life, and to whose
advice," etc., etc., etc. — and a very cheerful existence it must
be for " my noble friend " to be expected to justify — (for they
never say it except they have done something very odd) —
and dignify every aberration. Still it must be a beautiful
feeling to have a man like Lord John, to have a stiff, small
man bowing down before you. And a good judge J certainly
suggested the conferring of this authority. " Why do they
not talk over the virtues and excellences of Lansdowne?
There is no man who performs the duties of life better, or
1 Sydney Smith.

160 Literary Studies.

fills a high station in a more becoming manner. He is full
of knowledge, and eager for its acquisition. His remarkable
politeness is the result of good nature, regulated by good
sense. He looks for talents and qualities among all ranks
of men, and adds them to his stock of society, as a botanist
does his plants; and while other aristocrats are yawning
among stars and garters, Lansdowne is refreshing his soul
with the fancy and genius which he has found in odd places,
and gathered to the marbles and pictures of his palace.
Then he is an honest politician, a wise statesman, and has
a philosophic mind," etc., etc.1 Here is devotion for a carp-
ing critic; and who ever heard before of bonhomie in an
idol?

It may strike some that this equable kind of character is
not the most interesting. Many will prefer the bold felici-
ties of daring genius, the deep plans of latent and searching
sagacity, the hardy triumphs of an overawing and imperious
will. Yet it is not unremarkable that an experienced and
erudite Frenchman, not unalive to artistic effect, has just
now selected this very species of character for the main
figure in a large portion of an elaborate work. The hero of
M. Villemain is one to whom he delights to ascribe such
things as bon sens, esprit juste, cceur excellent. The result,
it may be owned, is a little dull, yet it is not the less
characteristic. The instructed observer has detected the
deficiency of his country. If France had more men of firm
will, quiet composure, with a suspicion of enormous principle
and a taste for moderate improvement: if a Whig party, in
a word, were possible in France, France would be free. And
though there are doubtless crises in affairs, dark and terrible
moments, when a more creative intellect is needful to pro-
pose, a more dictatorial will is necessary to carry out, a

1 Sydney Smith, Letter to John Murray, June 4, 1843 ; " Memoir,"
vol. ii,

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 161

sudden and daring resolution; though in times of inextricable
confusion — perhaps the present is one of them1 — a more
abstruse and disentangling intellect is required to untwist
the ravelled perplexities of a complicated world ; yet England
will cease to be the England of our fathers, when a large
share in great affairs is no longer given to the equable sense,
the composed resolution, the homely purity of the charac-
teristic Whigs.

It is evident that between such men and Lord Eldon
there could be no peace ; and between them and the Edin-
burgh Review there was a natural alliance. Not only the
kind of reforms there proposed, the species of views therein
maintained, but the very manner in which those views and
alterations are put forward and maintained, is just what they
would like. The kind of writing suitable to such minds is
not the elaborate, ambitious, exhaustive discussion of former
ages, but the clear, simple, occasional writing (as we just
now described it) of the present times. The opinions to be
expressed are short and simple; the innovations suggested
are natural and evident; neither one nor the other require
more than an intelligible statement, a distinct exposition to
the world; and their reception would be only impeded and
complicated by operose and cumbrous argumentation. The
exact mind which of all others dislikes the stupid adherence
to the status quo, is the keen, quiet, improving Whig mind;
the exact kind of writing most adapted to express that dis-
like is the cool, pungent, didactic essay.

Equally common to the Whigs and the Edinburgh
Review is the enmity to the sceptical, over-refining Toryism
of Hume and Montaigne. The Whigs, it is true, have a
conservatism of their own, but it instinctively clings to cer-
tain practical rules tried by steady adherence, to appropriate
formulae verified by the regular application and steady
1 This was published in October, 1855.

Literary Studies*

success of many ages. Political philosophers speak of it as
a great step when the idea of an attachment to an organised
code and system of rules and laws takes the place of the
exclusive oriental attachment to the person of the single
monarch. This step is natural, is instinctive to the Whig
mind ; that cool impassive intelligence is little likely to yield
to ardent emotions of personal loyalty ; but its chosen ideal
is a body or collection of wise rules fitly applicable to great
affairs, pleasing a placid sense by an evident propriety,
gratifying the capacity for business by a constant and clear
applicability. The Whigs are constitutional by instinct, as
the Cavaliers were monarchical by devotion. It has been a
jest at their present leader1 that he is over familiar with
public forms and parliamentary rites. The first wish of the
Whigs is to retain the constitution ; the second — and it is of
almost equal strength — is to improve it. They think the
body of laws now existing to be, in the main and in its
essence, excellent ; but yet that there are exceptional defects
which should be remedied, superficial inconsistencies that
should be corrected. The most opposite creed is that of the
sceptic, who teaches that you are to keep what is because it
exists ; not from a conviction of its excellence, ^but from an
uncertainty that anything better can be obtained. The one
is an attachment to precise rules for specific reasons ; the
other an acquiescence in the present on grounds that would
be equally applicable to its very opposite, from a disbelief in
the possibility of improvement, and a conviction of the
uncertainty of all things. And equally adverse to an
unlimited scepticism is the nature of popular writing. It is
true that the greatest teachers of that creed have sometimes,
and as it were of set purpose, adopted that species of writing ;
yet essentially it is inimical to them. Its appeal is to the
people ; as has been shown, it addresses the elite of common
1 Lord Palmerston.

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 163

men, sensible in their affairs, intelligent in their tastes,
influential among their neighbours. What is absolute scep-
ticism to such men ? — a dream, a chimera, an inexplicable
absurdity. Tell it to them to-day, and they will have
forgotten it to-morrow. A man of business hates elaborate
trifling. " If you do not believe your own senses," he will
say, " there is no use in my talking to you." As to the
multiplicity of arguments and the complexity of questions,
he feels them little. He has a plain, simple, as he would
say, practical way of looking at the matter ; and you will
never make him comprehend any other. He knows the
world can be improved. And thus what we may call the
middle species of writing — which is intermediate between
the light, frivolous style of merely amusing literature, and
the heavy, conscientious elaborateness of methodical philo-
sophy— the style of the original Edinburgh — is, in truth, as
opposed to the vague, desponding conservatism of the sceptic
as it is to the stupid conservatism of the crude and unin-
structed ; and substantially for the same reason — that it is
addressed to men of cool, clear, and practical under-
standings.

It is, indeed, no wonder that the Edinburgh Review,
should be agreeable to the Whigs, for the people who
founded it were Whigs. Among these, three stand pre-
eminent— Homer, Jeffrey, and Sydney Smith. Other men
of equal ability may have contributed — and a few did
contribute — to its pages ; but these men were, more than
any one else, the first Edinburgh Review.

Francis Homer's was a short and singular life. He was
the son of an Edinburgh shopkeeper. He died at thirty-
nine ; and when he died, from all sides of the usually cold
House of Commons great statesmen and thorough gentlemen
got up to deplore his loss. Tears are rarely parliamentary :
all men are arid towards young Scotchmen ; yet it was one

Literary Studies.

of that inclement nation whom statesmen of the species
Castlereagh, and statesmen of the species Whitbread — with
all the many kinds and species that lie between the two —
rose in succession to lament. The fortunes and superficial
aspect of the man make it more singular. He had no wealth,
was a briefless barrister, never held an office, was a conspicu-
ous member of the most unpopular of all oppositions — the
opposition to a glorious and successful war. He never had
the means of obliging any one. He was destitute of showy
abilities : he had not the intense eloquence or overwhelming
ardour which enthral and captivate popular assemblies : his
powers of administration were little tried, and may possibly
be slightly questioned. In his youthful reading he was
remarkable for laying down, for a few months of study,
enormous plans, such as many years would scarcely com-
plete ; and not especially remarkable for doing anything
wonderful towards accomplishing those plans. Sir Walter
Scott, who, though not illiberal in his essential intellect, was
a keen partisan on superficial matters, and no lenient critic
on actual Edinburgh Whigs, used to observe : " I cannot
admire your Horner ; he always reminds me of Obadiah's
bull, who, though he never certainly did produce a calf,
nevertheless went about his business with so much gravity,
that he commanded the respect of the whole parish ". l It is
no explanation of the universal regret, that he was a
considerable political economist : no real English gentleman,
in his secret soul, was ever sorry for the death of a political
economist : he is much more likely to be sorry for his life.
There is an idea that he has something to do with statistics ;
or, if that be exploded, that he is a person who writes upon
" value " : says that rent is — you cannot very well make out
what ; talks excruciating currency ; he may be useful as

1 See last chapter of " Tristram Shandy ",

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 165

drying machines are useful ; l but the notion of crying about
him is absurd. The economical loss might be great, but it
will not explain the mourning for Francis Horner.

The fact is that Horner is a striking example of the
advantage of keeping an atmosphere. This may sound like
nonsense, and yet it is true. There is around some men a
kind of circle or halo of influences, and traits, and associa-
tions, by which they infallibly leave a distinct and uniform
impression on all their contemporaries. It is very difficult,
even for those who have the best opportunities, to analyse
exactly what this impression consists in, or why it was made
— but it is made. There is a certain undefinable keeping in
the traits and manner, and common speech and characteristic
actions of some men, which inevitably stamps the same
mark and image. It is like a man's style. There are some
writers who can be known by a few words of their writing ;
each syllable is instinct with a certain spirit : put it into the
hands of any one chosen at random, the same impression
will be produced by the same casual and felicitous means.
Just so in character, the air and atmosphere, so to speak,
which are around a man, have a delicate and expressive
power, and leave a stamp of unity on the interpretative
faculty of mankind. Death dissolves this association, and
it becomes a problem for posterity what it was that contem-
poraries observed and reverenced. There is Lord Somers.
Does any one know why he had such a reputation ? He
was Lord Chancellor, and decided a Bank case, and had an
influence in the Cabinet ; but there have been Lord Chan-
cellors, and Bank cases, and influential Cabinet ministers
not a few, that have never attained to a like reputation.

1 " Homer is ill. He was desired to read amusing books : upon
searching his library, it appeared he had no amusing books ; the nearest
approach to a work of that description being the Indian Trader's Complete
Guide."— Sydney Smith's Letter to Lady Holland.

1 66 Literary Studies.

There is little we can connect specifically with his name.
Lord Macaulay, indeed, says that he spoke for five minutes
on the Bishops' trial ; and that when he sat down, his
reputation as an orator and constitutional lawyer was estab-
lished. But this must be a trifle eloquent ; hardly any orator
could be fast enough to attain such a reputation in five
minutes. The truth is, that Lord Somers had around him
that inexpressible attraction and influence of which we speak.
He left a sure, and if we may trust the historian, even a
momentary impression on those who saw him. By a species
of tact they felt him to be a great man. The ethical sense
— for there is almost such a thing in simple persons — dis-
criminated the fine and placid oneness of his nature. It was
the same on a smaller scale with Horner. After he had left
Edinburgh several years, his closest and most confidential
associate writes to him : " There is no circumstance in your
life, my dear Horner, so enviable as the universal confidence
which your conduct has produced among all descriptions of
men. I do not speak of your friends, who have been near
and close observers ; but I have had some occasions of
observing the impression which those who are distant
spectators have had, and I believe there are few instances of
any person of your age possessing the same character for
independence and integrity, qualities for which very little
credit is given in general to young men."1 Sydney Smith
said, " the Ten Commandments were written on his coun-
tenance". Of course he was a very ugly man, but the
moral impression in fact conveyed was equally efficacious.
" I have often," said the same most just observer, " told
him, that there was not a crime he might not commit with
impunity, as no judge or jury who saw him would give the
smallest credit to any evidence against him. There was in
his look a calm settled love of all that was honourable and
1 Letter from Lord Murray.

The First Edinburgh Reviewers.

i67

good — an air of wisdom and of sweetness. You saw at once
that he was a great man, whom Nature had intended for a
leader of human beings ; you ranged yourself willingly under
his banners, and cheerfully submitted to his sway." From
the somewhat lengthened description of what we denned as
the essential Whig character, it is evident how agreeable
and suitable such a man was to their quiet, composed, and
aristocratic nature. His tone was agreeable to English
gentlemen : a firm and placid manliness, without effort or
pretension, is what they like best ; and therefore it was that
the House of Commons grieved for his loss — unanimously
and without distinction.

Some friends of Homer's, in his own time, mildly
criticised him for a tendency to party spirit. The disease in
him, if real, was by no means virulent ; but it is worth
noticing as one of the defects to which the proper Whig
character is specially prone. It is evident in the quiet
agreement of the men. Their composed, unimaginative
nature is inclined to isolate itself in a single view; their
placid disposition, never prone to self-distrust, is rather
susceptible of friendly influence; their practical habit is
concentrated on what should be done. They do not wish —
they do not like to go forth into various speculation ; to put
themselves in the position of opponents; to weigh in a
refining scale the special weight of small objections. Their
fancy is hardly vivid enough to explain to them all the
characters of those whom they oppose ; their intellect scarcely
detective enough to discover a meaning for each grain in
opposing arguments. Nor is their temper, it may be, always
prone to be patient with propositions which tease, and persons
who resist them. The wish to call down fire from heaven
is rarely absent in pure zeal for a pure cause.

A good deal of praise has naturally been bestowed upon
the Whigs for adopting such a man as Homer, with Romilly

168 Literary Studies.

and others of that time; and much excellent eulogy has been
expended on the close boroughs, which afforded to the Whig
leaders a useful mode of showing their favour. Certainly,
the character of Homer was one altogether calculated to in-
gratiate itself with the best and most special Whig nature.
But as for the eulogy on the proprietary seats in Parliament,
it is certain that from the position of the Whig party, the
nomination system was then most likely to show its excel-
lences, and to conceal its defects. Nobody but an honest
man would bind himself thoroughly to the Whigs. It was
evident that the reign of Lord Eldon must be long; the
heavy and common Englishman (after all, the most steady
and powerful force in our political constitution) had been told
that Lord Grey was in favour of the " Papists," and liked
Bonaparte; and the consequence was a long, painful, arduous
exile on " the other side of the table," — the last place any
political adventurer would wish to arrive at. Those who
have no bribes will never charm the corrupt ; those who have
nothing to give will not please those who desire that much
shall be given them. There is an observation of Niel Blane,
the innkeeper, in Old Mortality. " * And what are we to eat
ourselves, then, father,' asked Jenny, 'when we hae sent
awa the haile meal in the ark and the girnel ? ' * We maun
gaur wheat flour serve us for a blink,' said Niel, with an air
of resignation. 'It is not that ill food, though far frae being
sae hearty and kindly to a Scotchman's stomach as the
curney aitmeal is : the Englishers live amaist upon it,' " etc.
It was so with the Whigs; they were obliged to put up with
honest and virtuous men, and they wanted able men to
carry on a keen opposition; and, after all, they and the
" Englishers " like such men best.

In another point of view, too, Horner's life was charac-
teristic of those times. It might seem, at first sight, odd
that the English Whigs should go to Scotland to find a

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 169

literary representative. There was no place where Toryism
was so intense. The constitution of Scotland at that time
has been described as the worst constitution in Europe.
The nature of the representation made the entire country a
Government borough. In the towns, the franchise belonged
to a close and self-electing corporation, who were always
carefully watched : the county representation, anciently rest-
ing on a property qualification, had become vested in a few
titular freeholders, something like lords of the manor, only
that they might have no manor; and these, even with
the addition of the borough freeholders, did not amount to
three thousand. The whole were in the hands of Lord
Eldon's party, and the entire force, influence, and patronage
of Government were spent to maintain and keep it so.
By inevitable consequence, Liberalism, even of the most
moderate kind, was thought almost a criminal offence.
The mild Horner was considered a man of "very violent
opinions".1 Jeffrey's father, a careful and discerning parent,
was so anxious to shield him from the intellectual taint, as
to forbid his attendance at Stewart's lectures. This seems
an odd place to find the eruption of a liberal review. Of
course the necessary effect of a close and commonplace
tyranny was to engender a strong reaction in searching and
vigorous minds. The Liberals of the North, though far
fewer, may perhaps have been stronger Liberals than those
of the South ; but this will hardly explain the phenomenon.
The reason is an academical one ; the teaching of Scotland
seems to have been designed to teach men to write essays
and articles. There are two kinds of education, into all the
details of which it is not now pleasant to go, but which may
be adequately described as the education of facts, and the
education of speculation. The system of facts is the English
system. The strength of the pedagogue and the agony of
1 Lady Holland: Memoirs of Sydney Smith.

170 Literary Studies.

the pupil are designed to engender a good knowledge of two
languages ; in the old times, a little arithmetic ; now, also a
knowledge, more or less, of mathematics and mathematical
physics. The positive tastes and tendencies of the English
mind confine its training to ascertained learning and definite
science. In Scotland the case has long been different. The
time of a man like Homer was taken up with speculations
like these : " I have long been feeding my ambition with the
prospect of accomplishing, at some future period of my life,
a work similar to that which Sir Francis Bacon executed,
about two hundred years ago. It will depend on the sweep
and turn of my speculations, whether they shall be thrown
into the form of a discursive commentary on the Instauratio
Magna of that great author, or shall be entitled to an original
form, under the title of a * View of the Limits of Human
Knowledge and a System of the Principles of Philosophical
Inquiry '. I shall say nothing at present of the audacity,"
etc., etc. And this sort of planning, which is the staple of
his youthful biography, was really accompanied by much
application to metaphysics, history, political economy, and
such like studies. It is not at all to our present purpose to
compare this speculative and indeterminate kind of study
with the rigorous accurate education of England. The fault
of the former is sometimes to produce a sort of lecturer in
vacuOj ignorant of exact pursuits, and diffusive of vague
words. The English now and then produce a learned
creature like a thistle, prickly with all facts, and incapable
of all fruit. But, passing by this general question, it cannot
be doubted that, as a preparation for the writing of various
articles, the system of Edinburgh is enormously superior
to that of Cambridge. The particular, compact, exclusive
learning of England is inferior in this respect to the general,
diversified, omnipresent information of the North ; and what
is more, the speculative, dubious nature of metaphysical and

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 171

such like pursuits tends, in a really strong mind, to cultivate
habits of independent thought and original discussion. A
bold mind so trained will even wish to advance its peculiar
ideas, on its own account, in a written and special form ;
that is, as we said, to write an article. Such are the excel-
lences in this respect of the system of which Horner is an
example. The defects tend the same way. It tends, as is
said, to make a man fancy he knows everything. " Well
then, at least," it may be answered, " I can write an article
on everything."

The facility and boldness of the habits so produced were
curiously exemplified in Lord Jeffrey. During the first six
years of the Edinburgh Review he wrote as many as seventy-
nine articles; in a like period afterwards he wrote forty. Any
one who should expect to find a pure perfection in these mis-
cellaneous productions, should remember their bulk. If all
his reviews were reprinted, they would be very many. And
all the while, he was a busy lawyer, was editor of the Review,
did the business, corrected the proof-sheets; and more than
all, what one would have thought a very strong man's work,
actually managed Henry Brougham. You must not criticise
papers like these, rapidly written in the hurry of life, as you
would the painful words of an elaborate sage, slowly and
with anxious awfulness instructing mankind. Some things,
a few things, are for eternity ; some, and a good many, are
for time. We do not expect the everlastingness of the Pyra-
mids from the vibratory grandeur of a Tyburnian mansion.

The truth is, that Lord Jeffrey was something of a Whig
critic. We have hinted, that among the peculiarities of that
character, an excessive partiality for new, arduous, over-
whelming, original excellence, was by no means to be
numbered. Their tendency inclining to the quiet footsteps
of custom, they like to trace the exact fulfilment of admitted
rules, a just accordance with the familiar features of ancient

172 Literary Studies.

merit. But they are most averse to mysticism. A clear,
precise, discriminating intellect shrinks at once from the
symbolic, the unbounded, the indefinite. The misfortune is
that mysticism is true. There certainly are kinds of truths,
borne in as it were instinctively on the human intellect, most
influential on the character and the heart, yet hardly capable
of stringent statement, difficult to limit by an elaborate de-
finition. Their course is shadowy ; the mind seems rather
to have seen than to see them, more to feel after than de-
finitely apprehend them. They commonly involve an infinite
element, which of course cannot be stated precisely, or else a
first principle — an original tendency — of our intellectual con-
stitution, which it is impossible not to feel, and yet which it
is hard to extricate in terms and words. Of this latter kind
is what has been called the religion of Nature, or more exactly
perhaps, the religion of the imagination. This is an inter-
pretation of the world. According to it the beauty of the
universe has a meaning, its grandeur a soul, its sublimity an
expression. As we gaze on the faces of those whom we love ;
as we watch the light of life in the dawning of their eyes, and
the play of their features, and the wildness of their animation ;
as we trace in changing lineaments a varying sign ; as a
charm and a thrill seem to run along the tone of a voice, to
haunt the mind with a mere word ; as a tone seems to roam
in the ear; as a trembling fancy hears words that are un-
spoken ; so in Nature the mystical sense finds a motion in
the mountain, and a power in the waves, and a meaning in
the long white line of the shore, and a thought in the blue of
heaven, and a gushing soul in the buoyant light, an un-
bounded being in the vast void of air, and

" Wakeful watchings in the pointed stars ".

There is a philosophy in this which might be explained, if
explaining were to our purpose. It might be advanced that

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 173

there are original sources of expression in the essential
grandeur and sublimity of Nature, of an analogous though
fainter kind, to those familiar, inexplicable signs by which
we trace in the very face and outward lineaments of man the
existence and working of the mind within. But be this as it
may, it is certain that Mr. Wordsworth preached this kind
of religion, and that Lord Jeffrey did not believe a word of
it. His cool, sharp, collected mind revolted from its
mysticism ; his detective intelligence was absorbed in its
apparent fallaciousness ; his light humour made sport with
the sublimities of the preacher. His love of perspicuity was
vexed by its indefiniteness ; the precise philosopher was
amazed at its mystic unintelligibility. Finding a little fault
was doubtless not unpleasant to him. The reviewer's pen —
(/>ovos iJpoWo-o' — has seldom been more poignantly wielded.
" If," he was told, " you could be alarmed into the semblance
of modesty, you would charm everybody ; but remember my
joke against you " (Sydney Smith loquitur) " about the
moon. D — n the solar system — bad light — planets too
distant — pestered with comets : feeble contrivance ; could
make a better with great ease." Yet we do not mean that
in this great literary feud, either of the combatants had all
the right, or gained all the victory. The world has given
judgment. Both Mr. Wordsworth and Lord Jeffrey have
received their reward. The one had his own generation ;
the laughter of men, the applause of drawing-rooms, the
concurrence of the crowd : the other a succeeding age, the
fond enthusiasm of secret students, the lonely rapture of
lonely minds. And each has received according to his kind.
If all cultivated men speak differently because of the existence
of Wordsworth and Coleridge ; if not a thoughtful English
book has appeared for forty years, without some trace for
good or evil of their influence ; if sermon-writers subsist
upon their thoughts ; if " sacred poets " thrive by translating
VOL. i. 16

174 Literary Studies.

their weaker portion into the speech of women ; if, when all
this is over, some sufficient part of their writing will ever be
fitting food for wild musing and solitary meditation, surely
this is because they possessed the inner nature — " an intense
and glowing mind," "the vision and the faculty divine".1
But if, perchance, in their weaker moments, the great authors
of the Lyrical Ballads did ever imagine that the world
was to pause because of their verses : that " Peter Bell" would
be popular in drawing-rooms; that " Christabel" would be
perused in the City ; that people of fashion would make a hand-
book of the " Excursion," — it was well for them to be told
at once that this was not so. Nature ingeniously prepared
a shrill artificial voice, which spoke in season and out of
season, enough and more than enough, what will ever be the
idea of the cities of the plain concerning those who live alone
among the mountains ; of the frivolous concerning the
grave ; of the gregarious concerning the recluse ; of those
who laugh concerning those who laugh not ; of the common
concerning the uncommon ; of those who lend on usury con-
cerning those who lend not; the notion of the world of those
whom it will not reckon among the righteous — it said, 2 " This
won't do ! " And so in all time will the lovers of polished
Liberalism speak, concerning the intense and lonely prophet.
Yet, if Lord Jeffrey had the natural infirmities of a Whig
critic, he certainly had also its extrinsic and political advan-
tages. Especially at Edinburgh the Whigs wanted a literary
man. The Liberal party in Scotland had long groaned under
political exclusion ; they had suffered, with acute mortifica-
tion, the heavy sway of Henry Dundas, but they had been
compensated by a literary supremacy ; in the book-world
they enjoyed a domination. On a sudden this was rudely

1 Wordsworth's " Excursion".

2 The first words of Jeffrey's review of the " Excursion " are: " This
will never do ".

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 175

threatened. The fame of Sir Walter Scott was echoed from
the southern world, and appealed to every national senti-
ment— to the inmost heart of every Scotchman. And what
a ruler ! a lame Tory, a jocose Jacobite, a laugher at
Liberalism, a scoffer at metaphysics, an unbeliever in political
economy ! What a Gothic ruler for the modern Athens ; —
was this man to reign over them ? It would not have been
like human nature, if a strong and intellectual party had not
soon found a clever and noticeable rival. Poets, indeed, are
not made " to order " ; but Byron, speaking the sentiment of
his time and circle, counted reviewers their equals. If a
Tory produced " Marmion," a Whig wrote the best article
upon it; Scott might, so ran Liberal speech, be the best
living writer of fiction; Jeffrey, clearly, was the most shrewd
and accomplished of literary critics.

And though this was an absurd delusion, Lord Jeffrey
was no everyday man. He invented the trade of editorship.
Before him an editor was a bookseller's drudge ; he is now a
distinguished functionary. If Jeffrey was not a great critic,
he had, what very great critics have wanted, the art of
writing what most people would think good criticism. He
might not know his subject, but he knew his readers. People
like to read ideas which they can imagine to have been their
own. " Why does Scarlett always persuade the jury ? "
asked a rustic gentleman. " Because there are twelve
Scarletts in the jury-box," replied an envious advocate.
What Scarlett was in law, Jeffrey was in criticism ; he could
become that which his readers could not avoid being. He
was neither a pathetic writer nor a profound writer ; but he
was a quick-eyed, bustling, black-haired, sagacious, agreeable
man of the world. He had his day, and was entitled to his
day ; but a gentle oblivion must now cover his already sub-
siding reputation.

Sydney Smith was an after-dinner writer. His words have

176 Literary Studies.

a flow, a vigour, an expression, which is not given to hungry
mortals. You seem to read of good wine, of good cheer, of
beaming and buoyant enjoyment. There is little trace of
labour in his composition ; it is poured forth like an unceasing
torrent, rejoicing daily to run its course. And what courage
there is in it ! There is as much variety of pluck in writing
across a sheet, as in riding across a country. Cautious men
have many adverbs, " usually," " nearly," " almost " : safe
men begin, " it may be advanced " : you never know precisely
what their premises are, nor what their conclusion is ; they
go tremulously like a timid rider ; they turn hither and
thither ; they do not go straight across a subject, like a
masterly mind. A few sentences are enough for a master of
sentences. A practical topic wants rough vigour and strong
exposition. This is the writing of Sydney Smith. It is
suited to the broader kind of important questions. For any-
thing requiring fine nicety of speculation, long elaborateness
of deduction, evanescent sharpness of distinction, neither his
style nor his mind was fit. He had no patience for long
argument, no acuteness for delicate precision, no fangs for
recondite research. Writers, like teeth, are divided into
incisors and grinders. Sydney Smith was a " molar ". He
did not run a long sharp argument into the interior of a
question ; he did not, in the common phrase, go deeply into
it ; but he kept it steadily under the contact of a strong,
capable, heavy, jaw-like understanding, — pressing its sur-
face, effacing its intricacies, grinding it down. Yet, as we
said, this is done without toil. The play of the " molar " is
instinctive and placid ; he could not help it ; it would seem
that he had an enjoyment in it.

The story is, that he liked a bright light ; that when he
was a poor parson in the country, he used, not being able to
afford more delicate luminaries, to adorn his drawing-room
with a hundred little lamps of tin metal and mutton fat.

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 177

When you know this, you see it in all his writings. There
is the same preference of perspicuity throughout them.
Elegance, fine savour, sweet illustration, are quite secondary.
His only question to an argument was, " Will it tell ? " as
to an example, " Will it exemplify ? " Like what is called
" push " in a practical man, his style goes straight to its
object ; it is not restrained by the gentle hindrances, the
delicate decorums of refining natures. There is nothing
more characteristic of the Scandinavian mythology, than
that it had a god with a hammer. You have no better
illustration of our English humour, than the great success of
this huge and healthy organisation.

There is something about this not exactly to the Whig
taste. They do not like such broad fun, and rather dislike
unlimited statement. Lord Melbourne, it is plain, declined
to make him a bishop. In this there might be a vestige of
Canningite prejudice, but on the whole, there was the dis-
tinction between the two men which there is between the
loud wit and the recherche thinker — between the bold con-
troversialist and the discriminative statesman. A refined
noblesse can hardly respect a humorist ; he amuses them,
and they like him, but they are puzzled to know whether he
does not laugh at them as well as with them ; and the notion
of being laughed at, ever, or on any score, is alien to their
shy decorum and suppressed pride. But in a broader point
of view, and taking a wider range of general character, there
was a good deal in common. More than any one else,
Sydney Smith was Liberalism in life. Somebody has
defined Liberalism as the spirit of the world. It represents
its genial enjoyment, its wise sense, its steady judgment, its
preference of the near to the far, of the seen to the unseen ;
it represents, too, its shrinking from difficult dogma, from
stern statement, from imperious superstition. What health
is to the animal, Liberalism is to the polity. It is a principle

178 Literary Studies.

of fermenting enjoyment, running over all the nerves, in-
spiring the frame, happy in its mind, easy in its place, glad
to behold the sun. All this Sydney Smith, as it were,
personified. The biography just published of him will be very
serviceable to his fame. He has been regarded too much as
a fashionable jester, and metropolitan wit of society. We
have now for the first time a description of him as he was, —
equally at home in the crude world of Yorkshire, and amid
the quintessential refinements of Mayfair. It is impossible
to believe that he did not give the epithet to his parish : it
is now called Foston le Clay. It was a " mute inglorious "
Sydney of the district, that invented the name, if it is really
older than the century. The place has an obtuse soil,
inhabited by stiff-clayed Yorkshiremen. There was nobody
in the parish to speak to, only peasants, farmers, and such
like (what the clergy call " parishioners ") and an old clerk
who thought every one who came from London a fool, " but
you I do zee, Mr. Smith, be no fool ". This was the sort of
life.

" I turned schoolmaster, to educate my son, as I could not afford to
send him to school. Mrs. Sydney turned schoolmistress, to educate my
girls, as I could not afford a governess. I turned farmer, as I could not
let my land. A man-servant was too expensive ; so I caught up a little
garden-girl, made like a mile-stone, christened her Bunch, put a napkin
in her han.d, and made her my butler. The girls taught her to read, Mrs.
Sydney to wait, and I undertook her morals. Bunch became the best
butler in the county.

" I had little furniture, so I bought a cart-load of deals ; took a
carpenter (who came to me for parish relief, called Jack Robinson) with
a face like a full-moon, into my service ; established him in a barn, and
said : ' Jack, furnish my house '. You see the result !

" At last it was suggested that a carriage was much wanted in the
establishment. After diligent search, I discovered in the back settlements
of a York coach-maker an ancient green chariot, supposed to have been
the earliest invention of the kind. I brought it home in triumph to my
admiring family. Being somewhat dilapidated, the village tailor lined it,

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 179

the village blacksmith repaired it ; nay (but for Mrs. Sydney's earnest
entreaties), we believe the village painter would have exercised his genius
upon the exterior ; it escaped this danger however, and the result was
wonderful. Each year added to its charms : it grew younger and
younger ; a new wheel, a new spring ; I christened it the Immortal ; it
was known all over the neighbourhood ; the village boys cheered it, and
the village dogs barked at it ; but ' Faber meae fortunae ' was my motto,
and we had no false shame.

" Added to all these domestic cares, I was village parson, village
doctor, village comforter, village magistrate, and Edinburgh Reviewer ; so
you see I had not much time left on my hands to regret London." ,

It is impossible that this should not at once remind us of
the life of Sir Walter Scott. There is the same strong sense,
the same glowing, natural pleasure, the same power of
dealing with men, the same power of diffusing common
happiness. Both enjoyed as much in a day, as an ordinary
man in a month. The term " animal spirits " peculiarly
expresses this bold enjoyment; it seems to come from a
principle intermediate between the mind and the body ; to
be hardly intellectual enough for the soul, and yet too per-
meating and aspiring for crude matter. Of course, there is
an immense imaginative world in Scott's existence to which
Sydney Smith had no claim. But they met upon the present
world ; they enjoyed the spirit of life ; " they loved the
world, and the world them ; " they did not pain themselves
with immaterial speculation — roast beef was an admitted
fact. A certain, even excessive practical caution which is
ascribed to the Englishman, Scott would have been the
better for. Yet his biography would have been the worse.
There is nothing in the life before us comparable in interest
to the tragic, gradual cracking of the great mind ; the over-
tasking of the great capital, and the ensuing failure ; the
spectacle of heaving genius breaking in the contact with
misfortune. The anticipation of this pain increases the
pleasure of the reader ; the commencing threads of coming

180 Literary Studies.

calamity shade the woof of pleasure ; the proximity of
suffering softens the vflpis, the terrible, fatiguing energy of
enjoyment.

A great deal of excellent research has been spent on the
difference between " humour" and " wit," into which meta-
physical problem " our limits," of course, forbid us to enter.
There is, however, between them, the distinction of dry sticks
and green sticks ; there is in humour a living energy, a
diffused potency, a noble sap ; it grows upon the character
of the humorist. Wit is part of the machinery of the intel-
lect ; as Madame de Stael says, "-La gaiete de V esprit est
facile a tons les hommes d'esprit ". We wonder Mr. Babbage
does not invent a punning-engine ; it is just as possible as a
calculating one. Sydney Smith's mirth was essentially
humorous ; it clings to the character of the man ; as with
the sayings of Dr. Johnson, there is a species of personality
attaching to it ; the word is more graphic because Sydney
Smith — that man being the man that he was — said it, than
it would have been if said by any one else. In -a desponding
moment, he would have it he was none the better for the
jests which he made, any more than a bottle for the wine
which passed through it : this is a true description of many
a wit, but he was very unjust in attributing it to himself.

Sydney Smith is often compared to Swift ; but this only
shows with how little thought our common criticism is
written. The two men have really nothing in common,
except that they were both high in the Church, and both
wrote amusing letters about Ireland. Of course, to the
great constructive and elaborative power displayed in Swift's
longer works, Sydney Smith has no pretension ; he could
not have written Gulliver's Travels ; but so far as the two
series of Irish letters goes, it seems plain that he has the
advantage. Plymley's letters are true ; the treatment may
be incomplete — the Catholic religion may have latent

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 181

dangers and insidious attractions which are not there
mentioned — but the main principle is sound ; the common
sense of religious toleration is hardly susceptible of better
explanation. Drapier's letters, on the contrary, are
essentially absurd ; they are a clever appeal to ridiculous
prejudices. Who cares now for a disputation on the evils
to be apprehended a hundred years ago from adulterated
halfpence, especially when we know that the halfpence were
not adulterated, and that if they had been, those evils would
never have arisen ? Any one, too, who wishes to make a
collection of currency crotchets, will find those letters worth
his attention. No doubt there is a clever affectation of
common-sense, as in all of Swift's political writings, and the
style has an air of business ; yet, on the other hand, there
are no passages which any one would now care to quote for
their manner and their matter ; and there are many in
" Plymley " that will be constantly cited, so long as existing
controversies are at all remembered. The whole genius of
the two writers is emphatically opposed. Sydney Smith's
is the ideal of popular, buoyant, riotous fun ; it cries and
laughs with boisterous mirth ; it rolls hither and thither like
a mob, with elastic and commonplace joy. Swift was a
detective in a dean's wig ; he watched the mob ; his whole
wit is a kind of dexterous indication of popular frailties ; he
hated the crowd ; he was a spy on beaming smiles, and a
common informer against genial enjoyment. His whole
essence was a soreness against mortality. Show him
innocent mirth, he would say, How absurd ! He was pain-
fully wretched, no doubt, in himself: perhaps, as they say,
he had no heart ; but his mind, his brain had a frightful
capacity for secret pain ; his sharpness was the sharpness of
disease ; his power the sole acumen of morbid wretchedness.
It is impossible to fancy a parallel more proper to show the
excellence, the unspeakable superiority of a buoyant and
bounding writer.

1 82 Literary Studies.

At the same time, it is impossible to give to Sydney
Smith the highest rank, even as a humorist. Almost all his
humour has reference to the incongruity of special means to
special ends. The notion of Plymley is want of conformity
between the notions of " my brother Abraham," and the
means of which he makes use ; of the quiet clergyman, who
was always told he was a bit of a goose, advocating conver-
sion by muskets, and stopping Bonaparte by Peruvian bark.
The notion of the letters to Archdeacon Singleton is, a
bench of bishops placidly and pleasantly destroying the
Church. It is the same with most of his writings. Even
when there is nothing absolutely practical in the idea, the
subject is from the scenery of practice, from concrete
entities, near institutions, superficial facts. You might
quote a hundred instances. Here is one : " A gentleman,
in speaking of a nobleman's wife of great rank and fortune,
lamented very much that she had no children. A medical
gentleman who was present observed, that to have no chil-
dren was a great misfortune, but he had often observed it
was hereditary in families." This is what we mean by say-
ing his mirth lies in the superficial relations of phenomena
(some will say we are pompous, like the medical man) ; in
the relation of one external fact to another external fact ; of
one detail of common life to another detail of common life.
But this is not the highest topic of humour. Taken as a
whole, the universe is absurd. There seems an unalterable
contradiction between the human mind and its employments.
How can a soul be a merchant ? What relation to an
immortal being have the price of linseed, the fall of butter,
the tare on tallow, or the brokerage on hemp ? Can an
undying creature debit "petty expenses," and charge for
" carriage paid " ? All the world's a stage ; — " the satchel,
and the shining morning face'1 — the "strange oaths"; —
" the bubble reputation " — the

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 183

" Eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances". l

Can these things be real ? Surely they are acting. What
relation have they to the truth as we see it in theory? What
connection with our certain hopes, our deep desires, our
craving and infinite thought ? " In respect of itself, it is a
good life ; but in respect it is a shepherd's life, it is nought."
The soul ties its shoe; the mind washes its hands in a basin.
All is incongruous.

"Shallow. Certain, 'tis certain; very sure, very sure ; death, as the
Psalmist saith, is certain to all ; all shall die. — How a good yoke of
bullocks at Stamford fair ?

Silence. Truly, cousin, I was not there.

Shallow. Death is certain. — Is old Double, of your town, living yet ?

Silence. Dead, sir.

Shallow. Dead. See 1 See ! He drew a good bow, — and dead.
He shot a fine shoot. John of Gaunt loved him well, and betted much
money on his head. — Dead I He would have clapped i' the clout at
fourscore, and carried you a forehandshaft, a fourteen and fourteen and
a half, that it would have done a man's heart good to see. — How a score
of ewes now ?

Silence. Thereafter as they be ; a score of ewes may be worth ten
pounds.

Shallow. And is Double dead I- " «

It is because Sydney Smith had so little of this Shake-
spearian humour, that there is a glare in his pages, and that
in the midst of his best writing, we sigh for the soothing
superiority of quieter writers.

Sydney Smith was not only the wit of the first Edinburgh,
but likewise the divine. He was, to use his own expression,
the only clergyman who in those days "turned out " to fight
the battles of the Whigs. In some sort this was not so
important. A curious abstinence from religious topics

1 Shakespeare : " As You Like It ".
• Shakespeare : " Henry IV. ".

184 Literary Studies.

characterises the original Review. There is a wonderful
omission of this most natural topic of speculation in the
lives of Horner and Jeffrey. In truth, it would seem that,
living in the incessant din of a Calvinistic country, the best
course for thoughtful and serious men was to be silent — at
least they instinctively thought so. They felt no involuntary
call to be theological teachers themselves, and gently
recoiled from the coarse admonition around them. Even in
the present milder time, few cultivated persons willingly
think on the special dogmas of distinct theology. They do
not deny them, but they live apart from them : they do not
disbelieve them, but they are silent :when' they are stated.
They do not question the existence of Kamschatka, but they
have no call to busy themselves with Kamschatka; they
abstain from peculiar tenets. Nor in truth is this, though
much aggravated by existing facts, a mere accident of this
age. There are some people to whom such a course of con-
duct is always natural : there are certain persons who do
not, as it would seem cannot, feel all that others feel ; who
have, so to say, no ear for much of religion : who are in
some sort out of its reach. " It is impossible," says a
divine of the Church of England, l " not to observe that
innumerable persons (may we not say the majority of man-
kind ?) who have a belief in God and immortality, have,
nevertheless, scarcely any consciousness of the peculiar
doctrines of the Gospel. They seem to live aloof from them
in the world of business or of pleasure, ' the common life of
all men/ not without a sense of right, and a rule of truth
and honesty, yet insensible " to much which we need no
name. " They have never in their whole lives experienced
the love of God, the sense of sin, or the need of forgiveness.
Often they are remarkable for the purity of their morals ;
many of them have strong and disinterested attachments
1 Dr. Jowett.

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 185

and quick human sympathies ; sometimes a stoical feeling
of uprightness, or a peculiar sensitiveness to dishonour. It
would be a mistake to say that they are without religion.
They join in its public acts ; they are offended at profaneness
or impiety ; they are thankful for the blessings of life, and
do not rebel against its misfortunes. Such men meet us at
'every step. They are those whom we know and associate
with ; honest in their dealings, respectable in their lives,
decent in their conversation. The Scripture speaks to us of
two classes, represented by the Church and the world, the
wheat and the tares, the sheep and the goats, the friends and
enemies of God. We cannot say in which of these two
divisions we should find a place for them.'' They believe
always a kind of " natural religion ". Now these are what
we may call, in the language of the present, Liberals. Those
who can remember, or -who will re-read our delineation of
the Whig character, may observe its conformity. There is
the same purity and delicacy, the same tranquil sense ; an
equal want of imagination, of impulsive enthusiasm, .of
shrinking fear. You need not speak like the above writer of
" peculiar doctrines" ; the phenomenon is no speciality of a
particular creed. Glance over the whole of history. As the
classical world stood beside the Jewish ; as Horace beside
St. Paul ; like the heavy ark and the buoyant waves, so are
men in contrast with one another. You cannot imagine a
classical Isaiah ; you cannot fancy a Whig St. Dominic ;
there is no such thing as a Liberal Augustine. The deep
sea of mysticism lies opposed to some natures ; in some
moods it is a sublime wonder ; in others an " impious
ocean," — they will never put forth on it at any time.

All this is intelligible, and in a manner beautiful as a
character; but it is not equally excellent as a creed. A certain
class of Liberal divines have endeavoured to petrify into a
theory, a pure and placid disposition. In some respects Sydney

1 86 Literary Studies.

Smith is one of these; his sermons are the least excellent
of his writings; of course they are sensible and well-inten-
tioned, but they have the defect of his school. With mis-
directed energy, these divines have laboured after a plain
religion ; they have forgotten that a quiet and definite mind
is confined to a placid and definite world ; that religion has
its essence in awe, its charm in infinity, its sanction in dread ;
that its dominion is an inexplicable dominion ; that mystery
is its power. There is a reluctance in all such writers; they
creep away from the unintelligible parts of the subject : they
always seem to have something behind ; — not to like to bring
out what they know to be at hand. They are in their nature
apologists; and, as George the Third said : " I did not know
the Bible needed an apology ". As well might the thunder
be ashamed to roll, as religion hesitate to be too awful for
mankind. The invective of Lucretius is truer than the
placid patronage of the divine. Let us admire Liberals in
life, but let us keep no terms with Paleyans in speculation.

And so we must draw to a conclusion. We have in
some sort given a description of, with one great exception,
the most remarkable men connected at its origin with the
Edinburgh Review. And that exception is a man of too
fitful, defective, and strange greatness to be spoken of now.
Henry Brougham must be left to after-times. Indeed, he
would have marred the unity of our article. He was con-
nected with the Whigs, but he never was one. His impul-
sive ardour is the opposite of their coolness ; his irregular,
discursive intellect contrasts with their quiet and perfecting
mind. Of those of whom we have spoken, let us say, that
if none of them attained to the highest rank of abstract
intellect; if the disposition of none of them was ardent or
glowing enough to hurry them forward to the extreme point
of daring greatness; if only one can be said to have a last-
ing place in real literature : — it is clear that they vanquished a

The First Edinburgh Reviewers. 187

slavish cohort; that they upheld the name of freemen in a
time of bondmen ; that they applied themselves to that which
was real, and accomplished much which was very difficult;
that the very critics who question their inimitable excellence
will yet admire their just and scarcely imitable example.

188

EDWARD GIBBON.1

(1856.)

A WIT said of Gibbon's autobiography, that he did not know
the difference between himself and the Roman Empire. He
has narrated his " progressions from London to Buriton, and
from Buriton to London," in the same monotonous majestic
periods that record the fall of states and empires. The con-
sequence is, that a fascinating book gives but a vague idea
of its subject. It may not be without its use to attempt a
description of him in plainer though less splendid English.

The diligence of their descendant accumulated many
particulars of the remote annals of the Gibbon family ; but
its real founder was the grandfather of the historian, who
lived in the times of the " South Sea". He was a capital
man of business according to the custom of that age — a
dealer in many kinds of merchandise — like perhaps the
"complete tradesman" of Defoe, who was to understand
the price and quality of all articles made within the kingdom.
The preference, however, of Edward Gibbon the grandfather
was for the article " shares " ; his genius, like that of Mr.
Hudson, had a natural tendency towards a commerce in the
metaphysical and non-existent; and he was fortunate in
the age on which his lot was thrown. It afforded many
opportunities of gratifying that taste. Much has been

1 The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. By
Edward Gibbon, Esq. With Notes by Dean Milman and M. Guizot.
Edited, with additional Notes, by William Smith, LL.D. In Eight
Volumes. London, 1855. Murray.

Edward Gibbon. 189

written on panics and manias — much more than with the
most outstretched intellect we are able to follow or conceive ;
but one thing is certain, that at particular times a great
many stupid people have a great deal of stupid money.
Saving people have often only the faculty of saving ; they
accumulate ably, and contemplate their accumulations with
approbation ; but what to do with them they do not know.
Aristotle, who was not in trade, imagined that money is
barren ; and barren it is to quiet ladies, rural clergymen, and
country misers. Several economists have plans for pre-
venting improvident speculation ; one would abolish Peel's
act, and substitute one-pound notes ; another would retain
Peel's act, and make the calling for one-pound notes a
capital crime : but our scheme is, not to allow any man to
have a hundred pounds who cannot prove to the satisfaction
of the Lord Chancellor that he knows what to do with a
hundred pounds. The want of this easy precaution allows
the accumulation of wealth in the hands of rectors, authors,
grandmothers, who have no knowledge of business, and no
idea except that their money now produces nothing, and
ought and must be forced immediately to produce something.
" I wish," said one of this class, " for the largest immediate
income, and I am therefore naturally disposed to purchase
an advowson." At intervals, from causes which are not to
the present purpose, the money of these people — the blind
capital (as we call it) of the country — is particularly large
and craving ; it seeks for some one to devour it, and there is
" plethora"— it finds some one, and there is " speculation "
— it is devoured, and there is "panic". The age of Mr.
Gibbon was one of these. The interest of money was ver>
low, perhaps under three per cent. The usual consequence
-followed; able men started wonderful undertakings; the
ablest of all, a company " for carrying on an undertaking of
great importance, but no one to know what it was". Mr.
VOL. i. 17

igo Literary Studies.

Gibbon was not idle. According to the narrative of his
grandson, he already filled a considerable position, was
worth sixty thousand pounds, and had great influence both
in Parliament and in the City. He applied himself to the
greatest bubble of all — one so great, that it is spoken of in
many books as the cause and parent of all contemporary
bubbles — the South-Sea Company — the design of which was
to reduce the interest on the national debt, which, oddly
enough, it did reduce, and to trade exclusively to the South
Sea or Spanish America, where of course it hardly did trade.
Mr. Gibbon became a director, sold and bought, traded and
prospered ; and was considered, perhaps with truth, to have
obtained much money. The bubble was essentially a
fashionable one. Public intelligence and the quickness oi
communication did not then as now at once spread pecuniary
information and misinformation to secluded districts ; but
fine ladies, men of fashion — the London world — ever anxious
to make as much of its money as it can, and then wholly
unwise (it is not now very wise) in discovering how the
most was to be made of it — "went in" and speculated
largely. As usual, all was favourable as long as the shares
were rising; the price was at one time very high, and the
agitation very general ; it was, in a word, the railway mania
in the South Sea. After a time, the shares "hesitated,"
declined, and fell ; and there was an outcry against every-
body concerned in the matter, very like the outcry against
the 01 irept Hudson in our own time. The results, however,
were very different. Whatever may be said, and, judging
from the late experience, a good deal is likely to be said, as
to the advantages of civilisation and education, it seems
certain that they tend to diminish a simple-minded energy.
The Parliament of 1720 did not, like the Parliament of 1847,
allow itself to be bored and incommoded by legal minutiae,
nor did it forego the use of plain words. A committee

Edward Gibbon. 191

reported the discovery of "a train of the deepest villainy
and fraud hell ever contrived to ruin a nation " ; the directors
of the company were arrested, and Mr. Gibbon among the
rest ; he was compelled to give in a list of his effects : the
general wish was that a retrospective act should be immedi-
ately passed, which would impose on him penalties something
like, or even more severe than, those now enforced on Paul
and Strahan. In the end, however, Mr. Gibbon escaped
with a parliamentary conversation upon his affairs. His
estate amounted to £140,000 ; and as this was a great sum,
there was an obvious suspicion that he was a great criminal.
The scene must have been very curious. " Allowances of
twenty pounds or one shilling were facetiously voted. A
vague report that a director had formerly been concerned in
another project by which some unknown persons had lost
their money, was admitted as a proof of his actual guilt.
One man was ruined because he had dropped a foolish speech
that his horses should feed upon gold ; another because he
was grown so proud, that one day, at the Treasury, he had
refused a civil answer to persons far above him." The
vanity of his descendant is evidently a little tried by the
peculiar severity with which his grandfather was treated.
Out of his £140,000 it was proposed that he should retain
only £15,000; and on an amendment even this was reduced
to £10,000. Yet there is some ground for believing that the
acute energy and practised pecuniary power which had been
successful in obtaining so large a fortune, were likewise
applied with science to the inferior task of retaining some
of it. The historian indeed says: "On these ruins," the
£10,000 aforesaid, " with skill and credit of which Parlia-
ment had not been able to deprive him, my grandfather
erected the edifice of a new fortune : the labours of sixteen
years were amply rewarded ; and I have reason to believe
that the second structure was not much inferior to the first ".

Literary Studies.

But this only shows how far a family feeling may bias a
sceptical judgment. The credit of a man in Mr. Gibbon's
position could not be very lucrative; and his skill must
have been enormous to have obtained so much at the end of
his life, in such circumstances, in so few years. Had he
been an early Christian, the narrative of his descendant
would have contained an insidious hint, " that pecuniary
property may be so secreted as to defy the awkward
approaches of political investigation ". That he died rich
is certain, for two generations lived solely on the property
he bequeathed.

The son of this great speculator, the historian's father,
was a man to spend a fortune quietly. He is not related to
have indulged in any particular expense, and nothing is more
difficult to follow than the pecuniary fortunes of deceased
families ; but one thing is certain, that the property which
descended to the historian — making every allowance for
all minor and subsidiary modes of diminution, such as
daughters' settlements, legacies, and so forth — was enormously
less than £140,000 ; and therefore if those figures are correct,
the second generation must have made itself very happy out
of the savings of the past generation, and without caring for
the poverty of the next. Nothing that is related of the
historian's father indicates a strong judgment or an acute
discrimination ; and there are some scarcely dubious signs
of a rather weak character.

Edward Gibbon, the great, was born on the 2yth of April,
1737. Of his mother we hear scarcely anything; and what
we do hear is not remarkably favourable. It seems that she
was a faint, inoffensive woman, of ordinary capacity, who
left a very slight trace of her influence on the character of
her son, did little, and died early. The real mother, as he
is careful to explain, of his understanding and education was
her sister, and his aunt, Mrs. Catherine Porten, according to

Edward Gibbon. 193

the speech of that age, a maiden lady of much vigour and
capacity, and for whom her pupil really seems to have felt as
much affection as was consistent with 'a rather easy and cool
nature. There is a panegyric on her in the Memoirs ; and
in a long letter upon the occasion of her death, he deposes :
" To her" care I am indebted in earliest infancy for the pre-
servation of my life and health. . . . To her instructions I
owe the first rudiments of knowledge, the first exercise of
reason, and a taste for books, which is still the pleasure and
glory of my life ; and though she taught me neither language
nor science, she was certainly the most useful preceptress I
ever had. As I grew up, an intercourse of thirty years
endeared her to me as the faithful friend and the agreeable
companion. You have observed with what freedom and
confidence we lived," etc., etc. To a less sentimental mind,
which takes a more tranquil view of aunts and relatives, it is
satisfactory to find that somehow he could not write to her.
" I wish,1' he continues, " I had as much to applaud and as
little to reproach in my conduct to Mrs. Porten since I left
England ; and when I reflect that my letter would have
soothed and comforted her decline, I feel " — what an ardent
nephew would naturally feel at so unprecedented an event.
Leaving his maturer years out of the question — a possible
rhapsody of affectionate eloquence — she seems to have been
of the greatest use to him in infancy. His health was very
imperfect. We hear much of rheumatism, and lameness,
and weakness ; and he was unable to join in work and play
with ordinary boys. He was moved from one school to
another, never staying anywhere very long, and owing what
knowledge he obtained rather to a strong retentive under-
standing than to any external stimulants or instruction. At
one place he gained an acquaintance with the Latin elements
at the price of " many tears and some blood ". At last he
was consigned to the instruction of an elegant clergyman,

ig4 Literary Studies.

the Rev. Philip Francis, who had obtained notoriety by a
metrical translation of Horace, the laxity of which is even
yet complained of by construing school-boys, and who, with
a somewhat Horatian taste, went to London as often as he
could, and translated invisa negotia as " boys to beat ".

In school-work, therefore, Gibbon had uncommon" difficul-
ties and unusual deficiencies ; but these were much more than
counterbalanced by a habit which often accompanies a sickly
childhood, and is the commencement of a studious life, the
habit of desultory reading. The instructiveness of this is
sometimes not comprehended. S. T. Coleridge used to say
that he felt a great superiority over those who had not read — •
and fondly read — fairy tales in their childhood ; he thought
they wanted a sense which he possessed, the perception, or
apperception — we do not know which he used to say it was —
of the unity and wholeness of the universe. As to fairy tales,
this is a hard saying ; but as to desultory reading, it is
certainly true. Some people have known a time in life when
there was no book they could not read. The fact of its being
a book went immensely in its favour. In early life there is
an opinion that the obvious thing to do with a horse is to
ride it ; with a cake, to eat it ; with sixpence, to spend it. A
few boys carry this further, and think the natural thing to do
with a book is to read it. There is an argument from design
in the subject : if the book was not meant for that purpose,
for what purpose was it meant ? Of course, of any under-
standing of the works so perused there is no question or idea.
There is a legend of Bentham, in his earliest childhood,
climbing to the height of a huge stool and sitting there even-
ing after evening with two candles, engaged in the perusal
of Rapin's history. It might as well have been any other
book. The doctrine of utility had not then dawned on its
immortal teacher ; cut bono was an idea unknown to him.
He would have been ready to read about Egypt, about Spain.

Edward Gibbon. 195

about coals in Borneo, the teak-wood in India, the current
in the river Mississippi, on natural history or human history,
on theology or morals, on the state of the dark ages or the
state of the light ages, on Augustulus or Lord Chatham,
on the first century or the seventeenth, on the moon, the
millennium, or the whole duty of man. Just then, reading is
an end in itself. At that time of life you no more think of
a future consequence, of the remote, the very remote possi-
bility of deriving knowledge from the perusal of a book, than
you expect so great a result from spinning a peg-top. You
spin the top, and you read the book ; and these scenes of
life are exhausted. In such studies, of all prose perhaps the
best is history. One page is so like another ; battle No. i
is so much on a par with battle No. 2. Truth may be, as
they say, stranger than fiction, abstractedly ; but in actual
books, novels are certainly odder and more astounding than
correct history. It will be said, what is the use of this ?
Why not leave the reading of great books till a great age ?
Why plague and perplex childhood with complex facts
remote from its experience and inapprehensible by its
imagination ? The reply is, that though in all great and
combined facts there is much which childhood cannot
thoroughly imagine, there is also in very many a great deal
which can only be truly apprehended for the first time at that
age. Catch an American of thirty ; — tell him about the
battle of Marathon ; what will he be able to comprehend of
all that you mean by it ; of all that halo which early im-
pression and years of remembrance have cast around it ?
He may add up the killed and wounded, estimate the miss-
ing, and take the dimensions of Greece and Athens ; but he
will not seem to care much. He may say, " Well, sir,
perhaps it was a smart thing in that small territory ; but it
is a long time ago, and in my country James K. Burnup " —
did that which he will at length explain to you. Or try an

196 Literary Studies.

experiment on yourself. Read the account of a Circassian
victory, equal in numbers, in daring, in romance, to the old
battle. Will you be able to feel about it at all in the same
way ? It is impossible. You cannot form a new set of asso-
ciations ; your mind is involved in pressing facts, your
memory choked by a thousand details ; the liveliness of
fancy is gone with the childhood by which it was enlivened.
Schamyl will never seem as great as Leonidas, or Miltiades ;
Cnokemof, or whoever the Russian is, cannot be so imposing
as Xerxes ; the unpronounceable place cannot strike on your
heart like Marathon or Plataea. Moreover, there is the
further advantage which Coleridge shadowed forth in the
remark we cited. Youth has a principle of consolidation.
We begin with the whole. Small sciences are the labours
of our manhood ; but the round universe is the plaything of
the boy. His fresh mind shoots out vaguely and crudely
into the infinite and eternal. Nothing is hid from the depth
of it ; there are no boundaries to its vague and wandering
vision. Early science, it has been said, begins in utter
nonsense ; it would be truer to say that it starts with boyish
fancies. How absurd seem the notions of the first Greeks !
Who could believe now that air or water was the principle,
the pervading substance, the eternal material of all things ?
Such affairs will never explain a thick rock. And what a
white original for a green and sky-blue world ! Yet people
disputed in those ages not whether it was either of those
substances, but which of them it was. And doubtless there
was a great deal, at least in quantity, to be said on both
sides. Boys are improved ; but some in our own day have
asked, " Mamma, I say, what did God make the world of? "
and several, who did not venture on speech, have had an
idea of some one grey primitive thing, felt a difficulty as to
how the red came, and wondered that marble could ever have
been the same as moonshine. This is in truth the picture

Edward Gibbon. 197

of life. We begin with the infinite and eternal, which we
shall never apprehend ; and these form a framework, a
schedule, a set of co-ordinates to which we refer all which
we learn later. At first, like the old Greek, " we look up to
the whole sky, and are lost in the one and the all " ; in the
end we classify and enumerate, learn each star, calculate dis-
tances, draw cramped diagrams on the unbounded sky, write
a paper on a Cygni and a treatise on c Draconis, map special
facts upon the indefinite void, and engrave precise details on
the infinite and everlasting. So in history ; somehow the
whole comes in boyhood ; the details later and in manhood.
The wonderful series going far back to the times of old
patriarchs with their flocks and herds, the keen-eyed Greek,
the stately Roman, the watching Jew, the uncouth Goth, the
horrid Hun, the settled picture of the unchanging East, the
restless shifting of the rapid West, the rise of the cold and
classical civilisation, its fall, the rough impetuous middle
ages, the vague warm picture of ourselves and home, — when
did we learn these ? Not yesterday nor to-day ; but long
ago, in the first dawn of reason, in the original flow of fancy.
What we learn afterwards are but the accurate littlenesses of
the great topic, the dates and tedious facts. Those who
begin late learn only these; but the happy first feel the
mystic associations and the progress of the whole.

There is no better illustration of all this than Gibbon.
Few have begun early with a more desultory reading,
and fewer still have described it so skilfully. " From the
ancient I leaped to the modern world ; many crude lumps of
Speed, Rapin, Mezeray, Davila, Machiavel, Father Paul,
Bower, etc., I devoured like so many novels; and I swallowed
with the same voracious appetite the description of India
and China, of Mexico and Peru. My first introduction to
the historic scenes which have since engaged so many years
of my life must be ascribed to an accident. In the summer

Literary Studies.

of 1751 I accompanied my father on a visit to Mr. Hoare's,
in Wiltshire; but I was less delighted with the beauties of
Stourhead than with discovering in the library a common
book, the Continuation of Echard's Roman History, which
is, indeed, executed with more skill and taste than the
previous work. To me the reigns of the successors of Con-
stantine were absolutely new; and I was immersed in the
passage of the Goths over the Danube when the summons
of the dinner-bell reluctantly dragged me from my intellectual
feast. This transient glance served rather to irritate than
to appease my curiosity ; and as soon as I returned to Bath
I procured the second and third volumes of Howel's History
of the World, which exhibit the Byzantine period on a larger
scale. Mahomet and his Saracens soon fixed my attention ;
and some instinct of criticism directed me to the genuine
sources. Simon Ockley, an original in every sense, first
opened my eyes ; and I was led from one book to another
till I had ranged round the circle of Oriental history. Before
I was sixteen I had exhausted all that could be learned in
English of the Arabs and Persians, the Tartars and Turks ;
and the same ardour urged me to guess at the French of
D'Herbelot, and to construe the barbarous Latin of Pocock's
Abulfaragius." To this day the schoolboy student of the
Decline and Fall feels the traces of that schoolboy reading.
Once, he is conscious, the author like him felt, and solely
felt, the magnificent progress of the great story and the
scenic aspect of marvellous events.

A more sudden effect was at hand. However exalted
may seem the praises which we have given to loose and
unplanned reading, we are not saying that it is the sole
ingredient of a good education. Besides this sort of educa-
tion, which some boys will voluntarily and naturally give
themselves, there needs, of course, another and more rigorous
kind, which must be impressed upon them from without.

Edward Gibbon.

The terrible difficulty of early life — the use of pastors and
masters — really is, that they compel boys to a distinct
mastery of that which they do not wish to learn. There is
nothing to be said for a preceptor who is not dry. Mr.
Carlyle describes with bitter satire the fate of one of his
heroes who was obliged to acquire whole systems of in-
formation in which he, the hero, saw no use, and which he
kept as far as might be in a vacant corner of his mind. And
this is the very point — dry language, tedious mathematics, a
thumbed grammar, a detested slate, form gradually an in-
terior separate intellect, exact in its information, rigid in its
requirements, disciplined in its exercises. The two grow
together, the early natural fancy touching the far extremities
of the universe, lightly playing with the scheme of all
things; the precise, compacted memory slowly accumulating
special facts, exact habits, clear and painful conceptions.
At last, as it were in a moment, the clouds break up, the
division sweeps away; we find that in fact these exercises
which puzzled us, these languages which we hated, these
details which we despised, are the instruments of true thought,
are the very keys and openings, the exclusive access to the
knowledge which we loved.

In this second education the childhood of Gibbon had
been very defective. He had never been placed under any
rigid training. In his first boyhood he had disputed with
his aunt, " that were I master of Greek and Latin, I must
interpret to myself in English the thoughts of the original,
and that such extemporary versions must be inferior to the
elaborate translation of professed scholars: a silly sophism,"
as he remarks, " which could not easily be confuted by a
person ignorant of any other language than her own ". Ill-
health, a not very wise father, an ill-chosen succession of
schools and pedagogues, prevented his acquiring exact know-
ledge in the regular subjects of study. His own description

2oo Literary Studies.

is the best — " erudition that might have puzzled a doctor,
and ignorance of which a schoolboy should have been
ashamed ". The amiable Mr. Francis, who was to have
repaired the deficiency, went to London, and forgot him.
With an impulse of discontent his father took a resolution,
and sent him to Oxford at sixteen.

It is probable that a worse place could not have been
found. The University of Oxford was at the nadir of her
history and efficiency. The public professorial training of
the middle ages had died away, and the intramural collegiate
system of the present time had not begun. The University
had ceased to be a teaching body, and had not yet become
an examining body. " The professors," says Adam Smith,
who had studied there, " have given up almost the pretence
of lecturing." "The examination," said a great judge1
some years later, " was a farce in my time. I was asked
who founded University College; and I said, though the
fact is now doubted, that King Alfred founded it; and that
was the examination." The colleges, deprived of the super-
intendence and watchfulness of their natural sovereign, fell,
as Gibbon remarks, into "port and prejudice". The Fellows
were a close corporation ; they were chosen from every con-
ceivable motive — because they were respectable men, because
they were good fellows, because they were brothers of other
Fellows, because their fathers had patronage in the Church.
Men so appointed could not be expected to be very diligent
in the instruction of youth; many colleges did not even
profess it; that of All Souls has continued down to our own
time to deny that it has anything to do with it. Undoubtedly
a person who came thither accurately and rigidly drilled in
technical scholarship found many means and a few motives to
pursue it. Some tutorial system probably existed at most
colleges. Learning was not wholly useless in the Church.

1 Eldon.

Edward Gibbon. 201

The English gentleman has ever loved a nice and classical
scholarship. But these advantages were open only to per-
sons who had received a very strict training, and who were
voluntarily disposed to discipline themselves still more. To
the mass of mankind the University was a " graduating
machine"; the colleges, monopolist residences, — hotels with-
out bells.

Taking the place as it stood, the lot of Gibbon may be
thought rather fortunate. He was placed at Magdalen,
whose fascinating walks, so beautiful in the later autumn,
still recall the name of Addison, the example of the merits,
as Gibbon is of the deficiencies, of Oxford. His first tutor
was, in his own opinion, " one of the best of the tribe ".
" Dr. Waldegrave was a learned and pious man, of a mild
disposition, strict morals, and abstemious life, who seldom
mingled in the politics or the jollity of the college. But his
knowledge of the world was confined to the University ; his
learning was of the last, rather than of the present age ; his
temper was indolent ; his faculties, which were not of the
first rate, had been relaxed by the climate ; and he was
satisfied, like his fellows, with the slight and superficial dis-
charge of an important trust. As soon as my tutor had
sounded the insufficiency of his disciple in school-learning,
he proposed that we should read every morning, from ten to
eleven, the comedies of Terence. The sum of my improve-
ment in the University of Oxford is confined to three or four
Latin plays ; and even the study of an elegant classic, which
might have been illustrated by a comparison of ancient and
modern theatres, was reduced to a dry and literal interpre-
tation of the author's text. During the first weeks I
constantly attended these lessons in my tutor's room ; but
as they appeared equally devoid of profit and pleasure, I was
once tempted to try the experiment of a formal apology.
The apology was accepted with a smile. I repeated the

2O2 Literary Studies.

offence with less ceremony ; the excuse was admitted with
the same indulgence : the slightest motive of laziness or in-
disposition, the most trifling avocation at home or abroad,
was allowed as a worthy impediment ; nor did my tutor
appear conscious of my absence or neglect. Had the hour
of lecture been constantly filled, a single hour was a small
portion of my academic leisure. No plan of study was
recommended for my use; no exercises were prescribed for his
inspection ; and at the most precious season of youth, whole
days and weeks were suffered to elapse without labour or
amusement, without advice or account." The name of his
second tutor is concealed in asterisks, and the sensitive
conscience of Dean Milman will not allow him to insert a
name " which Gibbon thought proper to suppress ". The
account, however, of the anonymous person is sufficiently
graphic. " Dr. * * * * well remembered that he had a salary
to receive, and only forgot that he had a duty to perform.
Instead of guiding the studies and watching over the
behaviour of his disciple, I was never summoned to attend
even the ceremony of a lecture ; and excepting one voluntary
visit to his rooms, during the eight months of his titular
office the tutor and pupil lived in the same college as
strangers to each other." It added to the evils of this
neglect, that Gibbon was much younger than most of the
students ; and that his temper, which was through life
reserved, was then very shy. His appearance, too, was
odd ; " a thin little figure, with a large head, disputing and
arguing with the greatest ability". Of course he was a joke
among undergraduates ; he consulted his tutor as to
studying Arabic, and was seen buying La Bibliotheque
Orientate d'Herbelot, and immediately a legend was diffused
that he had turned Mahomedan. The random cast was not
so far from the mark : cut off by peculiarities from the society
of young people ; deprived of regular tuition and systematic

Edward Gibbon. 203

employment ; tumbling about among crude masses of
heterogeneous knowledge ; alone with the heated brain of

youth, — he did what an experienced man would expect he

framed a theory of all things. No doubt it seemed to him
the most natural thing in the world. Was he to be the butt
of ungenial wine-parties, or spend his lonely hours on shreds
of languages ? Was he not to know the truth ? There were
the old problems, the everlasting difficulties, the mcenia
niundi, the Hercules' pillars of the human imagination —
" fate, free-will, fore-knowledge absolute ".* Surely these
should come first ; when we had learned the great land-
marks, understood the guiding-stars, we might amuse our-
selves with small points, and make a plaything of curious
information. What particular theory the mind frames when
in this state is a good deal matter of special accident. The
data for considering these difficulties are not within its reach.
Whether man be or be not born to solve the " mystery of the
knowable," he certainly is not born to solve it at seventeen,
with the first hot rush of the untrained mind. The selection
of Gibbon was remarkable : he became a Roman Catholic.

It seems now so natural that an Oxford man should take
this step, that one can hardly understand the astonishment
it created. Lord Sheffield tells us that the Privy Council
interfered; and with good administrative judgment examined
a London bookseller — some Mr. Lewis — who had no concern
in it. In the manor-house of Buriton it would have probably
created less sensation if "dear Edward" had announced his
intention of becoming a monkey. The English have ever
believed that the Papist is a kind of creature ; and every
sound mind would prefer a beloved child to produce a tail,
a hide of hair, and a taste for nuts, in comparison with
transubstantiation, wax-candles, and a belief in the glories
of Mary.

1 " Paradise Lost," book ii.

204 Literary Studies.

What exact motives impelled Gibbon to this step cannot
now be certainly known; the autobiography casts a mist
over them ; but from what appears, his conversion partly
much resembled, and partly altogether differed from, the
Oxford conversions of our own time. We hear nothing of
the notes of a church, or the sin of the Reformation ;
and Gibbon had not an opportunity of even rejecting Mr.
Sewell's1 theory that it is "a holy obligation to acquiesce
in the opinions of your grandmother". His memoirs have
a halo of great names — Bossuet, the History of Protestant
Variations, etc., etc. — and he speaks with becoming dignity
of falling by a noble hand. He mentioned also to Lord
Sheffield, as having had a prepondering influence over him,
the works of Father Parsons, who lived in Queen Elizabeth's
time. But in all probability these were secondary persua-
sions, justifications after the event. No young man, or
scarcely any young man of seventeen, was ever converted
by a systematic treatise, especially if written in another
age, wearing an obsolete look, speaking a language which
scarcely seems that of this world. There is an unconscious
reasoning : " The world has had this book before it so long,
and has withstood it. There must be something wrong ; it
seems all right on the surface, but a flaw there must be."
The mass of the volumes, too, is unfavourable. "All the
treatises in the world," says the young convert in Loss and
Gain,2 " are not equal to giving one a view in a moment."
What the youthful mind requires is this short decisive argu-
ment, this view in a moment, this flash as it were of the
understanding, which settles all, and diffuses a conclusive
light at once and for ever over the whole. It is so much the
pleasanter if the young mind can strike this view out for
itself, from materials which are forced upon it from the

1 Professor of Moral Philosophy at Oxford.
s By J. H. Newman, chap. xvii.

Edward Gibbon. 205

controversies of the day ; if it can find a certain solution of
pending questions, and show itself wiser even than the
wisest of its own, the very last age. So far as appears, this
was the fortune of Gibbon. " It was not long," he says,
" since Dr. Middleton's Free Inquiry had sounded an alarm
in the theological world ; much ink and much gall had been
spent in defence of the primitive miracles ; and the two
dullest of their champions were crowned with academic
honours by the University of Oxford. The name of Middle-
ton was unpopular ; and his proscription very naturally led
me to peruse his writings and those of his antagonists." It is
not difficult to discover in this work easy and striking argu-
ments which might lead an untaught mind to the communion
of Rome. As to the peculiar belief of its author, there has
been much controversy, with which we have not here the
least concern ; but the natural conclusion to which it would
lead a simple intellect is, that all miracles are equally certain
or equally uncertain. " It being agreed, then," says the acute
controversialist, "that in the original promise of these miracu-
lous gifts there is no intimation of any particular period to
which their continuance was limited, the next question is,
by what sort of evidence the precise time of their duration is
to be determined ? But to this point one of the writers just
referred to excuses himself, as we have seen, from giving
any answer ; and thinks it sufficient to declare in general
that the earliest fathers unanimously affirm them to have
continued down to their times. Yet he has not told us, as
he ought to have done, to what age he limits the character
of the earliest fathers ; whether to the second or to the third
century, or, with the generality of our writers, he means also to
include the fourth. But to whatever age he may restrain it,
the difficulty at last will be to assign a reason why he must
needs stop there. In the meanwhile, by his appealing thus
to the earliest fathers only as unanimous on this article, a
VOL. i. 18

206 Literary Studies.

common reader would be apt to infer that the later fathers
are more cold or diffident, or divided upon it ; whereas the
reverse of this is true, and the more we descend from those
earliest fathers the more strong and explicit we find their
successors in attesting the perpetual succession and daily
exertion of the same miraculous powers in their several
ages ; so that if the cause must be determined by the unani-
mous consent of fathers, we shall find as much reason to
believe that those powers were continued even to the latest
ages as to any other, how early and primitive soever, after
the days of the apostles. But the same writer gives us two
reasons why he does not choose to say anything upon the
subject of their duration : ist, because there is not light
enough in history to settle it; andly, because the thing itself
is of no concern to us. As to his first reason, I am at a
loss to conceive what further light a professed advocate of
the primitive ages and fathers can possibly require in this
case. For as far as the Church historians can illustrate or
throw light upon anything, there is not a single point in all
history so constantly, explicitly, and unanimously affirmed
by them all, as the continual succession of those powers
through all ages, from the earliest father who first mentions
them down to the time of the Reformation. Which same
succession is still further deduced by persons of the most
eminent character for their probity, learning, and dignity in
the Romish Church, to this very day. So that the only
doubt which can remain with us is, whether the Church
historians are to be trusted or not ; for if any credit be due
to them in the present case, it must reach either to all or to
none ; because the reason of believing them in any one age
will be found to be of equal force in all, as far as it depends
on the characters of the persons attesting, or the nature of
the things attested." l In terms this and the whole of
1 Preface to Free Inquiry.

Edward Gibbon. 207

Middleton's argument is so shaped as to avoid including
in its scope the miracles of Scripture, which are mentioned
throughout with eulogiums and acquiescence, and so as to
make you doubt whether the author believed them or not.
This is exactly one of the pretences which the young strong
mind delights to tear down. It would argue, " This writer
evidently means that the apostolic miracles have just as
much evidence and no more than the popish or the patristic;
and how strong" — for Middleton is a master of telling
statement — " he shows that evidence to be ! I won't give
up the apostolic miracles, I cannot; yet I must believe what
has as much of historical testimony in its favour. It is no
reductio ad absurdum that we must go over to the Church of
Rome ; it is the most diffused of Christian creeds, the oldest
of Christian Churches." And so the logic of the sceptic
becomes, as often since, the most efficient instrument of the
all-believing and all-determining Church.

The consternation of Gibbon's relatives seems to have
been enormous. They cast about what to do. From the
experience of Oxford, they perhaps thought that it would be
useless to have recourse to the Anglican clergy ; this resource
had failed. So they took him to Mr. Mallet, a Deist, to see
if he could do anything ; but he did nothing. Their next
step was nearly as extraordinary. They placed him at Lau-
sanne, in the house of M. Pavilliard, a French Protestant
minister. After the easy income, complete independence,
and unlimited credit of an English undergraduate, he was
thrown into a foreign country, deprived, as he says; by
ignorance of the language, both of " speech and hearing," —
in the position of a schoolboy, with a small allowance of
pocket-money, and without the Epicurean comforts on which
he already set some value. He laments the " indispensable
comfort of a servant," and the " sordid and uncleanly table
of Madame Pavilliard". In our own day the watchful

208 Literary Studies.

sagacity of Cardinal Wiseman would hardly allow a pro-
mising convert of expectations and talents to remain un-
solaced in so pitiful a situation ; we should hear soothing
offers of flight or succour, some insinuations of a Popish
domestic and interesting repasts. But a hundred years
ago, the attention of the Holy See was very little directed
to our English youth, and Gibbon was left to endure his
position.

It is curious that he made himself comfortable. Though
destitute of external comforts which he did not despise, he
found what was the greatest luxury to his disposition, steady
study and regular tuition. His tutor was, of course, to con-
vert him if he could ; but as they had no language in
common, there was the preliminary occupation of teaching
French. During five years both tutor and pupil steadily
exerted themselves to repair the defects of a neglected and
ill-grounded education. We hear of the perusal of Terence,
Virgil, Horace, and Tacitus. Cicero was translated into
French, and translated back again into Latin. In both
languages the pupil's progress was sound and good. From
letters of his which still exist, it is clear that he then acquired
the exact and steady knowledge of Latin of which he after-
wards made so much use. His circumstances compelled
him to master French. If his own letters are to be trusted,
he would be an example of his own doctrine, that no one is
thoroughly master of more than one language at a time ;
they read like the letters of a Frenchman trying and failing
to write English. But perhaps there was a desire to magnify
his continental progress, and towards the end of the time
some wish to make his friends fear he was forgetting his own
language.

Meantime the work of conversion was not forgotten. In
some letters which are extant, M. Pavilliard celebrates the
triumph of his logic. " jf'ai renverse" says the pastor,

Edward Gibbon. 209

" Vinfaillibilite de I'Eglise ; j'ai prouve que jamais Saint
Pierre n'a ete chef des apotres ; que quand il I'aurait ete, le
pape nest point son successeur ; quit est douteux que Saint
Pierre ait jamais ete a Rome ; mais suppose quil y ait etc,
il n'a pas ete eveque de cette mile ; que la transubstantiation
est une invention humaine, et pen ancienne dans VEglise"
and so on through the usual list of Protestant argu-
ments. He magnifies a little Gibbon's strength of
conviction, as it makes the success of his own logic seem
more splendid ; but states two curious things : first, that
Gibbon at least pretended to believe in the Pretender, and
what is more amazing still — all but incredible — that he
fasted. Such was the youth of the Epicurean historian !

It is probable, however, that the skill of the Swiss pastor
was not the really operating cause of the event. Perhaps
experience shows that the converts which Rome has made,
with the threat of unbelief and the weapons of the sceptic,
have rarely been permanent or advantageous to her. It is at
best but a dangerous logic to drive men to the edge and
precipice of scepticism, in the hope that they will recoil
in horror to the very interior of credulity. Possibly men may
show their courage — they may vanquish the argumentum ad
terrorem — they may not find scepticism so terrible. This
last was Gibbon's case. A more insidious adversary than
the Swiss theology was at hand to sap his Roman Catholic
belief. Pavilliard had a fair French library — not ill stored
in the recent publications of that age— of which he allowed
his pupil the continual use. It was as impossible to open
any of them and not come in contact with infidelity, as to
come to England and not to see a green field. Scepticism
is not so much a part of the French literature of that day as
its animating spirit — its essence, its vitality. You can no
more cut it out and separate it, than you can extract from
Wordsworth his conception of nature, or from Swift his

2io Literary Studies.

common-sense. And it is of the subtlest kind. It has little
in common with the rough disputation of the English deist,
or the perplexing learning of the German theologian, but
works with a tool more insinuating than either. It is, in
truth, but the spirit of the world, which does not argue, but
assumes; which does not so much elaborate, as hints; which
does not examine, but suggests. With the traditions of the
Church it contrasts traditions of its own ; its technicalities
are bon sens, V usage du monde, lefanatisme, I'enthousiasme ;
to high hopes, noble sacrifices, awful lives, it opposes quiet
ease, skilful comfort, placid sense, polished indifference. Old
as transubstantiation may be, it is not older than Horace and
Lucian. Lord Byron, in the well-known lines, has coupled
the names of the two literary exiles on the Leman Lake.
The page of Voltaire could not but remind Gibbon that the
scepticism from which he had revolted was compatible with
literary eminence and European fame — gave a piquancy to
ordinary writing — was the very expression of caustic caution
and gentlemanly calm.

The grave and erudite habits of Gibbon soon developed
themselves. Independently of these abstruse theological
disputations, he spent many hours daily — rising early and
reading carefully — on classical and secular learning. He
was not, however, wholly thus engrossed. There was in the
neighbourhood of Lausanne a certain Mademoiselle Curchod,
to whom he devoted some of his time. She seems to have
been a morbidly rational lady ; at least she had a grave taste.
Gibbon could not have been a very enlivening lover ; he was
decidedly plain, and his predominating taste was for solid
learning. But this was not all ; she formed an attachment
to M. Necker, afterwards the most slow of premiers, whose
financial treatises can hardly have been agreeable even to a
Genevese beauty. This was, however, at a later time. So
far as appears, Gibbon was her first love. How extreme her

Edward Gibbon. an

feelings were one does not know. Those of Gibbon can
scarcely be supposed to have done him any harm. How-
ever, there was an intimacy, a flirtation, an engagement —
when, as usual, it appeared that neither had any money.
That the young lady should procure any seems to have been
out of the question ; and Gibbon, supposing that he might,
wrote to his father. The reply was unfavourable. Gibbon's
mother was dead ; Mr. Gibbon senior was married again ;
and even in other circumstances would have been scarcely
ready to encourage a romantic engagement to a lady with
nothing. She spoke no English, too, and marriage with a
person speaking only French is still regarded as a most un-
natural event ; forbidden, not indeed by the literal law of the
Church, but by those higher instinctive principles of our
nature, to which the bluntest own obedience. No father
could be expected to violate at once pecuniary duties and
patriotic principles. Mr. Gibbon senior forbade the match.
The young lady does not seem to have been quite ready to
relinquish all hope ; but she had shown a grave taste, and
fixed her affections on a sound and cold mind. " I sighed,"
narrates the historian, " as a lover ; but I obeyed as a son."
" I have seen," says M. Suard, " the letter in which Gibbon
communicated to Mademoiselle Curchod the opposition of
his father to their marriage. The first pages are tender and
melancholy, as might be expected from an unhappy lover ;
the latter become by degrees calm and reasonable ; and the
letter concludes with these words : C'est pourquoi, made-
moiselle, fai I'honneur d'etre votre tres-humble et tres-obeissant
serviteur, Edward Gibbon." Her father died soon after-
wards, and " she retired to Geneva, where, by teaching
young ladies, she earned a hard subsistence for herself and
her mother ; but the tranquil disposition of her admirer pre-
served him from any romantic display of sympathy and
fidelity. He continued to study various readings in Cicero,

212 Literary Studies.

as well as the passage of Hannibal over the Alps ; and with
those affectionate resources set sentiment at defiance. Yet
thirty years later the lady, then the wife of the most con-
spicuous, man in Europe, was able to suggest useful
reflections to an aged bachelor, slightly dreaming of a
superannuated marriage : " Gardez-vous, monsieur, de
former un de ces liens tardifs : le mariage qui rend heureux
dans Vdge mur, c'est celui qui fut contracte dans la jeunesse.
Alors seulement la reunion est parfaite, les gouts se commu-
niquent, les sentimens se repandent, les idees deviennent
communes, lesfacultes intellectuelles se modelent mutuellement.
Toute la vie est double, et toute la vie est une prolongation de
la jeunesse ; car les impressions de Vdme commandent aux
yeux, et la beaute qui n'est plus conserve encore son empire ;
mais pour vous, monsieur, dans toute la vigueur de lapensee,
lorsque toute V existence est decidee, Von ne pourroit sans un
miracle trouver une femme digne de vous ; et une association
d'un genre imparfait rappelle toujours la statue d'Horace, qui
joint a une belle tete le corps d'un stupide poisson. Vous etes
marie avec la gloire" She was then a cultivated French
lady, giving an account of the reception of the Decline and
Fall at Paris, and expressing rather peculiar ideas on the
style of Tacitus. The world had come round to her side, and
she explains to her old lover rather well her happiness with
M. Necker.

After living nearly five years at Lausanne, Gibbon
returned to England. Continental residence has made a
great alteration in many Englishmen ; but few have under-
gone so complete a metamorphosis as Edward Gibbon. He
left his own country a hot-brained and ill-taught youth,
willing to sacrifice friends and expectations for a super-
stitious and half-known creed ; he returned a cold and
accomplished man, master of many accurate ideas, little
likely to hazard any coin for any faith : already, it is

Edward Gibbon. 213

probable, inclined in secret to a cautious scepticism ; placing
thereby, as it were, upon a system the frigid prudence and
unventuring incredulity congenial to his character. His
change of character changed his position among his relatives.
His father, he says, met him as a friend ; and they continued
thenceforth on a footing of " easy intimacy". Especially
after the little affair of Mademoiselle Curchod, and the " very
sensible view he took in that instance of the matrimonial
relation," there can be little question that Gibbon was justly
regarded as a most safe young man, singularly prone to large
books, and a little too fond of French phrases and French
ideas ; and yet with a great feeling of common-sense, and a
wise preference of permanent money to transitory sentiment.
His father allowed him a moderate, and but a moderate,
income, which he husbanded with great care, and only
voluntarily expended in the purchase and acquisition of
serious volumes. He lived an externally idle but really
studious life, varied by tours in France and Italy ; the toils
of which, though not in description very formidable, a trifle
tried a sedentary habit and somewhat corpulent body. The
only English avocation which he engaged in was, oddly
enough, war. It does not appear the most likely in this
pacific country, nor does he seem exactly the man for la
grande guerre ; but so it was ; and the fact is an example of
a really Anglican invention. The English have discovered
pacific war. We may not be able to kill people as well as
the French, or fit out and feed distant armaments as neatly
as they do ; but we are unrivalled at a quiet armament here
at home which never kills anybody, and never wants to be
sent anywhere. A " constitutional militia " is a beautiful
example of the mild efficacy of civilisation, which can convert
even the " great manslaying profession " (as Carlyle calls it)
into a quiet and dining association. Into this force Gibbon
was admitted ; and immediately, contrary to his anticipations,

214 Literary Studies.

and very much against his will, was called out for permanent
duty. The hero of the corps was a certain dining Sir Thomas,
who used at the end of each new bottle to announce with in-
creasing joy how much soberer he had become. What his
fellow-officers thought of Gibbon's French predilections and
large volumes it is not difficult to conjecture ; and he com-
plains bitterly of the interruption to his studies. However,
his easy composed nature soon made itself at home ; his
polished tact partially concealed from the " mess " his recon-
dite pursuits, and he contrived to make the Hampshire
armament of classical utility. " I read," he says, " the
Analysis of Caesar's Campaign in Africa. Every motion of
that great general is laid open with a critical sagacity. A
complete military history of his campaigns would do almost
as much honour to M. Guichardt as to Caesar. This finished
the Memoires, which gave me a much clearer notion of
ancient tactics than I ever had before. Indeed, my own
military knowledge was of some service to me, as I am well
acquainted with the modern discipline and exercise of a
battalion. So that though much inferior to M. Folard and
M. Guichardt, who had seen service, I am a much better
judge than Salmasius, Casaubon, or Lipsius ; mere scholars,
who perhaps had never seen a battalion under arms." l

The real occupation of Gibbon, as this quotation might
suggest, was his reading ; and this was of a peculiar sort.
There are many kinds of readers, and each has a sort of
perusal suitable to his kind. There is the voracious reader,
like Dr. Johnson, who extracts with grasping appetite the
large features, the mere essence of a trembling publication,
and rejects the rest with contempt and disregard. There is
the subtle reader, who pursues with fine attention the most
imperceptible and delicate ramifications of an interesting
Jtopic, marks slight traits, notes changing manners, has a

1 Journal, 23rd May, 1762,

Edward Gibbon. 215

keen eye for the character of his author, is minutely attentive
to every prejudice and awake to every passion, watches
syllables and waits on words, is alive to the light air of nice
associations which float about every subject — the motes in
the bright sunbeam — the delicate gradations of the passing
shadows. There is the stupid reader, who prefers dull books
—is generally to be known by his disregard of small books
and English books, but likes masses in modern Latin,
Gravius de torpore mirabili ; Horrificus de gravitate
sapientice. But Gibbon was not of any of these classes.
He was what common people would call a matter-of-fact,
and philosophers now-a-days a positive reader. No disciple
of M. Comte could attend more strictly to precise and prov-
able phenomena. His favourite points are those which can
be weighed and measured. Like the dull reader, he had
perhaps a preference for huge books in unknown tongues ;
but, on the other hand, he wished those books to contain
real and accurate information. He liked the firm earth of
positive knowledge. His fancy was not flexible enough for
exquisite refinement, his imagination too slow for light and
wandering literature ; but he felt no love of dulness in itself,
and had a prompt acumen for serious eloquence. This was
his kind of reflection. " The author of the Adventurer, No.
127 (Mr. Joseph Warton, concealed under the signature of
Z), concludes his ingenious parallel of the ancients and
moderns by the following remark : ' That age will never
again return, when a Pericles, after walking with Plato in a
portico built by Phidias and painted by Apelles, might repair
to hear a pleading of Demosthenes or a tragedy of Sophocles '.
It will never return, because it never existed. Pericles (who
died in the fourth year of the Lxxxixth Olympiad, ant. Ch.
429, Dio. Sic. 1. xii. 46) was confessedly the patron of
Phidias, and the contemporary of Sophocles ; but he could
enjoy no very great pleasure in the conversation of Plato,

216 Literary Studies.

who was born in the same year that he himself died
(Diogenes Laertius in Platone, v. Stanley's History of
Philosophy, p. 154). The error is still more extraordinary
with regard to Apelles and Demosthenes, since both the
painter and the orator survived Alexander the Great, whose
death is above a century posterior to that of Pericles (in 323).
And indeed, though Athens was the seat of every liberal
art from the days of Themistocles to those of Demetrius
Phalereus, yet no particular era will afford Mr. Warton the
complete synchronism he seems to wish for ; as tragedy
was deprived of her famous triumvirate before the arts of
philosophy and eloquence had attained the perfection which
they soon after received at the hands of Plato, Aristotle, and
Demosthenes." *

And wonderful is it for what Mr. Hallam calls "the languid
students of our present age " to turn over the journal of his
daily studies. It is true, it seems to have been revised by
himself; and so great a narrator would group effectively
facts with which he was so familiar ; but allowing any dis-
count (if we may use so mean a word) for the skilful art of
the impressive historian, there will yet remain in the
Extraits de mon Journal a wonderful monument of learned
industry. You may open them anywhere. "Dissertation
on the Medal of Smyrna, by M. de Boze : replete with
erudition and taste ; containing curious researches on the pre-
eminence of the cities of Asia. — Researches on the Polypus,
by Mr. Trembley. A new world: throwing light on physics,
but darkening metaphysics. — Vegetius's Institutions. This
writer on tactics has good general notions ; but his par-
ticular account of the Roman discipline is deformed by

1 This passage is to be found only in Lord Sheffield's five-volume
edition of the Miscellanies (1814), being No. 30 of the Index Expurga-
torius (vol. v.) ; the so-called " reprint " of 1837 omits this and other
matter. (Forrest Morgan.)

Edward Gibbon. 217

confusion and anachronisms." l Or, " I this day began a
very considerable task, which was to read Cluverius' Italia
Antigua, in two volumes folio, Leyden, 1624, Elzevirs";2
and it appears he did read it as well as begin it, which is
the point where most enterprising men would have failed.
From the time of his residence at Lausanne his Latin
scholarship had been sound and good, and his studies were
directed to the illustration of the best Roman authors ; but
it is curious to find on i6th August, 1761, after his return to
England, and when he was twenty-four years old, the
following extract : " I have at last finished the Iliad. As I
undertook it to improve myself in the Greek language, which
I had totally neglected for some years past, and to which I
never applied myself with a proper attention, I must give a
reason why I began with Homer, and that contrary to Le
Clerc's advice. I had two : ist, As Homer is the most
ancient Greek author (excepting perhaps Hesiod) who is now
extant ; and as he was not only the poet, but the lawgiver,
the theologian, the historian, and the philosopher of the
ancients, every succeeding writer is full of quotations from,
or allusions to his writings, which it would be difficult to
understand without a previous knowledge of them. In this
situation, was it not natural to follow the ancients them-
selves, who always began their studies by the perusal of
Homer ? 2ndly, No writer ever treated such a variety of
subjects. As every part of civil, military, or economical life
is introduced into his poems, and as the simplicity of his age
allowed him to call everything by its proper name, almost
the whole compass of the Greek tongue is comprised in
Homer. I have so far met with the success I hoped for,
that I have acquired a great facility in reading the language,
and treasured up a very great stock of words. What I have
rather neglected is, the grammatical construction of them,
» 5th December, 1762. 8 i3th October, 1762.

218 Literary Studies.

and especially the many various inflexions of the verbs. In
order to acquire that dry but necessary branch of knowledge,
I propose bestowing some time every morning on the perusal
of the Greek Grammar of Port Royal, as one of the best
extant. I believe that I read nearly one-half of Homer like
a mere schoolboy, not enough master of the words to elevate
myself to the poetry. The remainder I read with a good
deal of care and criticism, and made many observations on
them. Some I have inserted here ; for the rest I shall find
a proper place. Upon the whole, I think that Homer's few
faults (for some he certainly has) are lost in the variety of his
beauties. I expected to have finished him long before. The
delay was owing partly to the circumstances of my way of
life and avocations, and partly to my own fault ; for while
every one looks on me as a prodigy of application, I know
myself how strong a propensity I have to indolence."
Posterity will confirm the contemporary theory that he was
a " prodigy " of steady study. Those who know what the
Greek language is, how much of the Decline and Fall
depends on Greek authorities, how few errors the keen
criticism of divines and scholars has been able to detect in
his employment of them, will best appreciate the patient
everyday labour which could alone repair the early neglect
of so difficult an attainment.

It is odd how little Gibbon wrote, at least for the public,
in early life. More than twenty-two years elapsed from his
first return from Lausanne to the appearance of the first
volume of his great work, and in that long interval his only
important publication, if it can indeed be so called, was a
French essay, Sur V Etude de la Litterature, which contains
some sensible remarks, and shows much regular reading ;
but which is on the whole a " conceivable treatise," and
would be wholly forgotten if it had been written by any one
else. It was little read in England, and must have been a

Edward Gibbon. 219

serious difficulty to his friends in the militia; but the Parisians
read it, or said they had read it, which is more in their way,
and the fame of being a French author was a great aid to
him in foreign society. It flattered, indeed, the French
literati more than any one can now fancy. The French had
then the idea that it was uncivilised to speak any other
language, and the notion of writing any other seemed
quite a betise. By a miserable misfortune you might not
know French, but at least you could conceal it assiduously ;
white paper anyhow might go unsoiled ; posterity at least
should not hear of such ignorance. The Parisian was to be
the universal tongue. And it did not seem absurd, especially
to those only slightly acquainted with foreign countries, that
this might in part be so. Political eminence had given their
language a diplomatic supremacy. No German literature
existed as yet ; Italy had ceased to produce important books.
There was only England left to dispute the literary
omnipotence ; and such an attempt as Gibbon's was a
peculiarly acceptable flattery, for it implied that her most
cultivated men were beginning to abandon their own tongue,
and to write like other nations in the cosmopolitan lingua
franca. A few far-seeing observers, however, already con-
templated the train of events which at the present day give
such a preponderating influence to our own writers, and make
it an arduous matter even to explain the conceivableness of
the French ambition. Of all men living then or since, David
Hume was the most likely from prejudice and habit to take
an unfavourable view of English literary influence ; he had
more literary fame than he deserved in France, and less in
England ; he had much of the French neatness, he had but
little of the English nature ; yet his cold and discriminating
intellect at once emancipated him from the sophistries which
imposed on those less watchful. He wrote to Gibbon : " I
have only one objection, derived from the language in which

22O Literary Studies.

it is written. Why do you compose in French, and carry
faggots into the wood, as Horace says with regard to Romans
who wrote in Greek ? I grant that you have a like motive
to those Romans, and adopt a language much more generally
diffused than your native tongue ; but have you not remarked
the fate of those two ancient languages in the following ages ?
The Latin, though then less celebrated and confined to more
narrow limits, has in some measure outlived the Greek, and
is now more generally understood by men of letters. Let
the French, therefore, triumph in the present diffusion of
their tongue. Our solid and increasing establishments in
America, where we need less dread the inundation of bar-
barians, promise a superior stability and duration to the
English language." 1 The cool sceptic was correct. The
great breeding people have gone out and multiplied ; colonies
in every clime attest our success j French is the patois of
Europe ; English is the language of the world.

Gibbon took the advice of his sagacious friend, and pre-
pared himself for the composition of his great work in
English. His studies were destined, however, to undergo
an interruption. " Yesterday morning," he wrote to a friend,
" about half an hour after seven, as I was destroying an army
of barbarians, I heard a double rap at the door, and my
friend Mr. Eliot was soon introduced. After some idle con-
versation, he told me that if I was desirous of being in Par-
liament, he had an independent seat very much at my
service." The borough was Liskeard ; and the epithet inde-
pendent is, of course, ironical, Mr. Eliot being himself the
constituency of that place. The offer was accepted, and one
of the most learned of members of Parliament took his seat.

The political life of Gibbon is briefly described. He was
a supporter of Lord North. That well-known statesman
was, in the most exact sense, a representative man, —
1 24th October, 1767. Given in note to the Memoirs.

Edward Gibbon. 221

although representative of the class of persons most out of
favour with the transcendental thinkers who invented this
name. Germans deny it, but in every country common
opinions are very common. Everywhere, there exists the
comfortable mass; quiet, sagacious, short-sighted, — such as
the Jews whom Rabshakeh tempted by their vine and their
fig-tree; such as the English with their snug dining-room
and after-dinner nap, domestic happiness and Bullo coal;
sensible, solid men, without stretching irritable reason, but
with a placid, supine instinct ; without originality and with-
out folly; judicious in their dealings, respected in the world;
wanting little, sacrificing nothing; good-tempered people in
a word, "caring for nothing until they are themselves hurt ".
Lord North was one of this class. You could hardly make
him angry. " No doubt," he said, tapping his fat sides, " I
am that odious thing a minister ; and I believe other people
wish they were so too." Profound people look deeply for
the maxims of his policy; and these being on the surface, of
course they fail to find them. He did, not what the mind, but
what the body of the community wanted to have done; he
appealed to the real people, the large English commonplace
herd. His abilities were great ; and with them he did what
people with no abilities wished to do, and could not do.
Lord Brougham has published the King's Letters to him,
showing that which partial extracts had made known before,
that Lord North was quite opposed to the war he was carry-
ing on ; was convinced it could not succeed ; hardly, in fact,
wished it might. Why did he carry it on ? Vox populi, the
voice of well-dressed men commanded it to be done; and he
cheerfully sacrificed American people, who were nothing to
him, to English, who were something, and a king, who was
much. Gibbon was the very man to support such a ruler.
His historical writings have given him a posthumous emin-
ence ; but in his own time he was doubtless thought a sen-
VOL. i. 19

222 Literary Studies.

sible safe man, of ordinary thoughts and intelligible actions.
To do him justice, he did not pretend to be a hero. " You
know," he wrote to his friend Deyverdun, " que je suis entre
au parlement sans patriotisme, sans ambition, et que toutes
mes vues se bornoient a la place commode et honnete d'un
lord of trade." " Wise in his generation " was written on
his brow. He quietly and gently supported the policy of his
time.

Even, however, amid the fatigue of parliamentary attend-
ance,— the fatigue, in fact, of attending a nocturnal and
oratorical club, where you met the best people, who could
not speak, as well as a few of the worst, who would, —
Gibbon's history made much progress. The first volume,
a quarto, one-sixth of the whole, was published in the spring
of 1776, and at once raised his fame to a high point. Ladies
actually read it — read about Bcetica and Tarraconensis, the
Roman legions and the tribunitian powers. Grave scholars
wrote dreary commendations. " The first impression," he
writes, " was exhausted in a few days; a second and a third
edition were scarcely adequate to the demand; and my book-
seller's property was twice invaded by the pirates of Dublin.
My book was on every table" — tables must have been rather
few in that age — "and almost on every toilette; the historian
was crowned by the taste or fashion of the day; nor was the
general voice disturbed by the barking of any profound critic."
The noise penetrated deep into the unlearned classes. Mr.
Sheridan, who never read anything " on principle," said
that the crimes of Warren Hastings surpassed anything to
be found in the "correct sentences of Tacitus or the luminous
page of Gibbon V Some one seems to have been struck
with the jet of learning, and questioned the great wit. " I
said," he replied, " voluminous."

History, it is said, is of no use; at least a great critic,
1 Speech on the trial*

Edward Gibbon. 223

who is understood to have in the press a very elaborate
work in that kind,1 not long since seemed to allege that
writings of this sort did not establish a theory of the universe,
and were therefore of no avail. But whatever may be the
use of this sort of composition in itself and abstractedly, it
is certainly of great use relatively and to literary men. Con-
sider the position of a man of that species. He sits beside
a library-fire, with nice white paper, a good pen, a capital
style, every means of saying everything, but nothing to say;
of course he is an able man ; of course he has an active
intellect, beside wonderful culture; but still one cannot
always have original ideas. Every day cannot be an era ;
a train of new speculation very often will not be found; and
how dull it is to make it your business to write, to stay by
yourself in a room to write, and then to have nothing to
say ! It is dreary work mending seven pens, and waiting
for a theory to "turn up". What a gain if something would
happen ! then one could describe it. Something has hap-
pened, and that something is history. On this account,
since a sedate Greek discovered this plan for a grave im-
mortality, a series of accomplished men have seldom been
found wanting to derive a literary capital from their active
and barbarous kindred. Perhaps when a Visigoth broke a
head, he thought that that was all. Not so; he was making
history; Gibbon has written it down.

The manner of writing history is as characteristic of the
narrator as the actions are of the persons who are related to
have performed them; often much more so. It may be
generally defined as a view of one age taken by another;
a picture of a series of men and women painted by one of
another series. Of course, this definition seems to exclude
contemporary history ; but if we look into the matter care-
fully, is there such a thing? What are all the best and most
1 Probably Carlyle and his Frederick the Great are meant.

224 Literary Studies.

noted works that claim the title — memoirs, scraps, materials
— composed by men of like passions with the people they
speak of, involved it may be in the same events, describing
them with the partiality and narrowness of eager actors; or
even worse, by men far apart in a monkish solitude, familiar
with the lettuces of the convent-garden, but hearing only
faint dim murmurs of the great transactions which they
slowly jot down in the barren chronicle ; these are not to be
named in the same short breath, or included in the same
narrow word, with the equable, poised, philosophic narrative
of the retrospective historian. In the great histories there
are two topics of interest — the man as a type of the age in
which he lives, — the events and manners of the age he is
describing; very often almost all the interest is the contrast
of the two.

You should do everything, said Lord Chesterfield, in
minuet time. It was in that time that Gibbon wrote his
history, and such was the manner of the age. You fancy
him in a suit of flowered velvet, with a bag and sword,
wisely smiling, composedly rounding his periods. You seem
to see the grave bows, the formal politeness, the finished
deference. You perceive the minuetic action accompanying
the words. " Give," it would say, " Augustus a chair:
Zenobia, the humblest of your slaves : Odoacer, permit me
to correct the defect in your attire." As the slap-dash sen-
tences of a rushing critic express the hasty impatience of
modern manners ; so the deliberate emphasis, the slow
acumen, the steady argument, the impressive narration bring
before us what is now a tradition, the picture of the correct
eighteenth-century gentleman, who never failed in a measured
politeness, partly because it was due in propriety towards
others, and partly because from his own dignity it was due
most obviously to himself.

And not only is this true of style, but it may be extended

Edward Gibbon. 225

to other things also. There is no one of the many literary
works produced in the eighteenth century more thoroughly
characteristic of it than Gibbon's history. The special
characteristic of that age is its clinging to the definite and
palpable ; it had a taste beyond everything for what is called
solid information. In literature the period may be defined as
that in which authors had ceased to write for students, and
had not begun to write for women. In the present day, no
one can take up any book intended for general circulation,
without clearly seeing that the writer supposes most of his
readers will be ladies or young men ; and that in proportion
to his judgment he is attending to their taste. Two or
three hundred years ago books were written for professed
and systematic students, — the class the Fellows of colleges
were designed to be, — who used to go on studying them all
their lives. Between these there was a time in which the
more marked class of literary consumers were strong-headed,
practical men. Education had not become so general, or so
feminine, as to make the present style — what is called the
" brilliant style " — at all necessary ; but there was enough
culture to make the demand of common diffused persons
more effectual than that of special and secluded scholars. A
book-buying public had arisen of sensible men, who would
not endure the awful folio style in which the schoolmen
wrote. From peculiar causes, too, the business of that age
was perhaps more free from the hurry and distraction which
disable so many of our practical men now from reading.
You accordingly see in the books of the last century what is
called a masculine tone ; a firm, strong, perspicuous narra-
tion of matter of fact, a plain argument, a contempt for
everything which distinct definite people cannot entirely and
thoroughly comprehend. There is no more solid book in the
world than Gibbon's history. Only consider the chronology.
It begins before the year ONE and goes down to the year

226 Literary Studies.

1453, and is a schedule or series of schedules of important
events during that time. Scarcely any fact deeply affecting
European civilisation is wholly passed over, and the great
majority of facts are elaborately recounted. Laws, dynasties,
churches, barbarians, appear and disappear. Everything
changes ; the old world — the classical civilisation of form
and definition— passes away, a new world of free spirit and
inward growth emerges ; between the two lies a mixed
weltering interval of trouble and confusion, when everybody
hates everybody, and the historical student leads a life of
skirmishes, is oppressed with broils and feuds. All through
this long period Gibbon's history goes with steady consistent
pace ; like a Roman legion through a troubled country —
hceret pede pes ; up hill and down hill, through marsh and
thicket, through Goth or Parthian — the firm, defined array
passes forward — a type of order, and an emblem of civilisation.
Whatever may be the defects of Gibbon's history, none can
deny him a proud precision and a style in marching order.

Another characteristic of the eighteenth century is its
taste for dignified pageantry. What an existence was that
of Versailles ! How gravely admirable to see the grand
monarque shaved, and dressed, and powdered ; to look on
and watch a great man carefully amusing himself with
dreary trifles. Or do we not even now possess an invention
of that age — the great eighteenth-century footman, still in
the costume of his era, with dignity and powder, vast calves
and noble mien ? What a world it must have been when all
men looked like that ! Go and gaze with rapture at the
footboard of a carriage, and say, Who would not obey a
premier with such an air ? Grave, tranquil, decorous
pageantry is a part, as it were, of the essence of the last age.
There is nothing more characteristic of Gibbon. A kind of
pomp pervades him. He is never out of livery. He ever
selects for narration those themes which look most like a

Edward Gibbon. 227

levee : grave chamberlains seem to stand throughout ; life is
a vast ceremony, the historian at once the dignitary and the
scribe.

The very language of Gibbon shows these qualities. Its
majestic march has been the admiration, its rather pompous
cadence the sport, of all perusers. It has the greatest merit
of an historical style : it is always going on ; you feel no
doubt of its continuing in motion. Many narrators of the
reflective class, Sir Archibald Alison for example, fail in this:
your constant feeling is, "Ah! he has pulled up; he is going
to be profound ; he never will go on again ". Gibbon's
reflections connect the events; they are not sermons between
them. But, notwithstanding, the manner of the Decline
and Fall is the last which should be recommended for strict
imitation. It is not a style in which you can tell the truth.
A monotonous writer is suited only to monotonous matter.
Truth is of various kinds — grave, solemn, dignified, petty,
low, ordinary ; and an historian who has to tell the truth
must be able to tell what is vulgar as well as what is great,
what is little as well as what is amazing. Gibbon is at
fault here. He cannot mention Asia Minor. The petty
order of sublunary matters ; the common gross existence of
ordinary people ; the necessary littlenesses of necessary life,
are little suited to his sublime narrative. Men on the Times
feel this acutely ; it is most difficult at first to say many
things in the huge imperial manner. And after all you can-
not tell everything. " How, sir," asked a reviewer of Sydney
Smith's life, " do you say a ' good fellow ' in print ? "

« Mr. ," replied the editor, " you should not say it at

all." Gibbon was aware of this rule ; he omits what does
not suit him ; and the consequence is, that though he has
selected the most various of historical topics, he scarcely
gives you an idea of variety. The ages change, but the
varnish of the narration is the same.

228 Literary Studies.

It is not unconnected with this fault that Gibbon gives
us but an indifferent description of individual character.
People seem a good deal alike. The cautious scepticism
of his cold intellect, which disinclined him to every extreme,
depreciates great virtues and extenuates vices ; and we are
left with a tame neutral character, capable of nothing extra-
ordinary,— hateful, as the saying is, " both to God and to
the enemies of God ".

A great point in favour of Gibbon is the existence of his
history. Some great historians seem likely to fail here. A
good judge was asked which he preferred, Macaulay's History
of England or Lord Mahon's. "Why," he replied, "you
observe Lord Mahon has written his history ; and by what
I see Macaulay's will be written not only for, but among
posterity." Practical people have little idea of the practical
ability required to write a large book, and especially a large
history. Long before you get to the pen, there is an im-
mensity of pure business ; heaps of material are strewn
everywhere ; but they lie in disorder, unread, uncatalogued,
unknown. It seems a dreary waste of life to be analysing,
indexing, extracting words and passages, in which one per
cent, of the contents are interesting, and not half of that
percentage will after all appear in the flowing narrative.
As an accountant takes up a bankrupt's books filled with
confused statements of ephemeral events, the disorderly
record of unprofitable speculations, and charges this to that
head, and that to this, — estimates earnings, specifies ex-
penses, demonstrates failures ; so the great narrator, going
over the scattered annalists of extinct ages, groups and
divides, notes and combines, until from a crude mass of
darkened fragments, there emerges a clear narrative, a
concise account of the result and upshot of the whole.
In this art Gibbon was a master. The laborious research
pf German scholarship, the keen eye of theological zeal, a

Edward Gibbon. 229

steady criticism of eighty years, have found few faults of
detail. The account has been worked right, the proper
authorities consulted, an accurate judgment formed, the
most telling incidents selected. Perhaps experience shows
that there is something English in this talent. The Ger-
mans are more elaborate in single monographs ; but they
seem to want the business ability to work out a complicated
narrative, to combine a long whole. The French are neat
enough, and their style is very quick ; but then it is difficult
to believe their facts ; the account on its face seems too
plain, and no true Parisian ever was an antiquary. The
great classical histories published in this country in our own
time show that the talent is by no means extinct ; and they
likewise show, what is also evident, that this kind of com-
position is easier with respect to ancient than with respect
to modern times. The barbarians burned the books ; and
though all the historians abuse them for it, it is quite evident
that in their hearts they are greatly rejoiced. If the books
had existed, they would have had to read them. Macaulay
has to peruse every book printed with long fs ; and it is no
use after all ; somebody will find some stupid MS., an old
account-book of an " ingenious gentleman," and with five
entries therein destroy a whole hypothesis. But Gibbon
was exempt from this; he could count the books the efficient
Goths bequeathed ; and when he had mastered them he
might pause. Still, it was no light matter, as any one who
looks at the books— awful folios in the grave Bodleian— will
most certainly credit and believe. And he did it all himself;
he never showed his book to any friend, or asked any one to
help him in the accumulating work, not even in the correction
of the press. " Not a sheet," he says, " has been seen by
any human eyes, excepting those of the author and printer ;
the faults and the merits are exclusively my own." And he
wrote most of it with one pen, which must certainly have
grown erudite towards the end.

230 Literary Studies.

The nature of his authorities clearly shows what the
nature of Gibbon's work is. History may be roughly divided
into universal and particular ; the first being the narrative
of events affecting the whole human race, at least the main
historical nations, the narrative of whose fortunes is the
story of civilisation ; and the latter being the relation of
events relating to one or a few particular nations only.
Universal history, it is evident, comprises great areas of
space and long periods of time ; you cannot have a series of
events visibly operating on all great nations without time
for their gradual operation, and without tracking them in
succession through the various regions of their power.
There is no instantaneous transmission in historical causa-
tion ; a long interval is required for universal effects. It
follows, that universal history necessarily partakes of the
character of a summary. You cannot recount the cumbrous
annals of long epochs without condensation, selection, and
omission ; the narrative, when shortened within the needful
limits, becomes concise and general. What it gains in
time, according to the mechanical phrase, it loses in power.
The particular history, confined within narrow limits, can
show us the whole contents of these limits, explain its
features of human interest, recount in graphic detail all its
interesting transactions, touch the human heart with the
power of passion, instruct the mind with patient instances
of accurate wisdom. The universal is confined to a dry
enumeration of superficial transactions ; no action can have
all its details ; the canvas is so crowded that no figure has
room to display itself effectively. From the nature of the
subject, Gibbon's history is of the latter class ; the sweep of
the narrative is so wide ; the decline and fall of the Roman
Empire being in some sense the most universal event which
has ever happened, — being, that is, the historical incident
which most affected all civilised men, and the very existence

Edward Gibbon. 231

and form of civilisation itself, — it is evident that we must look
rather for a comprehensive generality than a telling minute-
ness of delineation. The history of a thousand years does
not admit the pictorial detail which a Scott or a Macaulay
can accumulate on the history of a hundred. Gibbon has
done his best to avoid the dryness natural to such an attempt.
He inserts as much detail as his limits will permit ; selects
for more full description striking people and striking trans-
actions ; brings together at a single view all that relates to
single topics ; above all, by a regular advance of narration,
never ceases to imply the regular progress of events and the
steady course of time. None can deny the magnitude of
such an effort. After all, however, these are merits of what
is technically termed composition, and are analogous to
those excellences in painting or sculpture that are more
respected by artists than appreciated by the public at large.
The fame of Gibbon is highest among writers ; those
especially who have studied for years particular periods
included in his theme (and how many those are; for in the
East and West he has set his mark on all that is great for
ten centuries !) acutely feel and admiringly observe how
difficult it would be to say so much, and leave so little
untouched ; to compress so many telling points ; to present
in so few words so apt and embracing a narrative of the
whole. But the mere unsophisticated reader scarcely appre-
ciates this ; he is rather awed than delighted ; or rather,
perhaps, he appreciates it for a little while, then is tired by
the roll and glare ; then, on any chance — the creaking of an
organ, or the stirring of a mouse — in time of temptation he
falls away. It has been said, the way to answer all objec-
tions to Milton is to take down the book and read him ; the
way to reverence Gibbon is not to read him at all, but look
at him, from outside, in the bookcase, and think how much
there is within ; what a course of events, what a muster-roll

232 Literary Studies.

of names, what a steady, solemn sound ! You will not like
to take the book down ; but you will think how much you
could be delighted if you would.

It may be well, though it can be only in the most cursory
manner, to examine the respective treatment of the various
elements in this vast whole. The History of the Decline and
Fall may be roughly and imperfectly divided into the picture
of the Roman Empire — the narrative of barbarian incursions
— the story of Constantinople : and some few words may be
hastily said on each.

The picture — for so, from its apparent stability when con-
trasted with the fluctuating character of the later period, we
may call it — which Gibbon has drawn of the united empire
has immense merit. The organisation of the imperial system
is admirably dwelt on ; the manner in which the old republi-
can institutions were apparently retained, but really altered,
is compendiously explained ; the mode in which the imperial
will was transmitted to and carried out in remote provinces
is distinctly displayed. But though the mechanism is ad-
mirably delineated, the dynamical principle, the original
impulse is not made clear. You never feel you are reading
about the Romans. Yet no one denies their character to
be most marked. Poets and orators have striven for the
expression of it.

Macaulay has been similarly criticised ; it has been said,
that notwithstanding his great dramatic power, and wonder-
ful felicity in the selection of events on which to exert it, he
yet never makes us feel that we are reading about English-
men. The coarse clay of our English nature cannot be
represented in so fine a style. In the same way, and to a
much greater extent (for this is perhaps an unthankful
criticism, if we compare Macaulay's description of any body
with that of any other historian), Gibbon is chargeable with
neither expressing nor feeling the essence of the people con-

Edward Gibbon. 233

cerning whom he is writing. There was, in truth, in the
Roman people a warlike fanaticism, a puritanical essence,
an interior, latent, restrained, enthusiastic religion, which
was utterly alien to the cold scepticism of the narrator. Of
course he was conscious of it. He indistinctly felt that at
least there was something he did not like ; but he could not
realise or sympathise with it without a change of heart and
nature. The old pagan has a sympathy with the religion
of enthusiasm far above the reach of the modern Epicurean.

It may indeed be said, on behalf of Gibbon, that the old
Roman character was in its decay, and that only such slight
traces of it were remaining in the age of Augustus and the
Antonines, that it is no particular defect in him to leave it
unnoticed. Yet, though the intensity of its nobler peculiari-
ties was on the wane, many a vestige would perhaps have
been apparent to so learned an eye, if his temperament and
disposition had been prone to seize upon and search for
them. Nor is there any adequate appreciation of the com-
pensating element, of the force which really held society
together, of the fresh air of the Illyrian hills, of that army
which, evermore recruited from northern and rugged popula-
tions, doubtless brought into the very centre of a degraded
society the healthy simplicity of a vital, if barbarous religion.

It is no wonder that such a mind should have looked
with displeasure on primitive Christianity. The whole of
his treatment of that topic has been discussed by many pens,
and three generations of ecclesiastical scholars have illustrated
it with their emendations. Yet, if we turn over this, the
latest and most elaborate edition, containing all the important
criticisms of Milman and of Guizot, we shall be surprised to
find how few instances of definite exact error such a scrutiny
has been able to find out. As Paley, with his strong
sagacity, at once remarked, the subtle error rather lies hid
in the sinuous folds than is directly apparent on the surface

234 Literary Studies.

of the polished style. Who, said the shrewd archdeacon,
can refute a sneer ? And yet even this is scarcely the exact
truth. The objection of Gibbon is, in fact, an objection
rather to religion than to Christianity ; as has been said, he
did not appreciate, and could not describe, the most inward
form of pagan piety ; he objected to Christianity because it
was the intensest of religions. We do not mean by this to
charge Gibbon with any denial of, any overt distinct dis-
belief in, the existence of a supernatural Being. This would
be very unjust ; his cold composed mind had nothing in
common with the Jacobinical outbreak of the next genera-
tion. He was no doubt a theist after the fashion of natural
theology ; nor was he devoid of more than scientific feeling.
All constituted authorities struck him with emotion, all
ancient ones with awe. If the Roman Empire had
descended to his time, how much he would have reverenced
it ! He had doubtless a great respect for the " First Cause" ;
it had many titles to approbation; "it was not conspicuous,"
he would have said, "but it was potent". A sensitive
decorum revolted from the jar of atheistic disputation. We
have already described him more than enough. A sensible
middle-aged man in political life ; a bachelor, not himself
gay, but living with gay men ; equable and secular ; cautious
in his habits, tolerant in his creed, as Person said, " never
failing in natural feeling, except when women were to be
ravished and Christians to be martyred ". His writings are
in character. The essence of the far-famed fifteenth and
sixteenth chapters is, in truth, but a description of unworldly
events in the tone of this world, of awful facts in unmoved
voice, of truths of the heart in the language of the eyes.
The wary sceptic has not even committed himself to definite
doubts. These celebrated chapters were in the first manu-
script much longer, and were gradually reduced to their
present size by excision and compression. Who can doubt

Edward Gibbon. 235

that in their first form they were a clear, or comparatively
clear, expression of exact opinions on the Christian history,
and that it was by a subsequent and elaborate process that
they were reduced to their present and insidious obscurity ?
The toil has been effectual. " Divest," says Dean Milman
of the introduction to the fifteenth chapter, " this whole
passage of the latent sarcasm betrayed by the whole of the
subsequent dissertation, and it might commence a Christian
history, written in the most Christian spirit of candour." l

It is not for us here to go into any disquisition as to the
comparative influence of the five earthly causes, to whose
secondary operation the specious historian ascribes the pro-
gress of Christianity. Weariness and disinclination forbid.
There can be no question that the polity of the Church, and
the zeal of the converts, and other such things, did most
materially conduce to the progress of the Gospel. But few
will now attribute to these much of the effect. The real
cause is the heaving of the mind after the truth. Troubled
with the perplexities of time, weary with the vexation of
ages, the spiritual faculty of man turns to the truth as the
child turns to its mother. The thirst of the soul was to be
satisfied, the deep torture of the spirit to have rest. There
was an appeal to those —

" High instincts, before which our mortal nature

Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised ".2
The mind of man has an appetite for the truth.
" Hence, in a season of calm weather,

Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither, —
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore."8
1 Preface to his edition of the Decline and Fall.
8 Wordsworth : " Intimations of Immortality," ix. 3 Ibid.

236 Literary Studies.

All this was not exactly in Gibbon's way, and he does not
seem to have been able to conceive that it was in any one
else's. Why his chapters had given offence he could hardly
make out. It actually seems that he hardly thought that
other people believed more than he did. " We may be well
assured," says he, of a sceptic of antiquity, " that a writer
conversant with the world would never have ventured to
expose the gods of his country to public ridicule, had they
not been already the objects of secret contempt among the
polished and enlightened orders of society." 1 " Had I," he
says of himself, " believed that the majority of English
readers were so fondly attached even to the name and shadow
of Christianity, had I foreseen that the pious, the timid, and
the prudent would feel, or would affect to feel, with such
exquisite sensibility, — I might perhaps have softened the
two invidious chapters, which would create many enemies
and conciliate few friends." 2 The state of belief at that
time is a very large subject ; but it is probable that in the
cultivated cosmopolitan classes the continental scepticism
was very rife ; that among the hard-headed classes the rough
spirit of English Deism had made progress. . Though the
mass of the people doubtless believed much as they now
believe, yet the entire upper class was lazy and corrupt, and
there is truth in the picture of the modern divine : " The
thermometer of the Church of England sunk to its lowest
point in the first thirty years of the reign of George III.
... In their preaching, nineteen clergymen out of twenty
carefully abstained from dwelling upon Christian doctrines.
Such topics exposed the preacher to the charge of fanaticism.
Even the calm and sober Crabbe, who certainly never erred
from excess of zeal, was stigmatised in those days as a
Methodist, because he introduced into his sermons the notion
of future reward and punishment. An orthodox clergyman
1 Decline and Fall, chap. ii. , in re Lulian. a Memoirs.

Edward Gibbon. 237

(they said) should be content to show his people the worldly
advantage of good conduct, and to leave heaven and hell to
the ranters. Nor can we wonder that such should have been
the notions of country parsons, when, even by those who
passed for the supreme arbiters of orthodoxy and taste, the
vapid rhetoric of Blair was thought the highest standard
of Christian exhortation."1 It is among the excuses for
Gibbon that he lived in such a world.

There are slight palliations also in the notions then
prevalent of the primitive Church. There was the Anglican
theory, that it was a via media, the most correct of periods,
that its belief is to be the standard, its institutions the model,
its practice the test of subsequent ages. There was the
notion, not formally drawn out, but diffused through and
implied in a hundred books of evidence — a notion in oppo-
sition to every probability, and utterly at variance with the
New Testament — that the first converts were sober, hard-
headed, cultivated inquirers, — Watsons, Paleys, Priestleys,
on a small scale ; weighing evidence, analysing facts,
suggesting doubts, dwelling on distinctions, cold in their
dispositions, moderate in their morals, — cautious in their
creed. We now know that these were not they of whom the
world was not worthy. It is ascertained that the times of
the first Church were times of excitement ; that great ideas
falling on a mingled world were distorted by an untrained
intellect, even in the moment in which they were received
by a yearning heart ; that strange confused beliefs, Millen-
narianism, Gnosticism, Ebionitism, were accepted, not
merely by outlying obscure heretics, but in a measure, half-
and-half, one notion more by one man, another more by his
neighbour, confusedly and mixedly by the mass of Christians;
that the appeal was not to the questioning, thinking under-
1 " Church Parties," Edinburgh Review for October, 1853 ; by W. J.
Conybeare.

VOL. K 20

238 Literary Studies.

standing, but to unheeding, all-venturing emotion ; to that
lower class " from whom faiths ascend," and not to the
cultivated and exquisite class by whom they are criticised ;
that fervid men never embraced a more exclusive creed. You
can say nothing favourable of the first Christians, except
that they were Christians. We find no "form nor comeli-
ness " in them ; no intellectual accomplishments, no caution
in action, no discretion in understanding. There is no
admirable quality except that, with whatever distortion, or
confusion, or singularity, they at once accepted the great
clear outline of belief in which to this day we live, move, and
have our being. The offence of Gibbon is his disinclination
to this simple essence ; his excuse, the historical errors then
prevalent as to the primitive Christians, the real defects so
natural in their position, the false merits ascribed to them by
writers who from one reason or another desired to treat them
as "an authority".

On the whole, therefore, it may be said of the first, and
in some sense the most important, part of Gibbon's work,
that though he has given an elaborate outline of the frame-
work of society, and described its detail with pomp and
accuracy, yet that he has not comprehended or delineated its
nobler essence, pagan or Christian. Nor perhaps was it to
be expected that he should, for he inadequately compre-
hended the dangers of the time ; he thought it the happiest
period the world has ever known ; he would not have
comprehended the remark : " To see the old world in its
worst estate we turn to the age of the satirist and of Tacitus,
when all the different streams of evil coming from east,
west, north, south, the vices of barbarism and the vices of
civilisation, remnants of ancient cults and the latest refine-
ments of luxury and impurity, met and mingled on the
banks of the Tiber. What could have been the state of
society when Tiberius, Caligula, Nero, Domitian, Helioga-

Edward Gibbon. 239

balus, were the rulers of the world ? To a good man we
should imagine that death itself would be more tolerable than
the sight of such things coming upon the earth." l So deep
an ethical sensibility was not to be expected in the first
century ; nor is it strange when, after seventeen hundred
years, we do not find it in their historian.

Space has failed us, and we must be unmeaningly brief.
The second head of Gibbon's history — the narrative of the
barbarian invasions — has been recently criticised, on the
ground that he scarcely enough explains the gradual but
unceasing and inevitable manner in which the outer bar-
barians were affected by and assimilated to the civilisation
of Rome. Mr. Congrevea has well observed, that the
impression which Gibbon's narrative is insensibly calculated
to convey is, that there was little or no change in the state
of the Germanic tribes between the time of Tacitus and the
final invasion of the empire — a conclusion which is ob-
viously incredible. To the general reader there will perhaps
seem some indistinctness in this part of the work, nor is a
free, confused barbarism a congenial subject for an imposing
and orderly pencil. He succeeds better in the delineation of
the riding monarchies, if we may so term them, — of the
equestrian courts of Attila or Timour, in which the great
scale, the concentrated power, the very enormity of the
barbarism, give, so to speak, a shape to unshapeliness ;
impart, that is, a horrid dignity to horse-flesh and mare's
milk, an imposing oneness to the vast materials of a crude
barbarity. It is needless to say that no one would search
Gibbon for an explanation of the reasons or feelings by
which the northern tribes were induced to accept Christianity.
It is on the story of Constantinople that the popularity

1 Jowett : " Epistles of St. Paul, chap. i. of Romans," State of the
Ancient World.

• Lectures on the Roman Empire of the West.

240 Literary Studies.

of Gibbon rests. The vast extent of the topic ; the many
splendid episodes it contains ; its epic unity from the
moment of the far-seeing selection of the city by Constantine
to its last fall ; its position as a link between Europe and
Asia ; its continuous history ; the knowledge that through
all that time it was, as now, a diadem by the water-side, a
lure to be snatched by the wistful barbarian, a marvel to the
West, a prize for the North and for the East ; — these, and
such as these ideas, are congenial topics to a style of pomp
and grandeur. The East seems to require to be treated
with a magnificence unsuitable to a colder soil. The nature
of the events, too, is suitable to Gibbon's cursory, imposing
manner. It is the history of a form of civilisation, but
without the power thereof ; a show of splendour and vigour,
but without bold life or interior reality. What an oppor-
tunity for an historian who loved the imposing pageantry and
disliked the purer essence of existence ! There were here
neither bluff barbarians nor simple saints; there was nothing
admitting of particular accumulated detail ; we do not wish
to know the interior of the stage ; the imposing movements
are all which should be seized. Some of the features, too,
are curious in relation to those of the historian's life : the
clear accounts of the theological controversies, followed out
with an appreciative minuteness so rare in a sceptic, are not
disconnected with his early conversion to the scholastic
Church ; the brilliancy of the narrative reminds us of his
enthusiasm for Arabic and the East ; the minute description
of a licentious epoch evinces the habit of a mind which, not
being bold enough for the practice of license, took a pleasure
in following its theory. There is no subject which combines
so much of unity with so much of variety.

It is evident, therefore, where Gibbon's rank as an his-
torian must finally stand. He cannot be numbered among
the great painters of human nature, for he has no sympathy

Edward Gibbon. 241

with the heart and passions of our race ; he has no place
among the felicitous describers of detailed life, for his subject
was too vast for minute painting, and his style too uniform
for a shifting scene. But he is entitled to a high — perhaps
to a first place — among the orderly narrators of great events ;
the composed expositors of universal history ; the tranquil
artists who have endeavoured to diffuse a cold polish over
the warm passions and desultory fortunes of mankind.

The life of Gibbon after the publication of his great work
was not very complicated. During its composition he had
withdrawn from Parliament and London to the studious
retirement of Lausanne. Much eloquence has been expended
on this voluntary exile, and it has been ascribed to the best
and most profound motives. It is indeed certain that he
liked a lettered solitude, preferred easy continental society,
was not quite insensible to the charm of scenery, had a
pleasure in returning to the haunts of his youth. Prosaic
and pure history, however, must explain that he went abroad
to save. Lord North had gone out of power. Mr. Burke,
the Cobden of that era, had procured the abolition of the
Lords of Trade ; the private income of Gibbon was not equal
to his notion of a bachelor London life. The same sum was,
however, a fortune at Lausanne. Most things, he acknow-
ledged, were as dear ; but then he had not to buy so many
things. Eight hundred a year placed him high in the social
scale of the place. The inhabitants were gratified that a
man of European reputation had selected their out-of-the-way
town for the shrine of his fame ; he lived pleasantly and
easily among easy, pleasant people ; a gentle hum of local
admiration gradually arose, which yet lingers on the lips of
erudite laquais de place. He still retains a fame unaccorded
to any other historian ; they speak of the " h6tel Gibbon " :
there never was even an estaminet Tacitus, or a cafe
Thucydides.

242 Literary Studies.

This agreeable scene, like many other agreeable scenes,
was broken by a great thunderclap. The French revolution
has disgusted many people ; but perhaps it has never dis-
gusted any one more than Gibbon. He had swept and
garnished everything about him. Externally he had made a
neat little hermitage in a gentle, social place ; internally he
had polished up a still theory of life, sufficient for the guidance
of a cold and polished man. Everything seemed to be tran-
quil with him ; the rigid must admit his decorum ; the lax
would not accuse him of rigour ; he was of the world, and
an elegant society naturally loved its own. On a sudden the
hermitage was disturbed. No place was too calm for that
excitement ; scarcely any too distant for that uproar. The
French war was a war of opinion, entering households, dis-
turbing villages, dividing quiet friends. The Swiss took some
of the infection. There was a not unnatural discord between
the people of the Pays de Vaud and their masters the people
of Berne. The letters of Gibbon are rilled with invectives
on the " Gallic barbarians " and panegyrics on Mr. Burke ;
military details, too, begin to abound — the peace of his
retirement was at an end. It was an additional aggravation
that the Parisians should do such things. It would not
have seemed unnatural that northern barbarians — English,
or other uncivilised nations — should break forth in rough riot
or cruel license ; but that the people of the most civilised of
all capitals, speaking the sole dialect of polished life,
enlightened with all the enlightenment then known, should
be guilty of excesses unparalleled, unwitnessed, unheard of,
was a vexing trial to one who had admired them for many
years. The internal creed and belief of Gibbon was as much
attacked by all this as were his external circumstances. He
had spent his time, his life, his energy, in putting a polished
gloss on human tumult, a sneering gloss on human piety ;
on a sudden human passion broke forth — the cold and

Edward Gibbon. 243

polished world seemed to meet its end ; the thin superficies
of civilisation was torn asunder ; the fountains of the great
deep seemed opened ; impiety to meet its end ; the founda-
tions of the earth were out of course.

We now, after long familiarity and in much ignorance,
can hardly read the history of those years without horror :
what an effect must they have produced on those whose
minds were fresh, and who knew the people killed !
" Never," Gibbon wrote to an English nobleman, " did a
revolution affect to such a degree the private existence of
such numbers of the first people of a great country. Your
examples of misery I could easil} match with similar examples
in this country and neighbourhood, and our sympathy is the
deeper, as we do not possess, like you, the means of alleviating
in some measure the misfortunes of the fugitives." l It
violently affected his views of English politics. He before
had a tendency, in consideration of his cosmopolitan culti-
vation, to treat them as local littlenesses, parish squabbles ;
but now his interest was keen and eager. " But," he says,
" in this rage against slavery, in the numerous petitions
against the slave-trade, was there no leaven of new demo-
cratical principles ? no wild ideas of the rights and natural
equality of man ? It is these I fear. Some articles in news-
papers, some pamphlets of the year, the Jockey Club, have
fallen into my hands. I do not infer much from such pub-
lications ; yet I have never known them of so black and
malignant a cast. I shuddered at Grey's motion ; disliked
the half-support of Fox, admired the firmness of Pitt's
declaration, and excused the usual intemperance of Burke.
Surely such men as -—,-—,- — , have talents for
mischief. I see a club of reform which contains some
respectable names. Inform me of the professions, the prin-
ciples, the plans, the resources of these reformers. Will
1 To Lord Sheffield, icnh November, 1792.

244 Literary Studies.

they heat the minds of the people ? Does the French
democracy gain no ground ? Will the bulk of your party
stand firm to their own interest and that of their country ?
Will you not take some active measures to declare your
sound •pinions, and separate yourselves from your rotten
members ? If you allow* them to perplex Government, if you
trifle with this solemn business, if you do not resist the
spirit of innovation in the first attempt, if you admit the
smallest and most specious change in our parliamentary
system, you are lost. You will be driven from one step to
another ; from principles just in theory to consequences
most pernicious in practice ; and your first concession will be
productive of every subsequent mischief, for which you will
be answerable to your country and to posterity. Do not
suffer yourselves to be lulled into a false security ; remember
the proud fabric of the French monarchy. Not four years
ago it stood founded, as it might seem, on the rock of time,
force, and opinion ; supported by the triple aristocracy of the
Church, the nobility, and the Parliaments. They are
crumbled into dust ; they are vanished from the earth. If
this tremendous warning has no effect on the men of pro-
perty in England ; if it does not open every eye, and raise
every arm, — you will deserve your fate. If I am too precipi-
tate, enlighten ; if I am too desponding, encourage me. My
pen has run into this argument ; for, as much a foreigner as
you think me, on this momentous subject I feel myself an
Englishman." *

The truth clearly is, that he had arrived at the conclusion
that he was the sort of person a populace kill. People
wonder a great deal why very many of the victims of the
French revolution were particularly selected ; the Marquis de
Custine, especially, cannot divine why they executed his
father. The historians cannot show that they committed
1 To Lord Sheffield, 3oth May, 1792.

Edward Gibbon. 245

any particular crimes ; the marquises and marchionesses
seem very inoffensive. The fact evidently is, that they were
killed for being polite. The world felt itself unworthy of
them. There were so many bows, such regular smiles, such
calm superior condescension, — could a mob be asked to
endure it ? Have we not all known a precise, formal,
patronising old gentleman — bland, imposing, something like
Gibbon ? Have we not suffered from his dignified attentions ?
If we had been on the Committee of Public Safety, can we
doubt what would have been the fate of that man ? Just so
wrath and envy destroyed in France an upper-class world.

After his return to England, Gibbon did not do much or
live long. He completed his Memoirs, the most imposing
of domestic narratives, the model of dignified detail. As we
said before, if the Roman Empire had written about itself,
this was how it would have done so. He planned some
other works, but executed none ; judiciously observing that
building castles in the air was more agreeable than building
them on the ground. His career was, however, drawing to
an end. Earthly dignity had its limits, even the dignity of
an historian. He had long been stout ; and now symptoms
of dropsy began to appear. After a short interval, he died
on the 1 6th of January, 1794. We have sketched his
character, and have no more to say. After all, what is our
criticism worth ? It only fulfils his aspiration, " that a
hundred years hence I may still continue to be abused ",l

1 Memoir*.

246

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.1

(1856.)

AFTER the long biography of Moore, it is half a comfort to
think of a poet as to whom our information is but scanty.
The few intimates of Shelley seem inclined to go to their
graves without telling in accurate detail the curious circum-
stances of his life. We are left to be content with vain
"prefaces" and the circumstantial details of a remarkable
blunderer. We know something, however ; — we know
enough to check our inferences from his writings ; in some
moods it is pleasant not to have them disturbed by long
volumes of memoirs and anecdotes.

One peculiarity of Shelley's writing makes it natural that
at times we should not care to have, that at times we should
wish for, a full biography. No writer has left so clear an
image of himself in his writings ; when we remember them
as a whole, we seem to want no more. No writer, on the
other hand, has left so many little allusions which we should
be glad to have explained, which the patient patriarch would
not perhaps have endured that any one should comprehend
while he did not. The reason is, that Shelley has combined
the use of the two great modes by which writers leave with

1 The Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. Edited by Mrs.
Shelley, 1853.

Essays, Letters from Abroad, Translations, and Fragments. By
Percy Bysshe Shelley. Edited by Mrs. Shelley. 1854.

The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley. By Captain Thomas Medwin-
1847.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 247

their readers the image of themselves. There is the art of
self-delineation. Some authors try in imagination to get
outside themselves — to contemplate their character as a fact,
and to describe it and the movement of their own actions as
external forms and images. Scarcely any one has done this
as often as Shelley. There is hardly one of his longer works
which does not contain a finished picture of himself in some
point or under some circumstances. Again, some writers,
almost or quite unconsciously, by a special instinct of style,
give an idea of themselves. This is not peculiar to literary
men ; it is quite as remarkable among men of action. There
are people in the world who cannot write the commonest
letter on the commonest affair of business without giving a
just idea of themselves. The Duke of Wellington is an
example which at once occurs of this. You may read a
despatch of his about bullocks and horseshoe-nails, and yet
you will feel an interest — a great interest, because somehow
among the words seems to lurk the mind of a great general.
Shelley has this peculiarity also. Every line of his has a
personal impress, an unconscious inimitable manner. And
the two modes in which he gives an idea of himself concur.
In every delineation we see the same simple intense being.
As mythology found a Naiad in the course of every limpid
stream, so through each eager line our fancy sees the same
panting image of sculptured purity.

Shelley is probably the most remarkable instance of the
pure impulsive character,— to comprehend which requires a
little detail. Some men are born under the law; their whole
life is a continued struggle between the lower principles of
their nature and the higher. These are what are called men
of principle ; each of their best actions is a distinct choice
between conflicting motives. One propension would bear
them here ; another there ; a third would hold them still :
into the midst the living will goes forth in its power, and

248 Literary Studies.

selects whichever it holds to be best. The habitual supre-
macy of conscience in such men gives them an idea that
they only exert their will when they do right ; when they do
wrong they seem to " let their nature go " ; they say that
" they are hurried away": but, in fact, there is commonly an
act of will in both cases ; — only it is weaker when they act
ill, because in passably good men, if the better principles are
reasonably strong, they conquer ; it is only when very faint
that they are vanquished. Yet the case is evidently not
always so; sometimes the wrong principle is of itself and of
set purpose definitively chosen : the better one is consciously
put down. The very existence of divided natures is a con-
flict. This is no new description of human nature. For
eighteen hundred years Christendom has been amazed at
the description in St. Paul of the law of his members warring
against the law of his mind. Expressions most unlike in
language, but not dissimilar in meaning, are to be found in
some of the most familiar passages of Aristotle.

In extreme contrast to this is the nature which has no
struggle. It is possible to conceive a character in which but
one impulse is ever felt — in which the whole being, as with
a single breeze, is carried in a single direction. The only
exercise of the will in such a being is in aiding and carrying
out the dictates of the single propensity. And this is some-
thing. There are many of our powers and faculties only in
a subordinate degree under the control of the emotions; the
intellect itself in many moments requires to be bent to defined
attention by compulsion of the will ; no mere intensity of
desire will thrust it on its tasks. But of what in most men
is the characteristic action of the will — namely, self-control —
such natures are hardly in want. An ultimate case could be
imagined in which they would not need it at all. They have
no lower desires to pull down, for they have no higher ones
which come into collision with them; the very words "lower"

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 249

and " higher," involving the contemporaneous action and
collision of two impulses, are inapplicable to them; there is
no strife; all their souls impel them in a single line. This
may be a quality of the highest character: indeed in the
highest character it will certainly be found ; no one will
question that the whole nature of the holiest being tends to
what is holy without let, struggle, or strife — it would be im-
piety to doubt it. Yet this same quality may certainly be
found in a lower — a much lower — mind than the highest. A
level may be of any elevation ; the absence of intestine com-
motion may arise from a sluggish dulness to eager aspira-
tions; the one impulse which is felt may be any impulse
whatever. If the idea were completely exemplified, one
would instinctively say, that a being with so single a mind
could hardly belong to human nature. Temptation is the
mark of our life ; we can hardly divest ourselves of the idea
that it is indivisible from our character. As it was said of
solitude, so it may be said of the sole dominion of a single
impulse : " Whoso is devoted to it would seem to be either a
beast or a god ". x

Completely realised on earth this idea will never be; but
approximations may be found, and one of the closest of those
approximations is Shelley. We fancy his mind placed in
the light of thought, with pure subtle fancies playing to and
fro. On a sudden an impulse arises; it is alone, and has
nothing to contend with; it cramps the intellect, pushes
aside the fancies, constrains the nature ; it bolts forward into
action. Such a character is an extreme puzzle to external
observers. From the occasionality of its impulses it will
often seem silly; from their singularity, strange; from their
intensity, fanatical. It is absurdest in the more trifling
matters. There is a legend of Shelley, during an early visit
to London, flying along the street, catching sight of a new
1 Bacon : " Essay on Friendship ".

250 Literary Studies.

microscope, buying it in a moment ; pawning it the in-
stant afterwards to relieve some one in the same street in
distress. The trait may be exaggerated, but it is charac-
teristic. It shows the sudden irruption of his impulses,
their abrupt force and curious purity.

The predominant impulse in Shelley from a very early
age was "a passion for reforming mankind". Francis
Newman has told us in his Letters from the East how
much he and his half-missionary associates were annoyed at
being called "young people trying to convert the world".
In a strange land, ignorant of the language, beside a recog-
nised religion, in the midst of an immemorial society, the
aim, though in a sense theirs, seemed ridiculous when ascribed
to them. Shelley would not have felt this at all. No society,
However organised, would have been too strong for him to
attack. He would not have paused. The impulse was upon
him. He would have been ready to preach that mankind
were to be " free, equal, pure, and wise," l — in favour oi
"justice, and truth, and time, and the world's natural
sphere," 2 — in the Ottoman Empire, or to the Czar, or to
George III. Such truths were independent of time and place
and circumstance ; some time or other, something, or some-
body (his faith was a little vague), would most certainly inter-
vene to establish them. It was this placid undoubting confi-
dence which irritated the positive and sceptical mind of Hazlitt.
" The author of the « Prometheus Unbound,' " he tells us, "has
a fire in his eye, a fever in his blood, a maggot in his brain,
a hectic flutter in his speech, which mark out the philosophic
fanatic. He is sanguine-complexioned and shrill- voiced. As
is often observable in the case of religious enthusiasts, there
is a slenderness of constitutional stamina, which renders the
flesh no match for the spirit. His bending, flexible form

1 " Revolt of Islam," canto vii., stanza xxxiii.

2 Ibid., stanza xxxi.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 251

appears to take no strong hold of things, does not grapple
with the world about him, but slides from it like a river —

* And in its liquid texture mortal wound
Receives no more than can the fluid air '-1

The shock of accident, the weight of authority, make no
impression on his opinions, which retire like a feather, or
rise from the encounter unhurt, through their own buoyancy.
He is clogged by no dull system of realities, no earth-bound
feelings, no rooted prejudices, by nothing that belongs to
the mighty trunk and hard husk of nature and habit ; but is
drawn up by irresistible levity to the regions of mere specula-
tion and fancy, to the sphere of air and fire, where his de-
lighted spirit floats in ' seas of pearl and clouds of amber '.
There is no caput mortuum of worn-out threadbare ex-
perience to serve as ballast to his mind ; it is all volatile,
intellectual salt-of-tartar, that refuses to combine its evanes-
cent, inflammable essence with anything solid or anything
lasting. Bubbles are to him the only realities : — touch them
and they vanish. Curiosity is the only proper category of
his mind ; and though a man in knowledge, he is a child in
feeling." 2 And so on with vituperation. No two characters
could, indeed, be found more opposite than the open, eager,
buoyant poet, and the dark, threatening, unbelieving critic.

It is difficult to say how far such a tendency under some
circumstances might not have carried Shelley into positions
most alien to an essential benevolence. It is most dangerous
to be possessed with an idea. Dr. Arnold used to say that
he had studied the life of Robespierre with the greatest per-
sonal benefit. No personal purity is a protection against
insatiable zeal; it almost acts in the opposite direction. The
less a man is conscious of inferior motives, the more likely

1 " Paradise Lost," book vi.

2 Essay " On Paradox and the Commonplace " in the Table Talk.

25 1 Literary Studies.

is he to fancy that he is doing God service. There is no
difficulty in imagining Shelley cast by the accident of fortune
into the Paris of the Revolution ; hurried on by its ideas,
undoubting in its hopes, wild with its excitement, going forth
in the name of freedom conquering and to conquer; — and
who can think that he would have been scrupulous how he
attained such an end ? It was in him to have walked
towards it over seas of blood. One could almost identify
him with St. Just, " the fair-haired Republican ".

On another and a more generally interesting topic, Shelley
advanced a theory which amounts to a deification of im-
pulse. " Love," he tells us, " is inevitably consequent upon
the perception of loveliness. Love withers under constraint ;
its very essence is liberty; it is compatible neither with
obedience, jealousy, nor fear; it is there most pure, perfect,
and unlimited, where its votaries live in confidence, equality,
and unreserve. ... A husband and wife ought to con-
tinue united only so long as they love each other. Any
law which should bind them to cohabitation for one moment
after the decay of their affection would be a most intolerable
tyranny, and the most unworthy of toleration. How odious
an usurpation of the right of private judgment should that
law be considered, which should make the ties of friendship
indissoluble, in spite of the caprices, the inconstancy, the
fallibility of the human mind ! And by so much would the
fetters of love be heavier and more unendurable than those
of friendship, as love is more vehement and capricious, more
dependent on those delicate peculiarities of imagination, and
less capable of reduction to the ostensible merits of the
object." This passage, no doubt, is from an early and crude
essay, one of the notes to "Queen Mab"; and there are
many indications, in his latter years, that though he might
hold in theory that " constancy has nothing virtuous in
itself," yet in practice he shrank from breaking a tie hallowed

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 253

by years of fidelity and sympathy. But, though his conduct
was doubtless higher than his creed, there is no evidence
that his creed was ever changed. The whole tone of his
works is on the other side. The " Epipsychidion " could not
have been written by a man who attached a moral value to
constancy of mind. And the whole doctrine is most ex-
pressive of his character. A quivering sensibility endured
only the essence of the most refined love. It is intelligible,
that one who bowed in a moment to every desire should
have attached a kind of consecration to the most pure and
eager of human passions.

The evidence of Shelley's poems confirms this impression
of him. The characters which he delineates have all this
same kind of pure impulse. The reforming impulse is
especially felt. In almost every one of his works there is
some character, of whom all we know is, that he or she had
this passionate disposition to reform mankind. We know
nothing else about them, and they are all the same. Laon,
in the " Revolt of Islam," does not differ at all from Lionel,
in " Rosalind and Helen ". Laon differs from Cythna, in the
former poem, only as male from female. Lionel is de-
lineated, though not with Shelley's greatest felicity, in a
single passage : —

•• Yet through those dungeon-walls there came
Thy thrilling light, O liberty I
And as the meteor's midnight flame
Startles the dreamer, sunlight truth
Flashed on his visionary youth,
And filled him, not with love, but faith,
And hope, and courage, mute in death ;
For love and life in him were twins,
Born at one birth : in every other
First life, then love its course begins,
Though they be children of one mother :
And so through this dark world they fleet
VOL. I. 21

254 Literary Studies.

Divided, till in death they meet.
But he loved all things ever. Then
He passed amid the strife of men,
And stood at the throne of armed power
Pleading for a world of woe :
Secure as one on a rock-built tower
O'er the wrecks which the surge trails to and fro.
'Mid the passions wild of human-kind
He stood, like a spirit calming them ;
For, it was said, his words could bind
Like music the lulled crowd, and stem
That torrent of unquiet dream
Which mortals truth and reason deem,
But is revenge, and fear, and pride.
Joyous he was, and hope and peace
, On all who heard him did abide,

Raining like dew from his sweet talk,
As, where the evening star may walk
Along the brink of the gloomy seas,
Liquid mists of splendour quiver."

Such is the description of all his reformers in calm. In times
of excitement they all burst forth —

" Fear not the tyrants shall rule for ever,
Or the priests of the bloody faith ;
They stand on the brink of that mighty river
Whose waves they have tainted with death ;
It is fed from the depths of a thousand dells,
Around them it foams, and rages, and swells :
And their swords and their sceptres I floating see,
Like wrecks in the surge of eternity ". *

In his more didactic poems it is the same. All the world is
evil, and will be evil, until some unknown conqueror shall
appear — a teacher by rhapsody and a conqueror by words —
who shall at once reform all evil. Mathematicians place
great reliance on the unknown symbol, great X. Shelley

1 " Rosalind and Helen."

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 255

did more ; he expected it would take life and reform our race.
Such impersonations are, of course, not real men ; they are
mere incarnations of a desire. Another passion, which no
man has ever felt more strongly than Shelley— the desire to
penetrate the mysteries of existence (by Hazlitt profanely
called curiosity) — is depicted in " Alastor " as the sole
passion of the only person in the poem : —

" By solemn vision and bright silver dream
His infancy was nurtured. Every sight
And sound from the vast earth and ambient air
Sent to his heart its choicest impulses.
The fountains of divine philosophy
Fled not his thirsting lips ; and all of great,
Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past
In truth or fable consecrates, he felt
And knew. When early youth had past, he left
His cold tire-side and alienated home
To seek strange truths in undiscovered lands.
Many a wild waste and tangled wilderness
Has lured his fearless steps ; and he has bought
With his sweet voice and eyes, from savage men,
His rest and food."

He is cheered on his way by a beautiful dream, and the
search to find it again mingles with the shadowy quest. It
is remarkable how great is the superiority of the personifica-
tion in " Alastor," though one of his earliest writings, over
the reforming abstractions of his other works. The reason
is, its far greater closeness to reality. The one is a
description of what he was ; the other of what he desired
to be. Shelley had nothing of the magic influence, the large
insight, the bold strength, the permeating eloquence, which
fit a man for a practical reformer : but he had, in perhaps an
unequalled and unfortunate measure, the famine of the intel-
lect— the daily insatiable craving after the highest truth
which is the passion of " Alastor". So completely did he
feel it, that the introductory lines of the poem almost seem

256 Literary Studies.

to identify him with the hero ; at least they express senti-
ments which would have been exactly dramatic in his
mouth : —

" Mother of this unfathomable world !
Favour my solemn song ; for I have loved
Thee ever, and thee only ; I have watched
Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps,
And my heart ever gazes on the depth
Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed
In charnels and on coffins, where black Death
Keeps records of the trophies won from thee,
Hoping to still these obstinate questionings
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost,
Thy messenger, to render up the tale
Of what we are. In lone and silent hours,
When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness ;
Like an inspired and desperate alchymist,
Staking his very life on some dark hope,
Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks
With my most innocent love ; until strange tears,
Uniting with those breathless kisses, made
Such magic as compels the charmed night
To render up thy charge . . . and though ne'er yet
Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary,
Enough from incommunicable dream,
And twilight phantasms and deep noonday thought,
Has shone within me, that serenely now,
And moveless (as a long-forgotten lyre,
Suspended in the solitary dome
Of some mysterious and deserted fane),
I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain
May modulate with murmurs of the air,
And motions of the forests and the sea,
And voice of living beings, and woven hymns
Of night and day, and the deep heart of man."

The accompaniments are fanciful ; but the essential passion
was his own.

These two forms of abstract personification exhaust all
which can be considered characters among Shelley's poems

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 257

— one poem excepted. Of course, all his works contain
" Spirits," " Phantasms,'* " Dream No. i," and "Fairy No.
3 " ; but these do not belong to this world. The higher air
seems never to have been favourable to the production of
marked character ; with almost all poets the inhabitants of
it are prone to a shadowy thinness : in Shelley, the habit of
frequenting mountain-tops has reduced them to evanescent
mists of lyrical energy. One poem of Shelley's, however,
has two beings of another order ; creations which, if not
absolutely dramatic characters of the first class — not beings
whom we know better than we know ourselves — are never-
theless very high specimens of the second ; persons who
seem like vivid recollections from our intimate experience.
In this case the dramatic execution is so good, that it is
difficult to say why the results are not quite of the first rank.
One reason of this is, perhaps, their extreme simplicity.
Our imaginations, warned by consciousness and outward
experience of the wonderful complexity of human nature,
refuse to credit the existence of beings, all whose actions are
unmodified consequences of a single principle. These two
characters are Beatrice Cenci and her father Count Cenci.
In most of Shelley's poems — he died under thirty — there is
an extreme suspicion of aged persons. In actual life he had
plainly encountered many old gentlemen who had no belief
in the complete and philosophical reformation of mankind.
There is, indeed, an old hermit in the " Revolt of Islam " who
is praised (Captain Medwin identifies him with a Dr. Some-
one who was kind to Shelley at Eton) ; but in general the
old persons in his poems are persons whose authority it is
desirable to disprove :—

" Old age, with its grey hair

And wrinkled legends of unworthy things

And icy sneers, is naught ".*

1 " Revolt of Islam," canto ii., stanza xxxiii.

258 Literary Studies.

The less its influence, he evidently believes, the better. Not
unnaturally, therefore, he selected for a tragedy a horrible
subject from Italian story, in which an old man, accomplished
in this world's learning, renowned for the " cynic sneer of
o'er experienced sin," is the principal evil agent. The
character of Count Cenci is that of a man who of set prin-
ciple does evil for evil's sake. He loves " the sight of
agony " :

" All men delight in sensual luxury ;
All men enjoy revenge ; and most exult
Over the tortures they can never feel,
Flattering their secret peace with others' pain :
But I delight in nothing else ".

If he regrets his age, it is from the failing ability to do evil : —

11 True, I was happier than I am while yet
Manhood remained to act the thing I thought ;
While lust was sweeter than revenge : and now
Invention palls".

It is this that makes him contemplate the violation of his
daughter : —

11 There yet remains a deed to act,
Whose horror might make sharp an appetite
More dull than mine ".

Shelley, though an habitual student of Plato — the greatest
modern writer who has taken great pleasure in his writings
— never seems to have read any treatise of Aristotle ; other-
wise he would certainly seem to have derived from that
great writer the idea of the aKoXao-ros ; yet in reality the idea
is as natural to Shelley as any man — more likely to occur to
him than to most. Children think that everybody who is
bad is very bad. Their simple eager disposition only under-
stands the doing what they wish to do ; they do not refine :
if they hear of a man doing evil, they think he wishes to do

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 259

it, — that he has a special impulse to do evil, as they have to
do what they do. Something like this was the case with
Shelley. His mind, impulsive and childlike, could not
imagine the struggling kind of character — either those which
struggle with their lower nature and conquer, or those which
struggle and are vanquished — either the eyKpcmjs or the
a/cpar>js of the old thinker ; but he could comprehend that
which is in reality far worse than either, the being who
wishes to commit sin because it is sin, who is as it were
possessed with a demon hurrying him out, hot and passion-
ate, to vice and crime. The innocent child is whirled away
by one impulse ; the passionate reformer by another ; the
essential criminal, if such a being be possible, by a third.
They are all beings, according to one division, of the same
class. An imaginative mind like Shelley's, belonging to the
second of these types, naturally is prone in some moods to
embody itself under the forms of the third. It is, as it were,
the antithesis to itself. — Equally simple is the other charac-
ter— that of Beatrice. Even before her violation, by a
graphic touch of art, she is described as absorbed, or
beginning to be absorbed, in the consciousness of her
wrongs.

•• Beatrice. As I have said, speak to me not of love.
Had you a dispensation, I have not ;
Nor will I leave this home of misery
Whilst my poor Bernard, and that gentle lady
To whom I owe life and these virtuous thoughts,
Must suffer what I still have strength to share.
Alas, Orsino 1 all the love that once
I felt for you is turned to bitter pain.
Ours was a youthful contract, which you first
Broke by assuming vows no Pope will loose :
And yet I love you still, but holily,
Even as a sister or a spirit might ;
And so I swear a cold fidelity."

260 Literary Studies.

After her violation, her whole being is absorbed by one
thought, — how and by what subtle vengeance she can expiate
the memory of her shame. These are all the characters in
Shelley; an impulsive unityis of the essence of them all.

The same characteristic of Shelley's temperament pro-
duced also most marked effects on his speculative opinions.
The peculiarity of his creed early brought him into opposition
to the world. His education seems to have been principally
directed by his father, of whom the only description which
has reached us is not favourable. Sir Timothy Shelley,
according to Captain Medwin, was an illiterate country
gentleman of an extinct race ; he had been at Oxford, where
he learned nothing, had made the grand tour, from which he
brought back " a smattering of bad French and a bad picture
of an eruption at Vesuvius ''. He had the air of the old
school, and the habit of throwing it off which distinguished
that school. Lord Chesterfield himself was not easier on
matters of morality. He used to tell his son that he would
provide for natural children ad infinitum, but would never
forgive his making a mesalliance. On religion his opinions
were very lax. He, indeed, " required his servants," we
are told, " to attend church," and even on rare occasions,
with superhuman virtue, attended himself; but there, as
with others of that generation, his religion ended. He
doubtless did not feel that any more could be required of
him. He was not consciously insincere ; but he did not in
the least realise the opposition between the religion which he
professed and the conduct which he pursued. Such a person
was not likely to influence a morbidly sincere imaginative
nature in favour of the doctrines of the Church of England.
Shelley went from Eton, where he had been singular, to
Oxford, where he was more so. He was a fair classical
scholar. But his real mind was given to out-of-school
knowledge. He had written a novel ; he had studied

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 261

chemistry ; when pressed in argument, he used to ask :
" What, then, does Condorcet say upon the subject ? "
This was not exactly the youth for the University of Oxford
in the year 1810. A distinguished pupil of that University
once observed to us : " The use of the University of Oxford
is, that no one can over-read himself there. The appetite
for knowledge is repressed. A blight is thrown over the in-
genuous mind," etc. And possibly it may be so ; considering
how small a space literary knowledge fills in the busy
English world, it may not be without its advantages that
any mind prone to bookish enthusiasm should be taught by
the dryness of its appointed studies, the want of sympathy
of its teachers, and a rough contact with average English
youth, that studious enthusiasm must be its own reward ;
that in this country it will meet with little other; that it will
not be encouraged in high places. Such discipline may,
however, be carried too far. A very enthusiastic mind may
possibly by it be turned in upon itself. This was the case
with Shelley. When he first came up to Oxford, physics
were his favourite pursuit. On chemistry, especially, he
used to be eloquent. " The galvanic battery," said he, "is
a new engine. It has been used hitherto to an insignificant
extent : yet it has worked wonders already. What will not
an extraordinary combination of troughs of colossal magni-
tude, a well-arranged system of hundreds of metallic plates,
effect ? " Nature, however, like the world, discourages a
wild enthusiasm. " His chemical operations seemed to an
unskilful observer to promise nothing but disasters. He
had blown himself up at Eton. He had inadvertently
swallowed some mineral poison, which he declared had
seriously injured his health, and from the effects of which he
should never recover. His hands, his clothes, his books,
and his furniture, were stained and covered by medical acids,"
and so on. Disgusted with these and other failures, he

262 Literary Studies.

abandoned physics for metaphysics. He rushed headlong
into the form of philosophy then popular. It is not likely
that he ever read Locke ; and it is easy to imagine the dis-
may with which the philosopher would have regarded so
" heady and skittish " a disciple : but he continually invoked
Locke as an authority, and was really guided by the French
expositions of him then popular. Hume, of course, was not
without his influence. With such teachers only to control
him, an excitable poet rushed in a moment to materialism,
and thence to atheism. Deriving any instruction from the
University, was, according to him, absurd ; he wished to
convert the University. He issued a kind of thesis, stating
by way of interrogatory all the difficulties of the subject ;
called it the " necessity of atheism," and sent it to the pro-
fessors, heads of houses, and several bishops. The theistic
belief of his college was equal to the occasion. " It was a
fine spring morning on Lady Day in the year 1811, when,"
says a fellow-student, " I went to Shelley's rooms. He was
absent ; but before I had collected our books, he rushed in.
He was terribly agitated. I anxiously inquired what had
happened. ' I am expelled.' He then explained that he
had been summoned before the Master and some of the
Fellows ; that as he was unable to deny the authorship of
the essay, he had been expelled and ordered to quit the
college the next morning at latest." He had wished to be
put on his trial more regularly, and stated to the Master that
England was a " free country " ; but without effect. He was
obliged to leave Oxford : his father was very angry ; " if he
had broken the Master's windows, one could have understood
it " : but to be expelled for publishing a book seemed an error
incorrigible, because incomprehensible.

These details at once illustrate Shelley's temperament,
and enable us to show that the peculiarity of his opinions
arose out of that temperament. He was placed in circum-

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 263

stances which left his eager mind quite free. Of his father
we have already spoken : there was no one else to exercise a
subduing or guiding influence over him ; nor would his mind
have naturally been one extremely easy to influence. Through
life he followed very much his own bent and his own
thoughts. His most intimate associates exercised very little
control, over his belief. He followed his nature; and that
nature was in a singular degree destitute of certain elements
which most materially guide ordinary men. It seems most
likely that a person prone to isolated impulse will be
defective in the sensation of conscience. There is scarcely
room for it. Whe/i, as in common conflicting characters,
the whole nature is daily and hourly in a perpetual struggle,
the faculty which decides what elements in that nature are
to have the supremacy is daily and hourly appealed to.
Passions are contending ; life is a discipline ; there is a
reference every moment to the directory of the discipline —
the order-book of the passions. In temperaments not exposed
to the ordinary struggle there is no such necessity. Their
impulse guides them ; they have little temptation ; are
scarcely under the law ; have hardly occasion to consult the
statute-book. In consequence, simple and beautiful as such
minds often are, they are deficient in the sensation of duty ;
have no haunting idea of right or wrong ; show an easy
abandon in place of a severe self-scrutiny. At first it might
seem that such minds lose little ; they are exempted from
the consciousness of a code to whose provisions they need
little access. But such would be the conclusion only from a
superficial view of human nature. The whole of our inmost
faith is a series of intuitions ; and experience seems to show
that the intuitions of conscience are the beginning of that
series. Childhood has little which can be called a religion ;
the shows of this world, the play of its lights and shadows,
suffice. It is in the collision of our nature, which occurs in

264 Literary Studies.

youth, that the first real sensation of faith is felt Conscience
is often then morbidly acute ; a flush passes over the youth-
ful mind ; the guiding instinct is keen and strong, like the
passions with which it contends. At the first struggle of our
nature commences our religion. Childhood will utter the
words ; in early manhood, when we become half-unwilling
to utter them, they begin to have a meaning. The result of
history is similar. The whole of religion rests on a faith
that the universe is solely ruled by an almighty and all-
perfect Being. This strengthens with the moral cultiva-
tion, and grows with the improvement of mankind. It is the
assumed axiom of the creed of Christendom ; and all that is
really highest in our race may have the degree of its ex-
cellence tested by the degree of the belief in it. But
experience shows that the belief only grows very gradually.
We see at various times, and now, vast outlying nations in
whom the conviction of morality — the consciousness of a
law — is but weak; and there the belief in an all-perfect God
is half-forgotten, faint, and meagre. It exists as something
between a tradition and a speculation ; but it does not come
forth on the solid earth ; it has no place in the " business
and bosoms" l of men ; it is thrust out of view even when
we look upwards by fancied idols and dreams of the stars in
their courses. Consider the state of the Jewish, as compared
with the better part of the pagan world of old. On the one
side we see civilisation, commerce, the arts, a great
excellence in all the exterior of man's life ; a sort of morality
sound and sensible, placing the good of man in a balanced
moderation within and good looks without ; — in a combina-
tion of considerate good sense, with the air of aristocratic,
or, as it was said, "godlike" refinement. We see, in a
word, civilisation, and the ethics of civilisation ; the first

1 Bacon : Dedication to Essays.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 265

polished, the other elaborated and perfected. But this is
all ; we do not see faith. We see in some quarters rather a
horror of thecuriosus deus interfering, controlling, watching —
never letting things alone — disturbing the quiet of the world
with punishment and the fear of punishment. The Jewish
side of the picture is different. We see a people who have
perhaps an inaptitude for independent civilisation, who in
secular pursuits have only been assistants and attendants on
other nations during the whole history of mankind. These
have no equable, beautiful morality like the others ; but
instead a gnawing, abiding, depressing— one might say, a
slavish — ceremonial, excessive sense of law and duty. This
nation has faith. By a link not logical, but ethical, this
intense, eating, abiding, supremacy of conscience is con-
nected with a deep daily sense of a watchful, governing, and
jealous God. And from the people of the law arises the
gospel. The sense of duty, when awakened, awakens not
only the religion of the law, but in the end the other religious
intuitions which lie round about it. The faith of Christendom
has arisen not from a great people, but from " the least of
all people,'* — from the people whose anxious legalism was a
noted contrast to the easy, impulsive life of pagan nations.
In modern language, conscience is the converting intuition, —
that which turns men from the world without to that
within, — from the things which are seen to the realities
which are not seen. In a character like Shelley's, where
this haunting, abiding, oppressive moral feeling is wanting
or defective, the religious belief in an Almighty God which
springs out of it is likely to be defective likewise.

In Shelley's case this deficiency was aggravated by what
may be called the abstract character of his intellect. We
have shown that no character except his own, and characters
most strictly allied to his own, are delineated in his works.
The tendency of his mind was rather to personify isolated

266 Literary Studies.

qualities or impulses — equality, liberty, revenge, and so on
— than to create out of separate parts or passions the single
conception of an entire character. This is, properly speaking,
the mythological tendency. All early nations show this
marked disposition to conceive of separate forces and quali-
ties as a kind of semi-persons ; that is, not true actual
persons with distinct characters, but beings who guide
certain influences, and of whom all we know is that they
guide those influences. Shelley evinces a remarkable
tendency to deal with mythology in this simple and
elementary form. Other poets have breathed into mythology
a modern life ; have been attracted by those parts which
seem to have a religious meaning, and have enlarged that
meaning while studying to embody it. With Shelley it is
otherwise ; the parts of mythology by which he is attracted
are the bare parts — the simple stories which Dr. Johnson
found so tedious : —

" Arethusa arose

From her couch of snows
In the Acroceraunian mountains.

From cloud and from crag,

With many a jag,
Shepherding her bright fountains,

She leapt down the rocks

With her rainbow locks
Streaming among the streams ;

Her steps paved with green

The downward ravine,
Which slopes to the western gleams

And gliding and springing,

She went ever singing,
In murmurs as soft as sleep ;

The earth seemed to love her,

And heaven smiled above her,
As she lingered towards the deep.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 267

Then Alpheus bold,
On his glacier cold,

With his trident the mountains strook,"
Etc., etc. *

Arethusa and Alpheus are not characters : they are only the
spirits of the fountain and the stream. When not writing
on topics connected with ancient mythology, Shelley shows
the same bent. "The Cloud" and "The Skylark" are more
like mythology — have more of the impulse by which the
populace, if we may so say, of the external world was first
fancied into existence — than any other modern poems.
There is, indeed, no habit of mind more remote from our
solid and matter-of-fact existence ; none which was once
powerful, of which the present traces are so rare. In truth,
Shelley's imagination achieved all it could with the materials
before it. The materials for the creative faculty must be
provided by the receptive faculty. Before a man can imagine
what will seem to be realities, he must be familiar with what
are realities. The memory of Shelley had no heaped-up
" store of life," no vast accumulation of familiar characters.
His intellect did not tend to the strong grasp of realities ;
its taste was rather for the subtle refining of theories,
the distilling of exquisite abstractions. His imagination
personified what his understanding presented to it. It
had nothing else to do. He displayed the same tendency
of mind — sometimes negatively and sometimes positively—
in his professedly religious inquiries. His belief went
through three stages — first, materialism, then a sort of
Nihilism, then a sort of Platonism. In neither of them is
the rule of the universe ascribed to a character : in the first
and last it is ascribed to animated abstractions; in the
second there is no universe at all. In neither of them is
there any strong grasp of fact. The writings of the first

1 •• Arethusa."

268 Literary Studies.

period are clearly influenced by, and modelled on, Lucretius.
He held the same abstract theory of nature — sometimes of
half-personified atoms, moving hither and thither of them-
selves— at other times of a general pervading spirit of nature,
holding the same relation to nature, as a visible object, that
Arethusa the goddess bears to Arethusa the stream : —

•* The magic car moved on.

As they approached their goal
The coursers seemed to gather speed :
The sea no longer was distinguished ; earth
Appeared a vast and shadowy sphere :
The sun's unclouded orb
Rolled through the black concave ;
Its rays of rapid light
Parted around the chariot's swifter course,
And fell like ocean's feathery spray
Dashed from the boiling surge
Before a vessel's prow.

" The magic car moved on.

Earth's distant orb appeared
The smallest light that twinkles in the heavens :
Whilst round the chariot's way
Innumerable systems rolled,
And countless spheres diffused
An ever-varying glory.
It was a sight of wonder : some
Were horned like the crescent moon ;
Some shed a mild and silver beam
Like Hesperus o'er the western sea ;
Some dash'd athwart with trains of flame,
Like worlds to death and ruin driven ;
Some shone like stars, and, as the chariot passed,
Bedimmed all other light.

" Spirit of Nature 1 here,
In this interminable wilderness
Of worlds, at whose immensity

Even soaring fancy staggers, —

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 269

Here is thy fitting temple.

Yet not the slightest leaf
That quivers to the passing breeze

Is less instinct with thee ;

Yet not the meanest worm
That lurks in graves and fattens on the dead
Less shares thy eternal breath.

Spirit of Nature ! thou,
Imperishable as this glorious scene,—

Here is thy fitting temple." *

And he copied not only the opinions of Lucretius, but also
his tone. Nothing is more remarkable than that two poets
of the first rank should have felt a bounding joy in the
possession of opinions which, if true, ought, one would
think, to move an excitable nature to the keenest and deepest
melancholy. That this life is all, that there is no God, but
only atoms and a moulding breath, are singular doctrines to
be accepted with joy : they only could have been so accepted
by wild minds bursting with imperious energy, knowing of
no law, "wreaking thoughts upon expression" of which they
knew neither the meaning nor the result. From this stage
Shelley's mind passed to another ; but not immediately to
one of greater belief. On the contrary, it was the doctrine
of Hume which was called in to expel the doctrine of
Epicurus. His previous teachers had taught him that there
was nothing except matter : the Scotch sceptic met him at
that point with the question — Is matter certain ? Hume, as
is well known, adopted the negative part from the theory of
materialism and the theory of immaterialism, but rejected
the positive side of both. He held, or professed to hold,
that there was no substantial thing, either matter or mind ;
but only " sensations and impressions " flying about the
universe, inhering in nothing and going nowhere. These,

1 " Queen Mab."
VOL. I. 22

Literary Studies.

he said, were the only subjects of consciousness; all you felt
was your feeling, and all your thought was your thought ;
the rest was only hypothesis. The notion that there was
any "you" at all was a theory generally current among
mankind, but not, unless proved, to be accepted by the
philosopher. This doctrine, though little agreeable to the
world in general, has an excellence in the eyes of youthful
disputants ; it is a doctrine which no one will admit, and
which no one can disprove. Shelley accordingly accepted it;
indeed it was a better description of his universe than of most
people's; his mind was filled with a swarm of ideas, fancies,
thoughts, streaming on without his volition, without plan or
order. He might be pardoned for fancying that they were
all ; he could not see the outward world for them ; their
giddy passage occupied him till he forgot himself. He has
put down the theory in its barest form : " The most refined
abstractions of logic conduct to a view of life which, though
startling to the apprehension, is, in fact, that which the
habitual sense of its repeated combinations has extinguished
in us. It strips, as it were, the painted curtain from this
scene of things. I confess that I am one of those who am
unable to refuse my assent to the conclusions of those philo-
sophers who assert that nothing exists but as it is per-
ceived." l And again : " The view of life presented by the
most refined deductions of the intellectual philosophy is that
of unity. Nothing exists but as it is perceived. The
difference is merely nominal between those two classes of
thought which are vulgarly distinguished by the names of
ideas and of external objects. Pursuing the same thread of
reasoning, the existence of distinct individual minds, similar
to that which is employed in now questioning its own nature,
is likewise found to be a delusion. The words, /, you, they,
are not signs of any actual difference subsisting between the
1 " On Life," in Essays.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 271

assemblage of thoughts thus indicated, but are merely marks
employed to denote the different modifications of the one
mind. Let it not be supposed that this doctrine conducts to
the monstrous presumption that I, the person who now write
and think, am that one mind. I am but a portion of it. The
words, /, and you, and they, are grammatical devices invented
simply for arrangement, and totally devoid of the intense and
exclusive sense usually attached to them. It is difficult to
find terms adequate to express so subtle a conception as that
to which the intellectual philosophy has conducted us. We
are on that verge where words abandon us ; and what won-
der if we grow dizzy to look down the dark abyss of how
little we know ! " l On his wild nerves these speculations
produced a great effect. Their thin acuteness excited his
intellect ; their blank result appalled his imagination. He
was obliged to pause in the last fragment of one of his meta-
physical papers, " dizzy from thrilling horror ". In this
state of mind he began to study Plato ; and it is probable
that in the whole library of philosophy there is no writer so
suitable to such a reader. A common modern author,
believing in mind and matter, he would have put aside at
once as loose and popular. He was attracted by a writer
who, like himself, in some sense did not believe in either—
who supplied him with subtle realities different from either,
at once to be extracted by his intellect and to be glorified by
his imagination. The theory of Plato, that the all-apparent
phenomena were unreal, he believed already ; he had a crav-
ing to believe in something noble, beautiful, and difficult to
understand ; he was ready, therefore, to accept the rest of
that theory, and to believe that these passing phenomena
were imperfect types and resemblances — imperfect incarna-
tions, so to speak — of certain immovable, eternal, archetypal
realities. All his later writings are coloured by that theory,
» *' On Life," in Essays.

272 Literary Studies.

though in some passages the remains of the philosophy of
the senses with which he commenced appear in odd proxi-
mity to the philosophy of abstractions with which he
concluded. There is, perhaps, no allusion in Shelley to the
Phczdrus ; but no one can doubt which of Plato's ideas
would be most attractive to the nature we have described.
The most valuable part of Plato he did not comprehend.
There is in Shelley none of that unceasing reference to
ethical consciousness and ethical religion which has for
centuries placed Plato first among the preparatory precep-
tors of Christianity. The general doctrine is that —

" The one remains, the many change and pass ;
Heaven's light for ever shines, earth's shadows fly ;
Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of eternity,
Until death tramples it to fragments ".*

The particular worship of the poet is paid to that one spirit
whose—

• " Plastic stress

Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there

All new successions to the forms they wear ;

Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight

To its own likeness, as each mass may bear ;

And bursting in its beauty and its might

From trees, and beasts, and men, into the heaven's light".2

It is evident that not even in this, the highest form of creed
to which he ever clearly attained, is there any such distinct
conception of a character as is essential to a real religion.
The conception of God is not to be framed out of a single
attribute. Shelley has changed the " idea " of beauty into
a spirit, and this probably for the purposes of poetry ; he
has given it life and animal motion ; but he has done no
more; the "spirit" has no will, and no virtue: it is
1 " Adonais," stanza lii. * Ibid., stanza xliii.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 273

animated, but unholy ; alive, but unmoral : it is an object
of intense admiration ; it is not an object of worship.

We have ascribed this quality of Shelley's writings to an
abstract intellect ; and in part, no doubt, correctly. Shelley
had, probably by nature, such an intellect ; it was self-
enclosed, self-absorbed, teeming with singular ideas, remote
from character and life ; but so involved is human nature,
that this tendency to abstraction, which we have spoken of
as aggravating the consequences of his simple impulsive
temperament, was itself aggravated by that temperament.
It is a received opinion in metaphysics, that the idea of
personality is identical with the idea of will. A distinguished
French writer has accurately expressed this : " Le pouvoir,"
says M. Jouffroy, " que 1'homme a de s'emparer de ses
capacites naturelles et de les diriger fait de lui une personne ;
et c'est parce que les choses n'exercent pas ce pouvoir en
elles-memes, qu'elles ne sont que des choses. Telle est la
veritable difference qui distingue les choses des personnes.
Toutes les natures possibles sont douees de certaines
capacites ; mais les unes ont regu par-dessus les autres le
privilege de se saisir d'elles-memes et de se gouverner:
celles-la sont les personnes. Les autres en ont et6 privees,
en sorte qu'elles n'ont point de part a ce qui se fait en elles :
celles-la sont les choses. Leurs capacites ne s'en developpent
pas moins, mais c'est exclusivement selon les lois auxquelles
Dieu les a soumises. C'est Dieu qui gouverne en elles ; il
est la personne des choses, comme Pouvrier est la personne
de la montre. Ici la personne est hors de 1'etre ; dans le
sein meme des choses, comme dans le sein de la montre, la
personne ne se rencontre pas ; on ne trouve qu'une serie de
capacites qui se meuvent aveuglement, sans que le nature
qui en est douee sache meme ce qu'elles font. Aussi ne peut-
on demander compte aux choses de ce qui se fait en elles ; il
faut s'adresser a Dieu : comme on s'adresse a 1'ouvrier et non

274 Literary Studies.

a la montre, quand la montre va mal." And if this theory
be true — and doubtless it is an approximation to the truth —
it is evident that a mind ordinarily moved by simple impulse
will have little distinct consciousness of personality. While
thrust forward by such impulse, it is a mere instrument.
Outward things set it in motion. It goes where they bid ;
it exerts no will upon them ; it is, to speak expressively, a
mere conducting thing. When such a mind is free from
such impulse, there is even less will ; thoughts, feelings,
ideas, emotions, pass before it in a sort of dream. For the
time it is a mere perceiving thing. In neither case is there
a trace of voluntary character. If we want a reason for any-
thing, " il faut s'adresser a Dieu".

Shelley's political opinions were likewise the effervescence
of his peculiar nature. The love of liberty is peculiarly
natural to the simple impulsive mind. It feels irritated at
the idea of a law ; it fancies it does not need it : it really
needs it less than other minds. Government seems absurd
— society an incubus. It has hardly patience to estimate
particular institutions ; it wants to begin again — to make a
tabula rasa of all which men have created or devised ; for
they seem to have been constructed on a false system, for an
object it does not understand. On this tabula rasa Shelley's
abstract imagination proceeded to set up arbitrary monstrosi-
ties of " equality " and " love," which never will be realised
among the children of men.

Such a mind is clearly driven to self-delineation. Nature,
no doubt, in some sense remains to it. A dreamy mind — a
mind occupied intensely with its own thoughts — will often
have a peculiarly intense apprehension of anything which by
the hard collision of the world it has been forced to observe.
The scene stands out alone in the memory ; is a refreshment
from hot thoughts ; grows with the distance of years. A
mind like Shelley's, deeply susceptible to all things beautiful,

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 275

has many pictures and images shining in its recollection
which it recurs to, and which it is ever striving to delineate.
Indeed, in such minds it is rather the picture in their mind
which they describe than the original object ; the " ideation,"
as some harsh metaphysicians call it, rather than the reality.
A certain dream-light is diffused over it ; a wavering touch,
as of interfering fancy or fading recollection. The land-
scape has not the hues of the real world ; it is modified in
the camera obscura of the self-enclosed intelligence. Nor can
such a mind long endure the cold process of external delin-
eation. Its own hot thoughts rush in ; its favourite topic
is itself and them. Shelley, indeed, as we observed before,
carries this to an extent which no poet probably ever
equalled. He described not only his character but his
circumstances. We know that this is so in a large number
of passages ; if his poems were commented on by some one
thoroughly familiar with the events of his life, we should
doubtless find that it was so in many more. On one strange
and painful scene his fancy was continually dwelling. In a
gentle moment we have a dirge: —

" The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,

And the year
On the earth her deathbed, in a shroud of leaves, dead

Is lying.

Come months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array ;
Follow the bier
Of the dead cold year,
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.

The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling ;

For the year ;
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone

To his dwelling.

276 Literary Studies.

Come months, come away ;
Put on white, black, and grey ;
Let your light sisters play —
Ye, follow the bier
Of the dead cold year,
And make her grave green with tear on tear." l

In a frenzied mood he breaks forth into wildness : —

•• She is still, she is cold

On the bridal couch ;
One step to the white deathbed,

And one to the bier,
And one to the charnel — and one, O, where ?

The dark arrow fled

In the noon.

" Ere the sun through heaven once more has roll'd,
The rats in her heart
Will have made their nest,
And the worms be alive in her golden hair ;
While the spirit that guides the sun
Sits throned in his flaming chair,
She shall sleep." a

There is no doubt that these and a hundred other similar
passages allude to the death of his first wife ; as melancholy
a story as ever shivered the nerves of an excitable being.
The facts are hardly known to us, but they are something
like these : In very early youth Shelley had formed a half-
fanciful attachment to a cousin, a Miss Harriet Grove, who
is said to have been attractive, and to whom, certainly, his
fancy often went back in later and distant years. How deep
the feeling was on either side we do not know; she seems
to have taken an interest in the hot singular dreams which
occupied his mind— except only where her image mightintrude
— from which one might conjecture that she took unusual in-
terest in him ; she even wrote some chapters, or parts of

1 Autumn. a Dirge at the close of •' Ginevra.".

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 277

some, in one of his boyish novels, and her parents doubtless
thought the " Rosicrucian " could be endured, as Shelley
was the heir to land and a baronetcy. His expulsion from
Oxford altered all this. Probably he had always among his
friends been thought " a singular young man," and they
had waited in perplexity to see if the oddness would turn to
unusual good or unusual evil. His atheistic treatise and its
results seemed to show clearly the latter, and all communi-
cation with Miss Grove was instantly forbidden him. What
she felt on the subject is not told us; probably some theistic
and undreaming lover intervened, for she married in a short
time. The despair of an excitable poet at being deprived of
his mistress at the same moment that he was abandoned
by his family, and in a measure by society, may be fancied,
though it cannot be known. Captain Medwin observes:
" Shelley, on this trying occasion, had the courage to live,
in order that he might labour for one great object — the advance-
ment of the human race, and the amelioration of society; and
strengthened himself in a resolution to devote his energies to
his ultimate end, being prepared to endure every obloquy, to
make every sacrifice for its accomplishment: and would," such
is the Captain's English, " if necessary, have died in the
cause ". It does not appear, however, that disappointed love
took solely the very unusual form of philanthropy. Bychance,
whether with or without leave does not appear, he went to
see his second sister, who was at school at a place called
Balham Hill, near London; and, while walking in the garden
with her, " a Miss Westbrook passed them ". She was a
"handsome blonde young lady, nearly sixteen"; and Shelley
was much struck. He found out that her name was
" Harriett," — as he, after his marriage, anxiously expresses
it, with two t's, " Harriett " ;— and he fell in love at once.
She had the name of his first love : " fairer, though yet the
same ". After his manner, he wrote to her immediately. He

278 Literary Studies.

was in the habit of doing this to people who interested him,
either in his own or under an assumed name: and once,
Captain Medwin says, carried on a long correspondence with
Mrs. Hemans, then Miss Brown, under his (the captain's)
name; but which he, the deponent, was not permitted to
peruse. In Miss Westbrook's case the correspondence had
a more serious consequence. Of her character we can only
guess a little. She was, we think, an ordinary blooming
young lady of sixteen. Shelley was an extraordinary young
man of nineteen, rather handsome, very animated, and ex-
pressing his admiration a little intensely. He was doubtless
much the most aristocratic person she had ever spoken to;
for her father was a retired innkeeper, and Shelley had always
the air of a man of birth. There is a vision, too, of an elder
sister, who made " Harriett dear" very uncomfortable. On
the whole, the result may be guessed. At the end of August,
1811, we do not know the precise day, they were married at
Gretna Green. Jests may be made on it ; but it was no
laughing matter in the life of the wife or the husband. Of
the lady's disposition and mind we know nothing, except
from Shelley; a medium which must, under the circum-
stances, be thought a distorting one. We should conclude
that she was capable of making many people happy, though
not of making Shelley happy. There is an ordinance of
nature at which men .of genius are perpetually fretting, but
which does more good than many laws of the universe which
they praise: it is, that ordinary women ordinarily prefer
ordinary men. " Genius," as Hazlitt would have said, " puts
them out." It is so strange ; it does not come into the room
as usual ; it says " such things " : once it forgot to brush its
hair. The common female mind prefers usual tastes, settled
manners, customary conversation, defined and practical pur-
suits. And it is a great good that it should be so. Nature
has no wiser instinct. The average woman suits the average

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 279

man ; good health, easy cheerfulness, common charms, suffice.
If Miss Westbrook had married an everyday person — a
gentleman, suppose, in the tallow line — she would have been
happy, and have made him happy. Her mind could have
understood his life ; her society would have been a gentle
relief from unodoriferous pursuits. She had nothing in com-
mon with Shelley. His mind was full of eager thoughts,
wild dreams, singular aspirations. The most delicate tact
would probably have often failed, the nicest sensibility would
have been jarred, affection would have erred, in dealing with
such a being. A very peculiar character was required, to
enter into such a rare union of curious qualities. Some
eccentric men of genius have, indeed, felt in the habitual
tact and serene nothingness of ordinary women, a kind of
trust and calm. They have admired an instinct of the world
which they had not — a repose of mind they could not share.
But this is commonly in later years. A boy of twenty thinks
he knows the world ; he is too proud and happy in his own
eager and shifting thoughts, to wish to contrast them with
repose. The commonplaceness of life goads him: placid
society irritates him. Bread is an incumbrance ; upholstery
tedious; he craves excitement; he wishes to reform man-
kind. You cannot convince him it is right to sow, in a
world so full of sorrow and evil. Shelley was in this state;
he hurried to and fro over England, pursuing theories, and
absorbed in plans. He was deep in metaphysics ; had subtle
disproofs of all religion ; wrote several poems, which would
have been a puzzle to a very clever young lady. There were
pecuniary difficulties besides: neither of the families had
approved of the match, and neither were inclined to support
the household. Altogether, no one can be surprised that in
less than three years the hasty union ended in a "separation
by mutual consent ". The wonder is that it lasted so long.
What her conduct was after the separation, is not very clear;

280 Literary Studies.

there were "reports" about her at Bath— perhaps a loqua-
cious place. She was not twenty, probably handsome, and
not improbably giddy: being quite without evidence, we
cannot judge what was rumour and what was truth. Shelley
has not left us in similar doubt. After a year or two he
travelled abroad with Mary, afterwards the second Mrs.
Shelley, the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft and William
Godwin — names most celebrated in those times, and even
now known for their anti-matrimonial speculations. Of
their " six weeks' " tour abroad, in the year 1816, a record
remains, and should be read by any pefsons who wish to
learn what travelling was in its infancy. It was the year
when the Continent was first thrown open to English
travellers; and few probably adopted such singular means
of locomotion as Shelley and his companions. First they
tried walking, and had a very small ass to carry their port-
manteau ; then they tried a mule ; then a fiacre, which drove
away from them ; afterwards they came to a raft. It was
not, however, an unamusing journey. At an ugly and out-
of-the-way chateau, near Brunen, Shelley began a novel, to
be called " The Assassins," which he never finished — prob-
ably never continued — after his return ; but which still re-
mains, and is one of the most curious and characteristic
specimens of his prose style. It was a refreshing intellectual
tour; one of the most pleasant rambles of his life. On his
return he was met by painful intelligence. His wife had
destroyed herself. Of her state of mind we have again no
evidence. She is said to have been deeply affected by the
" reports" to which we have alluded; but whatever it was,
Shelley felt himself greatly to blame. He had been instru-
mental in first dividing her from her family ; had connected
himself with her in a wild contract, from which neither could
ever be set free ; if he had not crossed her path, she might
have been happy in her own way and in her own sphere.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 281

All this preyed upon his mind, and it is said he became
mad ; and whether or - not his horror and pain went the
length of actual frenzy, they doubtless approached that
border-line of suffering excitement which divides the most
melancholy form of sanity from the most melancholy form
of insanity. In several poems he seems to delineate him-
self in the guise of a maniac: —

" ' Of his sad history

I know but this,' said Maddalo ; • he came
To Venice a dejected man, and fame
Said he was wealthy, or he had been so.
Some thought the loss of fortune wrought him woe ;
But he was ever talking in such sort
As you do, — but more sadly : he seem'd hurt,
Even as a man with his peculiar wrong,
To hear but of the oppression of the strong,
Or those absurd deceits (I think with you
In some respects, you know) which carry through
The excellent impostors of this earth
When they outface detection. He had worth,
Poor fellow I but a humourist in his way.' — \
— • Alas, what drove him mad ? '

1 I cannot say :

A lady came with him from France ; and when
She left him and returned, he wander'd then
About yon lonely isles of desert sand
Till he grew wild. He had no cash nor land
Remaining : — the police had brought him here-
Some fancy took him, and he would not bear
Removal ; so I fitted up for him
Those rooms beside the sea, to please his whim ;
And sent him busts, and books, and urns for flowers,
Which had adorned his life in happier hours,
And instruments of music. You may guess,
A stranger could do little more or less
For one so gentle and unfortunate —
And those are his sweet strains, which charm the weight
From madmen's chains, and make this hell appear
A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear.'

282 Literary Studies.

* Nay, this was kind of you, — he had no claim,
As the world says. '

' None but the very same,
Which I on all mankind, were I, as he,
Fall'n to such deep reverse. His melody
Is interrupted ; now we hear the din
Of madmen, shriek on shriek, again begin ;
Let us now visit him : after this strain
He ever communes with himself again,
And sees and hears not any.'

Having said

These words, we called the keeper : and he led
To an apartment opening on the sea —
There the poor wretch was sitting mournfully
Near a piano, his pale fingers twined
One with the other ; and the ooze and wind
Rushed through an open casement, and did sway
His hair, and starred it with the brackish spray :
His head was leaning on a music-book,
And he was muttering ; and his lean limbs shook ;
His lips were pressed against a folded leaf,
In hue too beautiful for health, and grief
Smiled in their motions as they lay apart,
As one who wrought from his own fervid heart
The eloquence of passion : soon he raised
His sad meek face, and eyes lustrous and glazed,
And spoke, — sometimes as one who wrote and thought
His words might move some heart that heeded not,
If sent to distant lands ; — and then as one
Reproaching deeds never to be undone,
With wondering self-compassion ; then his speech
Was lost in grief, and then his words came each
Unmodulated and expressionless, —
But that from one jarred accent you might guess
It was despair made them so uniform :
And all the while the loud and gusty storm
Hissed through the window ; and we stood behind,
Stealing his accents from the envious wind,
Unseen. I yet remember what he said
Distinctly — such impression his words made I " l
•*" Julian and Maddalo."

Percy ftysshe Shelley. 283

And casual illustrations— unconscious metaphors, showing a
terrible familiarity— are borrowed from insanity in his sub-
sequent works.

This strange story is in various ways deeply illustrative of
his character. It shows how the impulsive temperament,
not definitely intending evil, is hurried forward, so to say,
over actions and crimes which would seem to indicate deep
depravity— which would do so in ordinary human nature,
but which do not indicate in it anything like the same degree
of guilt. Driven by singular passion across a tainted region,
it retains no taint ; on a sudden it passes through evil, but
preserves its purity. So curious is this character, that a
record of its actions may read like a libel on its life.

To some the story may also suggest whether Shelley's
nature was one of those most adapted for love in its highest
form. It is impossible to deny that he loved with a great
intensity ; yet it was with a certain narrowness, and there-
fore a certain fitfulness. Possibly a somewhat wider nature,
taking hold of other characters at more points, — fascinated*
as intensely, but more variously, — stirred as deeply, but
through more complicated emotions, — is requisite for the
highest and most lasting feeling. Passion, to be enduring,
must be many-sided. Eager and narrow emotions urge like
the gadfly of the poet : but they pass away ; they are single ;
there is nothing to revive them. Various as human nature
must be the passion which absorbs that nature into itself.
Shelley's mode of delineating women has a corresponding
peculiarity. They are well described ; but they are described
under only one aspect. Every one of his poems almost has
a lady whose arms are white, whose mind is sympathising,
and whose soul is beautiful. She has many names —
Cythna, Asia, Emily ; l but these are only external dis-
guises ; she is indubitably the same person, for her character
i " Revolt of Islam " ; " Prometheus Unbound " ; " Epipsychidion ".

284 Literary Studies.

never varies. No character can be simpler. She is described
as the ideal object of love in its most simple and elemental
form ; the pure object of the essential passion. She is a
being to be loved in a single moment, with eager eyes and
gasping breath ; but you feel that in that moment you have
seen the whole. There is nothing to come to afterwards.
The fascination is intense, but uniform. There is not the
ever-varying grace, the ever-changing expression of the un-
changing charm, that alone can attract for all time the
shifting moods of a various and mutable nature.

The works of Shelley lie in a confused state, like the
disjecta membra of the poet of our boyhood. They are in
the strictest sense " remains ". It is absurd to expect from
a man who died at thirty a long work of perfected excellence.
All which at so early an age can be expected are fine frag-
ments, casual expressions of single inspirations. Of these
Shelley has written some that are nearly, and one or two
perhaps that are quite, perfect. But he has not done more.
It would have been better if he had not attempted so much.
He would have done well to have heeded Goethe's caution
to Eckerman : " Beware of attempting a large work. If you
have a great work in your head, nothing else thrives near it,
all other thoughts are repelled, and the pleasantness of life
itself is for the time lost. What exertion and expenditure
of mental force are required to arrange and round off a great
whole; and then what powers, and what a tranquil undis-
turbed situation in life, to express it with the proper fluency !
If you have erred as to the whole, all your toil is lost ; and
further, if, in treating so extensive a subject, you are not
perfectly master of your material in the details, the whole
will be defective, and censure will be incurred." Shelley did
not know this. He was ever labouring at long poems : but
he has scarcely left one which, as a whole, is worthy of him ;
you can point to none and say, This is Shelley. Even had

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 285

he lived to an age of riper capacity, it may be doubted if a
being so discontinuous, so easily hurried to and fro, would
have possessed the settled, undeviating self-devotion that is
necessary to a long and perfect composition. He had not,
like Goethe, the cool shrewdness to watch for inspiration.

His success, as we have said, is in fragments ; and the
best of those fragments are lyrical. The very same isolation
and suddenness of impulse which rendered him unfit for the
composition of great works, rendered him peculiarly fit to
pour forth on a sudden the intense essence of peculiar feeling
" in profuse strains of unpremeditated art ". Lord Macaulay
has said that the words "bard" and " inspiration,'* generally
so meaningless when applied to modern poets, have a mean-
ing when applied to Shelley. An idea, an emotion grew
upon his brain, his breast heaved, his frame shook, his
nerves quivered with the " harmonious madness " of
imaginative concentration. " Poetry," he himself tells us,
" is not, like reasoning, a power to be exerted according to
the determination of the will. A man cannot say, 'I will
compose poetry '. The greatest poet even cannot say it ;
for the mind in creation is as a fading coal, which some
invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens to
transitory brightness; this power arises from within, like
the colour of a flower which fades and changes as it is
developed, and the conscious portions of our nature are
unprophetic either of its approach or its departure. . . .
Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the
happiest and best minds. We are aware of evanescent
visitations of thought and feeling sometimes associated with
place or person, sometimes regarding our own mind alone,
and always arising unforeseen and departing unbidden, but
elevating and delightful beyond all expression : so that even
in the desire and the regret they leave, there cannot but be
pleasure, participating as it does in the nature of its object,
VOL. i. 23

286 Literary Studies.

It is, as it were, the interpenetration of a diviner nature
through our own ; but its footsteps are like those of a wind
over the sea, which the coming calm erases, and whose
traces remain only, as on the wrinkled sand which paves it." l
In verse, Shelley has compared the skylark to a poet ; we
may turn back the description on his own art and his own

mind : —

" Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

"All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
" What thou art we know not ;

What is most like thee ?
From rainbow-clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

" Like a high-born maiden

In a palace-tower,
Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower.

" Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden

Its aerial hue

Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view.
" Like a rose embowered

In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,

Till the scent it gives

Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves.
* " A Defence of Poetry," in his Essays.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 287

" Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,

All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass."

In most poets unearthly beings are introduced to express
peculiar removed essences of lyrical rapture; but they are
generally failures. Lord Byron tried this kind of composition
in "Manfred," and the result is an evident failure. In Shelley,
such singing solitary beings are almost uniformly successful ;
while writing, his mind really for the moment was in the
state in which theirs is supposed always to be. He loved
attenuated ideas and abstracted excitement. In expressing
their nature he had but to set free his own.

Human nature is not, however, long equal to this
sustained effort of remote excitement. The impulse fails,
imagination fades, inspiration dies away. With the skylark

it is well : —

•' With thy clear keen joyance

Languor cannot be :
Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee :

Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety ".
But in unsoaring human nature languor comes, fatigue palls,
melancholy oppresses, melody dies away. The universe is
not all blue sky ; there is the thick fog and the heavy earth.
" The world," says Mr. Emerson, " is mundane." A creep-
ing sense of weight is part of the most aspiring nature. To
the most thrilling rapture succeeds despondency, perhaps
pain. To Shelley this was peculiarly natural. His dreams
of reform, of a world which was to be, called up the imagi-
native ecstasy: his soul bounded forward into the future;
but it is not possible even to the most abstracted and
excited mind to place its happiness in the expected realisation
of impossible schemes, and yet not occasionally be uncertain
of those schemes. The rigid frame of society, the heavy

288 Literary Studies.

heap of traditional institutions, the solid slowness of ordinary
humanity, depress the aspiring fancy. " Since our fathers
fell asleep, all things continue as they were from the
beginning." Occasionally we must think of our fathers. No
man can always dream of ever altering all which is. It is
characteristic of Shelley, that at the end of his most
rapturous and sanguine lyrics there intrudes the cold
consciousness of this world. So with his Grecian dreams: —

*' A brighter Hellas rears its mountains

From waves serener far ;
A new Peneus rolls its fountains

Against the morning-star.
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.

" A loftier Argo cleaves the main,

Fraught with a later prize ;
Another Orpheus sings again,

And loves, and weeps, and dies :
A new Ulysses leaves once more
Calypso for his native shore."
But he ends : —

•• O, cease ! must hate and death return ?
Cease ! must men kill and die ?
Cease ! drain not to its dregs the urn

Of bitter prophecy.
The world is weary of the past —
Oh, might it die or rest at last ! " l

In many of his poems the failing of the feeling is as beauti-
ful as its short moment of hope and buoyancy.

The excellence of Shelley does not, however, extend
equally over the whole domain of lyrical poetry. That
species of art may be divided — not perhaps with the accuracy
of science, but with enough for the rough purposes of popu-
lar criticism — into the human and the abstract. The sphere
of the former is of course the actual life, passions, and actions

^'Hellas."

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 289

of real men, — such are the war-songs of rude nations
especially ; in that early age there is no subject for art but
natural life and primitive passion. At a later time, when
from the deposit of the debris of a hundred philosophies, a
large number of half-personified abstractions are part of the
familiar thoughts and language of all mankind, there are new
objects to excite the feelings, — we might even say there are
new feelings to be excited ; the rough substance of original
passion is sublimated and attenuated till we hardly recognise
its identity. Ordinarily and in most minds the emotion loses
in this process its intensity or much of it ; but this is not
universal. In some peculiar minds it is possible to find an
almost dizzy intensity of excitement called forth by some
fancied abstraction, remote altogether from the eyes and
senses of men. The love-lyric in its simplest form is pro-
bably the most intense expression of primitive passion ; yet
not in those lyrics where such intensity is the greatest — in
those of Burns, for example — is the passion so dizzy,
bewildering, and bewildered, as in the " Epipsychidion " of
Shelley, the passion of which never came into the real world
at all, was only a fiction founded on fact, and was wholly —
and even Shelley felt it— inconsistent with the inevitable
conditions of ordinary existence. In this point of view, and
especially also taking account of his peculiar religious
opinions, it is remarkable that Shelley should have taken
extreme delight in the Bible as a composition. He is the
least biblical of poets. The whole, inevitable, essential con-
ditions of real life— the whole of its plain, natural joys and
sorrows— are described in the Jewish literature as they are
described nowhere else. Very often they are assumed rather
than delineated ; and the brief assumption is rrfore effective
than trie most elaborate description. There is none of the
delicate sentiment and enhancing sympathy which a modern
writer would think necessary ; the inexorable facts are dwelt

Literary Studies.

on with a stern humanity, which recognises human feeling
though intent on something above it. Of all modern poets,
Wordsworth shares the most in this peculiarity ; perhaps he
is the only recent one who has it at all. He knew the hills
beneath whose shade " the generations are prepared " : —
" Much did he see of men,

Their passions and their feelings : chiefly those

Essential and eternal in the heart,

That mid the simple form of rural life

Exist more simple in their elements,

And speak a plainer language ". 1

Shelley has nothing of this. The essential feelings he
hoped to change ; the eternal facts he struggled to remove.
Nothing in human life to him was inevitable or fixed ; he
fancied he could alter it all. His sphere is the " uncondi-
tioned " ; he floats away into an imaginary Elysium or an
expected Utopia ; beautiful and excellent, of course, but hav-
ing nothing in common with the absolute laws of the present
world. Even in the description of mere nature the difference
may be noted. Wordsworth describes the earth as we know
it, with all its peculiarities ; where there are moors and
hills, where the lichen grows, where the slate-rock juts out.
Shelley describes the universe. He rushes away among the
stars ; this earth is an assortment of imagery, he uses it to
deck some unknown planet. He scorns " the smallest light
that twinkles in the heavens''. His theme is the vast, the
infinite, the immeasurable. He is not* of our home, nor
homely ; he describes not our world, but that which is com-
mon to all worlds — the Platonic idea of a world. Where it
can, his genius soars from the concrete and real into the
unknown, the indefinite, and the void.

Shelley's success in the abstract lyric would prepare us
for expecting that he would fail in attempts at eloquence.
The mind which bursts forward of itself into the inane, is not
1 " Excursion," book i.

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 291

likely to be eminent in the composed adjustments of
measured persuasion. A voluntary self-control is necessary
to the orator : even when he declaims, he must not only let
himself go; a keen will must be ready, a wakeful attention at
hand, to see that he does not say a word by which his
audience will not be touched. The eloquence of " Queen
Mab" is of that unpersuasive kind which is admired in the
earliest youth, when things and life are unknown, when all
that is intelligible is the sound of words.

Lord Macaulay, in a passage to which we have referred
already, speaks of Shelley as having, more than any other
poet, many of the qualities of the great old masters ; two of
these he has especially. In the first place, his imagination
is classical rather than romantic, — we should, perhaps,
apologise for using words which have been used so often,
but which hardly convey even now a clear and distinct mean-
ing ; yet they seem the best for conveying a distinction of
this sort. When we attempt to distinguish the imagination
from the fancy, we find that they are often related as a
beginning to an ending. On a sudden we do not know how
a new image, form, idea, occurs to our minds ; sometimes it
is borne in upon us with a flash, sometimes we seem un-
awares to stumble upon it, and find it as if it had long been
there : in either case the involuntary, unanticipated appear-
ance of this new thought or image is a primitive fact which
we cannot analyse or account for. We say it originated in
our imagination or creative faculty: but this is a mere
expression of the completeness of our ignorance ; we could
only define the imagination as the faculty which produces
such effects ; we know nothing of it or its constitution.
Again, on this original idea a large number of accessory and
auxiliary ideas seem to grow or accumulate insensibly,
casually, and without our intentional effort; the bare primitive
form attracts a clothing of delicate materials — an adornment
not altering its essences, but enhancing its effect. This we

Literary Studies.

call the work of the fancy. An exquisite delicacy in appro-
priating fitting accessories is as much the characteristic
excellence of a fanciful mind, as the possession of large,
simple, bold ideas is of an imaginative one. The last is
immediate ; the first comes minute by minute. The dis-
tinction is like what one fancies between sculpture and paint-
ing. If we look at a delicate statue — a Venus or Juno — it
does not suggest any slow elaborate process by which its
expression was chiselled and its limbs refined ; it seems a
simple fact; we look, and require no account of it ; it exists.
The greatest painting suggests, not only a creative act, but
a decorative process : day by day there was something new ;
we could watch the tints laid on, the dresses tinged, the per-
spective growing and growing. There is something statuesque
about the imagination ; there is the gradual complexity of
painting in the most exquisite productions of the fancy.
When we speak of this distinction, we seem almost to be
speaking of the distinction between ancient and modern
literature. The characteristic of the classical literature is
the simplicity with which the imagination appears in it ;
that of modern literature is the profusion with which the
most various adornments of the accessory fancy are thrown
and lavished upon it. Perhaps nowhere is this more con-
spicuous than in the modern treatment of antique subjects.
One of the most essentially modern of recent poets —
Keats — has an " Ode to a Grecian Urn " ; it begins : —

" Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness !

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian 1 who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme :
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape

Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ?

What men or gods are these ? What maidens loth ?
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ?

What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy ? "

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 293

No ancient poet would have dreamed of writing thus.
There would have been no indistinct shadowy warmth, no
breath of surrounding beauty ; his delineation would have
been cold, distinct, chiselled like the urn itself. The use
which such a poet as Keats makes of ancient mythology is
exactly similar. He owes his fame to the inexplicable art
with which he has breathed a soft tint over the marble forms
of gods and goddesses, enhancing their beauty without
impairing their chasteness. The naked kind of imagination
is not peculiar to a mythological age. The growth of civili-
sation, at least in Greece, rather increased than diminished the
imaginative bareness of the political art. It seems to attain
its height in Sophocles. If we examine any of his greater
passages, a principal beauty is their reserved simplicity.
A modern reader almost necessarily uses them as materials
for fancy : we are too used to little circumstance to be able
to do without it. Take the passage in which CEdipus con-
trasts the conduct of his sons with that of his daughters : —

& T<£VT' iKeivoa rots Iv A.iyvirr<p vduois
fyvffiv Kar€iicaff6£vre Ka\ fttov rpotpds.
^K«7 ykp ol ftkv Hpfffves KO.T& (rrtyas
8aKov<riv iffrovpyovvrts, a! 8i (TiWo/toi
T&£« fttov rpoQeta iropavvovo* def.

fftytfV 5', 5 TCKlf, ots fJifV flicks %V TfOVflv TttSf,

(far* O!KOV oiKovpovffiv &<TTf irapdfvoi,
ff<p& y ovr' ^Kelvwjf To/xek Hvffr-fivov KOK&

VTTfpTTOVflTOV. 1} fifV l£ ?TOU VfO.5

rpo<pijs ?Xij|6 Kal Kariffxvtrfv Sfftast
ael fjifff fifiLwv Svfffiopos v\av{afJLfvri
IcpovTarytayfi, iroAAA p\v Kar byplay
8\iiv &<riros tnrj\ivovs T* ci\w/t€i^t
ToAAoTo-t 5' fyfrpois Tj\lov re Kafyaffi
fjLoxQovffa r\JiH<*v, Sefrrcp' fjyelrcu rk rys
ohoi Siatt-ris, ft irar^p rpo^v i^oi. l

ltt GEdipus at Colonos," lines 337-352:—
44 Oh, they 1 in habits and in soul at once
Shaped to the ways of Egypt,— where the men

Literary Studies.

What a contrast to the ravings of Lear ! What a world of
detail Shakespeare would have put into the passage ! What
talk of " sulphurous and thought-executing fires," "simulars
of virtue," " pent-up guilts," and " the thick rotundity of the
world " ! Decorum is the principal thing in Sophocles.
The conception of (Edipus is not —

41 Crowned with rank fumiter and furrow weeds, ,
With harlocks, hemlock, nettle, and cuckoo-flowers ". l

There are no " idle weeds " 2 among the " sustaining corn ".3
The conception of Lear is that of an old gnarled oak, gaunt
and quivering in the stormy sky, with old leaves and withered
branches tossing in the air, and all the complex growth of a
hundred years creaking and nodding to its fall. That of
(Edipus is the peak of Teneriffe, as we fancied it in our
childhood, by itself and snowy, above among the stormy
clouds, heedless of the angry winds and the desolate waves,
— single, ascending, and alone. Or, to change the metaphor
to one derived from an art where the same qualities of mind
have produced kindred effects, ancient poetry is like a Grecian

Sit by the fireside weaving, and their wives

Toil in the field to furnish bread for both.

So they whose duty was to suffer thus

For you, my daughters, keep like girls at home,

While in their stead you bear a wretch's woes.

She here, since childhood's ways she left behind

And gained a woman's vigour, ever near,

Ill-fated, guides the old man's wandering feet,

Famished and barefoot often, straying still

Day after day the savage forest through,

Scorched by the sun and drenched by many a storm,

In patient toil her very household's wants

Neglected so her father may be fed.*'

(Forrest Morgan.)
1 " King Lear," iii. 2. a Ibid., iv. 4. * Ibid.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

temple, with pure form and rising columns, — created, one
fancies, by a single effort of an originative nature : modern
literature seems to have sprung from the involved brain of a
Gothic architect, and resembles a huge cathedral — the work
of the perpetual industry of centuries — complicated and
infinite in details ; but by their choice and elaboration pro-
ducing an effect of unity which is not inferior to that of the
other, and is heightened by the multiplicity through which
it is conveyed. And it is this warmth of circumstance — this
profusion of interesting detail — which has caused the name
" romantic " to be perseveringly applied to modern literature.
We need only to open Shelley, to show how essentially
classical in his highest efforts his art is. Indeed, although
nothing can be farther removed from the staple topics of the
classical writers than the abstract lyric, yet their treatment
is nearly essential to it. We have said, its sphere is in what
the Germans call the unconditioned — in the unknown, im-
measurable, and untrodden. It follows from this that we
cannot know much about it. We cannot know detail in
tracts we have never visited ; the infinite has no form ; the
immeasurable no outline: that which is common to all
worlds is simple. There is therefore no scope for the
accessory fancy. With a single soaring effort imagina-
tion may reach her end ; if she fail, no fancy can help
her; if she succeed, there will be no petty accumula-
tions of insensible circumstance in a region far above
all things. Shelley's excellence in the abstract lyric is
almost another phrase for the simplicity of his impulsive
imagination.— He shows it on other subjects also. We have
spoken of his bare treatment of the ancient mythology. It is
the same with his treatment of nature. In the description
of the celestial regions quoted before — one of the most
characteristic passages in his writings— the details are few,
the air thin, the lights distinct. We are conscious of an

Literary Studies.

essential difference if we compare the " Ode to the Nightin
gale," in Keats, for instance — such verses as —

" I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs :
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild,
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine,
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves,

And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

" Darkling I listen ; and for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath :
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy.

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain —
To thy high requiem become a sod " :

— with the conclusion of the ode " To a Skylark " —

" Yet if we could scorn

Hate, and pride, and fear ;
If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

" Better than all measures

Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures

That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground I

" Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know ;
Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now."

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 297

We can hear that the poetry of Keats is a rich, composite,
voluptuous harmony ; that of Shelley a clear single ring of
penetrating melody.

Of course, however, this criticism requires limitation.
There is an obvious sense in which Shelley is a fanciful,
as contra-distinguished from an imaginative poet. These
words, being invented for the popular expression of dif-
ferences which can be remarked without narrow inspection,
are apt to mislead us when we apply them to the exact
results of a near and critical analysis. Besides the use of
the word " fancy " to denote the power which adorns and
amplifies the product of the primitive imagination, we also
employ it to denote the weaker exercise of the faculty which
itself creates those elementary products. We use the word
" imaginative " only for strong, vast, imposing, interesting
conceptions : we use the word " fanciful " when we have to
speak of smaller and weaker creations, which amaze us less
at the moment and affect us more slightly afterwards. Of
course, metaphysically speaking, it is not likely that there
will be found to be any distinction ; the faculty which creates
the most attractive ideas is doubtless the same as that which
creates the less attractive. Common language marks the
distinction, because common people are impressed by the
contrast between what affects them much and what affects
them little ; but it is no evidence of the entire difference of
the latent agencies. Speech, as usual, refers to sensations,
and not to occult causes. Of fancies of this sort, Shelley is
full: whole poems — as the " Witch of Atlas" — are composed
of nothing else. Living a good deal in, and writing a great
deal about, the abstract world, it was inevitable that he
should often deal in fine subtleties, affecting very little the
concrete hearts of real men. Many pages of his are, in
consequence, nearly unintelligible, even to good critics of
common poetry. The air is too rarefied for hardy and

298 Literary Studies.

healthy lungs : these like, as Lord Bacon expressed it, " to
work upon stuff". From his habitual choice of slight and
airy subjects, Shelley may be called a fanciful, as opposed to
an imaginative, poet ; from his bare delineations of great
objects, his keen expression of distinct impulses, he should
be termed an imaginative rather than a fanciful one.

Some of this odd combination of qualities Shelley doubt-
less owed to the structure of his senses. By one of those
singular results which constantly meet us in metaphysical
inquiry, the imagination and fancy are singularly influenced
by the bodily sensibility. One might have fancied that the
faculty by which the soul soars into the infinite, and sees
what it cannot see with the eye of the body, would have been
peculiarly independent of that body. But the reverse is the
case. Vividness of sensation seems required to awaken,
delicacy to define, copiousness to enrich, the visionary faculty.
A large experience proves that a being who is blind to this
world will be blind to the other ; that a coarse expectation
of what is not seen will follow from a coarse perception of
what is seen. Shelley's sensibility was vivid but peculiar.
Hazlitt used to say, " he had seen him ; and did not like
his looks ". He had the thin keen excitement of the fanatic
student ; not the broad, natural energy which Hazlitt ex-
pected from a poet. The diffused life of genial enjoyment
which was common to Scott and to Shakespeare, was quite
out of his way. Like Mr. Emerson, he would have wondered
they could be content with a " mean and jocular life '*. In
consequence, there is no varied imagery from human life in
his poetry. He was an abstract student, anxious about
deep philosophy ; and he had not that settled, contemplative,
allotted acquaintance with external nature which is so curious
in Milton, the greatest of studious poets. The exact
opposite, however, to Shelley, in the nature of his sensibility,
is Keats. That great poet used to pepper his tongue, " tq

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 299

enjoy in all its grandeur the cool flavour of delicious claret".
When you know it, you seem to read it in his poetry. There
is the same luxurious sentiment ; the same poise on fine
sensation. Shelley was the reverse of this; he was a water-
drinker ; his verse runs quick and chill, like a pure crystal
stream. The sensibility of Keats was attracted too by the
spectacle of the universe; he could not keep his eyes from
seeing, or his ears from hearing, the glories of it. All the
beautiful objects of nature reappear by name in his poetry.
On the other hand, the abstract idea of beauty is for ever
celebrated in Shelley; it haunted his soul. But it was
independent of special things ; it was the general surface of
beauty which lies upon all things. It was the smile of the
universe and the expression of the world ; it was not the
vision of a land of corn and wine. The nerves of Shelley
quivered at the idea of loveliness ; but no coarse sensation
obtruded particular objects upon him. He was left to him-
self with books and reflection.

So far, indeed, from Shelley having a peculiar tendency
to dwell on and prolong the sensation of pleasure, he has a
perverse tendency to draw out into lingering keenness the
torture of agony. Of his common recurrence to the dizzy
pain of mania we have formerly spoken ; but this is not the
only pain. The nightshade is commoner in his poems than
the daisy. The nerve is ever laid bare ; as often as it
touches the open air of the real world, it quivers with
subtle pain. The high intellectual impulses which animated
him are too incorporeal for human nature; they begin in
buoyant joy, they end in eager suffering.

In style, said Mr. Wordsworth — in workmanship, we
think his expression was — Shelley is one of the best of us.
This too, we think, was the second of the peculiarities to
which Lord Macaulay referred when he said that Shelley
had, more than any recent poet, some of the qualities of

30O Literary Studies.

the great old masters. The peculiarity of his style is its
intellectuality ; and this strikes us the more from its contrast
with his impulsiveness. He had something of this in life.
Hurried away by sudden desires, as he was in his choice of
ends, we are struck with a certain comparative measure and
adjustment in his choice of means. So in his writings ;
over the most intense excitement, the grandest objects, the
keenest agony, the most buoyant joy, he throws an air of
subtle mind. His language is minutely and acutely
searching ; at the dizziest height of meaning the keen-
ness of the words is greatest. As in mania, so in his
descriptions of it, the acuteness of the mind seems to
survive the mind itself. It was from Plato and Sophocles,
doubtless, that he gained the last perfection in preserving
the accuracy of the intellect when treating of the objects
of the imagination ; but in its essence it was a peculiarity
of his own nature. As it was the instinct of Byron to give
in glaring words the gross phenomena of evident objects,
so it was that of Shelley to refine the most inscrutable with
the curious nicety of an attenuating metaphysician. In
the wildest of ecstasies his self-anatomising intellect is
equal to itself.

There is much more which might be said, and which
ought to be said, of Shelley; but our limits are reached.
We have not attempted a complete criticism ; we have
only aimed at showing how some of the peculiarities of his
works and life may be traced to the peculiarity of his nature.

END OF VOL. I,

INDEX.

AoorsoN, Joseph, 201 ; quoted, 51.

Adonais (Shelley) quoted, 272 and notes.

Alastor (Shelley), passion for penetrating the mysteries of existence de-
picted in, 255, 256 ; quoted, 85 and note1, 119 and notez, 255, 256,

Alison, Mr., 40.

, Sir Archibald, style of, 227.

Allegro, L', quoted, 102 and note1.

Alleyne, Mrs., 85 note 2.

American colleges, Bagehot's works as text-books in, xlvii.

Angelo (Measure for Measure), character of, 76.

Anstey, Mr., examination of Mr. Bagehot at the Bridgewater inquiry by,
Ixii., Ixiii.

Anti-Corn Law League, xvi.

Arethusa (Shelley) quoted, 266, 267 and note.

Aristotle, 248, 258.

Arnold, Dr., 251.

, Matthew, Thyrsis of, xxxiii. ; quoted, xiv. and note1, 21, 84 and note*.

Art, English tastes in, 62, 63.

As You Like It quoted, 40, 41 and note, 66 and note*, 77, 78 and note, 183
and note l.

Austen, Lady, 121, 134-136.

, Jane, quoted, 126 and note 2.

Author, deducibility of the character of an, from his works, 37, 38.

Autumn (Shelley) quoted, 275, 276 and note1.

BABBAGE, Mr., 180.

Bacon, Lord, quoted, 89 and note1, 249 and note, 264, 298.

Bagehot, spelling of name of, Ixvi.

, E., quoted, Ixv. note.

, Thomas Watson, xi., xii., 1., li.

, Walter-
Career of — birth and parentage, xi., xii., Ixiii. ; offices held in his native
town and county, xi. ; early education and influences, xi., xii.,
1., li. ; at University College, London, xii. -xvi. ; takes a mathe-
VOL. I. 24

302 Index.

Bagehot, Walter — (continued).

matical scholarship with his B.A. degree (Lond.), 1846, xxii., xxiii. ;
studies philosophy, poetry and theology, xxiii. ; takes gold medal
with M.A. degree, 1848, xxiii. ; visits Paris, 1851, xxviii., xlii.-
xliv. ; gives up law in favour of banking and commerce, xlv.-xlvii. ;
his marriage, 1858, 1. ; edits the Economist, 1. ; studies Natural
Science, Hi., liii. ; attempts to get into Parliament, Ixi., Ixii. ; his
examination at the Bridgewater inquiry, Ixii., Ixiii. ; his address
to the constituency, Ixiv. ; his death, Ixvi.

Characteristics of — buoyancy and vivacity of thought, ix., x., xxi., xxii. ;
imaginative qualities, ix.-xi., xxviii., xxix., Ixi. ; soundness of judg-
ment, x., Iv. ; vivid humour, x., Ixiv., Ixv. ; visionary nature, x.,
xxviii., xxix. ; " animated moderation," xvi. ; broad historical sense,
xvi. ; contempt for intellectual inefficiency, xvii., xviii. ; kindliness
of disposition, xviii., xx., xliv. ; intellectual detachment, xviii.-xx. ;
qualities of a " social naturalist," xix.-xxi. ; fondness for physical
exercise, xxii., xlv. ; love of the external glow of life, xxii. ; simi-
larities between his character and that of Clough, xxxiv. ; dread of
precipitancy, xxxvii. ; absence of sympathy with the masses, xliv.,
Iv. ; difficulty in attending to small details, xlvi. ; blending of
practical and imaginative qualities, xlviii.-l. ; sagacity as a practical
politician, Iv., Ivi. ; anti-spending instinct, Iviii., lix. ; generosity,
lix. ; conversational powers, Ixiii.-lxvi.

Clough, Arthur Hugh, friendship with, xxxiii.-xxxvii.

Literary work of — contributions to the Prospective and National Re-
view, xlvii. ; English Constitution, see that title ; essay on Bishop
Butler, quoted, xxix., xxx., xxxii. ; letters in support of the Coup
d'etat, see Coup d'etat ; Physics and Politics, see that title ; poetry
of, with quoted specimen, xxiii.-xxv. ; style of his earlier writings,
xlvii. ; works of, used as text-books in English and American col-
leges, xlvii. and note1.

Love and admiration of his friends for, Ixvii.

Political and economic work of— preparation for, l.-lii. ; his principles,
Ivi.-lxi.; his powers the consequence and assurance of wider powers,
ix.-xi.

Public speaker, as, Ixii.

Religious beliefs — orthodoxy of, xvii.; transcendental basis of, xxvii.-xxix.;
his recognition of the testimony of moral instinct in, xxix., xxx. ;
belief in free will as a condition of moral life, xxx. ; belief in evolu-
tion as consistent with spiritual creation, xxx. -xxxii. ; belief in per-
sonal immortality, xxxi.; affected by speculative controversies, xxxi. ;
necessity for belief in a perfect and omnipotent God, xxxii., xxxiii.

Index. 303

Bagehot, Walter — (continued).

Theological studies of, xxiii.-xxvii.

Theories postulated by — stupidity the first requisite of a political people,
xl., xli. ; discipline both the requisite and danger of progress, lii.-lv. ;
instability of the science of political economy, lix., Ix. ; capitalists
the great generals of commerce, Ix.
Ballad poetry, 140, 141.

Bell, Robert, edition of the works of William Cowper by, 87 note 1, 89, 90.
Bentham, anecdote of, 194, 195,
Bdranger, De, quoted, 98.
Berkhampstead, 91.

Bible, the, epitome of human life in, 289, 290.
Bickersteth, Rev. Robert, 87 note l.
Blair, Dr., cited, 19.
Blank verse, 141.
Books-
Ancient and modern, contrasted, 145-148.
Literary and original ways of writing, 49-51.
Originality in, prerequisites for, 52, 53.
Boscastle harbour, Bagehot's description of, Ixi.
Bridgewater, inquiry into corruption of, Ixii., Ixiii.
Bright, John, oratory of, xvi.
Bristol, worship of Coleridge and Southey in, 27.

Brougham, Henry, character of, contrasted with the essential Whig character,
186 ; collected works of, cited, 144 note ; quoted, 151 ; mentioned,
171.

Brown, Miss (Mrs. Hemans), 278.
Budget speech of 1877, ix.
Buriton, 188, 203.

Burke, Edmund, xvi., 157 and note, 241, 242.
Burns, Robert, quoted, 120 and note.

Butler, Bishop, Bagehot's essay on, quoted, xxix., xxx., xxxii.
Byron, Lord, mental attitude of, 5; contrasted with Shelley, 287, 300;
quoted, 55, 77 ; cited, 175.

CALVINISM, effects of, on different temperaments, 112, 118, 119.
Cambridge University, Economic Studies adopted as a text-book in, xlvii.

note.

Capital of the country, blind, fluctuations in amount of, 189.
Capitalists, service rendered to the community by, Ix.
Carlyle, Thomas, 19, 199 J quoted, x., 213.
Cavalier character, Bagehot's description of, quoted, xxi.

304 Index.

Cenci, the, characters of, in Shelley's poem, 257-260.

Character, magnetism of, 165-167.

Chaucer, 21 ; quoted, 57.

Childhood, imaginative grasp of, 194-197.

Christianity —

Character of early professors of, 237, 238.
Eighteenth century indifference to, 236, 237.
Primitive, Gibbon's treatment of, 233-235.
Progress, inevitable, of, 235.
Civilisation —

Arrested, secret of, lii., liii.
Personal character in relation to, 123.

Clough, Arthur Hugh, poems of, xxxiii. ; elected Principal of University
Hall, xxxiii., xxxiv. ; his character and influence on Bagehot, xxxiv.-
xxxvii. ; quoted, xxxv., xxxvi., Ivii.
Cobbett, Mr., quoted, 141.
Cobden, Richard, oratory of, xvi.
Coleridge, Hartley —

Career of— imaginative childhood, xxviii., 3-5; schooldays, 4, 6; real
education, 6, 7 ; Oxford life, 7-18 ; elected a Fellow of Oriel, 13, 14 ;
expulsion, 14-18 ; life after leaving Oxford, 18-21 ; provision for,
in his father's will, 20, 21.

Characteristics of — childlikeness, 1-3 ; facility for continuous story,
telling, 3, 4 ; dreaminess, 3, 4, 6, 16, 17; deficiency in the sense
of reality, xxviii., 4-6, 16, 17; eloquence, 7-9, 30; moral delin-
quencies and estimate of his responsibility, 14-17 ; " littleness " of
his character and work, 29, 30 ; resourcefulness of his nature, 36.
Genius of, compared with that of his father, 29-31.
Horses of Lysippus by, 12-14.
Literary characteristics of— self-delineativeness of his poetry, 25-27 ;

his appreciation of nature, 30, 31, 34, 35.
Lives of the Northern Worthies by, see that title.
Popularity of, with the peasantry, 20.
Prometheus by, 35.
Quoted, i and note3, n, 14, 18, 25, 26, 34 and note*, 35 and note, 36

and note z.

Wordsworth, relations with, 2, 7, 20, 34.

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor— appreciation of, confined to cultured minds,
xlviii., xlix. ; his eloquence, 8, 9; moral delinquencies, 15, 17;
early poems, 27-29 ; codicil of his will providing for Hartley
Coleridge quoted, 20 ; his genius compared with that of his sonr
2,9> 3° ; conversation, 30 ; insensibility to external objects, 30, 31 ,*:

Index. 305

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor— (continued).

criticism on the narrations of uneducated people in Shakespeare,
57, 58 ; judgment of posterity and contemporaries on his work'
J73. 174; his opinion on the reading of fairy-tales, 194; cited,
145 ; quoted, 28 and note, 31 and note; otherwise mentioned,
xxiii., 3, 7.

Coleridge, Mrs. Samuel Taylor, 10.

Collier, R. Payne, annotations of Shakespeare by, 37 note \ 81, 82.

Colman (famous wit), 96.

Congreve, Mr., cited, 239 and note 2.

Connoisseur, the, 96.

Conscience as a converting intuition, 264, 265.

Conservatism —

Rural England, of, liii., liv.

Whig as opposed to sceptical, 161-163.

Constantinople, history of, as treated by Gibbon, 239, 240.

Continuation ofEchard's Roman History, 198.

Cornwall, Bagehot's description of cliff scenery of, Ixi.

Coup d'etat of Louis Napoleon, Bagehot's letters in support of, xxxviii.-xlii.,
xliv. ; quoted, xxv.-xxvii,, xl.-xli.

Cowper, Mr., 99, 100.

, Major, 106.

, Theodora, 98-100.

, William-
Career of— birth and parentage, 91 ; schooldays, 91-94 ; legal studies, 96 ;
called to the Bar, 96 ; life in the Temple, 96-98 ; attachment to his
cousin Theodora, 98-100; nominated to a clerkship in the House
of Lords, 102, 103 ; mental failure under the strain, 103-105 ;
attempted suicide, 105, 106; nervous disturbance resulting in re-
ligious mania, 107-110; confined in a lunatic asylum, no; life at
Huntingdon with the Unwins, no, in; removal with them to
Olney, in; under spiritual direction of John Newton, 113-120;
return of insanity, 114; composes the Olney Hymns, 117, 118,
131; dominion of Mr. Newton replaced by that of Mr. Teedon,
120, 121 ; melancholia, 142 ; death, 1801, 143.

Characteristics of — morbid melancholy, 92-94; good nature and sym-
pathy with active enjoyments, 94 ; gentle and refined indolence,
96, 97, 102, 140 ; capacity for enjoyment, 98 ; lukewarmness com-
bined with susceptibility, 100 ; aversion to regular occupation, 101 ;
mental calibre unsuited to Calvinism, 113-119; superficiality and
effeminacy, 116, 117; lack of sympathy with active enjoyments,
140,

306 Index.

Cowper, William — (continued).

Correspondence of, description of, 137, 139.

Friendship of, with Mrs. Unwin, 121, 135, 136 ; Lady Austen, 134-136.
Homer translated by, 139-142.

Literary characteristics of — typical English character of his writings,
89; in contrast with those of Pope, 122-129; Wordsworth, 129-
131; his choice of domestic and rural subjects, 124-126, 128, 129;
suitability of his style to his subject, 126, 127 ; sense of humour,
127, 128 ; satirical powers, 128 ; his subordination of nature to
man, 129, 130; puritanical element in his work, 131, 132.
Milton edited by, 142.
Pecuniary circumstances of, 100-102.

Quoted, 88 and note1, 97 and note, 101-106, 108-111, 117, 118, 125
and note, 126 and note1, 129, 130 and note1, 135, 136, 141, 146
and note.

Scholarship of, 94, 95.
Task, The, see that title.
Croker, Mr., 80.

Curchod, Mile., career of, 210-212 ; quoted, 212.
Cymbeline, criticism of, 82.

DARWIN, influence of writings of, on Bagehot, lii.-liv.

Defence of Poetry (Shelley) quoted, 122 and note \ 285, 286.

Deyverdun, 222.

Disraeli, B., 86.

Don Juan (Byron) quoted, 55.

Drapiers Letters (Swift), 181.

Dryden, 133.

Dundas, Henry, 174.

Dyce, Rev. Alexander, quoted, 7, 8.

EBIONITISM, 237.

Eckerman, 284.

Economic Studies (Bagehot), xlvii. note1, lix. note.

Economic thinkers and financiers, anti-spending instinct common to, Iviii.

lix.

Economist, The, xlii., 1., Ix.
Edinburgh Review —

Achievement of first writers in, 180-187.

Affinity between spirit of, and that of Whig party, 161.

Doctrinal organ of the Whigs, as, 157.

Founders of, 163.

Index. 307

Edinburgh Review — (continued).

Jeffrey, Lord, contributions of, to, 171.

Psychological moment for appearance of, 149-155.

Reform championed by, 156.

Religious topics absent from, 183, 184.

Reputation of, early, 144.

Review-writing, modern, the pioneer of, 149.

Tone of, opposed to desponding conservatism of sceptics, 163.
Editorship, trade of, invented by Jeffrey, 175.
Education —

Boys, of, past and present, 95, 96.

Discipline, necessary, of, 198, 199.

Scotch and English methods of, contrasted, 169-171.
Eighteenth century —

Literary characteristics of, 225, 226.

Pageantry of, 226, 227.

Religious spirit of, 236, 237.

Eldon, John Lord, political characteristics of, 150-155 ; measure in relief of
Catholics opposed by, 152 ; embodies popular prejudices, 153-155,
168 ; his policy opposed by the Edinburgh Review, 156 ; antipathy
between the Whig character and that of, 161; quoted, 200; men-
tioned, 169.
Elegy in a Country Churchyard (Gray) —

Cancelled verse of, quoted, 94 note 1.

Self-delineative character of, 23, 24.
Eliot, Mr., 220.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, cited, 298 ; quoted, xxxv., 287.
Endymion (Keats) —

Defects of, 12.

Poems of fancy, as a type of, 68.
England —

Conservatism of rural, and causes of its growth, liii., liv.

Language of, cosmopolitanism of, 220.

Scenery of, compared with that of Scotland, 43, 45.
English Constitution (Bagehot)—

Adopted as a text-book by Oxford University, xlvii. note \

Resultant of practical observation combined with sympathetic imagina-
tion, li., lii.
Englishmen —

Aggressive method in religious teaching suitable for, 112.

Fairies, belief in, in harmony with characteristics of, 67, 68, 71,

Innovation dreaded by, 153, 154, 156.

308 Index.

Englishmen — (continued).

Liberality of ideas of, 152, 153.
National character of, basis of, 62, 63.

Epic poetry allied to self-delineative in treatment of character, 24.

Epipsychidion (Shelley), 253, 283 note ; passion of, 289.

Essay on Friendship (Bacon) quoted, 249 and note.

Essays, Letters from Abroad, Translations and Fragment s (Shelley), cited t
246 note.

Estimates of Some Englishmen and Scotchmen (Bagehot), estimate of
xlvii. -1.

Estlin, Dr., of Bristol, xi.

Evolution, consistency of doctrine of, with those of spiritual creation and free-
will, xxx., xxxi.

Excursion, The (Wordsworth), quoted, 32 and note1, 118 and note1, 174
and note l, 290 and note.

FAIRIES —

Belief in, in harmony with English characteristics, 67, 68, 71.
Tales of, advantages of reading, 194.

Faith-
Necessity for, xxxii.
Outcome of struggle, not intuitive, 264.

Falstaff (Merry Wives of Windsor, etc.), character of, 61, 62.

Fancy distinguished from imagination, 291, 292, 297.

Fears in Solitude* (S. T. Coleridge) quoted, 31 and note.

Feast of Brougham Castle (Wordsworth) quoted, 33, 36 and note 1) 140, 141
and notes.

Force, conservation 'of, and the doctrine ot free-will, xxx.

Fortnightly Review, Bagehot's contributions to, xix., xx., lix. and note.

Foston le Clay, 178.

Fox, W. J., oratory of, xvi.

France-
Eighteenth century literature of, scepticism of, 209, 210.
Language of, prestige of, in eighteenth century and afterwards, 219,

220.

Revolution in — English conservatism strengthened by, 153-155 ; selec-
tion of victims in, 244, 245.
Whig party desirable in, 1855, 160.

Francis, Rev. Philip, 194, 200.

Free Inquiry (Middleton) quoted, 205, 206 and note.

Free-will and the doctrine of conservation of force, xxx,

Free-trade agitation, xvi.

Index. 309

Frenchmen —

Historians, as, 229.

Over-intellectuality of, method of Roman Catholic Church in dealing
with, xxv.-xxvii.

GEORGE III., quoted, 186.
Germans —

Critical aptitude of, 90, 91. »
Historical method of, 228, 229.
Gibbon, Edward —

Career of— birth and parentage, 192 ; brought up by his aunt, 192, 193 ;
his education, 193, 194, 199, 200 ; habit of desultory reading, 194,
197, 198 ; first historical studies, 197, 198 ; goes to Oxford at sixteen,
200; his Oxford life, 201-207; becomes a Roman Catholic, 203-
207 ; sent to Lausanne by his relatives, 207, 208 ; influenced by
French scepticism, 209, 210; studies French and Latin, 208, 211,
212 ; his engagement to Mile. Curchod, 210, 211 ; enters the Militia,
213, 214; studies Greek, 217, 218; enters Parliament, 220-222;
returns to Lausanne, 241-243 ; returns to England — his death, 244,

245-

Characteristics of— matter-of-fact disposition, 207, 213; coldness of
temperament, 211-213 ; cautiousness, 213, 228; proneness to ease,
213; love of exactitude, 215, 216; diligence and patience as a
student, 216-218 ; scepticism, 228, 234, 236.

Grandfather of, career of, 188-192.

History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by, see that title.

Literary characteristics of— pomposity of style, 188 ; self-delineative
nature of his works, 224, 226, 227 ; aptitude for historical composi-
tion, 228, 229; excellencies of composition, 231; antipathetic
attitude towards the Romans, 232, 233 ; subtle error in his treat-
ment of primitive Christianity, 233-238 ; misapprehensiveness of
the state of Roman decadence, 238, 239.

Memoirs of, 188, 216 and note, 220 and note, 245 and note.

Political views of, 1792, 243, 244.

Quoted, 191, 193, 197-202, 207, 214 and note, 215, 216, 217 and notes,
236 and notes, 243, 244.

Rank of, as an historian, 240, 241.

Respect induced by labours of, 19.

Sur r Etude de la Litterature by, 218, 219.
Ginevra (Shelley) quoted, 276 and note2,
Gladstone, W. E., lix.
Globe Theatre, 86,

310 Index.

Gnosticism, 237.
Godwin, William, 280.

Goethe, detachment of, in his life and works, 53, 54 ; quoted; 122, 123, 284.
Granville, Lord, ix.
Grasmere churchyard, 21.
Gray, Thomas, 94 ; Elegy of, 23, 24, 94 note.
Greek view of the universe, 196.
Grey, Lord, 152, 168.
Grote, Mr., cited, 79.
Grove, Miss Harriet, 276, 277.

Guizot, M., literary work of, cited, 37 note \ 81, 188 note, 233 ; non-recep-
tive nature of, 38-39.

HALL, Sir Charles, xlv.

Hamilton, Sir William, xv., xxiii.

Hamlet, speculative dreaminess of character of, 16 ; quoted, 17 and notes,

67 and note.
Hawthorne, xxii.
Hayley, Mr., 134, 142.
Hazlitt, morose character of, 61; cited, 75, 128, 145 ; quoted, 30, 40, 151

and note, 250, 251 and notez, 255, 278, 298.
Hellas (Shelley) quoted, 288 and note.
Hemans, Mrs., 278.
Herald, The, Iv.
Herds Hill, Ixvi.

Heredity in respect of moral qualities, 15, 16. '
Hesketh, Lady, 98 and note1, 121.
Hill, Sir Rowland, 138.
Historical Sketches of the Statesmen who flourished in the Reign of George

III. (Brougham) cited, 144 note.
History —

Compiling of records of, 222-224 ; English aptitude for, 228, 229.

Grasp of, in children, 195-197.

Universal and particular, 230, 231.
History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire —

Barbarian invasions, narrative of, 239, 240.

Characteristic of its age, 225-227.

Christianity, primitive, treatment of, in, 233-235 ; Gibbon's justification,
236-238.

Classical authorities, accuracy of employment of, 218,

Comprehensive generality of, 230, 231.

Delineation of character in, 228,

Index.

History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire— (continued).
Divisions of, 232.

Excellencies in the composition of, 231.
Quoted, 236 and note.
Reception of the first volume of, 1776, 222.
Roman Empire portrayed in, 232 et seq.
Style of, 224-228 ; defects in, 227.
Traces of schoolboy reading in, 198.
otherwise mentioned, 19, 188 and note, 212.
History of the World (Howel), 198.
Hoare, Mr., 198.
Hogarth, nationalism of, 62, 63.
Holland, Lady, Memoirs of Sydney Smith by, cited, 144 note ; quoted, 169

and note.
Homer, impersonality of, 22 ; Cowper's translation of, 139-142 ; character-

istic of, 140; Gibbon's reasons for studying, 217.

Homer, Francis, universal regret at death of, 163-165 ; account of circum-
stances and character of, 164 ; aura of character surrounding, 165-
167; affinity between essential Whig character and that of, 167,
168; youthful plans of, 170.
Horses of Lysippus (H. Coleridge), 12-14.
Hugo, Victor, cited, xliii.
Human Nature —

Single impulse, characters governed by, 248, 249.
Struggle of good and evil in divided natures, 247, 248.
Hume, David, negative philosophy of, and its influence on Shelley, 269,
270; quoted, 219, 220 and note ; otherwise mentioned, xxiii., 155,
161, 262.
Humour —

English sense of, 62, 63.
Wit distinguished from, 180.
Huxley, Professor, Hi.

IAGO (Othello), character of, 61.

Iliad, The, Cowper's translation of, quoted, 88 and note1,

Imagination distinguished from fancy, 291, 292, 297.

Imaginative works, reason for rarity of, 66.

India, value of English work in, Iviii.

Inquirer, The, regime of Mr. Sanford's party in conducting, xxxviii.-xl.

Insanity turning to religious mania, 107-110.

Intimations of Immortality (Wordsworth) quoted, 235 and notes.

Irish Land Bill, Ivi,

312 Index.

JEFFREY, Lord, popular criticisms by, of Wordsworth's mysticism, xlviii.,
xlix., 173 ; contributions by, to the Edinburgh Review, 171 ; repu-
tation of, 173-175 ; character of criticisms by, 175 ; trade' of editor-
ship invented by, 175 ; otherwise mentioned, 169.

Jewish sense of duty contrasted with pagan morality, 264, 265.

John Gilpin (Cowper), 128, 135, 136.

Johnson, Dr., 141, 180, 214, 266; quoted, 19.

Jouffroy, M., quoted, 273, 274.

Jowett, Dr., quoted, 184 and note, 185, 238, 239 and note1.

Julian and Maddalo (Shelley) quoted, 281, 282 and note.

Julitis Ccesar quoted, 74 and note.

KANT, xxiii., 16.

Katrine, Loch, 43.

Keats, Edmund, compared with Shelley in his treatment of Nature, 296-299;
his modern treatment of antique subjects, 292, 293 ; quoted, 12 and
note, 292, 296 ; otherwise mentioned, xxiii., 67, 69.

Keble, John, poetry of, 34.

Key, Professor T. Hewitt, xiv., xv.

King Henry IV. quoted, 183 and note2.

King Henry VI. quoted, 56 and notez, 58, 59 and note, 64-66 and note1, 72
and note.

King Lear —

Conception of the character of Lear compared with Sophocles' concep-
tion of CEdipus, 294.
Lesson of, alleged, 82, 83.
Quoted, 294 and notes.

LADY of the Lake quoted, 122 and notez.

Langport, xi., li.

Lansdowne, Lord, 159, 160.

Lectures on the Roman Empire of the West (Congreve) cited, 239 notez.

Letter- writing, past and present, 137-139.

Letters from the East (F. Newman) cited, 250.

Lewis, Mr., 203.

, Sir George Cornewall, Ivi.

Liberalism, definition of, 177, 178.

Library, The (Crabbe), quoted, 146 and note.

Life, insight into, self-study the basis of, 63, 64.

Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley (Capt. Thomas Medwin) cited, 246 note, 257,

260, 278.
Life of William Cowper with Selections from his Correspondence cited,

87 note \ 90,

index. 313

Lines on a Friend (S. T. Coleridge) quoted, 28 and note.

Liskeard, 220.

Literary life, apathy produced by, 51, 52.

Literature —

Classical and modern, compared, 292-295.

Eighteenth century, characteristics of, 225.

English tastes in, 63.

Ephemeral character of present-day, 145-148.

Poetry, see that title.

Popular needs in, 146-148.
Liverpool, Lord, 151.
Lives of Men of Letters of the Reign of George III. (Brougham) cited,

144 note1.
Lives of the Northern Worthies (H. Coleridge), readableness of, 18, 19 ;

cited, I note.
Lives of Philosophers of the Reign of George III. (Brougham) cited, 144

note1.

Lloyd (famous wit), 7, 96.
Lombard Street (Bagehot), ix.
London University, ix.
Long, Professor, xv.

Lord Jeffrey's Contributions to the Edinburgh Review cited, 144 note \
Loss and Gain (]. H. Newman) quoted, 204 and note*.
Louis Napoleon, Bagehot's defence of Coup d'etat by, xxxviii.-xl. ; regime

of, xlii. ; the guarantee of order, 153.
Love, Shelley's theory of, quoted, 252.
Lucretius cited, 101 ; his influence on Shelley, 268, 269.
Lyra Apostolica (Newman), xxiii.

MACAULAY, Lord, criticism of style of, 232; History of England by,
228; otherwise mentioned, xvi., xxi., 138, 166, 231, 285, 291,
299.

MacMahon, President, xlii.

Madan, Mr., 109, no, 115.

Magdalen College, Oxford, 201.

Mahon, Lord, History of, 228.

Maiden, Professor, xv., xlvi.

Mallet, Mr., 207.

Malthus, 147.

Manfred (Byron), 287.

Mansfield Park (Austen) quoted, 126 and note a.

Marmion quoted, 43, 44 and note.

314 Index.

Measure for Measure considered as delineating the malevolence of Shake-
speare, 75, 76.

Medwin, Captain Thomas, The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley by, 246 notet
257, 260, 278 ; quoted, 277.

Melbourne, Lord, Ivii., 177.

Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith (Lady Holland) cited, 144 note1;
quoted, 169 and note.

Middleton, Dr., argument of, on popish and patristic miracles, quoted, 205-
207.

Midsummer Night's Dream, fairy portion of, 69-71 ; quoted, 47, 48 and
notes, 70, 71 and notes ; mentioned, 83.

Militia, English, character of, 213.

Mill, J. S., xxiii.

Millennarianism, 237.

Milman, Dean, 188 note, 202, 233 ; quoted, 235 and note.

Milton, John, egotistical strain in epics of, 24, 25 ; Shakespeare contrasted
with, 45-49, 755 his mode of delineating nature, 45-49, 298;
ideas on the education of the young, 48 ; Cowper's edition of,
142 ; quoted, 24, 46, 47 and note, 48, 102 and note1, 203 and note 1,
251 and note ; otherwise mentioned, 63, 231.

Miracles, popish and patristic, 205-207.

Miscellanies (Gibbon) quoted, 215, 216 and note.

Montaigne, 81, 155, 161.

Moore, Mr., 27, 28.

Moral instincts as testimony in religious beliefs, xxix., xxx.

Morgan, Professor De, xii., xv.

, Forrest, cited, 216 note; quoted, 293, 294.

Much Ado about Nothing quoted, 55, 56 and note1.

Murray, Lord, quoted, 166 and note.

Mythologies, Greek and Roman, 67, 68, 71.

NAPOLEON Buonaparte, quoted, 101.

National Review, xlvii., 89 and note2.

Nature, elements of poetic appreciation of, 45.

Necker, M., 210-212.

Newman, Francis, 250.

, John Henry, influence of, on Bagehot, xxiii.; mental attitude of,

5, 6 ; quoted, 5, 6, 204 and note \
Newton, John, aggressive Calvinism of, at Olney, 111-113 ; his spiritual

direction of William Cowper, 96, 113-120; quoted, 113 and note.
Niebuhr, cited, 53.
North, Lord, the representative of commonplace Englishmen, 220, 221 ;

North American policy of, 221 ; mentioned, 241.

Index.

OCKLEY, Simon, 198.

Ode to a Grecian Urn (Keats) quoted, 292.

(Edipiis quoted, 293 and note.

Old Mortality quoted, 168.

Olney, in, 113.

- Hymns, 117, 118, 131.

On Paradox and the Commonplace (Hazlitt) quoted, 250, 251 and note2.

Osier, T. Smith, contributions of, to the Inquirer, xxxviii., xxxix. ; quoted,

Ixv.
Oxford University —

Character of— in eighteenth century, 200, 201 ; in the early nineteenth
century, xiii., 261.

English Constitution adopted as a text-book by, xlvii. note \

Reform of, Bagehot quoted on, xiv. and note 2.
Oxford Sermons (Newman), xxiii.

PAINE, 157.

Painting and sculpture likened to fancy and imagination, 292.

Paley, Dr., 152, 233.

Paradise Lost quoted, 24 and note, 46, 47 and note, 203 and note1, 251

and note.

Paris, Bagehot's letters from, xli., xlii. ; quoted, xliii., xliv.
Parliament —

Nomination system in the hands of the Whigs, 168.

South Sea Company's affairs investigated by (1720), 190, 191.
Parsons, Father, 204.

Pavilliard, M., tutorship of Edward Gibbon by, 207-209.
Peel, Sir Robert, 1.

Personality, idea of, identical with that of will, 273, 274.
Peter Bell (Wordsworth) quoted, 131 and note.
Physics and Politics (Bagehot) —

Political principles advocated in, Ivii., Iviii.

Quoted, xxx. and note 2, liii.

Relationship between progress and innovation worked out in, lii.-lv.

otherwise mentioned, xii., xxxvii.
Pitman, Mr., 91, 94.
Pitt, William, 40, 150.

Plato, abstract intellectuality of his treatment of subjects, 78-80; women
ignored in his Dialogues, 78-80; influence of his philosophy on
Shelley, 271, 272 ; otherwise mentioned, 300.
Plutarch, 81.
Plymle/s Letters (S. Smith), 180-182.

316 Index.

Poems and Prose Remains of Arthur Hugh C lough quoted, xxxv. and

note.
Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley , edited by Mrs. Shelley, cited,

246 note.
Poetical Works of William Cowper, edited by Robert Bell, cited, 87 note1,

89, 90.
Poetry-
Ballad poetry versus blank verse for poems of action, 140-142.
Definition of, 122 and note \.
Lyrical —

Essence of, identical in all branches, 22, 23.
Human and abstract, subjects of, 288, 289.
Requisites of, in different ages of mankind, 22-25.
Self-delineative —

Epic poetry allied to, in treatment of character, 24.
Truth the requisite for, 23.
Society as a subject for, 122-124.
Spontaneity of, 285.

Poets, common-sense school of, 123, 124.
Political economy, theory of instability of science of, lix., Ix.

energy, depreciation of, Ivi.-lviii.

Pope, Alexander, genius of, 122-124, 128 ; quoted, 31.

Person, quoted, 234.

Porten, Mrs. Catherine, 192, 193.

Prichard, Dr., xii.

Progress, discipline both the requisite for, and danger of, lii.-lv.

Prometheus Unbound (Shelley), 283 note.

Prospective Review, xiv. and note z, xlvii.

QUAIN, Mr. Justice, xlv.

Queen Mab (Shelley), unpersuasive eloquence of, 291 ; quoted, 268, 269 and
note ; notes to, quoted, 252.

RACES of Man (Prichard), xii.

Raphael, 63,

Readers, classes of, 214, 215.

Reading, desultory, in youth, advantages of, 194, 195.

Re/lections upon the Revolution in France (Burke), 157 and note.

Reform Bill of 1832, li.

Religion —

Liberalism in, 184-186.

Mania of, growth of, 107-110.

Index.

Religion — (continued).

Nature of, 172, 173.

Outcome of struggle, the— not intuitive, 264.
Rembrandt, Tacet et loquitur of, 33.
Retirement (Cowper) quoted, 102 and note*.
Rev. Sydney Smith's Miscellaneous Works, etc., cited, 144 note.
Review writing —

Modern literature, characteristic of, 145, 148, 149.

Scotch education in relation to, 169-171.
Revolt of Islam (Shelley), characters of Laon and Cythna in, 253 ; cited,

283 note ; quoted, 250 and notes, 257 and note l.
Ricardo, lix., 147.

Robinson, Crabb, xix., xx., xxxv. ; quoted, xl.
Roman Catholic Church —

Astuteness of, in dealing with French intellectual impatience, xxv.-
xxvii.

Confession, spiritual direction in, 113.

Fascination of, for Bagehot, xxiii.-xxvii.

Measure in relief of English Catholics rejected (1801), 152.

Miracles, popish or patristic, attitude towards, 205-207.
Roman Empire as portrayed by Gibbon, 232 et scq.
Romilly, Sir Samuel, 159 ; quoted, 157.

Rosalind and Helen (Shelley), character of Lionel in, quoted, 253,254.
Roscoe, contributions of, to the Inquirer, xxxix.
Roses, Wars of the, 72.
Rousseau, 104.
Russell, Lord John, 159.
Rydal Water, 43.

5 r. JAMES'S Chronicle, 106.

- — -- Magazine, 106.

St. Just, 252.

St. Paul, 248.

San Sebastian, description of, xxii.

Sanford, J. Langton, contributions of, to the Inquirer, xxxviii., xxxix.

Scotland —

Educational method of, contrasted with that of England, 169-171.

Parliamentary representation in, 169.

Scenery of, compared with that of England, 43-45.

Toryism and Liberalism in, 169.

Scott, Sir Walter, contrasts and similarities between Shakespeare and, 42-
45, 55, 60, 62 ; wide interests and popularity of, 52 ; his first-hand
VOL. I. 25

318 Index.

Scott, Sir Walter— (continued).

knowledge and living sympathy with men, 52-54 ; Whig reception
of, 175 ; animal spirits of, 179 ; character and fate of, compared
with that of Sydney Smith, 179, 180 ; genial enjoyment of life by,
298; quoted, 43, 44 and note, 164 and note ; otherwise mentioned,
27, 28, 67, 74, 137, 231.

Sculpture and painting likened to imagination and fancy, 292.
Self-control, necessity of, in different temperaments, 247-249.
Senior, Mr., ix.

Sewell, Professor, xiv. ; quoted, 204 and note l.
Shakespeare (see also titles of his plays) —

Anecdote of, 85 and note \

Characteristics of — first-rate imaginative qualities allied with first-rate ex-
perience, 38; h's "experiencing" nature in relation to nature and
sport, 38, 40-49 ; in relation to men and women, 55 et seq. ; fond-
ness for sport, 41, 42, 47, 48 ; knowledge of nature, 42 ; delicate
perceptivity, 42-45 ; sensibility to the charm of nature, 45 ; intense
sympathy with the common people, 55-60 ; liveliness of disposition
and animal spirits, 61-63, 298 ; insight into the musing life of man,
63-67 ; latent melancholy, 66, 67 ; sympathy with popular fanciful
beliefs, 67-71 ; malevolence, 75, 76 ; worldliness and shrewdness,
85 and note 2, 86.

Literary characteristics of — mode of delineating nature in contrast with
that of Milton, 45-49 ; essentially the poet of personal nobility,
75 ; his delineations of women, 76-80 ; his humanity contrasted
with Plato's abstract treatment, 80; evidences of scholarship,
80-82 ; his underlying optimism, 82-85 ; his romantic style com-
pared with the classical style of Sophocles, 294.

Milton contrasted with, 45-49, 75.

Political creed of, 72-75.

Popular idea of, 37.

Quoted, 17 and notes, 40-42, 45 and note, 47, 48 and notes, 55, 56 and
notes, 57 and notes, 58, 59 and note, 64-66 and notes, 67 and note,
70-72 and notes, 74 and note, 77, 78 and note, 183 and notes.

Scott, Sir Walter, contrasts and similarities between Shakespeare and,
42-45, 55, 60, 62, 67.

Sonnets of, as poems of fancy, 69.

Trading classes as portrayed by, 74, 75.

otherwise mentioned, xxiii., xlix., 21.
Shakespeare et son Temps; £tude Litteraire par M. Guizot, cited, 37

note1.
Sheffield, Lord, 203, 204, 216 note, 243 note, 244 note.

Index. 3U9

Shelley, Mrs., 246 note.
, Percy Bysshe —

Alastor, see that title.

Assassins, The, commenced by, 280.

Atheistic views of, 262-265.

Career of — education, 260-262 ; expelled from Oxford, 262, 277 ; at-
tachment to Miss Harriet Grove, 276, 277; marriage with Miss
Westbrook, 277-279 ; separates from his wife, 279 ; tours abroad
with Mary Wollstonecraft, 280 ; becomes melancholy mad at the
suicide of his first wife, 280-283.

Cenci, The, characters of, 257 260.

Characteristics of — pure impulsiveness, 247, 249-253, 258, 259, 263,
273, 274 ; passion for reforming mankind, 250, 262 ; buoyancy and
eagerness of spirit, 250, 251 ; possibilities of unscrupulous conduct,
251, 252, 283 ; idealism, 252, 253 ; insatiable craving after the
highest truth, 255, 256 ; childlikeness, 258, 259 ; deficiency in self-
control and sense of duty, 263 ; love of liberty, 274 ; restlessness,
279; tendency to abstraction, 265, 267, 268, 270, 273, 274, 287,
295 ; incapacity for the highest form of passion, 283 ; vivid sensi-
bility as affecting his imagination, 298.

Epipsychidion, see that title.

Literary characteristics of— excellence in the art of self-delineation, 21,
246, 247, 274-276 ; reforming impulse of his characters, 253-255
depiction of his passion for penetrating the mysteries of existence,
255, 256; evanescent nature of his characters, 256, 257, 287;
dramatic element exemplified by only two characters, 257 ; suspi-
cious attitude towards aged persons, 257, 258 ; impulsive unity the
essence of his characters, 260 ; mythological tendency, 267, 268,
287 ; uniform type of women, 283, 284 ; mental calibre not adapted
to sustained efforts, 284, 285 ; intense poetic fervour, 285-287, 289 ;
liability to emotional reaction, 287, 288 ; remarkable fondness for
the Bible, 289 ; tendency to abstraction, 290, 298, 299 ; treatment
of nature in comparison with Wordsworth, 290 ; Keats, 296, 297 ;
unpersuasive eloquence, 290, 291 ; classical imagination, 291, 295-
297 ; fanciful as distinguished from imaginative treatment of sub-
jects, 297, 298 ; pleasure in dwelling on pain, 299 ; intellectuality
of style, 299, 300.

Love and constancy, theories as to, 252, 253.
Prometheus Unbound, 283 note.
Queen Mab, see that title.

Quoted, xxviii., 61 and note, 62 and note, 85 and note1, 119 and notes,
122, 132 and notes, 250 and notes, 253, 254 and note, 255, 256,

320 Index.

Shelley, Percy Bysshe — (continued).

266, 267 and note, 268, 269 and note, 270 and note, 271 and note,
272 and notes, 275, 276 and notes, 281, 282 and note, 285, 286, 288
and note.

Religious philosophy of, stages of, 267-273.
Revolt of Islam, see that title.
Rosalind and Helen, character of Lionel in, 253, 254.

Shelley, Sir Timothy, character of, 260.
Sheridan, Mr., quoted, 222 and note.

Skylark (Shelley) quoted, 286, 287, 296.

Smith, Adam, quoted, 200.

— : — , Sydney, character of criticism by, 175-177 ; character of, compared
\vith the essential Whig character, 177, 178; Yorkshire life, 178,
179; animal spirits, 179; compared with Sir W. Scott as to his
character and fate, 179, 180 ; genius of, contrasted with that oi
Swift, 180, 181 ; humour of, 180-183 ; the Divine of the first
Edinburgh Review, 183- religion of, 185, 186 ; quoted, 147, 156
and note, 159 and note, 160 and note, 165 note, 166, 173, 178, 179.

, William (LL.D.), 188 note.

Society, poetical delineation of, 122-124.

Somers, Lord, aura of character surrounding, 165, 166.

Somersetshire, xi., xxii., liy.

Bank, xi., xiv.

Sonnet to Childhood (H. Coleridge) quoted, i and note 3.

Sophists, Greek, xiv., xv.

Sophocles, reserved simplicity of, 293, 294, 300; quoted, 293.

South Sea Bubble, 190, 191.

Southey, Robert, early poems of, 27 ; mental habits ef, 49, 50 ; mentioned, 3, 7.

Spectator, The, Ixi., 51.

— (Addison's), 149.

Speculation, recurring mania for, 189, 190.

Stael, Madame de, quoted, 180.

State-ofthe Ancient World (Jowett) quoted, 238, 239.

Stuckey, Miss, xi.

, Samuel, xi.

, Vincent, li.

Sunset, The (Shelley), quoted, 119 and note1.

Sur VEtude de la Litterature (Gibbon), 218, 219.

Swift, Jonathan, genius of, contrasted with that of Sydney Smith, 180, 181;
otherwise mentioned, 63, 133, 209.

TABLE Talk (Hazlitt) quoted, 250, 251 and note*.
Tacitus, 19.

Index. 321

Task, The (Cowper)—

Cowper's genius the best expression of, 132.

Quoted, 125 and note, 126 and note \ 129, 130 and nott l.

Story of its composition, 134-136.

Unity of execution, lacking in, 133.
Tatler, The, 149.
Teedon, Mr., 120, 121.
Thurlow, Lord, 95, 98, 142.
Thyrsis (Matthew Arnold), xxxiii^
Tintern Abbey (Wordsworth) quoted, 32 and note*, 33, 34 and not* l, 42 and

note*, 88 and note3, 127 and note, 130 and note*.
Tirocinium (Cowper) quoted, 92.
To the Daisy (Wordsworth) quoted, 143.
Trading classes as portrayed in Shakespeare, 74, 75.
Tristram Shandy quoted, 88 and note *, 164 and nott.
Trossachs, elements of beauty of, 45.

Truth, dough's views on the difficulty of finding, xxxv., xxxvi.
Twelfth Night quoted, 84 and note l.

ULRICI, Dr., 83.

Unitarian body, exasperation of, by the conduct of the Inquirer, 1851, xxxviii.-

xl.
University College, London —

Intellectual stimulus, as a place of, xiii., xiv.

Prize poem, annual, at, n, 12.

Professors of, character of, xiv., xv.
University Hall, xxxiii.

Unwin family, Cowper's life with the, no et seq.
, Mrs., friendship of, with William Cowper, 121, 136, 143.

VENUS and Adonis —

Crudeness of, 68.

Poem of fancy, as, 69.

Quoted, 41, 42 and note1.
Vicar of Wakefield (Goldsmith), 50.
Villemain,~M., 160.
Virgil, delineation of, in his works, 21.
Voltaire, 63, 210.

WALDEGRAVE, Dr., tutorship of, at Oxford, 201, 202.
Wallace, Mr., Hi.
Walpole, Horace, 138, 139.

322 Index.

Walpole, Sir Robert, quoted, 150.

Warton, Sir Joseph, 215, 216.

Wellington, Duke of, i and note 2, 5, 247.

West (artist), 40.

Westbrook, Miss, 277-280.

Westminster School, 92, 94, 95,

Whately, Dr. , 59.

Whewell, Dr., cited, 128, 129.

Whigs-
Character, essential of— eulogy of, 157-161, 168 ; defect in, 167 ; affinity
between the character of F. Homer and, 167, 168 ; its aversion to
mysticism, 172 ; religion in relation to, 185, 186.
Conservatism, wise, of, 161, 162.
Literary style grateful to, 161.

Wilhelm Meister (Goethe), 53, 54.

Will—

Idea of, identical with that of personality, 273, 274.
" Ruinous force of," xxxvi.-xxxviii.

Wilson, Rt. Hon. James, 1.

Winter's Tale, A, quoted, 45 and note.

Wiseman, Cardinal, 208.

Wit distinguished from humour, 180.

Wollstonecraft, Mary, 280.

Women —

Plato's ignoring of, 78-80.
Shakespeare's, delineation of, 76-78, 80.

Wordsworth, William, appreciation of, confined to cultured minds, xlviii.,
xlix. ; intercourse with the Coleridges, 2, 7, 20, 30 ; transcendental-
ism, 16; natural religion, 31, 32, 172, 173 ; works of, the scriptures
of intellectual life, 33, 34; imitators of, 34; delineation of nature
in contrast with that of Cowper, 130, 131; Shelley, 290; judg-
ment of posterity and contemporaries on his work, xlviii., xiix.,
173, 174 ; quoted, 2, 16, 21, 32 and notes, 33, 34, 36 and note J, 52,
88 and note*, 118 and note, 127 and note1, 130 and note 2, 131 and
note, 140 and note, 141 and note, 143, 174 and note 1, 235 and notes,
290 and note ; otherwise mentioned, xxiii., 43, 209, 299.

YOUTH of Nature (Matthew Arnold), quoted, 84 and note\

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